How zero-hours contracts hide real unemployment

If you're on contract without work, the ONS can count you as employed.

The CBI and Institute of Directors have both waded into the debate over zero-hour contracts, arguing that tenuous labour is a necessary tool in the fight against unemployment. The Financial Times' Elizabeth Rigby, Duncan Robinson and Andrea Felsted report:

John Cridland, director-general of the business lobby, said those complaining about such contracts needed a “reality check”…

“These contracts play a vital role as a way of keeping people in employment,” said the head of the employers’ body. “If we hadn’t had this flexible working when the economy contracted, unemployment would have topped 3m – and it didn’t it went to 2.5m.”

Cridland may or may not be correct (the actual numbers do not appear to be based on any research, but even numbers pulled out of thin air may be correct through chance), but somewhat misses the point.

People on zero-hours contracts may count as employed even while, for all functional purposes, they have no job. When the ONS is counting employment, anyone who has a currently active zero-hours contract counts as "employed", even if they haven't taken a single shift in the week of the survey. And given the anecdotal evidence that employers frequently stop giving employees work as a way of effectively firing them, many of those employees actually are unemployed, then just haven't been told yet (official statistics on the practice don't exist for obvious reasons). Dawn Foster details the sort of stories which are common:

One colleague was slightly late two weeks in a row, and when asked why replied she’d had trouble finding a parking space. She didn’t come in the following week. Looking at the month’s rota I saw her name but with no shifts allocated. Two months later I saw her near my house. “Have you got a new job?" I asked. She explained she hadn’t, and that while she’d not been sacked, she hadn’t been offered any shifts and there’d been no explanation.

The ONS explains how they measure zero-hour workers who may be in that trap:

People who are on zero hours contracts count as employed. If they worked at least an hour in the survey reference period they would be counted in the employment numbers as usual. If a survey respondent did not in fact work in the reference period, the first question asked is whether they are 'temporarily away from a job' (they could be sick or on leave, etc..). Those on a zero-hours contract should reply to say they have a job to return to. In this instance they would be in employment but listed as having worked no hours

In other words, there are people who are not currently receiving work from an employer, and who will never again receive work from that employer, but who still count as "employed" in national statistics because their employer sees no need to officially fire them. This has additional implications for their lives. Some zero-hour contracts include rules banning the employee from taking work for other employers at the same time, while those who end up "voluntarily" leaving work are unable to claim many out-of-work benefits.

The effect of this on employment statistics is hard to measure, particularly since it is widely believed that employment statistics already fail to capture the full effect of zero-hours employment. The latest figures from the ONS show just over 200,000 people on the contracts, but the FT reports that "research released this week by the Chartered Institute of Personnel and Development claimed there were about 1m zero-hours workers in the UK". Regardless of the total, however, one thing is clear: for some people, the difference between a zero-hour contract and unemployment is negligible.

McDonalds is one of the firms at the centre of the zero-hour contract row. 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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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