Raising the pension age will just turn 69-year-olds into the "undeserving poor"

The Institute of Directors is wrong to call for raising the pension age; it's not a magic money tree

Increasing the state pension age to pay for better pensions is a popular policy on the right. The Institute of Directors (pdf) are the latest to call for a rapid increase beyond 70.

It is easy to see the attraction. If you reduce the number of pensioners, then you can increase what each one gets from the state without putting up the pensions bill. Both employers and employees can contribute less to a pension if it is supporting fewer retirement years.

Increasing the pension age has become a magic money tree for pensions wonks as by definition they have no interest in the income needs of those yet to retire.

But while we cannot ignore the challenge of increased longevity, every increase in the pension age redistributes money from poor pensioners with shorter life expectancies to those from professional backgrounds who live longer.

And while longevity has increased for all social groups, the gap between rich and poor is growing. As the ONS say in just four years:

The gap between the health areas with the highest and lowest life expectancies at birth increased over the period from 9.8 to 11.3 years for males and from 8.2 to 10.1 years for females. At age 65, the gap increased from 6.7 to 8.5 years for men and from 6.3 to 8.3 years for women.

If you are only going to live to 75, you lose a much bigger proportion of your pension with an increase in the state pension to 70 than a centenarian will do. MPs who get on the Jubilee line at Westminster can see life expectancy drop by one year for each stop to Canning Town.

The other big problem with this policy is that it assumes that the pension losers in their late 60s can continue to work. Of course, many would welcome the opportunity to extend their working lives – and the coalition was right to abolish the statutory retirement age – but what looks attractive to knowledge workers with interesting jobs may simply not be an option, let alone a choice, for the less skilled and manual workers with dull or heavy jobs.

The differential state pension ages for men and women means that the poorest men who cannot work in their early 60s at the moment can at least claim means tested pensioner benefits before the state pension age as EU law does not allow age discrimination in benefits.

But with womens’ state pension age rapidly catching up with mens’ this loophole is closing. Soon we will have a situation where someone who is 66 will be a member of the deserving poor because they will be seen as pensioners, while 65 year olds  will still be among the work-shy scrounger unemployed category of the undeserving poor. They may be tired, worn-out and not very fit, but that will not be enough to satisfy ATOS that they cannot work.

Yet when the TUC did a detailed breakdown of the labour market position of 64 year olds before the recession we found that more than half of 64 year old men were economically inactive – some through choice, but doubtless many would prefer to be working.

Longevity increases inevitably bring change, but rapid increases in the state pension age are extremely unprogressive. Even a more gradual increase requires action to reduce health inequalities and to provide more flexible routes to retirement that end the cliff-edge between full-time work and full-time retirement. Yet employer groups were mostly opposed to scrapping the mandatory retirement age, and with continuing high unemployment, there is little pressure for creative thinking from employers about keeping older people in work.

An elderly man hoes a field in Havana: is Cuba the Institute of Directors' dream for Britain?

Nigel Stanley is the head of communications at the TUC. He blogs at ToUChstone.

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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