Vouchers: a third way for financing political parties

You got your public funding in my private donations! No, you got your private donations in my public funding!

The debate around financing of political parties is caught up between two alternatives, each of which possess seemingly intractable problems, but a third way might be surfacing in the US.

On the one hand, the status quo – of uncapped donations – has terrible consequences. It leads to capture by interest groups (stereotypically Labour by the unions and the Conservatives by big business, and like many stereotypes, there is an element of truth), is anti-democratic (contrary to what the US Supreme Court proclaims, money is not speech, yet if you have more money than I do, it's not hard to imagine which of us gets more say in policy) and has ended up in outright corruption (witness, amongst other things, "I'm like a cab for hire", "premier league" donors, or cash for honours).

Unfortunately, the major alternative model has its own problems. State funding of political parties runs the risk of creating an unaccountable political class, paid from the pocket of general taxation while owing nothing in return. It also entrenches the existing trio of parties in their roles, rendering our already distortionary electoral system immune, to all intents and purposes, to change. And, of course, it would be expensive.

The purported "middle ground" of capping donations, meanwhile, seems unworkable politically, while solving none of the problems. If unions are counted singly, Labour won't sign up. If they aren't, the Tories won't. The cap won't be low enough to prevent some donors still having  outsized influence, and yet it won't be high enough to prevent some or all of the parties suffering major financial hardship.

But a number of American campaign finance experts, including Yale's Bruce Ackerman and Harvard's Lawrence Lessig, support a third way. The idea is that every voter is given a voucher for $50, to donate to a political actor as they see fit – it can go to parties or candidates, mainstream or independents, and it doesn't have to be used at all. In exchange, candidates who want to accept the money must agree to stricter rules. Ackerman suggests mandatory donor anonymity (to prevent "influence peddling"), while Lessig suggests a cap on any individual donation of just $100.

WonkBlog's Dylan Matthews reports that the idea has just been given a boost. John Sarbanes (son of the Sarbanes-Oxley Act's Paul Sarbanes) is planning on introducing the Grassroots Democracy Act to Congress:

The bill has three components. The first is a voucher of the kind Ackerman, Ayres and Lessig endorse, implemented as a $50 refundable tax credit for congressional donations, so even people who do not make enough to pay income taxes are eligible. The second is a matching system, where campaigns that reject PAC money will get $5 from a public fund for every private donation of $1, and those that agree to collect only small contributions receive $10 from the public fund for every private dollar. The third is a fund to provide support to candidates who are facing heavy third-party expenditures from super PACs and other groups, to make sure they aren’t drowned out.

Some of the side-effects of such a reform would be positive, as well. Most interestingly, it introduces a form of PR into the electoral system. Every "vote" using a voucher has the same effect, whether it goes to Labour or the Monster Raving Loony Party, and it is impossible to "waste" it. And depending how widely the vouchers can be used, it could allow people to donate to issue groups as well as parties, meaning that organisations like the Electoral Reform Society could see a boost in their funding.

Of course, the one thing it doesn't ensure is that the balance of power is conserved. For that, parties would be advised to look elsewhere. But MPs who are serious about party funding reform may want to consider a similar move.

Barack Obama. The president elected not to take public funding because he had so many private donations. Photograph: Getty Images

Alex Hern is a technology reporter for the Guardian. He was formerly staff writer at the New Statesman. You should follow Alex on Twitter.

Getty
Show Hide image

France is changing: an army stalks the streets and Boris Johnson wanders the Tuileries

Will Self on the militarisation of France, and Boris Johnson at the Foreign Office.

At the corner of the rue D’Hauteville and the rue de Paradis in the tenth arrondissement of Paris is a retro-video-games-themed bar, Le Fantôme, which is frequented by some not-so-jeunes gens – the kind of thirtysomethings nostalgic for an era when you had to go to an actual place if you wanted to enter virtual space. They sit placidly behind the plate-glass windows zapping Pac-Men and Space Invaders, while outside another – and rather more lethal – sort of phantom stalks the sunlit streets.

I often go to Paris for work, and so have been able to register the incremental militarisation of its streets since President Hollande first declared a state of emergency after last November’s terrorist attacks. In general the French seem more comfortable about this prêt-à-porter khaki than we’d probably be; the army-nation concept is, after all, encrypted deep in their collective psyche. The army was constituted as a revolutionary instrument. France was the first modern nation to introduce universal male conscription – and it continued in one form or another right up until the mid-1990s.

