Osborne's "no money left" claim could backfire

The Chancellor's old tactic is now a reminder of his failure.

Liam Byrne's famous valedictory note to David Laws ("there's no money left") must rank as one of the least helpful contributions by a New Labour cabinet minister. His quip perpetuated two myths: that Britain could not afford to borrow for growth and that the deficit was the result of overspending by the Brown government, rather than a dramatic fall in tax revenues caused by the financial crisis.

It's a line that George Osborne, under pressure from all sides to cut taxes, has now reprised. Today's stark Telegraph front page (Osborne: UK has run out of money) leads on the Chancellor's assertion on Sky News that "the British government has run out of money because all the money was spent in the good years". In other words, don't expect a big Budget giveaway. Any tax cuts will be paid for by tax rises or spending cuts elsewhere.

His stance is nothing new. Ever since his days as shadow chancellor, Osborne has opposed what he calls "unfunded tax cuts". But it's his rhetoric that's striking. Ahead of his third Budget as Chancellor, the claim that the "British government has run out of money" could hinder Osborne as much as it helps him. Labour and Tory MPs alike will note that the government is set to borrow around £158bn more than previously forecast. If the Chancellor can borrow to meet the cost of unemployment (in the form of higher welfare payments), why not borrow for growth? (Britain's bond yields remain at record lows).

The Institute for Fiscal Studies, for instance, has said that Osborne could cut taxes by £10bn without triggering a bond market revolt and a rise in interest rates.

As Tory MP David Ruffley said of a temporary VAT cut:

Even if we can't find the money for tax cuts from public spending savings, we could add it to the deficit and it is not going to send the markets into a tizzy, I don't think anyone really believes that. The markets will not go haywire if there was a modest loosening in borrowing in the short run if it was for the right reason.

From the Tory right, here's Roger Helmer MEP:

Memo to Osborne: We're not asking for "debt-fuelled tax cuts". We want modest pro-growth cuts (50% rate, NI holidays) that cd cost nothing.

Tory backbenchers, many of whom share Arthur Laffer's belief that tax cuts are self-financing, will have little time for the Chancellor's excuses.

Osborne's decision to blame Britain's economic woes on "the mess" left by Labour has served him well politically. But it is subject to diminishing returns. Conservative cabinet ministers who trot out this line on Question Time are now greeted with boos, not applause. After nearly two years at the helm, Osborne cannot avoid his share of responsibility for the economy. What was once a reminder of Labour's profligacy, is now a reminder of his failure.

George Eaton is political editor of the New Statesman.

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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