The Tory right declares war on Whitehall

A new report argues that the civil service is blocking radical public service reform.

When storm clouds are gathering over the world economy - when the BBC can run a survey of experts under the headline "has Western capitalism failed?" - it is expecting a lot for people to pay much heed to a parliamentary select committee report on civil service reform.

Nonetheless, this particular intervention by the public administration select committee is worth noticing, even if just in a short break between cold sweats about the imminent financial apocalypse.

The gist of the report is that the coalition's plans to reform public services are running up against a civil service culture of inertia and that they risk being smothered to death by bureaucracy. At the top of the list of ideas whose implementation is jeopardised, according to committee chair, Conservative MP Bernard Jenkin, is "the big society" - the prime minister's pet project. If there weren't so many scarier things going on this would surely have turned into a load of "MPs say Big Society won't work (again)" headlines.

Jenkin is on the right of the party and, from what I have seen, likes to think of himself as a provocateur but not a trouble-maker; an independent character but not an awkward-squaddie. This report is surely being packaged up and presented as a cache of ammunition to assist those inside Downing Street who argue that the government needs to press ahead much more boldly with the break-up of what they see as failed public sector monopolies. That faction sees Whitehall mandarins as the praetorian guard of outmoded statism.

Back in February, David Cameron was marching to that drum, promising to bring private or voluntary sector competition to every aspect of what the state does, sparing only the military and courts. But the anti-state maximalists (whose high priest is chief Cameron advisor Steve Hilton) were held back by an informal alliance of Lib Dems and sceptical Tory tacticians. They feared that a fanfare of noisy public sector radicalism would raise voter alarm, feed into an opposition narrative of slash-and-burn privatising fanaticism and generally cause more trouble than it would be worth. The whole NHS debacle seriously killed the mood for big public sector changes - not least by putting George Osborne, the most powerful figure in government after the PM, off the idea.

This division inside government produced, after much wrangling and delay, the white paper on Open Public Services. (It was launched in the middle of the phone-hacking furore in July, so no-one noticed.) The white paper promises lots of consultation and consideration of radical reforms, but few cast iron commitments. The whole process of getting even that far exhausted ministers. One very senior member of the cabinet described it to me as "the biggest coalition arm-wrestle" behind the scenes so far. Then there were riots, Libya to think about ... the whole thing just went off the boil.

But the Thatcherite purist end of the Conservative party hasn't forgotten and my guess is that this report is being framed as a way to get things boiling again. Jenkin has a piece plugging the report on ConservativeHome today. He also made a speech launching the report, which ended thus: "We are proposing a special inquiry into the role and functions of the Head of the Civil Service. What does that title mean? What should it mean? So watch this space!"

In the staid language of select committees that is a quiet declaration of war on Whitehall.

Rafael Behr is political columnist at the Guardian and former political editor of the New Statesman

Getty
Show Hide image

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