The UK hasn't grown at the same rate as the US

The Treasury's spin is at odds with the facts.

Today's GDP numbers of 0.5 per cent were the best Britain has seen for a year but nowhere near enough to meet the Office for Budget Responsibility's optimistic prediction for 2011 growth of 1.7 per cent. The Treasury tried to put a positive spin on the release by claiming that it puts the UK on a par with the US but the truth is a little more complicated.

Shortly after the figures were released, ITV Business Editor Laura Kuenssberg tweeted, "Treasury sources say UK grown at same rate as US so far in 2011".

For this to be true, it would mean that the Treasury are conveniently ignoring the effects of last winter's snow which chopped 0.5 per cent off GDP. As the Office for National Statistics' own statement says:

The interpretation of the estimate for Q3 is complicated by the special events in Q2 (for example, the additional bank holiday in April for the royal wedding), which are likely to have depressed activity in that quarter. As with 2010 Q4 and 2011 Q1 (affected by the bad weather in Q4) it may be wise to look at 2011 Q2 and 2011 Q3 together, rather than separately. On that basis GDP has grown by 0.6 per cent in the last two quarters and by 0.5 per cent in the last year.

US figures out last week showed that the annualised rate for the third quarter was 2.5 per cent. Comparing like with like, this means that the US economy grew by 1.6 per cent over the last year. The chart below shows that the UK has lagged the US economy at every point in the last two years looking at growth on a year-on-year basis.

A

Today's numbers mean that UK growth in 2011 is unlikely to be higher than 1.0 per cent. In their first estimate in June 2010, the OBR predicted that growth would be 2.6 per cent before revising it down twice to 2.3 per cent after the Emergency Budget and to 1.7 per cent this March. They are now almost certain to do the same again on November 29th when the Chancellor delivers his autumn statement. Instead of trying to put a positive spin on these figures, the Treasury should focus on getting the economy moving again by adopting a Plan B that slows the pace of cuts and puts in place a programme for jobs and growth.

Will Straw is Associate Director at IPPR

Will Straw is Director of Britain Stronger In Europe, the cross-party campaign to keep Britain in the European Union. 

Getty
Show Hide image

She knew every trick to get a home visit – but this time I had come prepared

 Having been conned into another couple of fruitless house calls, I now parry the proffered symptoms and generally get to the heart of the matter on the phone.

I first came across Verenice a couple of years ago when I was on duty at the out-of-hours service.

“I’m a diabetic,” she told me, “and I’m feeling really poorly.” She detailed a litany of symptoms. I said I’d be round straight away.

What sounded worrying on the phone proved very different in Verenice’s smoke-fugged sitting room. She was comfortable and chatty, she had no fever or sign of illness, and her blood sugar was well controlled. In fact, she looked remarkably well. As I tried to draw the visit to a close, she began to regale me with complaints about her own GP: how he neglected her needs, dismissed her symptoms, refused to take her calls.

It sounded unlikely, but I listened sympathetically and with an open mind. Bit by bit, other professionals were brought into the frame: persecutory social workers, vindictive housing officers, corrupt policemen, and a particularly odious psychiatrist who’d had her locked up in hospital for months and had recently discharged her to live in this new, hateful bungalow.

By the time she had told me about her sit-in at the local newspaper’s offices – to try to force reporters to cover her story – and described her attempts to get arrested so that she could go to court and tell a judge about the whole saga, it was clear Verenice wasn’t interacting with the world in quite the same way as the rest of us.

It’s a delicate path to tread, extricating oneself from such a situation. The mental health issues could safely be left to her usual daytime team to follow up, so my task was to get out of the door without further inflaming the perceptions of neglect and maltreatment. It didn’t go too well to start with. Her voice got louder and louder: was I, too, going to do nothing to help? Couldn’t I see she was really ill? I’d be sorry when she didn’t wake up the next morning.

What worked fantastically was asking her what she actually wanted me to do. Her first stab – to get her rehoused to her old area as an emergency that evening – was so beyond the plausible that even she seemed able to accept my protestations of impotence. When I asked her again, suddenly all the heat went out of her voice. She said she didn’t think she had any food; could I get her something to eat? A swift check revealed a fridge and cupboards stocked with the basics. I gave her some menu suggestions, but drew the line at preparing the meal myself. By then, she seemed meekly willing to allow me to go.

We’ve had many out-of-hours conversations since. For all her strangeness, she is wily, and knows the medical gambits to play in order to trigger a home visit. Having been conned into another couple of fruitless house calls, I now parry the proffered symptoms and generally get to the heart of the matter on the phone. It usually revolves around food. Could I bring some bread and milk? She’s got no phone credit left; could I call the Chinese and order her a home delivery?

She came up on the screen again recently. I rang, and she spoke of excruciating ear pain, discharge and fever. I sighed, accepting defeat: with that story I’d no choice but to go round. Acting on an inkling, though, I popped to the drug cupboard first.

Predictably enough, when I arrived at Verenice’s I found her smiling away and puffing on a Benson, with a normal temperature, pristine ears and perfect blood glucose.

“Well,” I said, “whatever’s causing your ear to hurt is a medical mystery. Take some paracetamol and I’m sure it’ll be fine in the morning.”

There was a flash of triumph in her eyes. “Ah, but doctor, I haven’t got any. Could you –”

Before she could finish, I produced a pack of paracetamol from my pocket and dropped it on her lap. She looked at me with surprise and admiration. She may have suckered me round again, but I’d managed to second-guess her. I was back out of the door in under five minutes. A score-draw. 

Phil Whitaker is a GP and an award-winning author. His fifth novel, “Sister Sebastian’s Library”, will be published by Salt in September

This article first appeared in the 23 June 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Divided Britain