There still aren't 120,000 "troubled families"

A zombie statistic refuses to die, even as the DCLG helps 3,000 real families.

The government is very happy that its "troubled families" intervention programme is having results, with the BBC reporting that:

Early intervention by a dedicated case worker has reduced crime among those people involved by 45%… Anti-social behaviour has gone down by 59%.

Those are good results, even if the vast majority of the report is case studies of a few of the families involved. As for the actual results, the vast majority of quantitative data presented is percentage changes. This is clearly important; but it's also crucial to know how many troubled families actually exist, and how many can be helped. After all, a programme which is targeted at just a handful of families isn't particularly useful in the grand scheme of things.

This is an area the government, and the BBC, fall down on severely. The Department for Communities and Local Government's report claims, three times, that there are 120,000 families.

This is incredibly unlikely to be true. We've explained before, in detail, why this is the case, but the short version is that the DCLG claimed there were 120,000 troubled families defined with one set of criteria, but then changed the definition and continued claiming 120,000 families existed.

Unless two markedly different groups of people both add up to 120,000, it seems likely that this number was just pulled out of thin air (none of the research which the DCLG has made available explains where it came from). And yet today's report, and the BBC write-up, repeats it.

The BBC also claims that 40,000 families are expected to be helped this year, which would be a twelve-fold increase from the 3,324 families who were actually helped in 2011-2012 (and, of course, would still be just a third of the claimed eligibility). That figure of 3,324 is not mentioned anywhere in the BBC's report, nor the DCLG's press-release.

The trouble families programme does seem to be a great help to those families successfully referred to it, as Casey's report makes clear. But it is helping far, far fewer families than media reports make out; and part of that may be because no-one seems to actually know how many families are even eligible.

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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