The high cost of low pay

As the minimum wage rises below inflation yet again, Matthew Pennycook examines the cost of low pay.

On Monday the National Minimum Wage (NMW) for people aged 21 and over will rise to £6.19 an hour from its current rate of £6.08. This represents a third consecutive annual fall in the real terms value of the minimum wage, now back to levels last seen in 2003. Put simply, the impact of the NMW is stalling. And while the Low Pay Commission’s cautious 11-pence-an-hour rise may be entirely justified in the current economic climate, it will provide little comfort for those that rely on a minimum wage to get by.

None of this is to denigrate the crucial role of the minimum wage. Since its introduction in 1999 the NMW has had a dramatic effect in reducing extreme low pay, providing around one million low-paid workers with the protection of a legal pay floor and ensuring that they are less badly paid than their counterparts in countries such as Germany and the United States. What’s more, this positive effect has come with little or no negative impact on either employment or working hours.

But while the minimum wage continues to shelter a significant minority of British workers from extreme low pay, it is not (and never has been) set at levels that would reduce the overall levels of low-paid work in Britain. Consequently, as a new report released today by the Resolution Foundation makes strikingly clear, its existence does not alter the fact that 5 million workers in the UK – 1 in 5 employees – paid at or above the legal minimum nevertheless remain in low-paid work. These 5 million people earn below £7.49 an hour (£13,600 a year gross for full-time work) and below the level of a living wage that would provide for “a minimum acceptable quality of life”. For this low-paid army – disproportionately female, part-time, and concentrated in the private sector – the NMW provides a safeguard from extreme low pay but not an escape route from life on a low wage.

Low-paid work is, of course, a feature of labour markets in all advanced economies. Yet low-paid work in Britain is associated with a number of negative attributes not shared by other countries. These include higher pay penalties for part-time work, a greater risk that women will find themselves in low-paid work, and a higher risk of low-paid work in certain low-skilled occupations such as social care and childcare.

And among advanced economies, the UK stands out as having one of the highest incidences of low-paid work. This was not always the case. After falling sharply in the early 1970s the share of low pay in the British labour market has grown steadily over the past three decades.

The growth of low-paid work in Britain has been, in part, the product of the steady rise in inequality experienced by much of the developed world in the final quarter of the 20th century. But policy decisions taken over the past three decades have also contributed to the rise, by eroding those institutions that have done much in other countries to arrest the forces bearing down on pay at the bottom of the labour market.

So policy choices matter. Our reliance on an extensive pool of low-skilled, low-paid labour is not predetermined. It’s not the unfortunate but necessary pre-requisite to a strong labour market. Other advanced economies with lower shares of low-paid work have not suffered lost employment or diminished competitiveness. Britain’s low-pay, low-productivity economic model is not the only option available to us.

And it is a model that we pay a heavy price for tolerating. Economically, Britain’s low-paid labour market has been central to the costly – as much £4bn a year – reliance of many low to middle income households on tax credits and other in-work transfers to support household incomes. Socially, low-paid work has been a factor in the gradual rise in in-work poverty since the mid-1990s and is linked to a range of negative outcomes including poor health, higher levels of workplace related stress, and diminished life chances.

Combating low pay is not easy. Tipping the balance away from employment strategies that rely on low paid, low productivity, poor quality jobs and towards 'high road' employment strategies is an almost herculean task. So it is not surprising that many policymakers have preferred to correct market inequities through remedial redistribution. Yet few, if any, believe that the growth in tax credit support that occurred over the past decade can be repeated in these fiscally straitened times. In the years ahead wages will have to do far more of the heavy lifting needed to sustain living standards. But for too long we have confused the existence of the minimum wage with a strategy to reduce low pay. They are not the same thing. So while valuing the vital protection the minimum wage provides for those at the very bottom, we urgently need to start doing the hard thinking required to deliver an ambitious policy agenda to tackle Britain’s endemic levels of low pay.

