Why the Tories shouldn't get excited about "good" economic news

The economy might appear to be improving but forecasters predict a "triple-dip recession" and rising unemployment.

This week's economic news has prompted hope among the Tories that the tide is finally turning in their favour. Employment is at a record high, inflation is down to 2.2 per cent, its lowest level since November 2009, and borrowing has fallen to its lowest level for four years. The positive trend will continue next week when the Office for National Statistics (ONS) announces that the economy finally returned to growth in the third quarter (the National Institute of Economic and Social Research, for instance, has predicted growth of 0.8 per cent). Team Osborne hope that all of this will allow them to tell a plausible story of recovery.

However, it's worth pointing out several inconvenient truths. First, the next set of growth figures will be artificially inflated by the bounce back from the extra bank holiday in the previous quarter (which reduced growth by an estimated 0.5 per cent) and by the inclusion of the Olympic ticket sales (which are expected to add around 0.2 per cent to GDP). So, if the ONS announces that the economy grew by 0.8 per cent in the third quarter, the underlying rate of growth will be just 0.1 per cent.

Worse, many expect the economy to contract in the fourth quarter (what our economics editor David Blanchflower has termed a "triple-dip recession"). Bank of England MPC member Martin Weale has warned: "The Jubilee depressed output in the second quarter so you get an automatic bounce back. But if we talk about underlying growth then I think the economy is flat. I certainly would not say there is no risk of [a triple-dip recession] happening." Martin Beck, UK economist at Capital Economics, told the Today programme last week: "we expect the economy to start contracting again in the fourth quarter."

On employment, the picture is similarly mixed. As I noted when the most recent figures were published on Wednesday, 59 per cent of the 212,000 jobs created in the last quarter are part-time and nearly half (101,000) are in London, suggesting that the labour market benefited from a temporary Olympics effect. Adequately paid, full-time employment is still remarkably hard to come by. Of the new jobs created over the last three months, one in three offer fewer than 15 hours week a work, while 54 per cent offer fewer than 30 hours. A near-record 1.4 million people are working part-time because they can't find full-time jobs. It's also worth noting that most forecasters expect unemployment to rise significantly next year as further spending cuts, a lack of growth and rising productivity restrict job creation. The CBI, for instance, predicts that unemployment will increase by nearly 200,000 to 2.7m.

Finally, the deficit. While September's figures were better-than-expected, borrowing so far this year remains £2.7bn (4.2 per cent) higher than in the same period last year and George Osborne is still expected to miss his annual target by £5-10bn. The Chancellor aims to borrow no more than £121bn this year, but in the first six months of 2012 he's borrowed £65.1bn. As a result, when he delivers his autumn statement on 5 December, Osborne will likely be forced to postpone his goal of eliminating the structural deficit (originally scheduled for 2015) for a third year - to 2018. Having once hoped to offer significant cuts in taxation at the next election, the Tories will only be able to promise yet more austerity.

Chancellor George Osborne speaks at the Conservative conference in Manchester earlier this month. Photograph: Getty Images.

George Eaton is 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