Is benefit-bashing the next Osborne gamble to go wrong?

The Chancellor was ready to be seen as heartless. He didn't count on also looking hopeless.

The row about work capability assessments rumbles on. These are the tests that are meant to establish which recipients of incapacity benefit should be deemed fit and moved to a lower, more conditional rate. The Department for Work and Pensions insists the tests - administered by Atos, a private contractor - are an effective way of distinguishing between those genuinely unable to take on work and those who might simply have given up trying. Critics of the process allege it is a cynical device to shovel disabled and chronically ill people from a benefit that costs the Exchequer lots of money to one that costs less - without due regard for the personal circumstances and medical nuances of individual cases.

The accusation is that the government, confident of political cover in the form of the widespread assumption that many benefit claims are bogus, is saving money by targeting people unable to fight back and who mostly don't vote Tory. The rebuttal is that the DWP is working hard to get everyone into work - which for many people currently receiving incapacity benefit would have a rehabilitative effect, restoring independence and self esteem. As one government advisor put it to me recently: "Which part of your progressive tradition says it is ok to just let people rot on benefits their whole lives?" (Of course, for the DWP "tough love" narrative to have a happy ending, there need to be enough jobs out there ... )

It is worth noting that Atos first got contracts to do these assessments under the last Labour government. The assumption then, as now, was that family GPs were too indulgent in handing out 'sick notes' or felt intimidated if they refused to accept a patient's claim of inability to work. The current government has accelerated the process and ramped up the scale. A predictable consequence is the accusation of brutal targeting - setting semi-official minimum rates for assessors to clear people as fit for work. Atos deny this. The number of decisions successfully contested in court certainly suggests some cavalier assessment is going on. Today's story in the Guardian suggesting the DWP sought to censor information about the appeals process suggests ministers think the courts represent some kind if loophole for scroungers who might slip through the Atos net.

So far this whole story hasn't made a big political impact. That is largely because the received wisdom in Westminster is that public opinion supports the government almost without equivocation when it comes to benefit cuts. That view is backed up by polling, private and public, showing most people would gladly see the axe wielded harder and faster against the welfare budget. Labour, for that very reason, are squeamish about opposing benefit cuts. Their MPs hear enough complaints about 'scroungers' on the doorstep to know how toxic the issue can be. The famous squeezed middle that Ed Miliband would like to represent simmers with as much resentment against neighbours whose rent is paid by the state as against bankers.  

That sentiment is what lies behind the strategic decision by the Chancellor to target the welfare bill in his deficit reduction programme (that and, of course, the sheer size of the DWP spend, but the numbers are often inflated by pension payments.) Osborne's calculation is that you can hardly be too tough on benefits. Squeezing the so-called scroungers creates a nifty dividing line from Labour and keeps the public on side for painful cuts. The last government, the story goes, wasted all of the taxpayers' money handing out dole cheques for people to spend on strong lager and sit around watching Jeremy Kyle. The Tories are clearing up the mess. Etc.

A thought: what if Osborne is wrong about this? Opinion polls and Tory-leaning newspapers still endorse the benefit-bashing approach. But the Conservative approach, if it is not to look plain vindictive, relies on two things. First, the fiscal strategy must actually be seen to be working. Second, there must be jobs for people who are allegedly workshy to be ushered into. Both conditions are looking unmet in the absence of economic growth - and the real effect of departmental budget squeezes has hardly kicked in at all. At the start of this parliament it was reasonable to assume that many voters accepted the need for some harsh treatment at the hands of the coalition in the name of necessary budgetary correction. That support was conditional on the pain being delivered fairly and competently.  If, as one shadow cabinet minister puts it, the Tories look "hopeless as well as heartless" the political dynamic changes dramatically.

I doubt the ambient cultural noise around scrounging and benefit fraud will quieten down very quickly. But a prolonged slump, in which ever more people - and people higher up the income scale - feel insecure is bound to have an impact on perceptions of those who have fallen through the safety net. It is not inconceivable that scorn will turn to pity, especially if there are grounds for doubting the government's basic competence in delivering cuts fairly.  Lib Dem MPs will also come under increasing pressure in the next public spending review to distance themselves from Osborne's aggressive targeting of welfare. The junior coalition party has to present itself as the palliative agent in the mix, softening harsh Tory edges.

Besides, and this is the point where Tories should feel nervous, the whole "can't be too tough on benefits" approach came from the mind of Osborne, whose greatest strategic gamble so far - on the economy - has unravelled. If, as seems now apparent, he is not the Chess Grandmaster of politics as he was once advertised to be, is it not possible that he has called this one wrong too?

George Osborne plans to reduce the welfare budget by a further £10bn. Photograph: Getty Images.

Rafael Behr is political columnist at the Guardian and former political editor of the New Statesman

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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