Payday loans: "Don’t worry, love, they don’t need your backstory!"

Welcome to the world of "zombie debtors".

I spent yesterday shivering nervously in the cold outside a payday loan shop in Peckham, south London. A woman with large, fake eyelashes took pity on me on her way out. I said I couldn't meet my rent after my boyfriend walked out of our one-bedroom flat. I was considering taking out a loan, but I'd never done it before. Could I make the repayments?

"Oh don't worry about that, love," she said as she grabbed my hand and breezed me into the warm store, "They don't need your backstory!"

It was only once inside I realised that my newfound friend got £10 off her loan for bagging another customer. Apparently I wasn't the first she'd brought in.

Luckily I didn't need the loan that day. But according to new research from the insolvency trade body R3, some 3.5 million Britons will be considering taking out payday loans in the next six months, forcing the government to introduce a new regulation yesterday. I'd heard the horror stories, but I wanted to see what it was like for myself by posing as a customer.

Inside the shop, I had to speak through a phone to the cashier, who was behind glass. When I explained I was worried about paying the money back, given my rent problem, she told me not to worry. The rate was 25 per cent, she said, and she could get it to me in 15 minutes.

She didn't tell me that if I missed the payment, the APR was 1,410.3 per cent.

When I added I thought I might lose my job next year, she didn't flinch. "We do loans on benefits too," she smiled.

When I told another company I thought I might be pregnant, they said I could always "roll the debt over" and just repay the interest.

R3 researchers claim almost half of us now struggle to make it to payday, rising to 62 per cent for 24-to-44-year-olds. This is fuelling a boom in the payday loans industry, which is now estimated to be worth roughly £2bn a year.

The survey also found that one in six borrowers is now a "zombie debtor", the label given to people treading water by paying back the interest on their loan while leaving the capital debt untouched.

I visited four other shops that day. There are many more clustered around Rye Lane, and that's not including the gold shops and pawnbrokers that are introducing their own short loans. With their flashing casino-style lights and tinsel-covered windows, they stand out. 'Tis the most lucrative season of the year.

In three out of four stores, I was not told the interest rate until I explicitly asked for it. Although these companies are supposed to complete full credit checks, one cashier said I didn't need to bother going home to get my financial statements; she could just make a "quick call to the bank" to check my last pay cheque.

There is a need for personal responsibility here, but when I made it clear I was anxious and didn't know what APR stood for, no one suggested that I seek advice.

Some stores were better than others. One said it could only lend me 10 per cent of my wages and a cashier at another suggested, with a wince, that I might want to think about "pawning gold instead". But no one turned me away.

Proponents argue that it's a free market, but it's not. Free markets require rational economic agents making free and informed decisions. But as Daniel Knowles points out in the Telegraph, people who accept a loan with up to 4000 per cent APR must usually be ignorant, or desperate.

Efficient markets also need free information. But that assumption doesn't apply, either. Borrowers are told it's a good rate if they pay it back quickly, but the APR rate given often hides roll-over charges and there can be extra Ryan Air-style charges for instant cash.

And let's be clear, this is not a service for everyone. There is a reason you find these shops on the high streets of Peckham and Brixton rather than Highgate and Chelsea. According to Consumer Focus, some two-thirds of borrowers have a household income of less than £25,000 and the average amount borrowed is about £300. This is a service for people without alternatives.

Thanks in large part to the campaigns of Stella Creasy MP, the government was forced to announce a tightening in regulation yesterday. But its proposals amount to little more than a voluntary code of practice. After my experience yesterday, this seems at best naive.

For a government that rallies against public borrowing, it has done very little to tackle the personal debt of our country's poorest people. It is not a coincidence that the number of payday loans taken out is growing at a time when the economy is flatlining, with no growth strategy. And there is something sick about charging £25 for £100 when taxpayers prop up the banks.

Any solution to this problem must have two sides. First, we need meaningful constraints on these companies. Debts shouldn't be allowed to roll over more than a certain number of times and powers should be given to local authorities to limit the number of payday loan companies on their high streets.

But, without viable alternatives, we run the risk of driving people to loan sharks. To stop that happening, we need to give people access to other forms of credit. The London Mutual Credit Union has just started providing one such option, and colleagues at Southwark Council have launched a new publicity campaign to spread the word. We can't afford not to listen.

Rowenna Davis is a journalist and author of Tangled up in Blue: Blue Labour and the Struggle for Labour's Soul, published by Ruskin Publishing at £8.99. She is also a Labour councillor.

Rowenna Davis is Labour PPC for Southampton Itchen and a councillor for Peckham

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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