My fantasy chancellor would announce a new path for fiscal policy

Autumn Statement wishlist.

Thinking ahead to the Autumn Statement, you can imagine a Balls/Cable alternative reality where the chancellor is a social democrat and Keynesian. Or you can consider what gentle nudging of the tiller the present incumbent might plausibly countenance.

The first option is a lot less gloomy.  With the economy and the public finances now totally at sea, my fantasy chancellor will announce a new path for fiscal policy. There would be a short-term stimulus, starting with a cut to employers’ national insurance and a massive public investment programme. Capital spending which guarantees a future revenue stream, such as house-building, would be ignored when it comes to plans for the national debt, meaning the government could promise a million new homes over five years.

There would still need to be very painful fiscal consolidation over the medium-term, but not on George Osborne’s terms. His plans assume that almost all the burden should be borne by spending cuts not tax rises, and his fiscal rules force him to squeeze the deficit faster and deeper than is likely to be needed for long-term sustainability. The result is a plan to permanently shrink the size of the state as a share of GDP.

A centre-left government would declare that its aim was to return public spending to its long-term trend not to ‘overshoot’. That would mean taking a bit longer to cut the deficit and raising more taxes, especially from wealth and land. There would still be very difficult and controversial decisions because even a decade of flat spending would mean many individual cuts. A Fabian Society commission has just launched to consider how the tricky trade-offs could be made.

But what of the real Mr Osborne? His reputation depends on him rejecting almost everything I have said. He knows however the Liberal Democrats will demand he finds more ways to tax high-earners, even if it is simply by adding a few bands to the council tax. He could also accelerate the capitalisation of his two putative public investment banks. On specific spending cuts, he should desist from a fresh assault on his ‘undeserving’ shirkers, for although the focus groups tell him it’s good politics, over time he reinforces the ‘nasty party’ image the Tories must shed to win centre-ground votes. Perhaps, on cuts, Osborne should simply pause and take stock; after all, does he really need to set a budget for April 2015 this week?

Andrew Harrop is the General Secretary of Fabian Society

The government could promise a million new homes over five years. Photograph: Getty Images

Andrew Harrop is general secretary of the Fabian Society.

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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