The Tories' shameful new ad campaign against "the scroungers"

New ad in marginal seats contrasts "hardworking families" with those "who won't work".

 

The Tories' new ad campaign (see above) is the party's most shameless attempt yet to turn "the strivers" against "the scroungers". The online ad will run in the 60 Conservative marginals where, as Labour has highlighted, the number of families receiving working tax credits is greater than the MP's majority. Since tax credits, like other working-age benefits, will only be increased by 1 per cent for the next three years (below the rate of inflation), Labour has accused the government of imposing a "strivers' tax". Sixty per cent of the real-terms cut to benefits will fall on working households and, according to the Institute for Fiscal Studies (IFS), the average one earner couple will be £534 a year worse off by 2015.

The Conservatives' response is the demagogic ad above, which asks, "Who do you think this government should be giving more support to? Hard-working families or people who won't work?", and includes an image of a "scrounger" with his feet up at home. The "support" mentioned by the ad is a reference to the planned increase in the personal allowance, which will rise by £1,335 to £9,440 from next April, benefiting basic rate taxpayers by up to £267.

But there are two reasons why the ad might prove less successful than the Tories hope. The first is that, as the IFS has confirmed, the average family will lose more from the cuts to tax credits and other benefits than it gains from the increase in the personal allowance. The second is that not all voters will accept the caricature of the unemployed presented by the ad. The majority of those without a job are desperately trying to find work (with little support from the government) and, in most cases, will have been employed and paid taxes for years before the recession. The number who choose benefits as a lifestyle is far smaller than ministers imagine.

For these reasons, among others, polls show that fewer voters than expected support Osborne's benefit cuts. Most notably, a MORI poll published on Thursday found that 69 per cent believe benefits should rise in line with inflation or more.

Chancellor and Conservative chief election strategist George Osborne. Photograph: Getty Images.

George Eaton is political editor of the New Statesman.

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The Nicholas Lezard guide to spending your book advance

It was quite wonderful, once again, to be able to do things such as go to restaurants, develop a fairly serious port habit and generally not scrounge.

Well, the good times had to end, as they always do, I suppose. I spent the last few months of 2016 experiencing the novel sensation of not being broke. You should try not being broke some time: it’s delightful. Then again, maybe you’re already not broke. We’ll come back to this later.

Anyway, the last time I had enough cash to be free of any kind of worry was back in, I think, 1989. I had an office job and was also getting regular work on the Sunday Correspondent. It wasn’t exactly two salaries but it was certainly at least one and a half.

One day, though, the good people at British Telecom – for that was where I was mostly employed – decided that I ought to be promoted. I didn’t like this idea, because it meant that I would have to start doing some actual work, rather than pottering around the place chatting to people and going for four-pint lunches. So I resigned. What could possibly go wrong? The Sunday Correspondent was a fine paper, and maybe one day I would be literary editor.

You may be wondering, if you are under 50, what the Sunday Correspondent is or was. Well, exactly. It was, as the keener among you will have worked out, a newspaper, a nice, liberal one, which appeared – the clue is in the name – on Sundays. And then one day it didn’t. So within a fairly short period of time I went from having two jobs to having none, and since then I have not troubled the bank by having more money than I know what to do with.

Oh, I get by. There are many, many others much, much worse off than I am. But it was quite wonderful, once again, to be able to do things such as go to restaurants, develop a fairly serious port habit and generally not scrounge.

My munificence to my children was lavish, for once. They’re not daft, though, and they knew it couldn’t and wouldn’t last, and when all those horrible bills that come at the beginning of the year came at the beginning of the year, the status quo ante reasserted itself, and I am going to have to rein things in once more. Rather fewer plates of eggs Benedict for breakfast at the posh eatery in Baker Street, and rather more bowls of Rice Krispies instead.

Or I could find a rich woman. This is the traditional lifeline for the indigent hack, or at least it used to be. Jeffrey Bernard, my sort-of predecessor, would just sit in the Coach and Horses, and sooner or later, after he had put out a distress call in his column, in would come another woman who saw romance in the life of the penniless barfly, and he would be OK again for a while. However, he was writing in the Spectator, which tends to circulate among people with money. I can’t pull the same trick off here, for obvious reasons.

I also wonder if something has changed in the nature of wealth. People who have the stuff these days generally don’t pass it on to people who don’t. The days of the patron are over. What they pass on instead is either impertinent and unwanted advice or simply a dirty look. (Naturally this does not include those kind souls who have been kind enough to help me out towards the end of awkward months in the past.)

But I had my time in the sun for a while, and very pleasant it was, too. I could have saved up the modest book advance for a rainy day but as far as I can see it’s always a rainy day around the Hovel, so what the heck, I thought. Also, it would be very much not in the spirit of the Prix Goncourt or the Jack Trevor Story Memorial Cup, the terms of which dictate that the prize money must be spent in two weeks with nothing to show for it.

I was awarded the Jack Trevor Story prize last year – or possibly the year before that, it’s all a bit hazy – and I like to think that I maintain a standard of fecklessness whether I’m being rewarded for it or not. And the sum involved, I should add, is not big, and two-thirds of it is being withheld until the book is written, and then published.

It’s a fair deal, though, and I’m not grumbling. I have made my bed, and I must lie in it, although I didn’t realise that it would have so many Rice Krispies in it. You try eating cereal in bed without spilling any. The only real problem with doing so, it occurs to me, is that I don’t think there are many women, rich or not, who would be attracted by the prospect of sharing a bed with me and my breakfast. And I can’t say I blame them.

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 12 January 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Putin's revenge