Who would benefit most from a Lib Dem meltdown?

The Tories are in second place in 39 of the Lib Dems’ 57 seats. But Labour could still benefit most.

Yesterday's vote on tuition fees was the Liberal Democrats' Iraq moment, a profound breach of trust for which the party will pay dearly at the next election. In little more than eight months, the Lib Dems have fallen from 34 per cent in the polls to just 8 per cent, their lowest rating for 20 years. They are certain to lose votes and seats at the next election. But who would benefit most from a Lib Dem meltdown?

It is the Conservatives who stand to win the most seats off Nick Clegg's party. The Tories are currently in second place in 39 of the Lib Dems' 57 seats, typically by a considerable margin. By contrast, Labour is in second place in just 16.

As UK Polling Report shows, while 13 of the Tories' top 50 target seats are Lib Dem-held, just six of Labour's are. A poll of marginals by the Conservative Party deputy chairman Michael Ashcroft in July suggested that the Tories can hope to win as many as 30 seats off the Lib Dems.

But Labour supporters can derive much comfort from the fact that a wave of Lib Dem defectors will allow them to win back dozens of seats from the Conservatives. As a Fabian Society analysis pointed out earlier this year, there are 25 seats that would swing back from the Conservatives to Labour if just one in five Lib Dem voters switched to the red team.

In addition, a defection of this size would allow Labour to win 15 seats off the Lib Dems, including all five gains that Clegg's party made at the last election – Norwich South, Bradford East, Brent Central, Burnley and Redcar. Encouragingly for Ed Miliband, a recent ComRes/Independent poll found that more than one in five people who voted for the Lib Dems say they would now vote Labour.

But the risk for Labour is that justifiable anger at the Lib Dems unwittingly allows the Tories to avoid the blame for unpopular decisions. As Ed Balls points out in his latest Tribune column:

The Prime Minister plays the global statesman – travelling around the world and hosting foreign leaders in Downing Street – but rarely allows himself to be dragged into domestic policy controversies. George Osborne is rarely seen in public defending his reckless gamble with the economy.

But week after week it is Lib Dem ministers like Danny Alexander and Vince Cable who find themselves in TV studios defending what are essentially Conservative policies in a predominantly Conservative government. The Lib Dems have willingly become David Cameron's human shields, haemorrhaging support in the process.

Unless Labour begins to develop a more coherent critique of the Conservatives, Cameron's party, not least under the redrawn constituency boundaries, could be in a strong position come the election.

George Eaton is political editor of the New Statesman.

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The dog at the end of the lead may be small, but in fact what I’m walking is a hound of love

There is a new, hairy face in the Hovel.

There is a new, hairy face in the Hovel. I seem to have become a temporary co-owner of an enthusiastic Chorkie. A Chorkie, in case you’re not quite up to speed with your canine crossbreeds, is a mixture of a chihuahua and a Yorkshire Terrier, and while my friend K— busies herself elsewhere I am looking after this hound.

This falls squarely into the category of Things I Never Thought I’d Do. I’m a cat person, taking my cue from their idleness, cruelty and beauty. Dogs, with their loyalty, their enthusiasm and their barking, are all a little too much for me, even after the first drink of the day. But the dog is here, and I am in loco parentis, and it is up to me to make sure that she is looked after and entertained, and that there is no repetition of the unfortunate accident that occurred outside my housemate’s room, and which needed several tissues and a little poo baggie to make good.

As it is, the dog thinks I am the bee’s knees. To give you an idea of how beeskneesian it finds me, it is licking my feet as I write. “All right,” I feel like saying to her, “you don’t have to go that far.”

But it’s quite nice to be worshipped like this, I have decided. She has also fallen in love with the Hovel, and literally writhes with delight at the stinky cushions on the sofa. Named after Trude Fleischmann, the lesbian erotic photographer of the Twenties, Thirties and Forties, she has decided, with admirable open-mindedness, that I am the Leader of the Pack. When I take the lead, K— gets a little vexed.

“She’s walking on a loose lead, with you,” K— says. “She never does that when I’m walking her.” I don’t even know what that means, until I have a think and work it out.

“She’s also walking to heel with you,” K— adds, and once again I have to join a couple of mental dots before the mists part. It would appear that when it comes to dogs, I have a natural competence and authority, qualities I had never, not even in my most deranged flights of self-love, considered myself to possess in any measurable quantity at all.

And golly, does having a dog change the relationship the British urban flâneur has with the rest of society. The British, especially those living south of Watford, and above all those in London, do not recognise other people’s existence unless they want to buy something off them or stop them standing on the left of the sodding escalator, you idiot. This all changes when you have a dog with you. You are now fair game for any dog-fancier to come up to you and ask the most personal questions about the dog’s history and genealogy. They don’t even have to have a dog of their own; but if you do, you are obliged by law to stop and exchange dog facts.

My knowledge of dog facts is scant, extending not much further beyond them having a leg at each corner and chasing squirrels, so I leave the talking to K—, who, being a friendly sort who could probably talk dog all day long if pressed, is quite happy to do that. I look meanwhile in a kind of blank wonder at whichever brand of dog we’ve just encountered, and marvel not only at the incredible diversity of dog that abounds in the world, but at a realisation that had hitherto escaped me: almost half of London seems to have one.

And here’s the really interesting thing. When I have the leash, the city looks at me another way. And, specifically, the young women of the city. Having reached the age when one ceases to be visible to any member of the opposite sex under 30, I find, all of a sudden, that I exist again. Women of improbable beauty look at Trude, who looks far more Yorkie than chihuahua, apart from when she does that thing with the ears, and then look at me, and smile unguardedly and unironically, signalling to me that they have decided I am a Good Thing and would, were their schedules not preventing them, like to chat and get to know me and the dog a bit better.

I wonder at first if I am imagining this. I mention it to K—.

“Oh yes,” she says, “it’s a thing. My friend P-J regularly borrows her when he wants to get laid. He reckons he’s had about 12 shags thanks to her in the last six months. The problems only arise when they come back again and notice the dog isn’t there.”

I do the maths. Twelve in six months! That’s one a fortnight. An idea begins to form in my mind. I suppose you don’t have to be a rocket scientist to work out what it is. But no. I couldn’t. Could I?

Nicholas Lezard is a literary critic for the Guardian and also writes for the Independent. He writes the Down and Out in London column for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 28 April 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The new fascism