Tories in turmoil as Hammond says Cameron hasn't promised to protect defence

Defence Secretary forced to clarify that the PM's pledge to protect spending only applies to defence equipment, not the total budget.

Back in 2010, when David Cameron rather optimistically believed that George Osborne's deficit reduction plan would succeed, he promised Conservative MPs that defence spending would rise in the next parliament. "My own strong view is that this structure will require year-on-year real-terms growth in the defence budget in the years beyond 2015," he said.

With the ever-more hawkish Cameron now talking of a "generational struggle" against African jihadism, Tory MPs and armed forces chiefs have understandably demanded that this pledge be kept. The front page of today's Telegraph suggests that they have succeeded. "No more defence cuts, says Cameron" reads the headline, with the paper reporting that "the Treasury will increase defence spending above inflation from 2015, even as it cuts other Whitehall departments’ budgets." 

But interviews this morning with the Defence Secretary, Philip Hammond, suggest that the pledge isn't as bold as it appears. Hammond told Sky News that contrary to the Telegraph's splash, the promise only applies to defence equipment, not total spending.

"I think what the Prime Minister was referring to was the pledge that was made – which Treasury ministers have repeated – that the equipment plan, the part of the defence budget which funds equipment, will rise by 1 per cent a year in real-terms after 2015. And the Treasury has re-confirmed that commitment since the announcements in the Autumn Statement," he said. In other words, Cameron hasn't ring-fenced defence at all and the cuts (which amount to 7.5 per cent by 2015) will continue.

"I don't expect to be exempt," Hammond said. And with spending on the NHS, international development and schools already protected, it would be surprising if he did. The Institute for Fiscal Studies has already described the likely 16 per cent reduction in spending on non-ring-fenced departments as "inconceivable". Protecting defence would mean even greater cuts to areas like the police, higher education, welfare and local government. 

Quite how Cameron led the press to believe that he had pledged to increase defence spending is unclear. But by reminding his MPs (many of whom are furious that defence has been cut while overseas aid has been increased) that he won't be able to keep his 2010 promise, he has done himself no favours. 

David Cameron meets British soldiers based at Lashkar Gah in Helmand Province, Afghanistan. Photograph: Getty Images.

George Eaton is political editor of the New Statesman.

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I'd only given a literary talk, but someone still told me to leave the country

“So if you don’t like it so much,” he says, “why don’t you leave?” And his tone suggests that there is a good train leaving from St Pancras in half an hour.

So here I am at the Romanian Cultural Institute in Belgrave Square. Eventually. After a misunderstanding that finds me first, forlorn and bemused, at Olympia, with the London Book Fair closing down for the evening, watching my fee grow wings and fly away into the night air. I am called up and told where I could more profitably go instead – that is to say, the venue I should be at. On reassurance that my expenses will be met, I hop into a cab as soon as I find one (which, on Kensington High Street at 7pm, takes far longer than you would think. I will not use Uber).

I am going there in order to be on a panel that is talking about Benjamin Fondane (1898-1944), the Romanian intellectual, poet, essayist, philosopher and all-round dude. I know nothing about the guy beyond what I learned from reviewing a selection of his writings last July but this makes me, apparently, one of this country’s leading experts on him. Such is the level of intellectual curiosity in this part of the world. Fondane was treated much better in Paris, where he moved after finding studying law in Bucharest too boring; treated very much worse in 1944, when he was sent to Auschwitz.

A little corner of me is panicking a bit before the gig starts: I know next to nothing about the man, especially compared to my co-panellists, and I might betray this to the audience of around 80 (I refer to their number, not their age), sitting in their little gilt chairs, in a nice gilt drawing room, which is par for the course for European cultural institutes in this neck of the woods.

Another part of me says: “Don’t be silly, you’ll be fine,” and it turns out I am. I even manage to throw in a few jokes. During the course of one of my answers I say that the UK is a cultural desert and that there was a reason Fondane stopped moving when he got to Paris. The idea of coming to London to breathe the pure air of artistic freedom and inspiration was, and remains, laughable. It gets a chuckle or two out of the (mostly Mittel-European) audience, who like a bit of British self-deprecation as much as we do.

Or do we? Downstairs, and clutching my first glass of the evening (a perfectly drinkable Romanian Merlot), I chat to various people who come up and say they like my reviews etc, etc. All very pleasant. And then a man comes up to me, about my age, maybe a year or three younger, smartly tweeded.

“I was very offended by what you said about this country being a cultural desert,” he says. He is not joking.

“Oh?” I say. “Well, it is.”

He has the look of someone about to come up with a devastating argument.

“What about Shakespeare?” he asks me. “What about Oscar Wilde?”

“They’re dead,” I say, leaving aside the fact that Wilde was Irish, and that anywhere was better than Ireland in the 19th century for gay playwrights.

“So’s Fondane,” he says.

I think at this point I might have raised my glasses and massaged the bridge of my nose with finger and thumb, a sign for those who know me of extreme exasperation, and a precursor to verbal violence.

“So if you don’t like it so much,” he says, “why don’t you leave?” And his tone suggests that there is a good train leaving from St Pancras in half an hour.

“Do not presume to tell me, sir, whether I should leave the country.”

He tells me he has a Polish wife, as if that has any bearing on the matter. He says something else, which for the life of me I can’t remember, but I do know that when I replied to it, I used only one word, and that the word was “bollocks”.

“Well, if you’re going to use bad language . . .”

“I’ve got more,” I say, and proceed to launch a volley of it at him. Things have escalated quickly, I know, but there is no jest in his tone and what I am detecting is, I realise, his strong awareness of the Z in my name, my nose, and my flawless olive complexion. One develops antennae for this kind of thing, after almost half a century. And there’s a lot more of it about these days.

In the end, I become pretty much incoherent. On stage I’d caught myself thinking: “Golly, talking is even easier than writing;” but now my fluency deserts me. But God, it’s fun getting into a fight like this.

I’ve left my tobacco at home but the Romanian government gives me a whole pack of Marlboro Gold, and more wine. Vata-n libertate ori moarte! As they say. You can work it out. 

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 23 March 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Trump's permanent revolution