George Osborne: An increasingly lonely poster boy for austerity

As the IMF distances itself from unbalanced fiscal consolidation, Osborne is running out of allies — and time

It has always been the case that the Coalition would be judged on the effectiveness of their economic policies. The salvation of the economy from the phantom menace of "becoming Greece" has, after all, been the explicitly stated reason for this Faustian pact.

It is, therefore, particularly bad news that on Wednesday a paper from the top economists at the IMF was published suggesting what many already knew: that a path of unbalanced, overly zealous austerity has a much more disastrous effect on economic growth than originally envisaged.

Olivier Blanchard, the IMF's Economic Counsellor, and its chief research economist Daniel Leigh, have confirmed, complete with scatter diagrams, what was trailed in October's World Economic Outlook report. Specifically, that a cut of government spending results in, not, as previously thought, an equivalent loss in economic output, but triple that.

Oops! We got our multipliers radically wrong, folks. Sorry, Greece. Sorry, Europe. Sorry, World. Everyone makes mistakes, you may say.

But this was not an error of scientific judgment. It was an error of ideology, policy and presentation. The Coalition was caught in a pincer movement. The rhetoric of doom and gloom was essential to defeating any opposition to a programme of ideologically driven cuts – and making everyone who argued against it look like a debt denier. Its unfortunate, but completely foreseeable side-effect however, was to scare the private sector stiff. The slack that was being created at a phenomenal rate, was not being picked up by private enterprise.

In other words, if you want someone else to take over the wheel, it really doesn't help to be running around screaming "we're all going to die". The net result has been to terrify the private sector into reserve hoarding and balance sheet retrenchment. The blame for that lays entirely with the Coalition and any other government that chose to speak the grand guignol language of fear.

"Forecasters significantly underestimated the increase in unemployment and the decline in domestic demand associated with fiscal consolidation", Blanchard and Leigh conclude, causing one commentator to describe the paper as "a mea culpa submerged in a deep pool of calculus and regression analysis".

Increasingly, then, our Chancellor refusing to admit error and put into effect a "plan B", cuts an isolated figure. This will only encourage the dissenting voices in Opposition – whose catchphrase "too far, too fast" could have been the title of this latest IMF paper. It will also encourage dissenting voices within his own party, who have shown open resentment for the coalition deal.

And increasingly, the hollow excuses of too much rain/too much sun/not enough sun/three flakes of snow more than expected/the Royal Jubilee/the Olympics/the dog ate my homework, will start to sound like precisely that: hollow excuses.

If, as some predict, we slide into a triple dip recession, the wider public will begin to perceive that, far from "healing", the economy is choking with an occasional gasp for breath. And George Osborne will look increasingly incompetent and devoid of allies, under a PM who showed through the Mitchell affair that loyalty in not a favourite currency.

Osborne's peculiar brand of neoliberal auto-erotic asphyxiation has limits. The safe word for stopping it is "reshuffle".

Osborne in 2009. 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

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The footie is back. Three weeks in and what have we learned so far?

Barcleys, boots and big names... the Prem is back.

Another season, another reason for making whoopee cushions and giving them to Spurs fans to cheer them up during the long winter afternoons ahead. What have we learned so far?

Big names are vital. Just ask the manager of the Man United shop. The arrival of Schneiderlin and Schweinsteiger has done wonders for the sale of repro tops and they’ve run out of letters. Benedict Cumberbatch, please join Carlisle United. They’re desperate for some extra income.

Beards are still in. The whole Prem is bristling with them, the skinniest, weediest player convinced he’s Andrea Pirlo. Even my young friend and neighbour Ed Miliband has grown a beard, according to his holiday snaps. Sign him.

Boots Not always had my best specs on, but here and abroad I detect a new form of bootee creeping in – slightly higher on the ankle, not heavy-plated as in the old days but very light, probably made from the bums of newborn babies.

Barclays Still driving me mad. Now it’s screaming from the perimeter boards that it’s “Championing the true Spirit of the Game”. What the hell does that mean? Thank God this is its last season as proud sponsor of the Prem.

Pitches Some groundsmen have clearly been on the weeds. How else can you explain the Stoke pitch suddenly having concentric circles, while Southampton and Portsmouth have acquired tartan stripes? Go easy on the mowers, chaps. Footballers find it hard enough to pass in straight lines.

Strips Have you seen the Everton third kit top? Like a cheap market-stall T-shirt, but the colour, my dears, the colour is gorgeous – it’s Thames green. Yes, the very same we painted our front door back in the Seventies. The whole street copied, then le toot middle classes everywhere.

Scott Spedding Which international team do you think he plays for? I switched on the telly to find it was rugby, heard his name and thought, goodo, must be Scotland, come on, Scotland. Turned out to be the England-France game. Hmm, must be a member of that famous Cumbrian family, the Speddings from Mirehouse, where Tennyson imagined King Arthur’s Excalibur coming out the lake. Blow me, Scott Spedding turns out to be a Frenchman. Though he only acquired French citizenship last year, having been born and bred in South Africa. What’s in a name, eh?

Footballers are just so last season. Wayne Rooney and Harry Kane can’t score. The really good ones won’t come here – all we get is the crocks, the elderly, the bench-warmers, yet still we look to them to be our saviour. Oh my God, let’s hope we sign Falcao, he’s a genius, will make all the difference, so prayed all the Man United fans. Hold on: Chelsea fans. I’ve forgotten now where he went. They seek him here, they seek him there, is he alive or on the stairs, who feckin’ cares?

John Stones of Everton – brilliant season so far, now he is a genius, the solution to all of Chelsea’s problems, the heir to John Terry, captain of England for decades. Once he gets out of short trousers and learns to tie his own laces . . .

Managers are the real interest. So refreshing to have three young British managers in the Prem – Alex Neil at Norwich (34), Eddie Howe at Bournemouth (37) and that old hand at Swansea, Garry Monk, (36). Young Master Howe looks like a ball boy. Or a tea boy.

Mourinho is, of course, the main attraction. He has given us the best start to any of his seasons on this planet. Can you ever take your eyes off him? That handsome hooded look, that sarcastic sneer, the imperious hand in the air – and in his hair – all those languages, he’s so clearly brilliant, and yet, like many clever people, often lacking in common sense. How could he come down so heavily on Eva Carneiro, his Chelsea doctor? Just because you’re losing? Yes, José has been the best fun so far – plus Chelsea’s poor start. God, please don’t let him fall out with Abramovich. José, we need you.

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 27 August 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Isis and the new barbarism