Margaret Dobb, the wife of a Nottinghamshire miner, holds up a placard at a strike in 1972. Photograph: Getty Images/Hutton Archive

Matthew Pennycook is MP for Greenwich and Woolwich, and member of the Energy and Climate Change Committee. He is PPS to John Healey. 

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Love a good box set? Then you should watch the Snooker World Championships

The game relies on a steady arm, which relies on a steady nerve. The result is a slow creeping tension needs time and space to be properly enjoyed and endured. 

People are lazy and people are impatient. This has always been so – just ask Moses or his rock – but as illustrated by kindly old Yahweh, in those days they could not simply answer those impulses and stroll on.

Nowadays, that is no longer so. Twitter, YouTube and listicles reflect a desire for complex and involved issues, expansive and nuanced sports – what we might term quality – to be condensed into easily digestible morsels for effort-free enjoyment.

There is, though, one notable exception to this trend: the box set. Pursuing a novelistic, literary sensibility, it credits its audience with the power of sentience and tells riveting stories slowly, unfolding things in whichever manner that it is best for them to unfold.

In the first episode of the first series of The Sopranos, we hear Tony demean his wife Carmela's irritation with him via the phrase “always with the drama”; in the seventh episode of the first series we see his mother do likewise to his father; and in the 21st and final episode of the sixth and final series, his son uses it on Carmela. It is precisely this richness and this care that makes The Sopranos not only the finest TV show ever made, but the finest artefact that contemporary society has to offer. It forces us to think, try and feel.

We have two principal methods of consuming art of this ilk - weekly episode, or week-long binge. The former allows for anticipation and contemplation, worthy pursuits both, but of an entirely different order to the immersion and obsession offered by the latter. Who, when watching the Wire, didn’t find themselves agreeing that trudat, it's time to reup the dishwasher salt, but we’ve run out, ain’t no thing. Losing yourself in another world is rare, likewise excitement at where your mind is going next.

In a sporting context, this can only be achieved via World Championship snooker. Because snooker is a simple, repetitive game, it is absorbing very quickly, its run of play faithfully reflected by the score.

But the Worlds are special. The first round is played over ten frames – as many as the final in the next most prestigious competition – and rather than the usual week, it lasts for 17 magical days, from morning until night. This bestows upon us the opportunity to, figuratively at least, put away our lives and concentrate. Of course, work and family still exist, but only in the context of the snooker and without anything like the same intensity. There is no joy on earth like watching the BBC’s shot of the championship compilation to discover that not only did you see most of them live, but that you have successfully predicted the shortlist.

It is true that people competing at anything provides compelling drama, emotion, pathos and bathos - the Olympics proves this every four years. But there is something uniquely nourishing about longform snooker, which is why it has sustained for decades without significant alteration.

The game relies on a steady arm, which relies on a steady nerve. The result is a slow creeping tension needs time and space to be properly enjoyed and endured. Most frequently, snooker is grouped with darts as a non-athletic sport, instead testing fine motor skills and the ability to calculate angles, velocity and forthcoming shots. However, its tempo and depth is more similar to Test cricket – except snooker trusts so much in its magnificence that it refuses to compromise the values which underpin it.

Alfred Hitchcock once explained that if two people are talking and a bomb explodes without warning, it constitutes surprise; but if two people are talking and all the while a ticking bomb is visible under the table, it constitutes suspense. “In these conditions,” he said, “The same innocuous conversation becomes fascinating because the public is participating in the scene. The audience is longing to warn the characters on the screen: ‘You shouldn't be talking about such trivial matters. There is a bomb beneath you and it is about to explode!’”

Such is snooker. In more or less every break, there will at some point be at least one difficult shot, loss of position or bad contact – and there will always be pressure. Add to that the broken flow of things – time spent waiting for the balls to stop, time spent prowling around the table, time spent sizing up the table, time spent cleaning the white, time spent waiting for a turn – and the ability for things to go wrong is constantly in contemplation.

