Balls v Osborne: round one

Tomorrow’s growth figures will determine who takes an early lead in the cuts debate.

The release of the latest growth figures tomorrow will determine whether it is Ed Balls or George Osborne who takes an early lead in the defining grudge match of this parliament.

If, as expected, growth falls from 0.7 per cent in the third quarter to between just 0.2 per cent and 0.5 per cent, Balls's argument that early spending cuts choke off recovery, lead to higher unemployment and slow the pace of deficit reduction will begin to resonate with the public.

Osborne may have hubristically declared that the "plan is working" but, owing to the time lag in fiscal policy, much of the growth we've seen so far has been due to the last Labour government's stimulus package and the Bank of England's ultra-loose monetary policy.

As the Times's Anatole Kaletsky, responding to impressive Q2 growth of 1.1 per cent, wrote in October (£):

The trouble is that monetary and fiscal policies take a long time to work their way through the economy – typically, one to two years. Yesterday's robust growth figures reflect last year's decisions by the Bank and the previous government. They tell us nothing, and indeed may mislead us, about how the new government's fiscal measures will interact with the Bank's monetary policies in the years ahead.

Balls can point to the fact that the deficit for 2009-2010 came in at £156.3bn (£21.7bn lower than the original Treasury forecast) as evidence that Labour's policy of "going for growth" was beginning to fill the hole in the public finances. The Tories may hope to use Balls's past predictions of a double-dip recession against him, but "things could be even worse" isn't much of an argument.

With inflation at 3.7 per cent, we can expect the spectre of stagflation to re-emerge if growth is as low as 0.4 per cent. Balls, a Harvard-trained economist, will be able to exploit this development in a way Alan Johnson simply could not. With unemployment also rising, Osborne will need a better riposte than "there is no alternative".

There should be plenty for Keynes's Rottweiler to get his teeth into tomorrow.

George Eaton is political editor of the New Statesman.

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What David Hockney has to tell us about football

Why the sudden glut of blond footballers? A conversation I had with the artist back in 1966 gave me a clue. . .

In 1966, I went to interview David Hockney at a rather run-down flat in Bayswater, central London. He was 28 and had just won a gold medal at the Royal College of Art.

In his lavatory, I noticed a cut-out photograph from a newspaper of Denis Law scoring a goal. I asked if he was a football fan. He said no, he just liked Denis Law’s thighs.

The sub-editors cut that remark out of the story, to save any gossip or legal problems. In 1966 homosexual activity could still be an offence.

Hockney and a friend had recently been in the United States and had been watching an advert on TV that said “Blondes have more fun”. At two o’clock in the morning, slightly drunk, they both went out, bought some hair dye and became blond. Hockney decided to remain blond from then on, though he has naturally dark hair.

Is it true that blonds have more fun? Lionel Messi presumably thinks so, otherwise why has he greeted this brand-new season with that weird blond hair? We look at his face, his figure, his posture and we know it’s him – then we blink, thinking what the heck, does he realise some joker has been pouring stuff on his head?

He has always been such a staid, old-fashioned-looking lad, never messing around with his hair till now. Neymar, beside him, has gone even blonder, but somehow we expect it of him. He had foony hair even before he left Brazil.

Over here, blonds are popping up all over the shop. Most teams now have a born-again blondie. It must take a fortune for Marouane Fellaini of Man United to brighten up his hair, as he has so much. But it’s already fading. Cheapskate.

Mesut Özil of Arsenal held back, not going the full head, just bits of it, which I suspect is a clue to his wavering, hesitant personality. His colleague Aaron Ramsey has almost the full blond monty. Paul Pogba of Man United has a sort of blond streak, more like a marker pen than a makeover. His colleague Phil Jones has appeared blond, but he seems to have disappeared from the team sheet. Samir Nasri of Man City went startlingly blond, but is on loan to Seville, so we’re not able to enjoy his locks. And Didier Ndong of Sunderland is a striking blond, thanks to gallons of bleach.

Remember the Romanians in the 1998 World Cup? They suddenly appeared blond, every one of them. God, that was brilliant. One of my all-time best World Cup moments, and I was at Wembley in 1966.

So, why do they do it? Well, Hockney was right, in a sense. Not to have more fun – meaning more sex – because top footballers are more than well supplied, but because their normal working lives are on the whole devoid of fun.

They can’t stuff their faces with fast food, drink themselves stupid, stay up all night, take a few silly pills – which is what many of our healthy 25-year-old lads consider a reasonably fun evening. Nor can they spend all their millions on fun hols, such as skiing in the winter, a safari in the spring, or hang-gliding at the weekend. Prem players have to be so boringly sensible these days, or their foreign managers will be screaming at them in their funny foreign accents.

While not on the pitch, or training, which takes up only a few hours a day, the boredom is appalling, endlessly on planes or coaches or in some hotel that could be anywhere.

The only bright spot in the long days is to look in the mirror and think: “Hmm, I wonder what highlights would look like? I’ve done the beard and the tattoos. Now let’s go for blond. Wow, gorgeous.”

They influence each other, being simple souls, so when one dyes his hair, depending on where he is in the macho pecking order, others follow. They put in the day by looking at themselves. Harmless fun. Bless ’em.

But I expect all the faux blonds to have gone by Christmas. Along with Mourinho. I said that to myself the moment he arrived in Manchester, smirking away. Pep will see him off. OK then, let’s say Easter at the latest . . . 

Hunter Davies is a journalist, broadcaster and profilic author perhaps best known for writing about the Beatles. He is an ardent Tottenham fan and writes a regular column on football for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 22 September 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The New Times