EU success for Cameron? Get real

The Conservative leader is caught between a rock and a hard place over Europe.

As is customary at summits of the European Union, all leaders come away claiming victory. David Cameron is no different. Despite pledging several weeks ago that the EU budget would be frozen, he is now claiming victory for having limited the increase to 2.9 per cent. His spin machine is whirring into action.

But the truth is that the EU budget row has shown that it's only taken five months for the first significant Tory party split over the EU. David Cameron may be a pragmatic and skilled negotiator, but most of his MPs are not, especially when the EU rears its head.

The likes of Douglas Carswell and the veteran Thatcherite Eurosceptic Norman Tebbit have been on the rhetorical warpath, Tebbit going as far as to compare Cameron's acceptance of the EU budget with the Vichy puppet government's alliance with Nazi Germany in the Second World War.

Such language is deeply offensive and arrant rubbish. It is another reminder that Lord Tebbit should spend more time at the golf club and less time spouting his ill-informed poison.

The Tories have spent much of the past few weeks trying to blame Labour, falsely accusing Labour MEPs of voting in favour of the European Parliament's proposal to increase the EU budget by 6 per cent. This is simply not true – they voted to oppose the parliament's proposal.

The truth is that the Tory leadership, in their anxiety not to talk about the EU, did nothing to build alliances with other countries to block a budget increase. That they now have to accept a 2.9 per cent increase is their fault, not Labour's. This should be a wake-up call to the Tories to get real about the EU budget.

A bit of a reality check is also in order over the size of the budget. It is strictly capped, so that it can be only fractionally over 1 per cent of EU GDP, so let's not delude ourselves that we are talking about a huge increase. Most of the increase will pay for the new European External Action Service, beefing up foreign policy co-ordination between member states.

We should also scotch the myth that Britain subsidises the rest of Europe. In fact, while Britain is one of about ten countries who are net contributors to the EU budget, there are other countries with much more reason to complain about it. Germany's contribution is double that of Britain's, while the Netherlands contributes only slightly less, despite having a population that is a quarter the size of ours.

The Scandinavian nations and France are also among those countries which, in per person terms, make contributions similar to Britain's. This arrangement is sensible. It is right that Europe's wealthiest nations should put in a bit more than the poorest. Given that most of our exports go to other EU countries, it makes economic sense if as many countries as possible have the means to buy our goods and services.

Moreover, if the Tories think that, in the future, they can expect other countries to agree to a reduction in Britain's contribution, then they need to swallow a dose of reality. The truth is that most European countries actually resent that Britain already gets a £3bn-£4bn rebate each year, just as most Brits resent the costs of the Common Agricultural Policy.

While the CAP remains, so will the British rebate, and vice versa. It may be unwelcome to hear this, but that's the way it is.

So Cameron has learned that, when it comes to EU summits, he is stuck between a rock and a hard place. He has saved a little face by leading the negotiations for a 2.9 per cent increase and talking tough for the Eurosceptic press, but the truth is that his position is akin to a poker player armed with a poor hand and little scope to bluff.

And his backbenchers know it. Thirty-seven Tory MPs defied a three-line whip to vote against a motion on the EU budget a fortnight ago. We can assume a similar-sized rebellion when the agreed budget comes before the Commons. Never mind. Watching the Tories rip themselves apart over the EU is always amusing bloodsport.

Ben Fox is chairman of GMB Brussels and political adviser to the Socialist vice-president of economic and monetary affairs

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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