Commons misled over impact of benefit cap on homelessness

Ministers repeatedly claimed that the risk was "not quantifiable" despite clear warning from Eric Pi

Ministers have been accused of repeatedly misleading the Commons about the impact of their £26,000 cap on welfare payments.

Yesterday, we noted the incongruence between David Cameron's claim that the cap would not lead to greater homelessness, and the warning in a leaked letter from the Communities Secretary, Eric Pickles (written by his private secretary Nico Heslop). The letter warns that welfare cuts could make an additional 20,000 families homeless (on top of 20,000 already anticipated because of other changes to housing benefit). It also warns that the plan will cost more than it saves because of the bill for temporary housing.

Now, Labour has highlighted several instances where ministers have acted disingenuously, given that this letter was sent in January. In February, the Department for Work and Pensions (DWP) published an impact assessment saying it was "not possible to quantify" the cost to local councils of the welfare cap, and the likelihood of greater homelessness. Grant Shapps, the Housing Minister, and others, quoted this assessment when asked about the impact on homelessness -- despite the fact that a specific estimate is included in Pickles' letter. Maria Miller, a welfare minister, told a Labour MP to "get real" when asked if the benefit cap would increase homelessness, while Chris Grayling said that it would not "exacerbate" the problem.

It is profoundly worrying that these concerns were not only ignored by government but repeatedly kept secret. The reason is easy enough to see - a dogged ideological commitment to encouraging work by punishing those on benefits. The Guardian quotes a governmental source pointing out that entering part time work exempts families from the cap, adding:

There might be some people who have to move to a less expensive area. But that doesn't mean they won't have anywhere to live. We are very optimistic about the behavioural change that this will bring about.

However, it is worth noting that the letter does not argue with the underlying principle that a family on benefits should be better off than a family that works. Rather, it suggests measures which would mitigate the negative effects while still retaining this fundamental aim. These include excluding child benefit from the cap, which would reduce the homelessness and child poverty risks, while still ensuring that most families with four children would not be able to live in "London or the south east" (Boris Johnson referred to this as "Kosovo style social cleansing" of poor people from cities).

Labour will try to force Pickles and the Welfare Minister, Iain Duncan Smith, to respond to an urgent question in the Commons today.

Unless it is modified, this policy risks failing on two counts: is not only inhumane but impractical and expensive too.

Samira Shackle is a freelance journalist, who tweets @samirashackle. She was formerly a staff writer for the New Statesman.

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Over a Martini with my mother, I decide I'd rather not talk Brexit

A drink with her reduces me to a nine-year-old boy recounting his cricketing triumphs.

To the Royal Academy with my mother. As well as being a very competent (ex-professional, on Broadway) singer, she is a talented artist, and has a good critical eye, albeit one more tolerant of the brighter shades of the spectrum than mine. I love the RA’s summer exhibition: it offers one the chance to be effortlessly superior about three times a minute.

“Goddammit,” she says, in her finest New York accent, after standing in front of a particularly wretched daub. The tone is one of some vexation: not quite locking-yourself-out-of-the-house vexed, but remembering-you’ve-left-your-wallet-behind-a-hundred-yards-from-the-house vexed. This helps us sort out at least one of the problems she has been facing since widowhood: she is going to get cracking with the painting again, and I am going to supply the titles.

I am not sure I have the satirical chops or shamelessness to come up with anything as dreadful as Dancing With the Dead in My Dreams (artwork number 688, something that would have shown a disturbing kind of promise if executed by an eight-year-old), or The End From: One Day This Glass Will Break (number 521; not too bad, actually), but we work out that if she does reasonably OK prints and charges £500 a pop for each plus £1,000 for the original – this being at the lower end of the price scale – then she’ll be able to come out well up on the deal. (The other solution to her loneliness: get a cat, and perhaps we are nudged in this direction by an amusing video installation of a cat drinking milk from a saucer which attracts an indulgent, medium-sized crowd.)

We wonder where to go for lunch. As a sizeable quantity of the art there seems to hark back to the 1960s in general, and the style of the film Yellow Submarine in particular, I suggest Langan’s Brasserie, which neither of us has been to for years. We order our customary Martinis. Well, she does, while I go through a silly monologue that runs: “I don’t think I’ll have a Martini, I have to write my column this afternoon, oh sod it, I’ll have a Martini.”

“So,” she says as they arrive, “how has life been treating you?”

Good question. How, indeed, has life been treating me? Most oddly, I have to say. These are strange times we live in, a bit strange even for me, and if we wake up on 24 June to find ourselves no longer in Europe and with Nigel Farage’s toadlike mug gurning at us from every newspaper in the land, then I’m off to Scotland, or the US, or at least strongly thinking about it. Not even Hunter S Thompson’s mantra – “When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro” – will be enough to arm myself with, I fear.

The heart has been taking something of a pummelling, as close readers of this column may have gathered, but there is nothing like finding out that the person you fear you might be losing it to is probably going to vote Brexit to clear up that potential mess in a hurry. The heart may be stupid, but there are some things that will shake even that organ from its reverie. However, operating on a need-to-know basis, I feel my mother can do without this information, and I find myself talking about the cricket match I played on Sunday, the first half of which was spent standing watching our team get clouted out of the park, in rain not quite strong enough to take us off the field, but certainly strong enough to make us wet.

“Show me the way to go home,” I sang quietly to myself, “I’m tired and I want to go to bed,” etc. The second half of it, though, was spent first watching an astonishing, even by our standards, batting collapse, then going in at number seven . . . and making the top score for our team. OK, that score was 12, but still, it was the top score for our team, dammit.

The inner glow and sense of bien-être that this imparted on Sunday persists three days later as I write. And as I tell my mother the story – she has now lived long enough in this country, and absorbed enough of the game by osmosis, to know that 17 for five is a pretty piss-poor score – I realise I might as well be nine years old, and telling her of my successes on the pitch. Only, when I was nine, I had no such successes under my belt.

With age comes fearlessness: I don’t worry about the hard ball coming at me. Why should I? I’ve got a bloody bat, gloves, pads, the lot. The only things that scare me now are, as usual, dying alone, that jackanapes Farage, and bad art. 

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 23 June 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Divided Britain