It's not burdening our children with debt that should worry us

Leaving our children without assets is a far greater problem than "saddling" them with debt.

It is irresponsible to saddle our children with debt.

One of the most compelling, at least superficially, arguments for austerity. It is used globally; it resonates powerfully. After all, it appeals to the very best facets of human nature – the instinct to nurture; the wish to leave things better for future generations – and is, therefore, almost irresistible. But there are few things more dangerous than rhetoric designed to entangle the heart, while bypassing the brain.

Let us suppose that I knew, tomorrow I would be no more. The appointment has been made; the plane tickets to Geneva have been booked. If I were leaving behind my house to my child, encumbered as it is with a mortgage, would I worry? It is a huge amount of debt, but the house is worth almost double its mortgage. The interest is low. To look at that scenario and arrive at the conclusion I am “saddling my child with debt” would be highly irrational. I would have left them with positive equity.

It is illogical to assess the legacy we bequeath to the next generation, solely in terms of debt. Assets should form part of the equation.

This was precisely what our parents’ generation decided to do. And their parents’ before them. National debt, as a percentage of GDP, was much higher from the 20s to the 70s than it is now. But they made the positive choice of bequeathing it to us, as well as a world-class National Health Service, free education, thriving industry, bright prospects and a system of welfare which provided a safety net for the less fortunate.

Had they looked at debt in isolation, they would never have achieved any of these things. Luckily, they did not. They left us with positive equity.

The proposition put forward by the coalition government in support of their programme of cuts, is the bequest of a clean slate. In the current economic climate, however, a clean slate means clean of assets, not clear of debt.

With the economy stagnant or shrinking, the reality is that this government will fail to make a dent in the deficit and actually increase debt. According to the OBR our annual deficit is falling at exactly the same rate it was projected to do before any of these cuts. The national debt is projected to rise by a staggering half a trillion pounds, even by the most lenient of estimates. The OBR now admits that austerity is hurting the economy. The IMF now admits that austerity is hurting the economy.

On the other hand, there is another, even gloomier forecast. By squeezing ordinary people, by forcing them to remortgage, to use credit cards, to run to the nearest payday lender, private household debt is predicted to balloon by an additional half a trillion pounds.

So, forget this insidious idea that we might leave our children with a clean slate. It is fantasy. In fact, under this government, we will leave our children with at least one trillion more debt than we had in 2010. The only intelligent conversation to be had, is whether we leave our children with the assets, skills, environment and tools to manage that debt or not.

Not all asset stripping is fiscally responsible in the long term. Not every expense incurred results in debt. Off-the-cuff, misconceived policies to try and regulate a rampant energy industry are ample demonstration of that truth; a conservative government flailing in a futile attempt to control the profiteering which resulted from another conservative government’s privatisation programme.

We are paying through the nose, both in terms of tickets, subsidies and maintenance, for a rail network franchise system which is manifestly failing. Meanwhile, the part of the network which has been state-run for the last few years (as a result of the last botched franchise), is better and cheaper than it was in private hands and turning a profit.

We pay to bail out private banks, then complain that they are not lending to SMEs, when we actually part-own two of the biggest. Nationalisation is both a rational solution and a dirty word.

Meanwhile, we are allowing these failed experiments to go on, to expand even; the self-interested privatisation of the NHS, the cut-price sale of local council assets and social housing, the dismantling of the welfare state, the farming out of police and prison services, the poisonous influence of profit on our schools. Within five years, the UK will be spending less on public services than any developed nation.

Make no mistake. What is actually being proposed, is leaving our children with negative equity. The debt will still be there, but the assets will be gone. Important assets at that, the absence of which will translate into higher living costs, in perpetuity. The sale of state housing inflates rents. Lack of a welfare system deflates wages. Tuition fees enslave the next generation to financial institutions which we know to be corrupt. Healthcare bills are the single biggest cause of bankruptcy in the US.

Maybe this is the future that we genuinely want. But let us consider all the arguments, instead of wielding an axe at any expense with no thought of whether it is necessary or cost-effective. Let us look at debt in conjunction with the assets and values that would also form part of our bequest.

Our current predicament is precarious. Even more critical, then, to make rational, informed and brave choices - rather than terrified, ill-thought ones. For our sake and that of our children.

Demonstrators call for an end to the national debt outside Parliament last year. Photograph: Getty Images.

Greek-born, Alex Andreou has a background in law and economics. He runs the Sturdy Beggars Theatre Company and blogs here You can find him on twitter @sturdyalex

Getty
Show Hide image

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