Obama announces his re-election bid

President Obama promises to run an innovative campaign, but it could cost $1bn.

And – he's off. Barack Obama has officially announced his re-election bid, after one of Washington's worst-guarded secrets. In typical tech-savvy style, it was first revealed in emails and text messages to grass-roots supporters, with a short video on barackobama.com – before the neccessary papers were filed with the Federal Election Commission.

Everything was already in place – the 2012 website complete with all-important donation button, the campaign HQ in Chicago . . . and running the whole show is the former White House deputy chief of staff Jim Messina, unusually ensconced in that high-rise Chicago office some 700 miles from Washington, DC.

David Plouffe, who ran Obama's victorious campaign three years ago, told the New York Times that Messina's team was "going to innovate – and make what we did in 2008 seem somewhat prehistoric". Hard to see what they could do to transform the campaign paradigm this time around, but let's wait and see.

One thing, of course, hasn't changed – cold, hard cash: Messina has already been wooing potential donors and Obama has got a series of fundraisers in the diary, all aimed at attracting up to a billion dollars (yes, you read it right) even though he's extremely unlikely to face any challengers at the primary stage. If he meets that target (and a $30,000-a-head dinner at Harlem's Red Rooster restaurant plus a New York reception the other week managed to pull in a cool $1.5m), he'll become the first billion-dollar presidential candidate, at the helm of the most expensive campaign ever.

In contrast to 2008, the bulk of the money will be raised not from the grass roots, but from wealthy backers with deep pockets. Messina has already asked them to bring in at least $350,000 each this year – not exactly small change. But all neccessary to combat the Republicans' formidable money machine – its own party coffers boosted by groups like American Crossroads, which hauled in millions for the midterms in 2010.

So let's assume he gets the money: what are the odds for 2012? It's usually hard to beat an incumbent, and even though Obama's ratings are hardly stellar, there aren't exactly any standout stars in the Republican field. Indeed, none of the various runners and riders has yet declared officially.

Reasons to be cheerful?

After months of uncertainty, however, the planned 4 April launch date is feeling like pretty good timing for the White House – the Democrats have been cheered by the latest jobless figures, down to 8.8 per cent, with almost a million and a half jobs created this year.

It all offers some hope that the economy could start rebounding just in time for next November's poll. Battles over spending cuts and union rights in key states such as Wisconsin have also rallied the Democratic base.

Yet there are considerable hurdles to leap – not least the fight over this year's federal budget and the threat of a government shutdown, still very much alive. Despite the administration's best efforts, the flagship health-care reforms are no more popular now than they were a year ago, while the stimulus bill has not yet proved its electoral worth.

Most urgently, Obama is grappling with a series of crises overseas, the military intervention in Libya holding out the prospect of a long-drawn-out commitment by US forces.

So the next 18 months are all about "winning the future" – the Obama slogan that's meant to transcend talk of hope and change. Once again, the key is energising his core supporters – including those young people who were the heart and soul of the triumph in 2008 – and reaching out to those independents who are wavering over the choice ahead.

The presidential battle is joined. Now it's up to the Republican hopefuls to put their head above ground and enter the race for real.

Felicity Spector is a deputy programme editor for Channel 4 News.

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The Tinder dating app isn't just about sex – it's about friendship, too. And sex

The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, as I found out quickly while using the app.

The first time I met someone using Tinder, the free dating app that requires users to swipe left for “no” and right for “yes” before enabling new “matches” to chat, it was an unqualified success. I should probably qualify that. I was newly single after five years in a committed relationship and wasn’t looking for anything more than fun, friendship and, well, who knows. A few weeks earlier I had tried to give my number to a girl in a cinema café in Brixton. I wrote it on a postcard I’d been using as a bookmark. She said she had a boyfriend, but wanted to keep the postcard. I had no date and I lost my page.

My Tinder date was a master’s student from Valencia called Anna (her name wasn’t really Anna, of course, I’m not a sociopath). When I arrived at the appointed meeting place, she told me I was far more handsome IRL (“in real life”) than my pictures suggested. I was flattered and full of praise for the directness of continental Europeans but also thought sadly to myself: “If only the same could be said about you.”

