Why Osborne's cuts aren't "soft"

The misleading claim that Osborne is only cutting spending by one per cent a year.

Supporters of George Osborne's economic strategy have made it their mission to convince the world that his cuts are not harsh, savage or draconian but are in fact "soft", "mild" and "insignificant". It's a smart tactic designed to make Labour's opposition to the cuts look hysterical and economically deluded.

The most prominent and articulate exponent of this view is Spectator editor Fraser Nelson. In a blog published yesterday, he wrote: "Osborne's cuts aren't harsh or drastic: they're mild and probably insufficient. There's almost no organisation on the planet that agrees with Balls that cuts of less than 1 per cent a year are too harsh and too fast -- he ends up looking like a loser."

Nelson's figures aren't wrong - Osborne really is cutting spending by just 0.6 per cent this year and by just 3.7 per cent across this Parliament. But they are deeply misleading. The figure for total cuts includes non-discretionary spending such as welfare benefits (the "automatic stabilisers" Osborne recently referred to) and debt interest, masking the true extent of the coaliton's squeeze on public services.

The Treasury table below, which looks at departmental spending in isolation, shows what all the fuss is about. The Home Office is being cut by 25 per cent (see the final column). Education is being cut by 11 per cent. Transport is being cut by 15 per cent. The Foreign Office is being cut by 28 per cent.

The total cut to departmental spending is 11 per cent, the largest, as the IFS has noted, since 1945. If we strip out the NHS and International Development - the ring-fenced departments - the total cut is 19 per cent.

I should add that higher inflation means that the cuts will be even worse. The NHS, for instance, which was due to receive a small real-terms increase, will now suffer a small real-terms cut (the reason why it was so foolish for Cameron to "guarantee" last week that spending would rise).

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Another tactic beloved of the right (most notably John Redwood) is to point out that spending, in defiance of Osborne's cuts, continues to rise. Gordon Brown's government spent £50.6bn in May 2010 but Cameron's splashed £54.1bn last month. What's more, the latest Treasury figures show that total state expenditure, which stood at £669.7bn in 2009-10, will be £743.6bn by 2014-15. The cuts are all in the left's head.

But the claim that the cuts are mythical is only achieved by the old trick of measuring public spending in cash terms, rather than as a percentage of GDP. The latter is by far the more sensible measure. At times of economic expansion, it is only reasonable to assume that some of the proceeds of growth will go towards improving public services, and public-sector inflation is typically higher than the average growth in prices.

If we look at public spending as a proportion of GDP, the true picture emerges. The cuts will reduce public spending from 47.6 per cent of GDP in 2010/11 to 41.0 per cent in 2014/15. For many on the right, this is still an unacceptably high level of expenditure. But one can hardly deny that it represents a substantial reduction in the scope and size of the state's activities.

Rather than hiding behind misleading figures, it would be more intellectually honest of the right to make the case for Osborne's cuts, red in tooth and claw. Once the coalition's squeeze is complete, their statistical conjury won't fool anyone.

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