Is Cameron trying to buy the election?

Labour should check the figures before it adopts this line

It must count as some achievement to simultaneously attract the ire of Jack Straw and Simon Heffer. That's the position in which David Cameron finds himself this morning, with both, to varying degrees, accusing the Tory leader of attempting to buy the election.

Here's Straw:

At the same time that Mr Cameron tells the British people we face "austerity", he has ordered his party to fight the most expensive election campaign in British political history. It is an American-style campaign, costing millions, with wealthy suitors each paying £50,000 to join David Cameron's dining club, and British high streets covered with billboards bankrolled ultimately from Belize. Mr Cameron says the Conservatives have changed, but what we are seeing is an attempt by his party to buy the next general election.

And here's the Heff:

I am told that the budget for the forthcoming campaign has been agreed, and it will be £18m. How does that resonate with a country in the grip of austerity? What does it suggest about the party's understanding of the value of money? What if a second campaign had to be funded later in 2010? Given the circumstances, would a little more restraint not have been in order? Given, also, the very obvious mess that the government has made of the country, is it really going to take £18m to put that message across?

Should the Tories have amassed an £18m election war chest, it will be the most expensive campaign this country has seen. But not by much. At the 2005 election Labour spent a record £17,939,617 -- £87,000 more than the Tories' £17,852,240.

If Labour is to criticise Cameron with any credibility, it will have to run a fairly lean campaign itself. Given the state of the party's finances, it may be forced to do so.

Whether this line of attack will prove effective either way is doubtful. Next to the £850bn bank bailout and the £187bn deficit, £18m will appear a piffling sum to the voters. Attacking the size of the Tories' campaign budget may even prove a distraction from the related but separate issue of Lord Ashcroft's tax status.

In order to portray the Tory showing as insensitive and profligate, Gordon Brown would have to run a John Major-style soapbox campaign. Such an approach would complement Brown's hairshirt image and could even give Labour a chance to resurrect the effective slogan "Not flash, just Gordon". I'd be surprised if Labour strategists weren't considering this approach for the election.

 

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George Eaton is political editor of the New Statesman.

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What happened when a couple accidentally recorded two hours of their life

The cassette tape threw Dan and Fiona into a terrible panic.

If the Transformers series of movies (Transformers; Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen; Transformers: Dark of the Moon; Transformers: Age of Extinction; and Transformers: the Last Knight) teach us anything, it is that you think your life is going along just fine but in a moment, with a single mistake or incident, it can be derailed and you never know from what direction the threat will come. Shia LaBeouf, for example, thinks everything is completely OK in his world – then he discovers his car is a shape-shifting alien.

I once knew a couple called Dan and Fiona who, on an evening in the early 1980s, accidentally recorded two hours of their life. Fiona was an English teacher (in fact we’d met at teacher-training college) and she wished to make a recording of a play that was being broadcast on Radio 4 about an anorexic teenager living on a council estate in Belfast. A lot of the dramas at that time were about anorexic teenagers living on council estates in Belfast, or something very similar – sometimes they had cancer.

Fiona planned to get her class to listen to the play and then they would have a discussion about its themes. In that pre-internet age when there was no iPlayer, the only practical way to hear something after the time it had been transmitted was to record the programme onto a cassette tape.

So Fiona got out their boom box (a portable Sony stereo player), loaded in a C120 tape, switched on the radio part of the machine, tuned it to Radio 4, pushed the record button when the play began, and fastidiously turned the tape over after 60 minutes.

But instead of pushing the button that would have taped the play, she had actually pushed the button that activated the built-in microphone, and the machine captured, not the radio drama, but the sound of 120 minutes of her and Dan’s home life, which consisted solely of: “Want a cup of tea?” “No thanks.” And a muffled fart while she was out of the room. That was all. That was it.

The two of them had, until that moment, thought their life together was perfectly happy, but the tape proved them conclusively wrong. No couple who spent their evenings in such torpidity could possibly be happy. Theirs was clearly a life of grinding tedium.

The evidence of the cassette tape threw Dan and Fiona into a terrible panic: the idea of spending any more of their evenings in such bored silence was intolerable. They feared they might have to split up. Except they didn’t want to.

But what could they do to make their lives more exciting? Should they begin conducting sordid affairs in sleazy nightclubs? Maybe they could take up arcane hobbies such as musketry, baking terrible cakes and entering them in competitions, or building models of Victorian prisons out of balsa wood? Might they become active in some kind of extremist politics?

All that sounded like a tremendous amount of effort. In the end they got themselves a cat and talked about that instead. 

This article first appeared in the 20 July 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The new world disorder