The Lib Dems' money woes are growing

Clegg's party might need a spell in opposition just to balance the books.

The Electoral Commission has published its accounts of political party income and expenditure. The table showing the financial state of health of the top 14 - the ones that get £250,000 or more - is available here.

The item that has made a few headlines is the drop in income for the Tories. The party's takings were down by 45 per cent on the previous year - now at the same level they were last at in 2003. That's wilderness income. Of course, the Conservative coffers will fill up again as an election approaches. They always do. But the fall in revenue might also reflect disquiet among big donors at negative publicity attached to the status of being seen to be a Cameron crony (especially after this incident) and irritation at the party leadership's willingness to indulge media bashing of bankers, high pay and fat-cattery.  The Telegraph's Ben Brogan wrote a column earlier this week suggesting donors were sniffing around Boris Johnson as a friendlier protege.

Labour also received less than last year but, thanks to the trade unions, the party's funding stream is a little more stable (although there is a political price to be paid for that dependency ... the subject of another much longer blog another time).

One thing that caught my eye in this year's accounts though was the perennial shortage of cash felt by the Lib Dems. They take in a fraction of the sums enjoyed by the big two and, unlike their rivals, spend more than they earn. One of the cruelties of coalition for the Lib Dems is that power has not suddenly opened up new exciting financing opportunities. Joining the governing big league has not granted entry to some exclusive high rolling donors club. Meanwhile, the party has lost the "short money" made available by the state to official opposition parties. And to make matters worse, Lib Dem councillors traditionally chip in around 10 per cent of their allowances to help fund the party. So the massacres in local elections in recent years have put a further squeeze on income. The Lib Dems, in other words, are utterly broke.

One senior Labour figure recently suggested to me that this would ultimately be the factor that breaks the coalition. The Lib Dems, this theory goes, will have to quit the government a year or so before an election so they can get their short money back. Without it they simply wouldn't be able to mount a campaign. Now that could be spite and mischief from the enemy camp (the shadow cabinet figure involved is no admirer of the Cleggists) but senior Lib Dems themselves don't deny privately that they have serious money woes. Maybe staying in government to the very bitter end will prove a luxury they can't afford.

Entering government has cost Clegg's party money as well as votes. Photograph: Getty Images

Rafael Behr is political columnist at the Guardian and former political editor of the New Statesman

Getty
Show Hide image

The Tinder dating app isn't just about sex – it's about friendship, too. And sex

The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, as I found out quickly while using the app.

The first time I met someone using Tinder, the free dating app that requires users to swipe left for “no” and right for “yes” before enabling new “matches” to chat, it was an unqualified success. I should probably qualify that. I was newly single after five years in a committed relationship and wasn’t looking for anything more than fun, friendship and, well, who knows. A few weeks earlier I had tried to give my number to a girl in a cinema café in Brixton. I wrote it on a postcard I’d been using as a bookmark. She said she had a boyfriend, but wanted to keep the postcard. I had no date and I lost my page.

My Tinder date was a master’s student from Valencia called Anna (her name wasn’t really Anna, of course, I’m not a sociopath). When I arrived at the appointed meeting place, she told me I was far more handsome IRL (“in real life”) than my pictures suggested. I was flattered and full of praise for the directness of continental Europeans but also thought sadly to myself: “If only the same could be said about you.”

Anna and I became friends, at least for a while. The date wasn’t a success in the traditional sense of leading us into a contract based on exclusivity, an accumulating cache of resentments and a mortgage, but it had put me back in the game (an appropriate metaphor – people speak regularly of “playing” with the app).

According to Sean Rad, the co-founder who launched Tinder in late 2012, the service was invented for people like me. “It was really a way to overcome my own problems,” he told the editor of Cosmopolitan at an event in London last month. “It was weird to me, to start a conversation [with a stranger]. Once I had an introduction I was fine, but it’s that first step. It’s difficult for a lot of people.” After just one outing, I’d learned two fundamental lessons about the world of online dating: pretty much everyone has at least one decent picture of themselves, and meeting women using a so-called hook-up app is seldom straightforwardly about sex.

Although sometimes it is. My second Tinder date took place in Vienna. I met Louisa (ditto, name) outside some notable church or other one evening while visiting on holiday (Tinder tourism being, in my view, a far more compelling way to get to know a place than a cumbersome Lonely Planet guide). We drank cocktails by the Danube and rambled across the city before making the romantic decision to stay awake all night, as she had to leave early the next day to go hiking with friends. It was just like the Richard Linklater movie Before Sunrise – something I said out loud more than a few times as the Aperol Spritzes took their toll.

When we met up in London a few months later, Louisa and I decided to skip the second part of Linklater’s beautiful triptych and fast-track our relationship straight to the third, Before Midnight, which takes place 18 years after the protagonists’ first meet in Vienna, and have begun to discover that they hate each others’ guts.

Which is one of the many hazards of the swiping life: unlike with older, web-based platforms such as Match.com or OkCupid, which require a substantial written profile, Tinder users know relatively little about their prospective mates. All that’s necessary is a Facebook account and a single photograph. University, occupation, a short bio and mutual Facebook “likes” are optional (my bio is made up entirely of emojis: the pizza slice, the dancing lady, the stack of books).

Worse still, you will see people you know on Tinder – that includes colleagues, neighbours and exes – and they will see you. Far more people swipe out of boredom or curiosity than are ever likely to want to meet up, in part because swiping is so brain-corrosively addictive.

While the company is cagey about its user data, we know that Tinder has been downloaded over 100 million times and has produced upwards of 11 billion matches – though the number of people who have made contact will be far lower. It may sound like a lot but the Tinder user-base remains stuck at around the 50 million mark: a self-selecting coterie of mainly urban, reasonably affluent, generally white men and women, mostly aged between 18 and 34.

A new generation of apps – such as Hey! Vina and Skout – is seeking to capitalise on Tinder’s reputation as a portal for sleaze, a charge Sean Rad was keen to deny at the London event. Tinder is working on a new iteration, Tinder Social, for groups of friends who want to hang out with other groups on a night out, rather than dating. This makes sense for a relatively fresh business determined to keep on growing: more people are in relationships than out of them, after all.

After two years of using Tinder, off and on, last weekend I deleted the app. I had been visiting a friend in Sweden, and took it pretty badly when a Tinder date invited me to a terrible nightclub, only to take a few looks at me and bolt without even bothering to fabricate an excuse. But on the plane back to London the next day, a strange thing happened. Before takeoff, the woman sitting beside me started crying. I assumed something bad had happened but she explained that she was terrified of flying. Almost as terrified, it turned out, as I am. We wound up holding hands through a horrific patch of mid-air turbulence, exchanged anecdotes to distract ourselves and even, when we were safely in sight of the ground, a kiss.

She’s in my phone, but as a contact on Facebook rather than an avatar on a dating app. I’ll probably never see her again but who knows. People connect in strange new ways all the time. The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, but you can be sure that if you look closely at the lines, you’ll almost certainly notice the pixels.

Philip Maughan is Assistant Editor at the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 26 May 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The Brexit odd squad