Osborne is failing on his own terms as deficit increases

The budget is floating on a raft of windfall revenues.

The latest borrowing figures for the public sector have been released, and they show that George Osborne continues to be not particularly good at achieving his stated aim of deficit reduction.

Public sector net borrowing — the accounting name for what is usually called the deficit — was £15.4bn in December 2012, £0.6bn higher than it was in December 2011. This still leaves the cumulative deficit for the financial year 2012/13 on target to be considerably lower than it was for the financial year 2011/12 (£78.5bn compared to last year's £99.3bn), but success of deficit reduction has been reduced again. That figure, however, takes into account the windfall revenue from the transfer of the Royal Mail pension scheme. Excluding that windfall, the deficit would be £7.2bn higher this cumulative year than last.

In addition, and crucially, the last quarter of financial year 2012/13 is expected to see the transfer of profits from the Bank of England's quantitative easing program and the proceeds of the 4G spectrum auction — both of which are subject to political controversy, and both of which are expected to lead to sizeable reductions in the 2012/13 deficit. The 4G auction led to upset around the time of the autumn statement, when the Chancellor brought forward the revenue from it in order to be able to claim to be reducing the deficit; while the transfer of QE profits was called by our economics editor David Blanchflower a "smash-and-grab" raid on the Bank of England (even if it may not have been that bad in hindsight). The ONS concludes:

the transfers from the BEAPFF [the QE transfer] will reduce [the deficit] by £11.5 billion… the sales of the 4G spectrum will reduce [the deficit] by £3.5 billion.

Both of those are also windfall revenue, in the classic sense: the chancellor can't claim any fiscal prudence by pointing to the revenue they raise, since they will come once and only once. (And the latter, at least, might well turn out to be fiscal imprudence, if the Treasury ends up having to pay back more than it appropriated.)

The failure to cut the deficit may not be a bad thing, of course. If the economy is suffering from a paucity of aggregate demand, then the government cutting spending as fast as it wanted to would be terrible. Even while the government has been slashing public services, its inability to promote even minimal growth has meant that automatic fiscal stabilisers — things like means-tested and out-of-work benefits — have caused the resultant deficit reduction to be minimal. Keynesians should thank George Osborne for being so ineffectual at achieving the goal he has staked his political career on. His own party might not be quite so forthcoming.

Photograph: Getty Images

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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The Tinder dating app isn't just about sex – it's about friendship, too. And sex

The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, as I found out quickly while using the app.

The first time I met someone using Tinder, the free dating app that requires users to swipe left for “no” and right for “yes” before enabling new “matches” to chat, it was an unqualified success. I should probably qualify that. I was newly single after five years in a committed relationship and wasn’t looking for anything more than fun, friendship and, well, who knows. A few weeks earlier I had tried to give my number to a girl in a cinema café in Brixton. I wrote it on a postcard I’d been using as a bookmark. She said she had a boyfriend, but wanted to keep the postcard. I had no date and I lost my page.

My Tinder date was a master’s student from Valencia called Anna (her name wasn’t really Anna, of course, I’m not a sociopath). When I arrived at the appointed meeting place, she told me I was far more handsome IRL (“in real life”) than my pictures suggested. I was flattered and full of praise for the directness of continental Europeans but also thought sadly to myself: “If only the same could be said about you.”

Anna and I became friends, at least for a while. The date wasn’t a success in the traditional sense of leading us into a contract based on exclusivity, an accumulating cache of resentments and a mortgage, but it had put me back in the game (an appropriate metaphor – people speak regularly of “playing” with the app).

According to Sean Rad, the co-founder who launched Tinder in late 2012, the service was invented for people like me. “It was really a way to overcome my own problems,” he told the editor of Cosmopolitan at an event in London last month. “It was weird to me, to start a conversation [with a stranger]. Once I had an introduction I was fine, but it’s that first step. It’s difficult for a lot of people.” After just one outing, I’d learned two fundamental lessons about the world of online dating: pretty much everyone has at least one decent picture of themselves, and meeting women using a so-called hook-up app is seldom straightforwardly about sex.

Although sometimes it is. My second Tinder date took place in Vienna. I met Louisa (ditto, name) outside some notable church or other one evening while visiting on holiday (Tinder tourism being, in my view, a far more compelling way to get to know a place than a cumbersome Lonely Planet guide). We drank cocktails by the Danube and rambled across the city before making the romantic decision to stay awake all night, as she had to leave early the next day to go hiking with friends. It was just like the Richard Linklater movie Before Sunrise – something I said out loud more than a few times as the Aperol Spritzes took their toll.

When we met up in London a few months later, Louisa and I decided to skip the second part of Linklater’s beautiful triptych and fast-track our relationship straight to the third, Before Midnight, which takes place 18 years after the protagonists’ first meet in Vienna, and have begun to discover that they hate each others’ guts.

Which is one of the many hazards of the swiping life: unlike with older, web-based platforms such as Match.com or OkCupid, which require a substantial written profile, Tinder users know relatively little about their prospective mates. All that’s necessary is a Facebook account and a single photograph. University, occupation, a short bio and mutual Facebook “likes” are optional (my bio is made up entirely of emojis: the pizza slice, the dancing lady, the stack of books).

Worse still, you will see people you know on Tinder – that includes colleagues, neighbours and exes – and they will see you. Far more people swipe out of boredom or curiosity than are ever likely to want to meet up, in part because swiping is so brain-corrosively addictive.

While the company is cagey about its user data, we know that Tinder has been downloaded over 100 million times and has produced upwards of 11 billion matches – though the number of people who have made contact will be far lower. It may sound like a lot but the Tinder user-base remains stuck at around the 50 million mark: a self-selecting coterie of mainly urban, reasonably affluent, generally white men and women, mostly aged between 18 and 34.

A new generation of apps – such as Hey! Vina and Skout – is seeking to capitalise on Tinder’s reputation as a portal for sleaze, a charge Sean Rad was keen to deny at the London event. Tinder is working on a new iteration, Tinder Social, for groups of friends who want to hang out with other groups on a night out, rather than dating. This makes sense for a relatively fresh business determined to keep on growing: more people are in relationships than out of them, after all.

After two years of using Tinder, off and on, last weekend I deleted the app. I had been visiting a friend in Sweden, and took it pretty badly when a Tinder date invited me to a terrible nightclub, only to take a few looks at me and bolt without even bothering to fabricate an excuse. But on the plane back to London the next day, a strange thing happened. Before takeoff, the woman sitting beside me started crying. I assumed something bad had happened but she explained that she was terrified of flying. Almost as terrified, it turned out, as I am. We wound up holding hands through a horrific patch of mid-air turbulence, exchanged anecdotes to distract ourselves and even, when we were safely in sight of the ground, a kiss.

She’s in my phone, but as a contact on Facebook rather than an avatar on a dating app. I’ll probably never see her again but who knows. People connect in strange new ways all the time. The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, but you can be sure that if you look closely at the lines, you’ll almost certainly notice the pixels.

Philip Maughan is Assistant Editor at the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 26 May 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The Brexit odd squad