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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"We repealed, then forgot": the long shadow of Section 28 homophobia

Why are deeply conservative views about the "promotion" of homosexuality still being reiterated to Scottish school pupils? 

Grim stories of LGBTI children being bullied in school are all too common. But one which emerged over the weekend garnered particular attention - because of the echoes of the infamous Section 28, nearly two decades after it was scrapped.

A 16-year-old pupil of a West Lothian school, who does not wish to be named, told Pink News that staff asked him to remove his small rainbow pride badge because, though they had "no problem" with his sexuality, it was not appropriate to "promote it" in school. It's a blast from the past - the rules against "promoting" homosexuality were repealed in 2000 in Scotland, but the long legacy of Section 28 seems hard to shake off. 

The local authority responsible said in a statement that non-school related badges are not permitted on uniforms, and says it is "committed to equal rights for LGBT people". 

The small badge depicted a rainbow-striped heart, which the pupil said he had brought back from the Edinburgh Pride march the previous weekend. He reportedly "no longer feels comfortable going to school", and said homophobia from staff members felt "much more scar[y] than when I encountered the same from other pupils". 

At a time when four Scottish party leaders are gay, and the new Westminster parliament included a record number of LGBTQ MPs, the political world is making progress in promoting equality. But education, it seems, has not kept up. According to research from LGBT rights campaigners Stonewall, 40 per cent of LGBT pupils across the UK reported being taught nothing about LGBT issues at school. Among trans students, 44 per cent said school staff didn’t know what "trans" even means.

The need for teacher training and curriculum reform is at the top of campaigners' agendas. "We're disappointed but not surprised by this example," says Jordan Daly, the co-founder of Time for Inclusive Education [TIE]. His grassroots campaign focuses on making politicians and wider society aware of the reality LGBTI school students in Scotland face. "We're in schools on a monthly basis, so we know this is by no means an isolated incident." 

Studies have repeatedly shown a startling level of self-harm and mental illness reported by LGBTI school students. Trans students are particularly at risk. In 2015, Daly and colleagues began a tour of schools. Shocking stories included one in which a teacher singled out a trans pupils for ridicule in front of the class. More commonly, though, staff told them the same story: we just don't know what we're allowed to say about gay relationships. 

This is the point, according to Daly - retraining, or rather the lack of it. For some of those teachers trained during the 1980s and 1990s, when Section 28 prevented local authorities from "promoting homosexuality", confusion still reigns about what they can and cannot teach - or even mention in front of their pupils. 

The infamous clause was specific in its homophobia: the "acceptability of homosexuality as a pretended family relationship" could not be mentioned in schools. But it's been 17 years since the clause was repealed in Scotland - indeed, it was one of the very first acts of the new Scottish Parliament (the rest of the UK followed suit three years later). Why are we still hearing this archaic language? 

"We repealed, we clapped and cheered, and then we just forgot," Daly says. After the bitter campaign in Scotland, in which an alliance of churches led by millionaire businessman Brian Souter poured money into "Keeping the Clause", the government was pleased with its victory, which seemed to establish Holyrood as a progressive political space early on in the life of the parliament. But without updating the curriculum or retraining teaching staff, Daly argues, it left a "massive vacuum" of uncertainty. 

The Stonewall research suggests a similar confusion is likely across the UK. Daly doesn't believe the situation in Scotland is notably worse than in England, and disputes the oft-cited allegation that the issue is somehow worse in Scotland's denominational schools. Homophobia may be "wrapped up in the language of religious belief" in certain schools, he says, but it's "just as much of a problem elsewhere. The TIE campaign doesn't have different strategies for different schools." 

After initial disappointments - their thousands-strong petition to change the curriculum was thrown out by parliament in 2016 - the campaign has won the support of leaders such as Nicola Sturgeon and Kezia Dugdale, and recently, the backing of a majority of MSPs. The Scottish government has set up a working group, and promised a national strategy. 

But for Daly, who himself struggled at a young age with his sexuality and society's failure to accept it, the matter remains an urgent one.  At just 21, he can reel off countless painful stories of young LGBTI students - some of which end in tragedy. One of the saddest elements of the story from St Kentigern's is that the pupil claimed his school was the safest place he had to express his identity, because he was not out at home. Perhaps for a gay pupil in ten years time, that will be a guarantee. 

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