What Peter Oborne doesn’t get

Maybe Oborne didn’t notice that the whole basis for the Chancellor’s economic strategy – stemming from work by Carmen Reinhart and Kenneth Rogoff – has been shown to be ruined by spreadsheet errors.

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‘‘Economics in the end trumps politics,” said Peter Oborne on Newsnight in his infamous 2011 “that idiot in Brussels” interview. At the time, Jeremy Paxman accused him of being gratuitously offensive – and it seems to be his modus operandi. The mouthy buffoon (MB) was similarly offensive again the other day in a delusional Telegraph column, “The left talks gibberish while David Cameron racks up successes”, in which he argued that after three years the Tory-Lib Dem coalition’s daring reforms are “starting to pay dividends”. No mention, naturally, of the 50-odd U-turns such as the pasty tax, the joint strike fighter and minimum alcohol pricing.
 
The MB accused me of being a “cod-Keynesian”, which is rather surprising, given that I’ve never expressed any view whatsoever about the fishing industry.
 
Let’s plaice his comments in context. The MB apparently spoke with Tony Travers, who, he argued, is from the “respectable” part of the London School of Economics, even though he is not a member of the permanent faculty. I am wondering whether he thinks my distinguished friends Tim Besley, John Van Reenen, the Nobel laureate Christopher Pissarides, Nick Stern and John Hills are from the “respectable” bit. Or Richard Layard, or David Metcalf?
 
Let’s go through a couple of other bits of nonsense. First: “. . . the government’s audacious and thoughtful strategy for economic and social reform is holding up very well”. You could have fooled me. Unemployment is 2.5 million and still rising – the last six monthly observations were 7.8 per cent, 8.1 per cent, 8.0 per cent, 7.4 per cent, 8.0 per cent and 8.0 per cent, and the employment rate is falling. Youth unemployment is still around a million, long-term unemployment is rising and real wages continue to fall. “Thoughtful” the strategy is not. Indeed, it is hard to find a single economist who supports it.
 
Maybe Oborne didn’t notice that the whole basis for the Chancellor’s economic strategy – stemming from work by Carmen Reinhart and Kenneth Rogoff – has been shown to be ruined by spreadsheet errors. Recall that in 2010 the Chancellor argued in his Mais Lecture that: “The latest research suggests that once debt reaches more than about 90 per cent of GDP, the risks of a large negative impact on long-term growth become highly significant.” We now know it doesn’t.
 
The underlying picture for the public finances is one of stalled progress in deficit reduction. As the independent consultancy Capital Economics notes, “stripping out various temporary factors, the fiscal position remains fragile”.
 
Then there’s this from Oborne: “Economic growth, though weak, has not been entirely extinguished in a weak international environment. Anyone who predicted such an outcome three years ago would have been labelled mad.”
 
In his Budget statement of 22 June 2010 the Chancellor said as follows: “Growth in the UK economy for the coming five years is estimated to be: 1.2 per cent this year and 2.3 per cent next year; then 2.8 per cent in 2012 followed by 2.9 per cent in 2013.” We got 1.7 per cent, then 1.1 per cent and 0.2 per cent and perhaps 1 per cent for 2013. Great success – growth was a quarter of what was predicted by the coalition.
 
Oborne is right about one thing: economics in the end trumps politics. Given the worst lack of recovery in a century, the only sensible conclusion is that Cameron has established a track record of economic failure. No dividends.
 
David Blanchflower is the New Statesman’s economics editor 
George Osborne. Photograph: Getty Images

David Blanchflower is economics editor of the New Statesman and professor of economics at Dartmouth College, New Hampshire

This article first appeared in the 29 July 2013 issue of the New Statesman, Summer Double Issue

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Is there such a thing as responsible betting?

Punters are encouraged to bet responsibly. What a laugh that is. It’s like encouraging drunks to get drunk responsibly, to crash our cars responsibly, murder each other responsibly.

I try not to watch the commercials between matches, or the studio discussions, or anything really, before or after, except for the match itself. And yet there is one person I never manage to escape properly – Ray Winstone. His cracked face, his mesmerising voice, his endlessly repeated spiel follow me across the room as I escape for the lav, the kitchen, the drinks cupboard.

I’m not sure which betting company he is shouting about, there are just so many of them, offering incredible odds and supposedly free bets. In the past six years, since the laws changed, TV betting adverts have increased by 600 per cent, all offering amazingly simple ways to lose money with just one tap on a smartphone.

The one I hate is the ad for BetVictor. The man who has been fronting it, appearing at windows or on roofs, who I assume is Victor, is just so slimy and horrible.

Betting firms are the ultimate football parasites, second in wealth only to kit manufacturers. They have perfected the capitalist’s art of using OPM (Other People’s Money). They’re not directly involved in football – say, in training or managing – yet they make millions off the back of its popularity. Many of the firms are based offshore in Gibraltar.

Football betting is not new. In the Fifties, my job every week at five o’clock was to sit beside my father’s bed, where he lay paralysed with MS, and write down the football results as they were read out on Sports Report. I had not to breathe, make silly remarks or guess the score. By the inflection in the announcer’s voice you could tell if it was an away win.

Earlier in the week I had filled in his Treble Chance on the Littlewoods pools. The “treble” part was because you had three chances: three points if the game you picked was a score draw, two for a goalless draw and one point for a home or away win. You chose eight games and had to reach 24 points, or as near as possible, then you were in the money.

“Not a damn sausage,” my father would say every week, once I’d marked and handed him back his predictions. He never did win a sausage.

Football pools began in the 1920s, the main ones being Littlewoods and Vernons, both based in Liverpool. They gave employment to thousands of bright young women who checked the results and sang in company choirs in their spare time. Each firm spent millions on advertising. In 1935, Littlewoods flew an aeroplane over London with a banner saying: Littlewoods Above All!

Postwar, they blossomed again, taking in £50m a year. The nation stopped at five on a Saturday to hear the scores, whether they were interested in football or not, hoping to get rich. BBC Sports Report began in 1948 with John Webster reading the results. James Alexander Gordon took over in 1974 – a voice soon familiar throughout the land.

These past few decades, football pools have been left behind, old-fashioned, low-tech, replaced by online betting using smartphones. The betting industry has totally rebooted itself. You can bet while the match is still on, trying to predict who will get the next goal, the next corner, the next throw-in. I made the last one up, but in theory you can bet instantly, on anything, at any time.

The soft sell is interesting. With the old football pools, we knew it was a remote flutter, hoping to make some money. Today the ads imply that betting on football somehow enhances the experience, adds to the enjoyment, involves you in the game itself, hence they show lads all together, drinking and laughing and putting on bets.

At the same time, punters are encouraged to do it responsibly. What a laugh that is. It’s like encouraging drunks to get drunk responsibly, to crash our cars responsibly, murder each other responsibly. Responsibly and respect are now two of the most meaningless words in the football language. People have been gambling, in some form, since the beginning, watching two raindrops drip down inside the cave, lying around in Roman bathhouses playing games. All they’ve done is to change the technology. You have to respect that.

Hunter Davies is a journalist, broadcaster and profilic author perhaps best known for writing about the Beatles. He is an ardent Tottenham fan and writes a regular column on football for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 05 February 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Putin's war