Tories squabble over gay marriage

No tax break for married couples in next month's Budget.

It has emerged that the government is not going to introduce tax breaks for married couples in next month's Budget, and the news has reignited Tory anger over Cameron's support for gay marriage.

The two issues are connected in the minds of Tory backbenchers, as they see it as a matter of Cameron's priorities on gay vs heterosexual marriage. There had been speculation that Cameron would bring in married tax breaks in order to appease party members who are anti-gay marriage. 

The government is to vote on gay marriage next week. 

This comes as a ComRes poll for the Daily Telegraph suggests that one in five Conservatives would "definitely not" vote for the party in 2013 if the Government continues with plans for same sex marriage, and The Times reports that members are leaving the party "in droves" over the issue. According to The Times, those quiting number up to 100 in some seats. It quotes Tory MP David Burrowes saying: "There's serious unrest in the grassroots. You cannot avoid the fact that the troops are unhappy. People are drifting away."

According to the FT, at least half the party's backbenchers will "revolt" against the move - although, as my colleague George Eaton wrote

Should Conservative cabinet ministers vote against equal marriage, it will not qualify as a rebellion because David Cameron has offered a free vote to his MPs.

However, the split within the party over the vote will heighten speculation over a 2015 leadership change for the Tory party. As George Osborne said, gay marriage acts as a litmus test for how well efforts to modernise the party are working, and the widening gulf between members suggests a good portion of the party is a long way behind.

Tory anger over gay marriage. Photograph: Getty Images
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Would you jump off a cliff if someone told you to? One time, I did

I was walking across the bridge in Matlock park, which is about 12 feet high, with a large group of other kids from my year, in the pouring rain.

Ever heard the phrase, “Would you jump off a cliff if they told you to?” It was the perpetual motif of my young teenage years: my daily escapades, all of which sprang from a need to impress a peer, were distressing and disgusting my parents.

At 13, this tomboyish streak developed further. I wrote urgent, angry poems containing lines like: “Who has desire for something higher than jumping for joy and smashing a light?” I wanted to push everything to its limits, to burst up through the ceiling of the small town I lived in and land in America, or London, or at least Derby. This was coupled with a potent and thumping appetite for attention.

At the height of these feelings, I was walking across the bridge in Matlock park, which is about 12 feet high, with a large group of other kids from my year, in the pouring rain. One of the cool girls started saying that her cousin had jumped off the bridge into the river and had just swum away – and that one of us should do it.

Then someone said that I should do it, because I always did that stuff. More people started saying I should. The group drew to a halt. Someone offered me a pound, which was the clincher. “I’m going to jump!” I yelled, and clambered on to the railing.

There wasn’t a complete hush, which annoyed me. I looked down. It was raining very hard and I couldn’t see the bottom of the riverbed. “It looks really deep because of the rain,” someone said. I told myself it would just be like jumping into a swimming pool. It would be over in a few minutes, and then everyone would know I’d done it. No one could ever take it away from me. Also, somebody would probably buy me some Embassy Filter, and maybe a Chomp.

So, surprising even myself, I jumped.

I was about three seconds in the air. I kept my eyes wide open, and saw the blur of trees, the white sky and my dyed red hair. I landed with my left foot at a 90-degree angle to my left ankle, and all I could see was red. “I’ve gone blind!” I thought, then realised it was my hair, which was plastered on to my eyes with rain.

When I pushed it out of the way and looked around, there was no one to be seen. They must have started running as I jumped. Then I heard a voice from the riverbank – a girl called Erin Condron, who I didn’t know very well. She pushed me home on someone’s skateboard, because my ankle was broken.

When we got to my house, I waited for Mum to say, “Would you jump off another cliff if they told you to?” but she was ashen. I had to lie that Dave McDonald’s brother had pushed me in the duck pond. And that’s when my ankle started to throb. I never got the pound, but I will always be grateful to Erin Condron. 

This article first appeared in the 25 August 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Cameron: the legacy of a loser