Why independence will disappoint the tartan libertarians

Scotland will not be forced to adopt a scorched earth approach to public spending if it leaves the UK.

The publication earlier this month of the first report by the Scottish government’s Fiscal Commission Working Group, into the macro-economics of independence, was met with a surprising degree of approval from an unlikely source. Writing for the conservative website Think Scotland, right-leaning journalist Alex Massie praised the report's apparent endorsement of austerity as the most effective economic strategy for Scotland should it leave the United Kingdom in the next few years: "[These findings] add weight to the notion that Scotland's future lies as a low-tax, flexible, nimble, enterprise…it seems quite probable that cutting public spending - for one reason or another - will be one of the first tasks facing an independent Scotland."

The idea that independence will provoke a shift to the right in Scotland, rather than to the left, as is commonly assumed, has been touted by a number of Scottish commentators for a while without having gained any real traction in mainstream debate. It tends to be composed of three parts. The first is that SNP leader Alex Salmond and his finance secretary John Swinney are closet Thatcherites who, despite their soft-left posturing on welfare and social issues, advance an aggressively neo-liberal economic agenda, as illustrated by their support for lower corporation taxes. The second is that an independent Scotland, carrying an inherited share of UK debt amounting to between 70 to 80 per cent of its GDP, will be under heavy pressure from the international financial markets (credit rating agencies, essentially) to demonstrate a commitment to ‘fiscal credibility’ in order to maintain low borrowing costs. And the third is that SNP plans for a currency union with the rest of the UK will tie Scotland to a fiscal stability pact which imposes severe restrictions on Edinburgh’s capacity to borrow, precipitating a reduction in debt-fuelled Scottish public expenditure.

Under these conditions, nationalist visions of an independent Scotland replicating the social achievements of high-spending Nordic welfare states would have to be abandoned. Instead, as Massie contends, the first independent Scottish government would need to observe strict budgetary constraints and take steps to liberate enterprise in an effort to soak up necessary public sector job losses. In this sense, independence would act as a disciplinary force against the prolifigate Scots, prying them away from their longstanding addiction to big government. (Something, ironically, successive Westminster administrations have failed to do.)

But the assumptions on which this libertarian fantasy rests are grossly exaggerated. To begin with, although there is a strong neo-liberal streak in SNP economic policy (hence the party’s position on corporation tax), Salmond and Swinney are not the Friedmanite ideologues some make them out to be. Indeed, in his repeated calls for increased capital expenditure as a means of growing the Scottish economy out of recession, the First Minister’s response to the financial crisis has followed a clear Keynesian logic. Likewise, Swinney’s decision to levy a charge on large supermarket retailers suggests a willingness to challenge commercial interests not commonly associated with free-market enthusiasts. The SNP’s aim of cutting Scottish defence spending and redirecting the savings towards more socially productive industries provides another indication of the nationalists' underlying loyalty to traditional centre-left principles.

The right’s insistence that, with independence, ‘market realities’ will amplify Scottish austerity is similarly unconvincing. According to the commission's report, between 2006 and 2011, including a geographical share of North Sea oil and gas output, Scotland’s average deficit was 5.1 per cent of its GDP. This compares favourably to the UK’s deficit of 6.4 per cent over the same period (p.158). What’s more, the report points out that by 2017, Scotland's population share of UK public sector net debt will be equivalent to 72 per cent of its GDP, five per cent lower than the UK’s anticipated share (p.170). By the standards of equivalent European countries, this represents a substantial debt burden. But it certainly isn’t unmanageable, nor does it make additional, radical cuts to public expenditure inevitable. At any rate, any future Scottish government, having witnessed the failure of the current coalition government’s deficit reduction strategy, will be acutely conscious of the effects austerity has on economic recovery.

The report also questions right-wing claims about the likely consequences of monetary union. While it concedes that any fiscal stability pact agreed between Edinburgh and London would have to enforce "discipline and sustainability" in the management of Scottish public finances, it simultaneously acknowledges the need to provide space for "national discretion to target instruments of fiscal policy to address key local challenges and take advantage of new opportunities" (p.132). In line with the lower debt and deficit levels Scotland is likely to enjoy outside the UK, this could allow for a limited programme of deficit-financed capital expenditure, with any subsequent increase in borrowing costs covered by the new sources of revenue independence would make available. These might include the aforementioned defence savings, a permanent tax on bankers’ bonuses (something Salmond has indicated he is sympathetic to) or a clamp down on tax evasion and avoidance, among other options.

Of course, the fact that Scotland’s overall fiscal position may improve slightly with independence doesn't mean an independent Scotland would escape ongoing economic difficulties. A heavy reliance on diminishing natural resources, massive inequalities of wealth and income and a burgeoning demographic crisis ensure Scotland, like the rest of the UK and most of the developed world, will be subject to severe financial pressures in the years ahead. There is, however, little to suggest those pressures are best alleviated by a scorched earth approach to public spending, and less still to back up the assertion that such an approach is necessary or unavoidable. The chances of independence transforming Scotland into some sort of socialist nirvana are slim; the chances of it turning Scotland into a libertarian paradise slimmer yet.