Anna and I became friends, at least for a while. The date wasn’t a success in the traditional sense of leading us into a contract based on exclusivity, an accumulating cache of resentments and a mortgage, but it had put me back in the game (an appropriate metaphor – people speak regularly of “playing” with the app).

According to Sean Rad, the co-founder who launched Tinder in late 2012, the service was invented for people like me. “It was really a way to overcome my own problems,” he told the editor of Cosmopolitan at an event in London last month. “It was weird to me, to start a conversation [with a stranger]. Once I had an introduction I was fine, but it’s that first step. It’s difficult for a lot of people.” After just one outing, I’d learned two fundamental lessons about the world of online dating: pretty much everyone has at least one decent picture of themselves, and meeting women using a so-called hook-up app is seldom straightforwardly about sex.

Although sometimes it is. My second Tinder date took place in Vienna. I met Louisa (ditto, name) outside some notable church or other one evening while visiting on holiday (Tinder tourism being, in my view, a far more compelling way to get to know a place than a cumbersome Lonely Planet guide). We drank cocktails by the Danube and rambled across the city before making the romantic decision to stay awake all night, as she had to leave early the next day to go hiking with friends. It was just like the Richard Linklater movie Before Sunrise – something I said out loud more than a few times as the Aperol Spritzes took their toll.

When we met up in London a few months later, Louisa and I decided to skip the second part of Linklater’s beautiful triptych and fast-track our relationship straight to the third, Before Midnight, which takes place 18 years after the protagonists’ first meet in Vienna, and have begun to discover that they hate each others’ guts.

Which is one of the many hazards of the swiping life: unlike with older, web-based platforms such as Match.com or OkCupid, which require a substantial written profile, Tinder users know relatively little about their prospective mates. All that’s necessary is a Facebook account and a single photograph. University, occupation, a short bio and mutual Facebook “likes” are optional (my bio is made up entirely of emojis: the pizza slice, the dancing lady, the stack of books).

Worse still, you will see people you know on Tinder – that includes colleagues, neighbours and exes – and they will see you. Far more people swipe out of boredom or curiosity than are ever likely to want to meet up, in part because swiping is so brain-corrosively addictive.

While the company is cagey about its user data, we know that Tinder has been downloaded over 100 million times and has produced upwards of 11 billion matches – though the number of people who have made contact will be far lower. It may sound like a lot but the Tinder user-base remains stuck at around the 50 million mark: a self-selecting coterie of mainly urban, reasonably affluent, generally white men and women, mostly aged between 18 and 34.

A new generation of apps – such as Hey! Vina and Skout – is seeking to capitalise on Tinder’s reputation as a portal for sleaze, a charge Sean Rad was keen to deny at the London event. Tinder is working on a new iteration, Tinder Social, for groups of friends who want to hang out with other groups on a night out, rather than dating. This makes sense for a relatively fresh business determined to keep on growing: more people are in relationships than out of them, after all.

After two years of using Tinder, off and on, last weekend I deleted the app. I had been visiting a friend in Sweden, and took it pretty badly when a Tinder date invited me to a terrible nightclub, only to take a few looks at me and bolt without even bothering to fabricate an excuse. But on the plane back to London the next day, a strange thing happened. Before takeoff, the woman sitting beside me started crying. I assumed something bad had happened but she explained that she was terrified of flying. Almost as terrified, it turned out, as I am. We wound up holding hands through a horrific patch of mid-air turbulence, exchanged anecdotes to distract ourselves and even, when we were safely in sight of the ground, a kiss.

She’s in my phone, but as a contact on Facebook rather than an avatar on a dating app. I’ll probably never see her again but who knows. People connect in strange new ways all the time. The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, but you can be sure that if you look closely at the lines, you’ll almost certainly notice the pixels.

Philip Maughan is Assistant Editor at the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 26 May 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The Brexit odd squad