Cameron set to win a cut in the EU budget - but there's a catch

Even if European leaders agree to a €34.4bn cut in the EU budget, the UK will almost certainly pay more.

David Cameron went into the EU budget negotiations insisting on "at worst a freeze, at best a cut" (Labour and rebel Tories had demanded that he go further and insist on a cut) and after a long night of talks, it looks as if he's secured the "best". For the first time in its history, the EU is set to agree to a cut in its next seven-year budget. Earlier this morning, EU president Herman Van Rompuy tabled proposals that would see the union's spending limit for 2014-20 reduced from €942.8bn to €908.4bn - a  €34.4bn cut and a saving of £400m-a-year for British taxpayers. 

If approved - EU leaders have just taken a two-hour break from the onerous negotiations - a cut would be a triumph for Cameron. He will have defied those who claimed that his promise of an in/out referendum on Britain's EU membership would leave him unable to achieve a successful outcome.

The catch, however, is that regardless of whether the EU agrees to a real-terms cut in its budget, the UK's net contribution will almost certainly increase. This is largely due to a reduction in the British rebate agreed by Tony Blair in 2005 to meet the cost of EU enlargement (a cause the UK had championed) but a cut in the EU budget will look less impressive to voters if it turns out that we'll still be paying more. Tory MP Mark Pritchard, one of those supported a real-terms cut when the Commons voted last October, tweeted this morning: "It will be a historic, but 'bitter-sweet' outcome, if the PM negotiates a real terms cut in the EU budget but sees the UK contribution rise".

In addition, the overall budget will still need to be approved by the EU parliament and German Social Democrat Martin Schulz, the president of the parliament, has been making sceptical noises this morning. He is threatening to veto the proposed deal on the grounds that it would create a structural deficit. "The [budget] in the form currently being proposed, however, would turn what is already a legally highly questionable trend into a structural deficit," he told EU leaders. 

Worst of all, while spending on the bloated Common Agricultural Policy (a slush fund for assorted land-owning dukes, earls and princes) will be €1bn higher than under the previous proposal, spending on transport, telecommunications and energy projects, all vital pro-growth areas, will be €11bn lower. 

Yet given how few expected him to be in a position to announce any kind of cut, Cameron will rightly feel that the summit has been a success for him. Having once refused to contemplate a reduction in spending, EU leaders now make Cameron-esque noises about the need for restraint at a time when EU member states are enduring austerity. The draft conclusion states: "As fiscal discipline is reinforced in Europe, it is essential that the future Multiannual Financial Framework [the seven-year budget] reflects the consolidation efforts being made by member states to bring deficit and debt onto a more sustainable path. The value of each euro spent must be carefully examined." Arch-eurosceptic Douglas Carswell has offered the PM "three hearty cheers" this morning and so will many others in his party. 

David Cameron arrives at the EU Headquarters on February 7, 2013 in Brussels. Photograph: Getty Images.

George Eaton is political editor of the New Statesman.

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She knew every trick to get a home visit – but this time I had come prepared

 Having been conned into another couple of fruitless house calls, I now parry the proffered symptoms and generally get to the heart of the matter on the phone.

I first came across Verenice a couple of years ago when I was on duty at the out-of-hours service.

“I’m a diabetic,” she told me, “and I’m feeling really poorly.” She detailed a litany of symptoms. I said I’d be round straight away.

What sounded worrying on the phone proved very different in Verenice’s smoke-fugged sitting room. She was comfortable and chatty, she had no fever or sign of illness, and her blood sugar was well controlled. In fact, she looked remarkably well. As I tried to draw the visit to a close, she began to regale me with complaints about her own GP: how he neglected her needs, dismissed her symptoms, refused to take her calls.

It sounded unlikely, but I listened sympathetically and with an open mind. Bit by bit, other professionals were brought into the frame: persecutory social workers, vindictive housing officers, corrupt policemen, and a particularly odious psychiatrist who’d had her locked up in hospital for months and had recently discharged her to live in this new, hateful bungalow.

By the time she had told me about her sit-in at the local newspaper’s offices – to try to force reporters to cover her story – and described her attempts to get arrested so that she could go to court and tell a judge about the whole saga, it was clear Verenice wasn’t interacting with the world in quite the same way as the rest of us.

It’s a delicate path to tread, extricating oneself from such a situation. The mental health issues could safely be left to her usual daytime team to follow up, so my task was to get out of the door without further inflaming the perceptions of neglect and maltreatment. It didn’t go too well to start with. Her voice got louder and louder: was I, too, going to do nothing to help? Couldn’t I see she was really ill? I’d be sorry when she didn’t wake up the next morning.

What worked fantastically was asking her what she actually wanted me to do. Her first stab – to get her rehoused to her old area as an emergency that evening – was so beyond the plausible that even she seemed able to accept my protestations of impotence. When I asked her again, suddenly all the heat went out of her voice. She said she didn’t think she had any food; could I get her something to eat? A swift check revealed a fridge and cupboards stocked with the basics. I gave her some menu suggestions, but drew the line at preparing the meal myself. By then, she seemed meekly willing to allow me to go.

We’ve had many out-of-hours conversations since. For all her strangeness, she is wily, and knows the medical gambits to play in order to trigger a home visit. Having been conned into another couple of fruitless house calls, I now parry the proffered symptoms and generally get to the heart of the matter on the phone. It usually revolves around food. Could I bring some bread and milk? She’s got no phone credit left; could I call the Chinese and order her a home delivery?

She came up on the screen again recently. I rang, and she spoke of excruciating ear pain, discharge and fever. I sighed, accepting defeat: with that story I’d no choice but to go round. Acting on an inkling, though, I popped to the drug cupboard first.

Predictably enough, when I arrived at Verenice’s I found her smiling away and puffing on a Benson, with a normal temperature, pristine ears and perfect blood glucose.

“Well,” I said, “whatever’s causing your ear to hurt is a medical mystery. Take some paracetamol and I’m sure it’ll be fine in the morning.”

There was a flash of triumph in her eyes. “Ah, but doctor, I haven’t got any. Could you –”

Before she could finish, I produced a pack of paracetamol from my pocket and dropped it on her lap. She looked at me with surprise and admiration. She may have suckered me round again, but I’d managed to second-guess her. I was back out of the door in under five minutes. A score-draw. 

Phil Whitaker is a GP and an award-winning author. His fifth novel, “Sister Sebastian’s Library”, will be published by Salt in September

This article first appeared in the 23 June 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Divided Britain