If Labour cares so much about the price of milk, why doesn't it join with dairy farmers?

Milk has been over the news recently, but there's a silence on the left over the plight of its creators.

Over two thousand angry farmers jostled their way into the hall. Chequered shirts and ruddy faces replaced the stereotype of the pale adolescent protester. Many had left their dawn milk rounds to flood to Westminster and speak out against the latest round of price cuts forcing them under. You could feel the anger in the thumping ovation received by the first speaker:

"I have never seen this level of frustration before, nor have I seen such determination to right the wrongs of this industry," thundered Mansel Raymond, dairy chairman of the National Farmers Union, "Society doesn’t realise that this market place just doesn’t work."

The left generally ignores rural campaigns. A child of the trade union movement, Labour grew up to address inner-city concerns in urban areas where the majority of voters now reside. We forget our brothers and sisters in the countryside suffer similar injustices. New technology hasn’t changed things. Documenting the farmers’ protest (#SOSdairy) got almost no response from a twittersphere that remains urban in composition and priority.

But if there was ever a case of irresponsible capitalism, this is it.

Take Emily and Rob Bradley, a young brother and sister who run a family farm on the Isle of Wight. They start milking at 4am and work until 6pm, cleaning, managing and feeding. Throughout the night they get up to check their herd of some 360 cows, looking out for calves and heifers that need support. For all this, buyers offer them 20p per litre.

"It’s disgusting how little we’re paid compared with the effort we put in," says Rob, "The supermarket does almost nothing. . . most of the public don’t know what we have to do. Youngsters think milk is made in the shop."

"We’ve spoken about whether we’re carrying on. We’re only just breaking even and we’ll be making a loss and going into debt if these price cuts continue. . . If it comes to it we’ll take direct action."

If this was just the result of the brutal efficiencies of the market, maybe we’d accept it. But there is no free market here. Farmers only have a handful of processing companies to sell to – Wiseman, Dairy Crest and the Co-op First Milk – who can collude to set prices. This year these giants have slashed the price of milk by 4p a litre – at an average cost per farm of £50,000 – with the latest cut due to come in next month.

What’s worse is that farmers are stuck in these contracts. Even if the processing company decides to change its milk prices half way through a term, the farmers cannot walk away. One processor – Dairy Crest – gave farmers just four days notice of its last cut.

Processors say the latest move is the result of a decline in the commodity markets for skimmed milk powder and wholesale cream, but it’s interesting that the less powerful partner always seems to be the one to take the hit.

With the farming minister Jim Paice recently being caught out for not knowing the price of a pint of milk (46p by the way), the Conservatives – who usually manage to hoover up some 85 per cent of rural votes – are also looking out of touch.

Addressing the angry crowd of farmers at Methodist Central Hall yesterday, Paice said that ministers were "not in the business of setting prices" and that he would do nothing to reverse the cuts, adding, "There will be no return to the old days of central government interference".

Adding a heavy-handed state intervention on to an over centralised market may well create more problems. But there are other actions the government could take to solve this imbalance of power. They could introduce a law allowing farmers to terminate a contract with three months notice (although the minister says EU rules prevent this). Or they could increase investigations and sanctions for price collusion. These measures wouldn’t block the free market; they’d empower it. Farmers could also help themselves here by starting co-operative processing chains of their own.

"I don’t think politicians realise what it’s like," says Rob, "They should come and do a milk internship for a few weeks and see what we do here. See what it’s like to deliver a calf or get bruises or broken fingers from young heifers. The dedication we have to show."

Dairy farmers have already sprayed thousands of litres of milk outside the European Parliament to protest against the low prices and the phasing out of quotas. Here in the UK, the direct action is continuing. Seven hundred farmers came out to protest in Stafforshire this month, and there is deep unrest in Scotland. Farmers for Action say that more disruption can be expected – perhaps even during the Olympics – if prices continue to fall.

It is clear that farmers are at breaking point. As far as they see it, price cuts mean farm closures. Their numbers have already dropped by 40 per cent in the last ten years, and according to the Food Standards Agency, about three farmers are now leaving dairy farming every week. Farmers will do anything to stop further cuts because they have nothing to lose.

