Andrew Mitchell refuses to deny talks on becoming the UK's next EU Commissioner

Former chief whip says there's a "very important job" to be done and confirms that he has met with David Cameron.

Andrew Mitchell has just been interviewed on The Sunday Politics, where he notably refused to deny reports that David Cameron has offered him the chance become the UK's next EU Commissioner in 2014. Whilst quipping that he wasn't going to do his "career planning" live on air, the former chief whip all but confirmed that he had discussed taking up the £250,000-a-year post with Cameron.

"I do see the Prime Minister from time to time but as I say, I'm not going to conduct my career planning today".

He added: "There's a very important job to be done in Europe to make sure that Europe changes in the interests of everyone in Europe but also in the interests of Britain, I don't deny that. But as I say, my central interest at the moment is to support my party in any way I can and to look after my constituents in Sutton Coldfield."

The offer was reportedly made by Cameron at a Chequers lunch for Mitchell last Sunday, a signal of the former chief whip's political rehabilitation. There is a strong feeling among Conservative MPs that Mitchell deserves to be compensated for his enforced resignation over "plebgate" after video evidence appeared to confirm his version of events. Initially it was assumed that this would take the form of a return to the cabinet but Mitchell is now viewed as the ideal candidate to replace Baroness Ashton as the UK's EU Commissioner when she finishes her term as EU foreign policy chief next year. One source tells the Mail on Sunday: "The PM believes Andrew is ideal for the job. He won considerable respect worldwide for his negotiating skills as Secretary of State for International Development, he knows about finance through his banking background, and his record in the Whips Office shows he is not scared to bash heads to get a result."

In an overt display of his interest in the position, Mitchell recently penned an article for the FT ("Europe needs Cameron's tough love"), supporting Cameron's proposed renegotiation of Britain's EU membership and floating proposals including a joint sitting of the UK and Polish parliaments and a joint UK-Dutch cabinet meeting.

Were Mitchell to take up the post, he would be required to resign as an MP, triggering a by-election in his Sutton Coldfield constituency. The Tories currently have a majority of 17,005 (33.6) per cent in the constituency, making it one of the safest Conservative seats in the country. But as Mike Smithson suggests, UKIP, which has a good chance of winning that year's EU elections, will hope to mount a strong challenge if the seat does indeed fall vacant.

Andrew Mitchell, the former government chief whip, leaves his home on January 21, 2013 in London. Photograph: Getty Images.

George Eaton is political editor of the New Statesman.

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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