Scotland's First Minister Alex Salmond holds up the signed agreement for a referendum on Scottish independence during a press conference in St Andrews House in Edinburgh. Photograph: Getty Images.

James Maxwell is a Scottish political journalist. He is based between Scotland and London.

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The Tinder dating app isn't just about sex – it's about friendship, too. And sex

The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, as I found out quickly while using the app.

The first time I met someone using Tinder, the free dating app that requires users to swipe left for “no” and right for “yes” before enabling new “matches” to chat, it was an unqualified success. I should probably qualify that. I was newly single after five years in a committed relationship and wasn’t looking for anything more than fun, friendship and, well, who knows. A few weeks earlier I had tried to give my number to a girl in a cinema café in Brixton. I wrote it on a postcard I’d been using as a bookmark. She said she had a boyfriend, but wanted to keep the postcard. I had no date and I lost my page.

My Tinder date was a master’s student from Valencia called Anna (her name wasn’t really Anna, of course, I’m not a sociopath). When I arrived at the appointed meeting place, she told me I was far more handsome IRL (“in real life”) than my pictures suggested. I was flattered and full of praise for the directness of continental Europeans but also thought sadly to myself: “If only the same could be said about you.”

Anna and I became friends, at least for a while. The date wasn’t a success in the traditional sense of leading us into a contract based on exclusivity, an accumulating cache of resentments and a mortgage, but it had put me back in the game (an appropriate metaphor – people speak regularly of “playing” with the app).

According to Sean Rad, the co-founder who launched Tinder in late 2012, the service was invented for people like me. “It was really a way to overcome my own problems,” he told the editor of Cosmopolitan at an event in London last month. “It was weird to me, to start a conversation [with a stranger]. Once I had an introduction I was fine, but it’s that first step. It’s difficult for a lot of people.” After just one outing, I’d learned two fundamental lessons about the world of online dating: pretty much everyone has at least one decent picture of themselves, and meeting women using a so-called hook-up app is seldom straightforwardly about sex.

Although sometimes it is. My second Tinder date took place in Vienna. I met Louisa (ditto, name) outside some notable church or other one evening while visiting on holiday (Tinder tourism being, in my view, a far more compelling way to get to know a place than a cumbersome Lonely Planet guide). We drank cocktails by the Danube and rambled across the city before making the romantic decision to stay awake all night, as she had to leave early the next day to go hiking with friends. It was just like the Richard Linklater movie Before Sunrise – something I said out loud more than a few times as the Aperol Spritzes took their toll.

When we met up in London a few months later, Louisa and I decided to skip the second part of Linklater’s beautiful triptych and fast-track our relationship straight to the third, Before Midnight, which takes place 18 years after the protagonists’ first meet in Vienna, and have begun to discover that they hate each others’ guts.

Which is one of the many hazards of the swiping life: unlike with older, web-based platforms such as Match.com or OkCupid, which require a substantial written profile, Tinder users know relatively little about their prospective mates. All that’s necessary is a Facebook account and a single photograph. University, occupation, a short bio and mutual Facebook “likes” are optional (my bio is made up entirely of emojis: the pizza slice, the dancing lady, the stack of books).

Worse still, you will see people you know on Tinder – that includes colleagues, neighbours and exes – and they will see you. Far more people swipe out of boredom or curiosity than are ever likely to want to meet up, in part because swiping is so brain-corrosively addictive.

While the company is cagey about its user data, we know that Tinder has been downloaded over 100 million times and has produced upwards of 11 billion matches – though the number of people who have made contact will be far lower. It may sound like a lot but the Tinder user-base remains stuck at around the 50 million mark: a self-selecting coterie of mainly urban, reasonably affluent, generally white men and women, mostly aged between 18 and 34.

A new generation of apps – such as Hey! Vina and Skout – is seeking to capitalise on Tinder’s reputation as a portal for sleaze, a charge Sean Rad was keen to deny at the London event. Tinder is working on a new iteration, Tinder Social, for groups of friends who want to hang out with other groups on a night out, rather than dating. This makes sense for a relatively fresh business determined to keep on growing: more people are in relationships than out of them, after all.

After two years of using Tinder, off and on, last weekend I deleted the app. I had been visiting a friend in Sweden, and took it pretty badly when a Tinder date invited me to a terrible nightclub, only to take a few looks at me and bolt without even bothering to fabricate an excuse. But on the plane back to London the next day, a strange thing happened. Before takeoff, the woman sitting beside me started crying. I assumed something bad had happened but she explained that she was terrified of flying. Almost as terrified, it turned out, as I am. We wound up holding hands through a horrific patch of mid-air turbulence, exchanged anecdotes to distract ourselves and even, when we were safely in sight of the ground, a kiss.

She’s in my phone, but as a contact on Facebook rather than an avatar on a dating app. I’ll probably never see her again but who knows. People connect in strange new ways all the time. The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, but you can be sure that if you look closely at the lines, you’ll almost certainly notice the pixels.

Philip Maughan is Assistant Editor at the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 26 May 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The Brexit odd squad