Labour and the Tories neck and neck on 37%

Labour draws level with the Conservatives for the first time since October 2007.

You might expect Labour, with no permanent leader in place, to be lagging in the polls. But the latest Guardian/ICM poll shows quite the reverse. The poll puts Labour neck and neck with the Tories on 37 per cent, the first time an ICM poll has shown the two parties drawing level since the phantom election of October 2007.

Perhaps surprisingly, the Guardian's report almost entirely ignores this finding, focusing instead on news that 44 per cent belive the coalition is doing a good job in securing economic recovery, against 37 per cent who believe it's doing a bad job. However, it is hardly surprising that voters are in wait-and-see mode on the economy, not least because the VAT rise and those 25 per cent cuts are still to come.

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Hung parliament: Conservatives 20 seats short.

With some cabinet ministers such as Chris Huhne convinced that the cuts will make the coalition deeply unpopular, it must be troubling to see a leaderless Labour Party drawing level with the government. Labour havng avoided a collapse in support means that Simon Hughes can plausibly claim, as he has done in a BBC interview, that a progressive coalition after the next election is still "on the agenda".

There's better news for the Tories in the daily YouGov/Sun tracker, which puts them on 42 per cent, with Labour on 37 per cent and the Lib Dems on 14 per cent. But based on either poll, it looks like the next Labour leader will be in a far stronger position than many originally expected.

George Eaton is political editor of the New Statesman.

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Would you jump off a cliff if someone told you to? One time, I did

I was walking across the bridge in Matlock park, which is about 12 feet high, with a large group of other kids from my year, in the pouring rain.

Ever heard the phrase, “Would you jump off a cliff if they told you to?” It was the perpetual motif of my young teenage years: my daily escapades, all of which sprang from a need to impress a peer, were distressing and disgusting my parents.

At 13, this tomboyish streak developed further. I wrote urgent, angry poems containing lines like: “Who has desire for something higher than jumping for joy and smashing a light?” I wanted to push everything to its limits, to burst up through the ceiling of the small town I lived in and land in America, or London, or at least Derby. This was coupled with a potent and thumping appetite for attention.

At the height of these feelings, I was walking across the bridge in Matlock park, which is about 12 feet high, with a large group of other kids from my year, in the pouring rain. One of the cool girls started saying that her cousin had jumped off the bridge into the river and had just swum away – and that one of us should do it.

Then someone said that I should do it, because I always did that stuff. More people started saying I should. The group drew to a halt. Someone offered me a pound, which was the clincher. “I’m going to jump!” I yelled, and clambered on to the railing.

There wasn’t a complete hush, which annoyed me. I looked down. It was raining very hard and I couldn’t see the bottom of the riverbed. “It looks really deep because of the rain,” someone said. I told myself it would just be like jumping into a swimming pool. It would be over in a few minutes, and then everyone would know I’d done it. No one could ever take it away from me. Also, somebody would probably buy me some Embassy Filter, and maybe a Chomp.

So, surprising even myself, I jumped.

I was about three seconds in the air. I kept my eyes wide open, and saw the blur of trees, the white sky and my dyed red hair. I landed with my left foot at a 90-degree angle to my left ankle, and all I could see was red. “I’ve gone blind!” I thought, then realised it was my hair, which was plastered on to my eyes with rain.

When I pushed it out of the way and looked around, there was no one to be seen. They must have started running as I jumped. Then I heard a voice from the riverbank – a girl called Erin Condron, who I didn’t know very well. She pushed me home on someone’s skateboard, because my ankle was broken.

When we got to my house, I waited for Mum to say, “Would you jump off another cliff if they told you to?” but she was ashen. I had to lie that Dave McDonald’s brother had pushed me in the duck pond. And that’s when my ankle started to throb. I never got the pound, but I will always be grateful to Erin Condron. 

This article first appeared in the 25 August 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Cameron: the legacy of a loser