Osborne's dynamic plan

How a technical change in Treasury forecasting could help scrap the 45p tax rate.

At the Treasury Select Committee yesterday, in between being quizzed by MPs angry at the extent of the pre-budget leaks, George Osborne revealed that he was planning to enable the OBR to make greater use of so-called "dynamic scoring" when they prepare their economic forecasts – but only when examining tax plans. It may not sound it, but if he made that change, it would be a huge coup for the right.

Dynamic scoring is the practice of including behavioural changes in economic forecasts. Without it, in a static model, changes to revenue after something like a tax hike are facile to calculate. If VAT at 17.5 per cent takes in (say) £175bn, then VAT at 20 per cent will take in £200bn. Similarly, if you are trying to calculate the effects on government revenues of spending £100m buying new trains for the east coast main line, then you can conclude that it will cost £100m – you buy the new trains, everyone carries on riding the line, and nothing changes.

What a static model says is that people are blind to the effect that government actions have when they are choosing what to do. Clearly, that is untrue. But it is also very easy to calculate, which is why it has stuck around for so long.

Dynamic models include all these changes of behaviour. So when looking at a dynamic model for rail investment, you can take into account the fact that nicer trains will make people more likely to travel, boosting ticket revenue; and when looking at a dynamic model for VAT rises, you bear in mind the fact that as prices rise, people buy fewer things, so that an 11 per cent rise in VAT won't lead to an 11 per cent rise in VAT revenue.

The problem for economists is that dynamic models are a lot harder to calculate. Not only are there far more variables to take into account, but you open yourself up to more avenues of attack from political opponents. The combined effect of all the assumptions you must make means that your conclusions can be deeply flawed if you get too many wrong, and, as the IFS says (pdf), can "[open] the door to large controversies if these guesses are made – or perceived to be made – in a politically biased way." While static models contain assumptions that are obviously false, dynamic models still contain assumptions, which can still be just as false. And unlike static models, we can't know which ones these are until it is too late.

So why does George Osborne want to introduce dynamic scoring into OBR models? Does he believe that the government's economists have uncovered a breakthrough understanding in behavioural responses to government intervention?

A clue can be found in HMRC's report into the 50p tax rate, which found that dropping the rate down to 45p would cost far less than expected, because of expected behavioural changes. Indeed, this sort of dynamic thinking is the cornerstone of the Laffer curve, the economic theory that, past a certain point, increasing tax rates reduces revenues.

What Osborne will be hoping is that allowing the OBR to make its models more dynamic still will strengthen the rationale for scrapping the 45p rate entirely, as well as for cutting corporation tax all the way down to 20p by the end of parliament.

Yet while the OBR will be "informed" by these new dynamic models when it comes to tax policy, they won't be taking account of the same information when examining the justification for government investment, where, far from strengthening Osborne's preferred policy, it would weaken it. If dynamic scoring is indeed implemented in this narrow fashion, Osborne will have scored a stealth victory for future Tory policy.

Money on the mind: A 19th century phrenology chart. Credit: Getty

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 Images
Show Hide image

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