PMQs review: Cameron falls into Labour's "bedroom tax" trap

By repeatedly insisting that the "bedroom tax" was not a tax, the Prime Minister gave the phrase new life.

One of Ed Miliband's boldest decisions since becoming Labour leader has been to target the coalition's welfare cuts and today's PMQs saw an all-out assault on the "bedroom tax". For those unfamiliar with the term, it refers to the government's plan to cut housing benefit for those deemed to have more living space than they need, such as a spare bedroom. Social housing tenants with one extra room will lose 14 per cent of their benefit, while those with two or more will lose 25 per cent.  

The government argues that this is another necessary measure to reduce the ballooning housing benefit bill (which is largely due to extortionate rents and substandard wages) but Miliband highlighted the case of a mother with two sons in the army who would lose out while they were away "serving their country". He went on to warn that two-thirds of those affected are disabled (many of whom require an extra room due to their disability) and that it would encourage social housing tenants, "the most vulnerable", to move to the more expensive private sector, wiping out any savings from the policy as the housing benefit bill rises. Miliband also smartly contrasted the Tories' "bedroom tax" with their opposition to a "mansion tax", brandishing a letter from the party to Conservative donors asking them to contribute to a fighting fund against a "homes tax". 

Cameron gave little ground in response, pointing out that there was a £50m fund to deal with "difficullt cases" and bluntly asking why it was fair for social housing tenants to receive money for an extra room when private tenants did not. For a self-described "compassionate Conservative", it was a rather compassionless reply. As Cameron's answers became increasingly ill-tempered, Miliband deftly weaved in a reference to last night's vote on equal marriage: "He shouldn't get so het up. After all, he's got almost half his parliamentary party behind him." Unsurprisingly, the line went down well with both sides of the House. 

The PM's best moment came when he remarked of Miliband: "we know all the things he's against, we are beginning to wonder what on earth he's for?" If Labour is opposed to the "bedroom tax", the "strivers' tax", the "granny tax", the "toddler tax", how would it reduce public spending? Would it introduce a "mansion tax"? Miliband gave the stock reply that "the clue's in the title - Prime Minister's Questions - he's supposed to try and answer them". But this riposte, while acceptable in 2010, is less impressive halfway through the parliament, with Labour MPs increasingly troubled by the perceived lack of policy detail from their leader.

After Miliband had used up his six questions, Labour MPs continued to challenge Cameron over the "bedroom tax" in a well coordinated assault. An increasingly exasperated Cameron repeated that the "bedroom tax" was not a tax but, in doing so, he unwittingly repeated Labour's attack line. Whether the PM likes it or not, when voters hear him refer to the "bedroom tax" that is what they will call it. Across the floor, Miliband and Ed Balls smiled contentedly in response. Their work for the day was done. 

David Cameron leaves 10 Downing Street in London, on February 06, 2013. Photograph: Getty Images.

George Eaton is political editor of the New Statesman.

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In defence of orientalism, the case against Twenty20, and why Ken should watch Son of Saul

My week, from Age Concern to anti-semitism.

Returning late from a party I never much wanted to go to, I leap up and down in the middle of the Harrow Road in the hope of flagging down a taxi, but the drivers don’t notice me. Either they’re haring down the fast lane or they’re too preoccupied cursing Uber to one another on their mobile phones. My father drove a black cab, so I have a deep loyalty to them. But there’s nothing like being left stranded in NW10 in the dead of night to make one reconsider one’s options. I just wish Uber wasn’t called Uber.

Just not cricket

Tired and irritable, I spend the next day watching sport on television – snooker, darts, cricket, anything I can find. But I won’t be following the Indian Premier League’s Twenty20 cricket again. It’s greedy, cynical, over-sponsored and naff. Whenever somebody hits a boundary, cheerleaders in cast-off gym kit previously worn by fourth-form Roedean girls wave tinsel mops.

Matches go to the final over where they’re decided in a thrashathon of sixes hit by mercenaries wielding bats as wide as shovels. Why, in that case, don’t both teams just play a final over each and dispense with the previous 19? I can’t wait for the elegant ennui of a five-day Test match.