Even so, it was surprising to witness the sang-froid with which Parisians regarded the camouflaged phantoms wandering among them: a patrol numbering eight ­infantrymen and women moved up the roadway, scoping out doorways, nosing into passages – but when one peered into Le Fantôme, his assault rifle levelled, none of the boozing gamers paid the least attention. I witnessed this scene the Saturday after Mohamed Lahouaiej-Bouhlel ran amok on the Promenade des Anglais in Nice – it was a little preview of the new state of emergency.

On Monday 18 July the French premier, Manuel Valls, was booed at a memorial service for the victims of the Nice attacks – while Marine Le Pen has been making all the populist running, whipping up anxieties about the enemy within. For many French, the events of the past week – including the failed Turkish coup – are steps along the way limned by Michel Houellebecq in his bestselling novel Submission; a via dolorosa that ends with La Marianne wearing the hijab and France itself annexed by a new caliphate.

Into this febrile drama comes a new player: Boris Johnson, the British Foreign Secretary. What can we expect from this freshly minted statesman when it comes to our relations with our closest neighbour? There is no doubt that Johnson is a Francophile – I’ve run into him and his family at the Tuileries, and he made much of his own francophone status during the referendum campaign. In Paris last winter to launch the French edition of his Churchill biography, Johnson wowed a publication dinner by speaking French for the entire evening. He was sufficiently fluent to bumble, waffle and generally avoid saying anything serious at all.

Last Sunday I attended the Lambeth Country Show, an oxymoronic event for which the diverse inhabitants of my home borough gather in Brockwell Park, south London, for jerked and halal chicken, funfair rides, Quidditch-watching, and “country-style” activities, such as looking at farm animals and buying their products. Wandering among ancient Rastafarians with huge shocks of dreadlocks, British Muslims wearing immaculate white kurtas blazoned with “ASK ME ABOUT ISLAM” and crusty old Brixton punks, I found it quite impossible to rid my mind of the Nice carnage – or stop wondering how they would react if armed soldiers were patrolling, instead of tit-helmeted, emphatically unarmed police.

I stepped into the Royal Horticultural Society marquee, and there they were: the entire cast of our end-of-the-pier-show politics, in vegetable-sculpture form and arrayed for judging. There was Jeremy Corbyn (or “Cornbin”) made out of corncobs – and Boris Johnson in the form of a beetroot, being stabbed in the back by a beetroot Michael Gove. And over there was Johnson again, this time rendered in cabbage. The veggie politicians were the big draw, Brixtonians standing six-deep around them, iPhones aloft.

The animal (as opposed to the vegetable) Johnson has begun his diplomatic rounds this week, his first démarches as tasteless and anodyne as cucumber. No British abandonment of friends after Brexit . . . Coordinated response to terror threat . . . Call for Erdogan to be restrained in response to failed coup . . . Blah-blah, whiff-whaff-waffle . . . Even someone as gaffe-prone as he can manage these simple lines, but I very much doubt he will be able to produce rhetorical flourishes as powerful as his hero’s. In The Churchill Factor: How One Man Made History, Johnson writes of Winnie overcoming “his stammer and his depression and his ­appalling father to become the greatest living Englishman”. Well, I’ve no idea if Bojo suffers from depression now but he soon will if he cleaves to this role model. His Churchill-worship (like so many others’) hinges on his belief that, without Churchill as war leader, Britain would have been ground beneath the Nazi jackboot. It may well be that, with his contribution to the Brexit campaign, Johnson now feels he, too, has wrested our national destiny from the slavering jaws of contingency.

Of course the differences between the two politicians are far more significant: Johnson’s genius – such as it is – lies in his intuitive understanding that politics, in our intensely mediatised and entirely commoditised era, is best conceived of as a series of spectacles or stunts: nowadays you can fool most of the people, most of the time. This is not a view you can imagine associating with Churchill, who, when his Gallipoli stratagem went disastrously wrong, exiled himself, rifle in hand, to the trenches. No, the French people Johnson both resembles and has an affinity for are the ones caught up in the virtual reality of Le Fantôme – rather than those patrolling the real and increasingly mean streets without. 

Will Self is an author and journalist. His books include Umbrella, Shark, The Book of Dave and The Butt. He writes the Madness of Crowds and Real Meals columns for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 21 July 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The English Revolt