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.

A pro-union march in 2014. Photo: Getty
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The legacy of sectarianism is still poisoning the air of Scotland

Ruth Davidson has reinstated two Stirling councillors who posted anti-Catholic and racist messages on social media. That this kind of cretinous guff still goes on in my hometown in 2017 raises my hackles.

Kenny Dalglish was a bluenose: as a boy in the mid-60s, he and his father would make the short journey to Ibrox to cheer on Rangers, then Scotland’s most successful team. With the football allegiance came a cultural one, too. Or, probably, the other way round.

Wee Kenny could play a bit, obviously, and dreamed that his beloved Gers would sign him up. But, as Richard T Kelly writes in Keegan and Dalglish, his enjoyable new double biography of the two footballing greats, "Rangers had a certain preference for big lads, or else lads with an obvious turn of pace; and Dalglish, despite his promise, had neither of those easy attributes."

Rangers’ loss was Celtic’s gain, but it took some effort. The former, writes Kelly, "was the club of the Queen, the Union, Scotland’s Protestant majority… founded by Freemasons and members of the Orange Order, strongly tied to the shipyards of Govan. Glasgow Celtic was the team of Irish Catholic patriots, revolutionary Fenians and Home Rulers, begun as a charitable organisation… a means to bolster the faith and keep the flock out of the clutches of Protestant soup kitchens. It was going to be a serious step across a threshold for Dalglish to accept the overtures of Celtic."

In the end, Jock Stein dispatched his number two, the unhelpfully named Sean Fallon, to meet the young starlet’s family. "Fallon entered a domestic environment he felt to be 'a bit tense' -  a Rangers house, a lion’s den, if you will. Fallon even picked up the sense that Bill [Dalglish’s father] might rather his son pursue [an] apprenticeship in joinery."

The deal was done ("My dream was to become a professional footballer – the location was just a detail," Dalglish would later say) and the most gifted player Scotland has ever produced went on to make his reputation kitted out in green and white stripes rather than royal blue -  a quirk of those difficult times for which those of us classed as Fenian bastards rather than Orange bastards will be forever grateful.

Growing up in west and central Scotland, it was hard to avoid being designated as one type of bastard or the other, even if you supported a team outwith the Old Firm or had no interest in football at all. Thanks to 19th century immigration, the terrible religio-political divide of Ulster was the dominant cultural force even in Stirling, the town around 25 miles from Glasgow where I grew up and where I now live again. If you went to the Catholic school, as I did, you were a Fenian; if you went to the Proddy (officially, non-demominational) school, you were a Hun. You mostly hung around with your own, and youthful animosity and occasional violence was largely directed across the religious barricades. We knew the IRA slogans and the words to the Irish rebel songs; they had the UVF and the Red Hand of Ulster. We went to the Cubs, they went to the Boys’ Brigade. We got used to the Orange Walks delivering an extra-loud thump on the drums as they passed the chapel inside which we were performing our obligatory Sunday observance.

At the time – around the early and mid 80s – such pursuit of identity might not have been much more than a juvenile game, but it was part of something more serious. It was still the case that Catholics were unemployable in significant Scottish industries – "which school did you got to, son?" was the killer interview question if your answer began with "Saint". This included the media: in the late 90s, when I joined the Daily Record – the "Daily Ranger" to Celtic fans (its Sunday sister, the Sunday Mail, was known to Rangers fans as the "Sunday Liam") – vestiges of this prejudice, and the anecdotes that proved it, were still in the air.

The climate is undoubtedly better now. Secularisation has played its part - my own daughters attend non-denominational schools – even if, as the sportswriter Simon Kuper has observed, many are "not about to give up their ancient traditions just because they no longer believe in God". The peace process in Northern Ireland and important gestures such as the late public friendship between Ian Paisley Sr and Martin McGuinness have made a difference. And I suppose the collapse of Rangers as a footballing force, amid financial corruption that saw them dumped into the bottom tier of Scottish football, helped.

But the sensitivity remains. The 2014 Scottish independence referendum broke down in part across tribal lines, with many Celtic supporters, once Labour, now SNP, loudly backing a Yes vote, while Rangers fans were on the No side. The prospect of Brexit creating a significant border between the north and south of Ireland, which could inflame recently and shallowly buried tensions, makes one shudder. And even locally, the old enmities continue to raise their grubby heads. Ruth Davidson, leader of the Scottish Tories, is currently taking flak for allowing the reinstatement of two Stirling councillors who had posted anti-Catholic and racist messages on social media prior to their election. The pair have apologised and agreed to take part in diversity training, but I confess that this kind of cretinous guff still goes on in my hometown in 2017 raises my hackles. The rawness remains.

That this is so was brought to me a few years ago when I filed a column containing the word ‘sectarianism’ to a Scottish newspaper. Though the context had nothing to do with Catholic/Protestant or Celtic/Rangers, the editor asked me to remove it. "It’ll be deliberately misunderstood by one side or the other, and probably both," he said. "It’s not worth the hassle. In Scotland I’m afraid it never is."

Chris Deerin is the New Statesman's contributing editor (Scotland).