Boundary changes will hit Welsh Labour MPs hardest

There is a clear political dimension to the way that the coalition’s proposed boundary changes will

There is a clear political dimension to the way that the coalition’s proposed boundary changes will be implemented.

Today during Deputy Prime Minister's Questions, the shadow Treasury minister Chris Leslie raised the matter of House of Lords reform, asking Nick Clegg whether the proposed reduction in the number of MPs, accompanied by new coalition appointments to the Lords, was intended as a political move against Labour.

Clegg responded by confirming that the Labour-instituted method for appointing peers will remain in place until a full review of the second chamber has taken place, and also pointed out that a number of Labour peers have just joined the Lords, appointed as part of the Dissolution Honours list in May.

However, the Deputy Prime Minister did not really address the main point of Leslie's question: under the Parliamentary Voting System and Constituencies Bill 2010-2011, which is now making its way through the House, 50 MPs's seats will be scrapped, and it looks as if a significant proportion of them will be in Labour-supporting areas.

Yesterday, the House of Commons Welsh affairs committee published a report which concluded that not only does the coincidental clash of the referendum with the next Welsh Assembly election raise concerns, but that Wales would be affected disproportionately by the cut in the number of constituencies. The report reads:

The reduction in the number of Members of the House of Commons proposed by the bill would affect Wales more than any other part of the UK; the evidence we have received suggests that Wales would lose at least ten of its 40 MPs, a 25 per cent reduction (in comparison to a 17 per cent reduction for Northern Ireland, 16 per cent for Scotland and 5 per cent for England).

Of the 40 Welsh MPs, 26 are Labour, eight are Conservative, and the Lib Dems and Plaid Cymru have three each. Reducing this total by a quarter would inevitably impact more on Labour than any other party, purely as a result of it being the largest political grouping.

The new boundaries would be drawn in order to create constituencies of roughly equal size – each consisting of roughly 76,000 voters. The rights and wrongs of the changes themselves will no doubt still be debated at length before the final vote on the bill. But, without doubt, the boundary changes will have a heavier bearing on the opposition than the government, and clearly there is a strongly political dimension to the way the coalition has gone about delivering its "new politics".

Caroline Crampton is web editor of the New Statesman.

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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