Cameron and Clegg’s dilemma

The political calling for the left must be to fill the gap between the Big Society and the Big Econo

David Cameron delivered an interesting speech yesterday, and the credit for it lies squarely with Ed Miliband. The subject of the speech was "popular capitalism". It is not a phrase you will find in the coalition agreement. It was, apparently, not on the minds of Lib Dem negotiators as they shredded campaign policies and shared out ministerial positions. It has never been a feature of Osbornomics. Even orange-booker Nick Clegg took a brief break from failing to reform the constitution to become a crusader for fairer capitalism. A government that has spent its time in office trying to find an excuse to cut the 50p tax band for the super rich and allowing the fast food industry to shape public health policy was now trying to look the other way.

Cameron and Clegg have a dilemma. While oppositions can talk but not act, governments have the opposite problem. Words must be followed by action. People will be watching to see what the Deputy PM's "John Lewis economy" amounts to in practice. Whilst the cooperative sector currently amounts to only 1 per cent of the economy, what is their strategy to increase that? Likewise, people could be forgiven for wondering if David Cameron has the guts to "be tough" with the very same people who have funded him for so long.

Labour faces its own dilemma. It is notoriously difficult for oppositions to set the terms of debate, but on this -- as with phone hacking -- Ed Miliband has seized the initiative. Now the coalition is trying to buy up its political real estate, does it stick and shout louder or does it twist and push the agenda? The former will prove futile: few opposition parties can overwhelm the media might of Whitehall. Neither can the Labour Party bank on the support of a public sceptical of the coalition's desire for real change in British capitalism. The pro forma indignation about banker's bonuses will no longer cut through.

The only option is to move the debate on and call David Cameron's bluff. I've argued in my book that the Big Society is Labour's for the taking. After all, how can you preach about the fruits that come from empowering people in the public sector yet have no designs for empowerment in the private sector? If the prize is a society where people feel a greater responsibility to one another, how can we not have a message to the companies who seemingly show no sense of responsibility towards us? Yes, limit Stephen Hester's bonus, but it won't make much difference to the people that clean his office.

The political calling for the left in the age of austerity must be to fill the gap between the Big Society and the Big Economy. We can change the relationship between the boardroom and the stockroom forever without spending a penny of taxpayers' money. Firms should share power and profits with the people who work for them. We should point to Germany where employees have a seat at the table in company boardrooms (including remuneration committees), and to France where employees share in the profits of large firms. We need to be more forthright about Big Internet that hordes and sells access to our personal data, Big Food that sells us repackaged cholesterol and Big Booze that retails cheaper than bottled water. Ed Miliband's comments this morning about "rip-off Britain" are a welcome start to a distinctive narrative that will shape Labour's message from now until 2015.

David Lammy is the Labour MP for Tottenham and author of "Out of the Ashes: Britain after the riots"

David Lammy is Labour MP for Tottenham

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The dog at the end of the lead may be small, but in fact what I’m walking is a hound of love

There is a new, hairy face in the Hovel.

There is a new, hairy face in the Hovel. I seem to have become a temporary co-owner of an enthusiastic Chorkie. A Chorkie, in case you’re not quite up to speed with your canine crossbreeds, is a mixture of a chihuahua and a Yorkshire Terrier, and while my friend K— busies herself elsewhere I am looking after this hound.

This falls squarely into the category of Things I Never Thought I’d Do. I’m a cat person, taking my cue from their idleness, cruelty and beauty. Dogs, with their loyalty, their enthusiasm and their barking, are all a little too much for me, even after the first drink of the day. But the dog is here, and I am in loco parentis, and it is up to me to make sure that she is looked after and entertained, and that there is no repetition of the unfortunate accident that occurred outside my housemate’s room, and which needed several tissues and a little poo baggie to make good.

As it is, the dog thinks I am the bee’s knees. To give you an idea of how beeskneesian it finds me, it is licking my feet as I write. “All right,” I feel like saying to her, “you don’t have to go that far.”

But it’s quite nice to be worshipped like this, I have decided. She has also fallen in love with the Hovel, and literally writhes with delight at the stinky cushions on the sofa. Named after Trude Fleischmann, the lesbian erotic photographer of the Twenties, Thirties and Forties, she has decided, with admirable open-mindedness, that I am the Leader of the Pack. When I take the lead, K— gets a little vexed.

“She’s walking on a loose lead, with you,” K— says. “She never does that when I’m walking her.” I don’t even know what that means, until I have a think and work it out.

“She’s also walking to heel with you,” K— adds, and once again I have to join a couple of mental dots before the mists part. It would appear that when it comes to dogs, I have a natural competence and authority, qualities I had never, not even in my most deranged flights of self-love, considered myself to possess in any measurable quantity at all.

And golly, does having a dog change the relationship the British urban flâneur has with the rest of society. The British, especially those living south of Watford, and above all those in London, do not recognise other people’s existence unless they want to buy something off them or stop them standing on the left of the sodding escalator, you idiot. This all changes when you have a dog with you. You are now fair game for any dog-fancier to come up to you and ask the most personal questions about the dog’s history and genealogy. They don’t even have to have a dog of their own; but if you do, you are obliged by law to stop and exchange dog facts.

My knowledge of dog facts is scant, extending not much further beyond them having a leg at each corner and chasing squirrels, so I leave the talking to K—, who, being a friendly sort who could probably talk dog all day long if pressed, is quite happy to do that. I look meanwhile in a kind of blank wonder at whichever brand of dog we’ve just encountered, and marvel not only at the incredible diversity of dog that abounds in the world, but at a realisation that had hitherto escaped me: almost half of London seems to have one.

And here’s the really interesting thing. When I have the leash, the city looks at me another way. And, specifically, the young women of the city. Having reached the age when one ceases to be visible to any member of the opposite sex under 30, I find, all of a sudden, that I exist again. Women of improbable beauty look at Trude, who looks far more Yorkie than chihuahua, apart from when she does that thing with the ears, and then look at me, and smile unguardedly and unironically, signalling to me that they have decided I am a Good Thing and would, were their schedules not preventing them, like to chat and get to know me and the dog a bit better.

I wonder at first if I am imagining this. I mention it to K—.

“Oh yes,” she says, “it’s a thing. My friend P-J regularly borrows her when he wants to get laid. He reckons he’s had about 12 shags thanks to her in the last six months. The problems only arise when they come back again and notice the dog isn’t there.”

I do the maths. Twelve in six months! That’s one a fortnight. An idea begins to form in my mind. I suppose you don’t have to be a rocket scientist to work out what it is. But no. I couldn’t. Could I?

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 28 April 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The new fascism