Alternatives to austerity

The inevitable "structural reforms" Italy faces won't drag the eurozone's third-largest economy out

Silvio Berlusconi's last few days as Prime Minister find him overseeing the introduction of extraordinary austerity measures, passed through the Italian Parliament yesterday on the back of wheedling promises made to EU leaders. Berlusconi's exit will doubtless come as a blessed relief to many millions of Italians. The clown is to be replaced - without, naturally, recourse to elections - by a European Commissioner, Mario Monti, hastily sworn in as senator-for-life. A new government of technocrats will oversee implementation of austerity, assisted by the IMF officials now taking up residence in Italy's finance ministry. Those austerity measures, in turn, will be backed up by the usual demands for "structural reforms" - deregulation and privatisation chief amongst them.

This will not end the crisis in Italy - and, with that failure, the prospect of a global slump is opened. Austerity across Europe has already driven economies deeper into the mire, Ireland and Greece chief amongst them. The mechanism is widely known: as government spending falls, it drags demand down still further. As demand falls, firms cut wages and make redundancies. A vicious circle kicks in. With Italian consumers and businesses keeping their wallets closed, and no real hope of a recovery in export markets, it is spending by government that could sustain economic activity. Yet the scorched-earth economics of austerity are now being forced onto Italy.

Deregulation and the loosening up of labour markets are the second leg of the EU and IMF plans. The hope is that by freeing capital to operate as it sees fit, it will recover its dynamism. But "structural reforms" have taken place in Italy over the last decade or more. On OECD measures, Italy's product and labour markets are now as deregulated as Germany. In conditions of stagnant demand, the chances of further assaults on employment and consumer protection prompting growth are slim.

Italy's economic malaise runs deeper. The rot set in decades ago. A post-war miracle, with growth rates averaging over 5 per cent from 1951-73, halted with sharp recession in the early 1970s. Growth never truly recovered, and for the last 15 years has averaged less than one per cent a year. Businesses and government acted in concert to casualise labour, promoting labour-intensive export industries at the expense of capital investment. Economic activity became increasingly concentrated in the centre and the north, leaving the south lagging still further. Rising public debt initially helped cover the costs of wider stagnation.

Recent governments have targeted that debt, at the expense of public spending - and those without Berlusconi at the helm most successfully. The burden fell from 120 per cent of GDP in 1996 to around 100 per cent by 2007. But the financial crisis of 2007-8 led to a sharp rebound. A decade of debt reduction was wiped out in two years. The combination of a seriously weak economy and sharply rising indebtedness is what has now panicked markets into pushing Italy's current borrowing costs above 7 per cent.

If there is a hope of recovery in the eurozone's third-largest economy, it cannot come through the standard IMF package of austerity measures and market-led reforms. Nor will it come through the erosion of democracy. Quite the opposite is required: supporting public expenditure to sustain demand; industrial transformation, led by public intervention; and an expansion of democracy against the rule of finance - including, ultimately, a recognition that odious and unpayable sovereign debts need not be honoured.

James Meadway is a senior economist at the New Economics Foundation

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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