The fiscal cliff isn't scary to anyone but Republicans

Taxmageddon could be a blessing in disguise.

Now that Barack Obama has won re-election, the focus in the US has turned to the next crisis brewing: the fiscal cliff. The event was named by Fed Chairman Ben Bernanke, and although I have always preferred "taxmageddon", it's stuck.

The "cliff" is the automatic introduction of roughly $600bn of tax increases and spending cuts, and is due to hit in early 2013, and the nature of what it involves has led some, like Annie Lowrey, the New York Times' economics reporter, to argue that a more apposite name might be the "austerity cliff". In fact, if it hit, the fiscal cliff would be one of the most severe austerity policies the world had ever seen. This chart, from Quartz's David Yanofsky, lays it out in comparison to other notable contractions:

But while the cliff is indeed dangerous if the country were allowed to jump off it without a safety net, the political danger it poses for Barack Obama has been overstated.

The policy has been compared to the debt ceiling debacle of last summer, and the similarities are clear. The executive may well end up facing a similar level of obstructionism from a Republican congress determined to use the crisis to their political advantage, and the hard-and-fast deadline of the negotiations – a rarity in politics as normal – lends the whole thing an extra edge.

But the difference between the two comes from the results of letting that deadline lapse – and it's there where the cliff could be a blessing in disguise for Obama.

The debt ceiling involved the Republican party turning what should have been a routine vote to raise the amount of debt that the US can hold (the ceiling has been raised roughly once a year since it was introduced) into a chance to gain huge concessions on the level of spending the government was planning. The game was entirely played out on a political stage, with each side trying to convince the other that if the deadline hit and a full government shut-down ensued, their opponents would take the blame in the eyes of the public.

The negotiations themselves were relatively the simple: the Democrats wanted to change nothing, the Republicans wanted to change something, and the argument was about where those two extremes should fall.

The debates around the fiscal cliff are different, though. Each side wants some, but not all, of the programs which are expiring to be extended. So while the Democrats want to let the Bush tax cuts expire for the richest Americans, the Republicans call for, in the words of Slate's Matt Yglesias:

Draconian reductions in the federal government's commitment to financing health care for the disabled, the elderly, and the poor.

So far, so much like the debt ceiling. The difference comes after the deadline passes.

Currently, the Obama administration is, in effect, arguing for tax rises, while the Republican party argues for spending cuts. But if the deadline passes, what happens is that massive tax rises and spending cuts kick in – far bigger than both parties desire. If that happens, the negotiating calculus changes: from that point, both parties agree on the need for tax cuts and spending increases, and just disagree on the magnitude of it.

The Democrats are then put in a position where they can offer the Republicans targeted tax cuts – re-instating the payroll tax, and the Bush tax cuts for those earning under $250,000 – and even though the Republicans would prefer more, they'll be inclined to take it because it's a preferred alternative.

Similarly, so long as the spending increases the democrats offer are preferred to keeping the across-the-board cuts of the fiscal cliff, the Republican party is likely to take them.

It all comes down to who has the power to set the agenda – and in this situation, that seems likely to be president Obama.

If the players were truly rational actors, of course, all of this would mean that the fiscal cliff wouldn't even need to hit; the Democrats ought to be able to explain this endgame, and the Republicans accept it. That seems unlikely to happen.

The fiscal cliff could actually be a blessing in disguise for Obama. By putting him and the Republicans on the same side of the status quo, he could succeed in opening his second term facing the most obstructionist congress in history with a grand bargain that creates a more liberal America.

Or the Republicans may just throw the baby out with the bathwater and hurt their interests, and America's, to score points against the president. Again.

Cliffs of the non-fiscal variety. Photograph: Getty Images

Alex Hern is a technology reporter for the Guardian. He was formerly staff writer at the New Statesman. You should follow Alex on Twitter.

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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