Can Osborne really take credit for Glaxo's move?

It was a 2009 Labour announcement, not Osborne's Budget, that persuaded Glaxo to invest.

For George Osborne, who declared that his Budget "unashamedly backs business", GlaxoSmithKline's announcement of a new biopharmaceutical factory in Cumbria [its first manufacturing facility in the UK for 40 years] couldn't have come at a better time. In his interviews this morning, the Chancellor didn't miss an opportunity to take credit for the decision:

You have GlaxoSmithKline, one of the world's biggest companies, one of the great British success stories, saying the budget has changed their view of Britain as a place to invest.

They're going to create 1,000 jobs here. Now, surely my responsibility as the country's chancellor is to get the economy moving, to get jobs created, and when big companies say that about Britain, people should sit up and notice that we are changing the British economy for the better.

It is rather misleading, however, for Osborne to claim it as an overnight success. The main reason for GSK's move is the introduction of a "patent box" [which introduces a lower rate of corporation tax on profits generated from UK-owned intellectual property], a measure previously announced by Alistair Darling in the 2009 pre-Budget report. As Labour has highlighted this morning, yesterday's Budget document even admitted as much [see Table 2.2, p.53].

In his statement, GSK chief executive Andrew Witty made it clear that the patent box was the ultimate pull factor:

The introduction of the patent box has transformed the way in which we view the UK as a location for new investments, ensuring that the medicines of the future will not only be discovered, but can also continue to be made here in Britain. Consequently, we can confirm that we will build GSK's first new UK factory for almost 40 years and that we will make other substantial capital investments in our British manufacturing base.

In fairness to Osborne, however, Witty also cited further cuts to the general rate of corporation tax, which will fall to 24 per cent next month, having stood at 28 per cent when the coalition took office. Of interest, then, is the timing of GSK's announcement. The company's press office has confirmed to me that the decision was taken several days in advance of the Budget. To some, the conveniently timed announcement by Witty [who was knighted in 2012] has a whiff of corporatism about it.

George Eaton is political editor of the New Statesman.

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Would you jump off a cliff if someone told you to? One time, I did

I was walking across the bridge in Matlock park, which is about 12 feet high, with a large group of other kids from my year, in the pouring rain.

Ever heard the phrase, “Would you jump off a cliff if they told you to?” It was the perpetual motif of my young teenage years: my daily escapades, all of which sprang from a need to impress a peer, were distressing and disgusting my parents.

At 13, this tomboyish streak developed further. I wrote urgent, angry poems containing lines like: “Who has desire for something higher than jumping for joy and smashing a light?” I wanted to push everything to its limits, to burst up through the ceiling of the small town I lived in and land in America, or London, or at least Derby. This was coupled with a potent and thumping appetite for attention.

At the height of these feelings, I was walking across the bridge in Matlock park, which is about 12 feet high, with a large group of other kids from my year, in the pouring rain. One of the cool girls started saying that her cousin had jumped off the bridge into the river and had just swum away – and that one of us should do it.

Then someone said that I should do it, because I always did that stuff. More people started saying I should. The group drew to a halt. Someone offered me a pound, which was the clincher. “I’m going to jump!” I yelled, and clambered on to the railing.

There wasn’t a complete hush, which annoyed me. I looked down. It was raining very hard and I couldn’t see the bottom of the riverbed. “It looks really deep because of the rain,” someone said. I told myself it would just be like jumping into a swimming pool. It would be over in a few minutes, and then everyone would know I’d done it. No one could ever take it away from me. Also, somebody would probably buy me some Embassy Filter, and maybe a Chomp.

So, surprising even myself, I jumped.

I was about three seconds in the air. I kept my eyes wide open, and saw the blur of trees, the white sky and my dyed red hair. I landed with my left foot at a 90-degree angle to my left ankle, and all I could see was red. “I’ve gone blind!” I thought, then realised it was my hair, which was plastered on to my eyes with rain.

When I pushed it out of the way and looked around, there was no one to be seen. They must have started running as I jumped. Then I heard a voice from the riverbank – a girl called Erin Condron, who I didn’t know very well. She pushed me home on someone’s skateboard, because my ankle was broken.

When we got to my house, I waited for Mum to say, “Would you jump off another cliff if they told you to?” but she was ashen. I had to lie that Dave McDonald’s brother had pushed me in the duck pond. And that’s when my ankle started to throb. I never got the pound, but I will always be grateful to Erin Condron. 

This article first appeared in the 25 August 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Cameron: the legacy of a loser