All the more so in Sheffield’s Crucible Theatre. This venue, in its 40th year of hosting the competition, is elemental to its success. Place is crucial to storytelling, and even the word “Crucible” – whether “a ceramic or metal container in which metals or other substances may be melted or subjected to very high temperatures,” “a situation of severe trial”, or Arthur Miller’s searing play – conjures images of destruction, injustice and nakedness. And the actual Crucible is perhaps the most atmospheric arena in sport - intimate, quiet, and home to a legendarily knowledgeable audience, able to calculate when a player has secured a frame simply by listening to commentary through an earpiece and applauding as soon as the information is communicated to them.

To temper the stress, snooker is also something incredibly comforting. This is partly rooted in its scheduling. Working day and late-night sport is illicit and conspiratorial, while its presence in revision season has entire cohorts committing to “just one more quick frame”, and “just one more quick spliff”. But most powerfully of all, world championship snooker triggers memory and nostalgia, a rare example of something that hasn’t changed, as captivating now as it was in childhood.

This wistfulness is complemented by sensory pleasure of the lushest order. The colours of both baize and balls are the brightest, most engaging iterations imaginable, while the click of cue on ball, the clunk of ball on ball and the clack of ball on pocket is deep and musical; omnipresent and predictable, they combine for a soundtrack that one might play to a baby in the womb, instead of whale music or Megadeth.

Repeating rhythms are also set by the commentators, former players of many years standing. As is natural with extended coverage of repetitive-action games, there are numerous phrases that recur:

“We all love these tactical frames, but the players are so good nowadays that one mistake and your opponent’s in, so here he is, looking to win the frame at one visit ... and it’s there, right in the heart of the pocket for frame and match! But where’s the cue ball going! it really is amazing what can happen in the game of snooker, especially when we’re down to this one-table situation.”

But as omniscient narrators, the same men also provide actual insight, alerting us to options and eventualities of which we would otherwise be ignorant. Snooker is a simple game but geometry and physics are complicated, so an expert eye is required to explain them intelligibly; it is done with a winning combination of levity and sincerity.

The only essential way in which snooker is different is the standard of play. The first round of this year’s draw featured eight past winners, only two of whom have made it to the last four, and there were three second-round games that were plausible finals.

And just as literary fiction is as much about character as plot, so too is snooker. Nothing makes you feel you know someone like studying them over years at moments of elation and desolation, pressure and release, punctuated by TV confessions of guilty pleasures, such as foot massages, and bucket list contents, such as naked bungee jumping.

It is probably true that there are not as many “characters” in the game as once there were, but there are just as many characters, all of whom are part of that tradition. And because players play throughout their adult life, able to establish their personalities, in unforgiving close-up, over a number of years, they need not be bombastic to tell compelling stories, growing and undergoing change in the same way as Dorothea Brooke or Paulie Gualtieri.

Of no one is this more evident that Ding Junhui, runner-up last year and current semi-finalist this; though he is only 30, we have been watching him almost half his life. In 2007, he reached the final of the Masters tournament, in which he faced Ronnie O’Sullivan, the most naturally talented player ever to pick up a cue – TMNTPETPUAC for short. The crowd were, to be charitable, being boisterous, and to be honest, being pricks, and at the same time, O’Sullivan was playing monumentally well. So at the mid-session interval, Ding left the arena in tears and O’Sullivan took his arm in consolation; then when Ding beat O’Sullivan in this year’s quarter-final, he rested his head on O’Sullivan’s shoulder and exchanged words of encouragement for words of respect. It was beautiful, it was particular, and it was snooker.

Currently, Ding trails Mark Selby, the “Jester from Leicester” – a lucky escape, considering other rhyming nouns - in their best of 33 encounter. Given a champion poised to move from defending to dominant, the likelihood is that Ding will remain the best player never to win the game’s biggest prize for another year.

Meanwhile, the other semi-final pits Barry Hawkins, a finalist in 2013, against John Higgins, an undisputed great and three-time champion. Higgins looks likely to progress, and though whoever wins through will be an outsider, both are eminently capable of taking the title. Which is to say that, this weekend, Planet Earth has no entertainment more thrilling, challenging and enriching than events at the Crucible Theatre, Sheffield.

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