The crafty political logic of the coalition’s war on universality

Labour has to find a credible counterargument to defend this key progressive principle.

Since the Second World War, one of the hallmarks of the British welfare state has been its universality. However, both David Cameron and Nick Clegg have attempted to defend their decision to increase the cap on university tuition fees and means-test child benefit by arguing that they are making sure that the impact of the cuts is borne mainly by high-income earners.

They point out that support for university students from poor families will be increased while the coalition will give a "pupil premium" to those primary and secondary schools that deal with disadvantaged children. However, although these measures will have a progressive impact in the short term, they are part of a longer-term strategy to destroy middle-class support for good-quality public services.

The current system has two main benefits. From a political perspective, enabling those on average, and above-average, incomes to gain access to public services creates a sense of shared civic space. This is important, because psychological experiments have shown that people tend to be more altruistic towards those they feel that they have a connection with.

Similarly, those on middle and upper-middle incomes are more likely to support those services for which they can see tangible benefits, even if they are less than the taxes that they end up paying. And conversely, deliberately excluding sections of the population from public services makes it easier for the remaining users of those services to be demonised as "scroungers".

That means-testing may push middle-class voters rightwards is particularly significant, given that lower turnout in recent elections has increased the power of wealthier voters.

Although estimates for the 2010 election are not yet available, the Electoral Commission estimated that while nearly three-quarters of the top two social groups voted in 2005, just over half of those on in groups D and E did so.

Throw in the well-known tendency for voters to overestimate their relative income, and it becomes clear that Stanley Greenberg, a political consultant who worked for both Bill Clinton and Tony Blair, is correct in claiming that middle-class voters are the key swing group in modern elections.

Ending universality is also bad economics. Means-testing services for all but the very poorest risks creating a middle-class version of the "poverty trap". In extreme cases, this could lead to families close to the average income facing punitive marginal tax rates, with any extra money that they make – for instance, from working extra hours – being eaten up by increased co-payments and fees.

However, under a means-testing regime, the rich would be able to use the threat of bypassing public services and going private to put a de facto cap on the amount that they are required to contribute – something that many fear may happen with higher education.

The coalition's plans are therefore both a challenge and opportunity for Ed Miliband's leadership. He clearly needs to set out a credible alternative economic programme, which will involve accepting the need to reduce the Budget deficit, albeit to a slightly longer timetable. The Conservatives have also cleverly co-opted several left-of-centre thinkers, such as Will Hutton, making it harder for Labour to challenge them.

There is a great need to make sure that those most affected by the recession are not hit by the cuts. However, if Miliband is able to mount a credible and convincing defence of universality, he will not only have defended a key progressive principle, but improved Labour's standing in the key, south-eastern marginal seats that the party needs to win to regain power in five years' time.

Matthew Partridge is a freelance journalist and a PhD student at the London School of Economics.

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In defence of orientalism, the case against Twenty20, and why Ken should watch Son of Saul

My week, from Age Concern to anti-semitism.

Returning late from a party I never much wanted to go to, I leap up and down in the middle of the Harrow Road in the hope of flagging down a taxi, but the drivers don’t notice me. Either they’re haring down the fast lane or they’re too preoccupied cursing Uber to one another on their mobile phones. My father drove a black cab, so I have a deep loyalty to them. But there’s nothing like being left stranded in NW10 in the dead of night to make one reconsider one’s options. I just wish Uber wasn’t called Uber.

Just not cricket

Tired and irritable, I spend the next day watching sport on television – snooker, darts, cricket, anything I can find. But I won’t be following the Indian Premier League’s Twenty20 cricket again. It’s greedy, cynical, over-sponsored and naff. Whenever somebody hits a boundary, cheerleaders in cast-off gym kit previously worn by fourth-form Roedean girls wave tinsel mops.

Matches go to the final over where they’re decided in a thrashathon of sixes hit by mercenaries wielding bats as wide as shovels. Why, in that case, don’t both teams just play a final over each and dispense with the previous 19? I can’t wait for the elegant ennui of a five-day Test match.

