Boris's large fiscal hole

Sian helps launch a new cross-party, cross-NGO initiative to ask Boris Johnson what the dickens he’s

After all the election excitement, I’ve been enjoying some glorious (if skint) ‘resting’ time over the past few weeks, getting some fresh air in the Lake District and having long lunches with everyone I’ve not seen in months.

Last week, I went to a preview screening of a new film about climate change called ‘The Age of Stupid’. Part sci-fi, part impressive documentary, this is a much more interesting piece of work than Al Gore’s ‘An Inconvenient Truth’. My colleague Jim Killock has reviewed the film properly, and I’d encourage everyone, from teachers to trekkies, to see it.

And of course I couldn’t stay away from campaigning for long. This week, I have helped launch a new cross-party, cross-NGO initiative to ask Boris Johnson what the dickens he’s going to do about greener transport in London.

There was so little information on this subject provided during his election campaign that campaign group London Living Streets was forced to leave a blank space next to Johnson’s name under two of their policy areas when they compared the candidates for Mayor in April. With admirable understatement they concluded, “Living Streets is disappointed at the lack of policies on this issue”.

The key problem with all this vagueness is that it’s very unclear how he’s going to balance the transport budget, when most of his published plans actually involve taking vital money out of Transport for London’s revenue stream.

Add up the cost of cancelling the CO2 Charge scheme (£50m a year), ditching the Western Extension (£65m), cancelling the deal with Venezuela that gave people on income support half-price fares (£16m) and swapping bendy buses for a newly designed and built routemaster (think of a large number, then double it), and you get a very big fiscal hole indeed. In the absence of a magic wand, this can only be filled with cuts to other programmes or by higher fares.

Green transport activists are now understandably worried that our favourite schemes, among them the £50 million a year cycling budget, walking initiatives, school and workplace travel plans, the Paris-style bike scheme and the hybrid bus programme, are going to see red lines drawn through them in the near future. Along with the loss of the CO2 Charge, all this could spell real problems for air quality and road safety, and put a stop to people in London switching from cars to public transport, walking and cycling.

Given the excellent progress we’ve seen since 2000 in all these areas except the stubborn problem of air quality, this is all very worrying. So, please join us in writing to Boris and asking him how he’s going to sort this mess out – you can download a stylish letter from the 4x4 campaign’s website.

Sian Berry lives in Kentish Town and was previously a principal speaker and campaigns co-ordinator for the Green Party. She was also their London mayoral candidate in 2008. She works as a writer and is a founder of the Alliance Against Urban 4x4s
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The dog at the end of the lead may be small, but in fact what I’m walking is a hound of love

There is a new, hairy face in the Hovel.

There is a new, hairy face in the Hovel. I seem to have become a temporary co-owner of an enthusiastic Chorkie. A Chorkie, in case you’re not quite up to speed with your canine crossbreeds, is a mixture of a chihuahua and a Yorkshire Terrier, and while my friend K— busies herself elsewhere I am looking after this hound.

This falls squarely into the category of Things I Never Thought I’d Do. I’m a cat person, taking my cue from their idleness, cruelty and beauty. Dogs, with their loyalty, their enthusiasm and their barking, are all a little too much for me, even after the first drink of the day. But the dog is here, and I am in loco parentis, and it is up to me to make sure that she is looked after and entertained, and that there is no repetition of the unfortunate accident that occurred outside my housemate’s room, and which needed several tissues and a little poo baggie to make good.

As it is, the dog thinks I am the bee’s knees. To give you an idea of how beeskneesian it finds me, it is licking my feet as I write. “All right,” I feel like saying to her, “you don’t have to go that far.”

But it’s quite nice to be worshipped like this, I have decided. She has also fallen in love with the Hovel, and literally writhes with delight at the stinky cushions on the sofa. Named after Trude Fleischmann, the lesbian erotic photographer of the Twenties, Thirties and Forties, she has decided, with admirable open-mindedness, that I am the Leader of the Pack. When I take the lead, K— gets a little vexed.

“She’s walking on a loose lead, with you,” K— says. “She never does that when I’m walking her.” I don’t even know what that means, until I have a think and work it out.

“She’s also walking to heel with you,” K— adds, and once again I have to join a couple of mental dots before the mists part. It would appear that when it comes to dogs, I have a natural competence and authority, qualities I had never, not even in my most deranged flights of self-love, considered myself to possess in any measurable quantity at all.

And golly, does having a dog change the relationship the British urban flâneur has with the rest of society. The British, especially those living south of Watford, and above all those in London, do not recognise other people’s existence unless they want to buy something off them or stop them standing on the left of the sodding escalator, you idiot. This all changes when you have a dog with you. You are now fair game for any dog-fancier to come up to you and ask the most personal questions about the dog’s history and genealogy. They don’t even have to have a dog of their own; but if you do, you are obliged by law to stop and exchange dog facts.

My knowledge of dog facts is scant, extending not much further beyond them having a leg at each corner and chasing squirrels, so I leave the talking to K—, who, being a friendly sort who could probably talk dog all day long if pressed, is quite happy to do that. I look meanwhile in a kind of blank wonder at whichever brand of dog we’ve just encountered, and marvel not only at the incredible diversity of dog that abounds in the world, but at a realisation that had hitherto escaped me: almost half of London seems to have one.

And here’s the really interesting thing. When I have the leash, the city looks at me another way. And, specifically, the young women of the city. Having reached the age when one ceases to be visible to any member of the opposite sex under 30, I find, all of a sudden, that I exist again. Women of improbable beauty look at Trude, who looks far more Yorkie than chihuahua, apart from when she does that thing with the ears, and then look at me, and smile unguardedly and unironically, signalling to me that they have decided I am a Good Thing and would, were their schedules not preventing them, like to chat and get to know me and the dog a bit better.

I wonder at first if I am imagining this. I mention it to K—.

“Oh yes,” she says, “it’s a thing. My friend P-J regularly borrows her when he wants to get laid. He reckons he’s had about 12 shags thanks to her in the last six months. The problems only arise when they come back again and notice the dog isn’t there.”

I do the maths. Twelve in six months! That’s one a fortnight. An idea begins to form in my mind. I suppose you don’t have to be a rocket scientist to work out what it is. But no. I couldn’t. Could I?

Nicholas Lezard is a literary critic for the Guardian and also writes for the Independent. He writes the Down and Out in London column for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 28 April 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The new fascism