Why the “big society” means less freedom for us all

Cameron’s pet project is an insidious attempt to undermine common liberty.

It was no surprise when David Cameron announced in his "big society" speech that the idea is a long-standing passion of his, regardless of the unpleasant duty to cut the deficit. The thing that remains somewhat harder to fathom is his claim that the "big society" is actually about the biggest redistribution of power from the elite in Whitehall to the man and woman on the street. He alluded to this at a meeting with representatives of voluntary and charitable organisations in Downing Street back in May, when he said that "the best ideas come from the ground up, not the top down".

One could be forgiven for thinking Cameron is proposing that grass-roots activists overthrow the government, resulting in an anti-elitist utopia. However, his hierarchical phrasing (despite its placating focus on those on the ground looking up) leaves little doubt as to who is really in charge. It's just the usual case of those in authority patronising subordinates by saying what a marvellous job they're going do, so that they can delegate responsibility to them at as little cost as possible, before going off to do whatever they please in the time the subordinates have freed up.

Cameron says the success of the "big society" will depend on people giving their time, effort and even money to causes around them, and that the government must foster and support a new culture of voluntarism, philanthropy and social action. Perhaps, in the current political climate, it doesn't matter if people get involved only because of the social pressure that such a culture will surely create. Indeed, it seems many people only really mind being controlled if it is done explicitly.

If they can pretend it isn't happening, all is well. As it is, this means that ultimately many see paying tax according to one's earnings as an absolute drag, while being aggressively harassed in the street by a pushy charity fundraiser for money that one may not have isn't commonly held in the same degree of contempt. The "big society" will surely spur such sentiments.

"Something really exciting"

Social control is certainly not to be celebrated. In my view, people should only ever be forced to submit to anything when it is deemed completely necessary for basic human survival. But what's worse? A better version of the tax system we already have, that is honestly but discreetly imposed on those of us who have the means to pay? This gives us all the right to expect that our basic needs will be met, but leaves us to do what we please beyond that. Or, alternatively, a gradual erosion of that system through interventions that offer fake freedom, and then use more insidious ways to control our lives persistently?

Cameron's voluntarism is precisely the latter. This is clearly reflected in his bluster about neighbourhoods which feel that if they club together and get involved they can shape the world around them. This brings frightening visions of communities where dominant, self-appointed busybodies are free to lord it over others and pour scorn on those who fail to fit in. Make no mistake: there is no room for outsiders or loners in a society without a welfare state that allows those in need not to be at the mercy of the mob's prejudices.

There are greater individual freedoms to be gained from socialism in the long run. Higher taxes for those of us who can afford them in return for decent public services and benefits for those of us who need them are a small price to pay for the basic right to food, shelter, health care and dignity for everyone (with no questions, and no ifs or buts).

The greater anonymity of giving through taxes gives both givers and receivers freedom from the reinforcement of power relations, and a better chance of going about our business undisturbed. In the case of the recipient, it also gives dignity and the freedom to live as an individual, without having to rely on other people's goodwill. Pragmatically, charity is sometimes necessary, but Cameron seems determined to create a situation where we are even more beholden to it, concluding:

It's my hope . . . that when people look back at this five-, ten-year-period from 2010, they'll say: "In Britain they didn't just pay down the deficit, they didn't just balance the books, they didn't just get the economy moving again, they did something really exciting in their society."

The mind boggles as to what this exciting thing could be. Get ready to be excited about gradually losing the National Health Service through back-door privatisation and for the welfare state to become a distant memory. Get ready for even more poverty on the streets that you walk through on the way to the full-time job you can't afford to lose because there is no safety net.

Oh, and don't forget to navigate those streets all over again at the end of the working day to reach that volunteer position you are duty-bound to take on top of your normal job. The elite are free to lock themselves in their castles and build their moats around themselves -- but not you, good citizen.

I'm not an economist and I am not going to pretend I have answers to the deficit problem. I accept that many of the proposed solutions will not be to my liking, and that there will be arguments for making cuts. What I resent is the attempt to hoodwink us into thinking that the "big society" has anything whatsoever to do with liberation.

Cameron says you can call it freedom. Nice try -- but, of all the things I could call it, freedom certainly isn't one of them.

Holly Combe has been a writer for the F-Word since 2002 and is also a TV and radio commentator.

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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