Stop! Culture police!

I go to the Delacroix exhibition at the National Gallery to shake off the sensation of all-consuming kitsch. Immediately I realise I have always confused Delacroix with someone else but I can’t decide who. Maybe Jacques-Louis David. The show convincingly argues that Delacroix influenced every artist who came after him except Jeff Koons, who in that case must have been influenced by David. It’s turbulent, moody work, some of the best of it, again to my surprise, being religious painting with the religion taken out. Christ’s followers lamenting his death don’t appear to be expecting miracles. This is a man they loved, cruelly executed. The colours are the colours of insupportable grief.

I love the show but wish the curators hadn’t felt they must apologise for Delacroix finding the North Africans he painted “exotic”. Cultural studies jargon screams from the wall. You can hear the lecturer inveighing against the “appropriating colonial gaze” – John Berger and Edward Said taking all the fun out of marvelling at what’s foreign and desirable. I find myself wondering where they’d stand on the Roedean cheer-leaders of Mumbai.

Taking leave of the senses

My wife drags me to a play at Age Concern’s headquarters in Bloomsbury. When I see where she’s taking me I wonder if she plans to leave me there. The play is called Don’t Leave Me Now and is written by Brian Daniels. It is, to keep it simple, about the effects of dementia on the families and lovers of sufferers. I am not, in all honesty, expecting a good time. It is a reading only, the actors sitting in a long line like a board of examiners, and the audience hunched forward in the attitude of the professionally caring.  My wife is a therapist so this is her world.

Here, unlike in my study, an educated empathy prevails and no one is furious. I fear that art is going to get lost in good intention. But the play turns out to be subtly powerful, sympathetic and sharp, sad and funny; and hearing it read engages me as seeing it performed might not have done. Spared the spectacle of actors throwing their bodies around and singing about their dreams against a backdrop painted by a lesser, Les Mis version of Delacroix, you can concentrate on the words. And where dementia is the villain, words are priceless.

Mixing with the proles

In Bloomsbury again the next day for a bank holiday design and craft fair at Mary Ward House. I have a soft spot for craft fairs, having helped run a craft shop once, and I feel a kinship with the designers sitting bored behind their stalls, answering inane questions about kilns and receiving empty compliments. But it’s the venue that steals the show, a lovely Arts and Crafts house, founded in the 1890s by the novelist Mary Ward with the intention of enabling the wealthy and educated to live among the poor and introduce them to the consolations of beauty and knowledge. We’d call that patronising. We’re wrong. It’s a high ideal, to ease the burden of poverty and ignorance and, in Ward’s words, save us from “the darker, coarser temptations of our human road”.

An Oscar-winning argument for Zionism

Speaking of which, I am unable to empty my mind of Ken Livingstone and his apologists as I sit in the cinema and watch the just-released Academy Award-winning Son of Saul, a devastating film about one prisoner’s attempt to hold on to a vestige of humanity in a Nazi death camp. If you think you know of hell from Dante or Michelangelo, think again. The inferno bodied forth in Son of Saul is no theological apportioning of justice or deserts. It is the evisceration of meaning, the negation of every grand illusion about itself mankind has ever harboured. There has been a fashion, lately, to invoke Gaza as proof that the Holocaust is a lesson that Jews failed to learn – as though one cruelty drives out another, as though suffering is forfeit, and as though we, the observers, must choose between horrors.

I defy even Livingstone to watch this film, in which the Jews, once gassed, become “pieces” – Stücke – and not grasp the overwhelming case for a Jewish place of refuge. Zionism pre-dated the camps, and its fulfilment, if we can call it that, came too late for those millions reduced to the grey powder mountains the Sonderkommandos were tasked with sweeping away. It diminishes one’s sympathy for the Palestinian cause not a jot to recognise the arguments, in a world of dehumanising hate, for Zionism. Indeed, not to recognise those arguments is to embrace the moral insentience whose murderous consequence Son of Saul confronts with numbed horror. 

This article first appeared in the 06 April 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The longest hatred