Labour steps up its 50p tax attack with new "Tory Millionaire's Day" campaign

Ahead of the abolition of the 50p tax rate on 6 April, Labour looks again to paint the Tories as the party of the rich.

When I recently interviewed Conservative MP Robert Halfon, who first called for the reintroduction of the 10p tax rate, he lamented how Labour's "brilliant" campaign against the abolition of the 50p rate had defined the Tories as "a party only interested in cutting taxes for millionaires". More than any other single measure, the move retoxified the Conservative brand and confirmed the Tories' status as "the party of rich". Every time that David Cameron defends an unpopular tax rise or spending cut, Ed Miliband is able to remind voters that he has simultaneously chosen to reduce taxes by an average of £107,500 for 8,000 income-millionaires.  

With just over a month to go until the tax cut is introduced on 6 April, Labour is stepping up its campaign against the measure. The party has today launched a new ad featuring Cameron writing a cheque for £100,000 to "a millionaire" and a clock counting down to "Tory Millionaire's Day". In response, expect the coalition to point out that the new 45p rate is, as Danny Alexander recently noted, still higher than the 40p rate seen for 155 of the 156 months that Labour was in power. 

Alongside the new campaign, I'm told that Labour, encouraged by how Barack Obama forced Mitt Romney onto the defensive over his tax bill, will continue to challenge the PM to say whether he will benefit from the reduction in the top rate. Private polling by the party has previously shown that 62 per cent of voters, including 46 per cent of Conservative supporters, believe he should "come clean and tell people honestly whether he is personally benefiting". 

Unlike George Osborne, who said last year that he would not gain from the move, Cameron has so far refused to say whether he will. When challenged on this subject by Stephen Pound MP at PMQs earlier this month, the PM replied evasively that he would "pay his taxes". Under ever-greater pressure from Labour, the Tories will need to decide whether this strategy is sustainable.

Labour's new advert reminds voters that those earning a million pounds a year will gain more than £100,000 from the cut in the top rate of tax.

George Eaton is political editor of the New Statesman.

Getty
Show Hide image

The dog at the end of the lead may be small, but in fact what I’m walking is a hound of love

There is a new, hairy face in the Hovel.

There is a new, hairy face in the Hovel. I seem to have become a temporary co-owner of an enthusiastic Chorkie. A Chorkie, in case you’re not quite up to speed with your canine crossbreeds, is a mixture of a chihuahua and a Yorkshire Terrier, and while my friend K— busies herself elsewhere I am looking after this hound.

This falls squarely into the category of Things I Never Thought I’d Do. I’m a cat person, taking my cue from their idleness, cruelty and beauty. Dogs, with their loyalty, their enthusiasm and their barking, are all a little too much for me, even after the first drink of the day. But the dog is here, and I am in loco parentis, and it is up to me to make sure that she is looked after and entertained, and that there is no repetition of the unfortunate accident that occurred outside my housemate’s room, and which needed several tissues and a little poo baggie to make good.

As it is, the dog thinks I am the bee’s knees. To give you an idea of how beeskneesian it finds me, it is licking my feet as I write. “All right,” I feel like saying to her, “you don’t have to go that far.”

But it’s quite nice to be worshipped like this, I have decided. She has also fallen in love with the Hovel, and literally writhes with delight at the stinky cushions on the sofa. Named after Trude Fleischmann, the lesbian erotic photographer of the Twenties, Thirties and Forties, she has decided, with admirable open-mindedness, that I am the Leader of the Pack. When I take the lead, K— gets a little vexed.

“She’s walking on a loose lead, with you,” K— says. “She never does that when I’m walking her.” I don’t even know what that means, until I have a think and work it out.

“She’s also walking to heel with you,” K— adds, and once again I have to join a couple of mental dots before the mists part. It would appear that when it comes to dogs, I have a natural competence and authority, qualities I had never, not even in my most deranged flights of self-love, considered myself to possess in any measurable quantity at all.

And golly, does having a dog change the relationship the British urban flâneur has with the rest of society. The British, especially those living south of Watford, and above all those in London, do not recognise other people’s existence unless they want to buy something off them or stop them standing on the left of the sodding escalator, you idiot. This all changes when you have a dog with you. You are now fair game for any dog-fancier to come up to you and ask the most personal questions about the dog’s history and genealogy. They don’t even have to have a dog of their own; but if you do, you are obliged by law to stop and exchange dog facts.

My knowledge of dog facts is scant, extending not much further beyond them having a leg at each corner and chasing squirrels, so I leave the talking to K—, who, being a friendly sort who could probably talk dog all day long if pressed, is quite happy to do that. I look meanwhile in a kind of blank wonder at whichever brand of dog we’ve just encountered, and marvel not only at the incredible diversity of dog that abounds in the world, but at a realisation that had hitherto escaped me: almost half of London seems to have one.

And here’s the really interesting thing. When I have the leash, the city looks at me another way. And, specifically, the young women of the city. Having reached the age when one ceases to be visible to any member of the opposite sex under 30, I find, all of a sudden, that I exist again. Women of improbable beauty look at Trude, who looks far more Yorkie than chihuahua, apart from when she does that thing with the ears, and then look at me, and smile unguardedly and unironically, signalling to me that they have decided I am a Good Thing and would, were their schedules not preventing them, like to chat and get to know me and the dog a bit better.

I wonder at first if I am imagining this. I mention it to K—.

“Oh yes,” she says, “it’s a thing. My friend P-J regularly borrows her when he wants to get laid. He reckons he’s had about 12 shags thanks to her in the last six months. The problems only arise when they come back again and notice the dog isn’t there.”

I do the maths. Twelve in six months! That’s one a fortnight. An idea begins to form in my mind. I suppose you don’t have to be a rocket scientist to work out what it is. But no. I couldn’t. Could I?

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 28 April 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The new fascism