Cameron’s double standards on benefits

The Prime Minister’s response to criticisms of child benefit betrays a worrying classism.

The government has spent much of the day facing renewed pressure over its proposed changes to child benefit: one senior Tory MP called them "unworkable", and a Treasury tax expert described them as "intrusive" and "an administrative burden".

Meanwhile, the shadow chancellor, Alan Johnson, has written to his Conservative counterpart, George Osborne, requesting clarification of how exactly the scheme would work, and who would be eligible under the convoluted new regime.

This is hardly shocking news. What is more surprising, however, is David Cameron's response to such concerns at his press conference.

Aside from how remarkably blasé he was about the practical difficulties, the Prime Minister displayed double standards in his government's approach to rich and poor welfare claimants, betraying a deep classism underpinning the government's implementation of social policy.

In relation to these concerns, Cameron said:

I don't start from the proposition that we are all appalling cheats and liars and tax evaders, and the rest of it, and I am quite sure this change will secure the very generous revenues that the Office for Budget Responsibility have pencilled in. So I don't predict a problem.

Contrast this with the government's plans to use private "bounty hunters" to crack down on what Cameron in August called the "absolutely outrageous" level of benefit fraud.

It seems he thinks that the higher earners who will be missing out are more honest and have a greater sense of civic responsibility than the poorer people who constitute the majority of welfare claimants.

What evidence is available does not support his claims – or prejudices. Those who earn more have greater opportunity to avoid tax, and more often have the social connections and knowledge to enable them to do so.

Tax evasion has been estimated to cost the Treasury £15bn a year – 15 times as much as benefit fraud. This figure doesn't include the legal tax avoidance indulged in by rich individuals and companies, which some have estimated to cost an additional £40bn a year.

So, it's very hard to maintain Cameron's claim that those who would lose their eligibility under the new scheme will be flocking to surrender their child benefits.

In contrast, the government's own figures suggested that last year roughly 1 per cent only of benefit was fraudulently claimed, amounting to £1bn a year, out of a total £148bn spend.

Obviously, any sort of fraud is a bad thing, and nobody would seriously suggest otherwise. It would also be seriously misguided to suggest that "all" those who stand to lose their child benefit are "cheats and liars and tax evaders". However, some will, and as times become harder it is not difficult to see why.

Most importantly, this shows just how wrong-headed this insidious discourse that contrasts an honest, civic-minded upper middle class with work-shy, dishonest lower earners is. What is most worrying is that such ideas are set to be reflected in how critical social policy reforms are implemented.

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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