"As young farmers we need to see a future," says 17-year-old Oliver Yeatman who works on a small farm in Dorset, "It’s a lot of hard work and you’re not going to join if there’s no money in it. I’m at level three of my diploma in agriculture and I’d love to be a full time farmer, but it could be a waste of time."

If Ed Miliband truly believes in responsible capitalism, he should take this on. Farmers should be given the chance to work. Shutting them out will only decimate the supply chain. In the long term, that means we’ll all be paying a higher price for milk. Challenging this trend wouldn’t just leave the country better off, it would also demonstrate Labour could speak to the countryside as well as the towns.

Farmers protest EU agricultural policies. Photograph: Getty Images

Rowenna Davis is Labour PPC for Southampton Itchen and a councillor for Peckham

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Is there such a thing as responsible betting?

Punters are encouraged to bet responsibly. What a laugh that is. It’s like encouraging drunks to get drunk responsibly, to crash our cars responsibly, murder each other responsibly.

I try not to watch the commercials between matches, or the studio discussions, or anything really, before or after, except for the match itself. And yet there is one person I never manage to escape properly – Ray Winstone. His cracked face, his mesmerising voice, his endlessly repeated spiel follow me across the room as I escape for the lav, the kitchen, the drinks cupboard.

I’m not sure which betting company he is shouting about, there are just so many of them, offering incredible odds and supposedly free bets. In the past six years, since the laws changed, TV betting adverts have increased by 600 per cent, all offering amazingly simple ways to lose money with just one tap on a smartphone.

The one I hate is the ad for BetVictor. The man who has been fronting it, appearing at windows or on roofs, who I assume is Victor, is just so slimy and horrible.

Betting firms are the ultimate football parasites, second in wealth only to kit manufacturers. They have perfected the capitalist’s art of using OPM (Other People’s Money). They’re not directly involved in football – say, in training or managing – yet they make millions off the back of its popularity. Many of the firms are based offshore in Gibraltar.

Football betting is not new. In the Fifties, my job every week at five o’clock was to sit beside my father’s bed, where he lay paralysed with MS, and write down the football results as they were read out on Sports Report. I had not to breathe, make silly remarks or guess the score. By the inflection in the announcer’s voice you could tell if it was an away win.

Earlier in the week I had filled in his Treble Chance on the Littlewoods pools. The “treble” part was because you had three chances: three points if the game you picked was a score draw, two for a goalless draw and one point for a home or away win. You chose eight games and had to reach 24 points, or as near as possible, then you were in the money.

“Not a damn sausage,” my father would say every week, once I’d marked and handed him back his predictions. He never did win a sausage.

Football pools began in the 1920s, the main ones being Littlewoods and Vernons, both based in Liverpool. They gave employment to thousands of bright young women who checked the results and sang in company choirs in their spare time. Each firm spent millions on advertising. In 1935, Littlewoods flew an aeroplane over London with a banner saying: Littlewoods Above All!

Postwar, they blossomed again, taking in £50m a year. The nation stopped at five on a Saturday to hear the scores, whether they were interested in football or not, hoping to get rich. BBC Sports Report began in 1948 with John Webster reading the results. James Alexander Gordon took over in 1974 – a voice soon familiar throughout the land.

These past few decades, football pools have been left behind, old-fashioned, low-tech, replaced by online betting using smartphones. The betting industry has totally rebooted itself. You can bet while the match is still on, trying to predict who will get the next goal, the next corner, the next throw-in. I made the last one up, but in theory you can bet instantly, on anything, at any time.

The soft sell is interesting. With the old football pools, we knew it was a remote flutter, hoping to make some money. Today the ads imply that betting on football somehow enhances the experience, adds to the enjoyment, involves you in the game itself, hence they show lads all together, drinking and laughing and putting on bets.

At the same time, punters are encouraged to do it responsibly. What a laugh that is. It’s like encouraging drunks to get drunk responsibly, to crash our cars responsibly, murder each other responsibly. Responsibly and respect are now two of the most meaningless words in the football language. People have been gambling, in some form, since the beginning, watching two raindrops drip down inside the cave, lying around in Roman bathhouses playing games. All they’ve done is to change the technology. You have to respect that.

Hunter Davies is a journalist, broadcaster and profilic author perhaps best known for writing about the Beatles. He is an ardent Tottenham fan and writes a regular column on football for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 05 February 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Putin's war