Why a rise in poverty will humiliate Cameron

Osborne and Cameron will stand accused not only of being unfair but of being insincere.

"The right test for our policies is how they help the most disadvantaged in society, not the rich."

David Cameron, Built to Last, March 2006

The latest Institute for Fiscal Studies report, showing that the coalition's welfare cuts will hugely increase poverty, should set alarm bells ringing in Downing Street.

Cameron and George Osborne have chosen, against the judgement of several of their colleagues, to claim that their austerity package is a "progressive" one. Should poverty increase on their watch (as it is now certain, too), they will stand accused of being not only unfair, but insincere.

Without significant changes to its tax and spending plans, there is no prospect of the government meeting its child poverty targets. Indeed, it is likely to preside over the first increase in child poverty in 15 years. According to the IFS forecasts, absolute child poverty will increase by 200,000 in 2012/13 and by 300,000 in 2013/14. As a result, in the words of the IFS, "meeting the legally binding child poverty targets in 2020 would require the biggest fall in relative child poverty after 2013-14 since at least 1961".

In total, between 2010-2011 and 2013-2014, the coalition's plans will increase absolute poverty among all children and working-age adults by 900,000 and relative poverty (defined as households with less than 60 per cent of the median income) among the same group by 800,000. Were it not for a general decline in living standards, as earnings fail to keep up with inflation, the rise would be steeper still.

The coalition is now under increasing pressure to reject the internationally recognised definition of poverty (see here for a defence of it). Neil O'Brien of Policy Exchange, for instance, argues:

The problem with what the IFS is saying is that the measure they use isn't an indicator of real poverty; it's a measure of inequality. It defines "poverty" as being below 60 per cent of the average income.

This is a hangover from the Gordon Brown era. Real poverty isn't the same as inequality. The IFS's definition would mean that there are actually more people in poverty in Britain today than there are in Poland.

Many Conservatives would have preferred Cameron and Osborne to mount a Thatcherite defence of regressive economics from the start. But they have gone too far down the "progressive" path to turn back now. A rise in poverty will humiliate the coalition.

George Eaton is political editor of the New Statesman.

Getty
Show Hide image

As the strangers approach the bed, I wonder if this could be a moment of great gentleness

I don’t know what to do. In my old T-shirt and M&S pants, I don’t know what to do.

It’s 1.13am on an autumn morning some time towards the end of the 20th century and I’m awake in a vast hotel bed in a small town in the east of England. The mysterious east, with its horizons that seem to stretch further than they should be allowed to stretch by law. I can’t sleep. My asthma is bad and I’m wheezing. The clock I bought for £3 many years earlier ticks my life away with its long, slow music. The street light outside makes the room glow and shimmer.

I can hear footsteps coming down the corridor – some returning drunks, I guess, wrecked on the reef of a night on the town. I gaze at the ceiling, waiting for the footsteps to pass.

They don’t pass. They stop outside my door. I can hear whispering and suppressed laughter. My clock ticks. I hear a key card being presented, then withdrawn. The door opens slowly, creaking like a door on a Radio 4 play might. The whispering susurrates like leaves on a tree.

It’s an odd intrusion, this, as though somebody is clambering into your shirt, taking their time. A hotel room is your space, your personal kingdom. I’ve thrown my socks on the floor and my toothbrush is almost bald in the bathroom even though there’s a new one in my bag because I thought I would be alone in my intimacy.

Two figures enter. A man and a woman make their way towards the bed. In the half-dark, I can recognise the man as the one who checked me in earlier. He says, “It’s all right, there’s nobody in here,” and the woman laughs like he has just told her a joke.

This is a moment. I feel like I’m in a film. It’s not like being burgled because this isn’t my house and I’m sure they don’t mean me any harm. In fact, they mean each other the opposite.

Surely they can hear my clock dripping seconds? Surely they can hear me wheezing?

They approach, closer and closer, towards the bed. The room isn’t huge but it seems to be taking them ages to cross it. I don’t know what to do. In my old T-shirt and M&S pants, I don’t know what to do. I should speak. I should say with authority, “Hey! What do you think you’re doing?” But I don’t.

I could just lie here, as still as a book, and let them get in. It could be a moment of great gentleness, a moment between strangers. I would be like a chubby, wheezing Yorkshire pillow between them. I could be a metaphor for something timeless and unspoken.

They get closer. The woman reaches her hand across the bed and she touches the man’s hand in a gesture of tenderness so fragile that it almost makes me sob.

I sit up and shout, “Bugger off!” and they turn and run, almost knocking my clock from the bedside table. The door crashes shut shakily and the room seems to reverberate.

This article first appeared in the 12 January 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Putin's revenge