Stop! Culture police!

I go to the Delacroix exhibition at the National Gallery to shake off the sensation of all-consuming kitsch. Immediately I realise I have always confused Delacroix with someone else but I can’t decide who. Maybe Jacques-Louis David. The show convincingly argues that Delacroix influenced every artist who came after him except Jeff Koons, who in that case must have been influenced by David. It’s turbulent, moody work, some of the best of it, again to my surprise, being religious painting with the religion taken out. Christ’s followers lamenting his death don’t appear to be expecting miracles. This is a man they loved, cruelly executed. The colours are the colours of insupportable grief.

I love the show but wish the curators hadn’t felt they must apologise for Delacroix finding the North Africans he painted “exotic”. Cultural studies jargon screams from the wall. You can hear the lecturer inveighing against the “appropriating colonial gaze” – John Berger and Edward Said taking all the fun out of marvelling at what’s foreign and desirable. I find myself wondering where they’d stand on the Roedean cheer-leaders of Mumbai.

Taking leave of the senses

My wife drags me to a play at Age Concern’s headquarters in Bloomsbury. When I see where she’s taking me I wonder if she plans to leave me there. The play is called Don’t Leave Me Now and is written by Brian Daniels. It is, to keep it simple, about the effects of dementia on the families and lovers of sufferers. I am not, in all honesty, expecting a good time. It is a reading only, the actors sitting in a long line like a board of examiners, and the audience hunched forward in the attitude of the professionally caring.  My wife is a therapist so this is her world.

Here, unlike in my study, an educated empathy prevails and no one is furious. I fear that art is going to get lost in good intention. But the play turns out to be subtly powerful, sympathetic and sharp, sad and funny; and hearing it read engages me as seeing it performed might not have done. Spared the spectacle of actors throwing their bodies around and singing about their dreams against a backdrop painted by a lesser, Les Mis version of Delacroix, you can concentrate on the words. And where dementia is the villain, words are priceless.

Mixing with the proles

In Bloomsbury again the next day for a bank holiday design and craft fair at Mary Ward House. I have a soft spot for craft fairs, having helped run a craft shop once, and I feel a kinship with the designers sitting bored behind their stalls, answering inane questions about kilns and receiving empty compliments. But it’s the venue that steals the show, a lovely Arts and Crafts house, founded in the 1890s by the novelist Mary Ward with the intention of enabling the wealthy and educated to live among the poor and introduce them to the consolations of beauty and knowledge. We’d call that patronising. We’re wrong. It’s a high ideal, to ease the burden of poverty and ignorance and, in Ward’s words, save us from “the darker, coarser temptations of our human road”.

An Oscar-winning argument for Zionism

Speaking of which, I am unable to empty my mind of Ken Livingstone and his apologists as I sit in the cinema and watch the just-released Academy Award-winning Son of Saul, a devastating film about one prisoner’s attempt to hold on to a vestige of humanity in a Nazi death camp. If you think you know of hell from Dante or Michelangelo, think again. The inferno bodied forth in Son of Saul is no theological apportioning of justice or deserts. It is the evisceration of meaning, the negation of every grand illusion about itself mankind has ever harboured. There has been a fashion, lately, to invoke Gaza as proof that the Holocaust is a lesson that Jews failed to learn – as though one cruelty drives out another, as though suffering is forfeit, and as though we, the observers, must choose between horrors.

I defy even Livingstone to watch this film, in which the Jews, once gassed, become “pieces” – Stücke – and not grasp the overwhelming case for a Jewish place of refuge. Zionism pre-dated the camps, and its fulfilment, if we can call it that, came too late for those millions reduced to the grey powder mountains the Sonderkommandos were tasked with sweeping away. It diminishes one’s sympathy for the Palestinian cause not a jot to recognise the arguments, in a world of dehumanising hate, for Zionism. Indeed, not to recognise those arguments is to embrace the moral insentience whose murderous consequence Son of Saul confronts with numbed horror. 

This article first appeared in the 06 April 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The longest hatred