Osborne surfaces as Duncan Smith petition passes 100,000 signatures

A rare speech from the submarine Chancellor as more than 118,000 people challenge his cabinet colleague to live on £53 a week.

With the government under fire on welfare, the submarine Chancellor has surfaced. George Osborne will give a rare speech today attacking the "vested interests" opposed to welfare reform while boasting that the changes announced in the Budget mean that 90 per cent of working households (around 14m households) will be better off by an average of £300 a year. Osborne's figures, however, do not include unemployed families (a jobless couple without children will lose around £150 a year) and Labour is rightly pointing to the fact that the average family will be £891 worse off a year as a result of the cumulative effect of tax and benefit changes introduced since 2010.

Expect Ed Balls and co. to also take yet another opportunity to remind voters that the biggest tax cut of all has gone to the highest earners. The reduction in the top rate of income tax from 50p to 45p this Saturday will benefit the UK's 13,000 income millionaires by an average of £100,769 a year and all high earners by at least £42,000. Whether or not they accept the economic logic behind the tax cut, an increasing number of Tory MPs recognise that it has made every austerity measure that much harder to justify.

Meanwhile, Iain Duncan Smith's claim that he could live on £53 a week (fisked by Alex yesterday) has given every journalist in the land a licence to ask the Work and Pensions Secretary's colleagues whether they could match his frugality. Treasury minister Greg Clark told Radio 5 Live this morning that anyone earning "the comfortable wage" that an MP has would "certainly struggle" to live on that amount and Osborne can expect to be asked the same question if and when he takes questions after his speech to Morrisons workers.

The petition challenging Duncan Smith to "prove his claim" has garnered more than 118,000 signatures - in excess of the 100,000 required to trigger a debate in Parliament (although it was not put forward for consideration). And the Chancellor's dubious description of the benefits system as "generous" (prompting the inevitable rejoinder: have you tried living on £71 a week?) means he is vulnerable to similar scorn. 

George Osborne leaves number 11 Downing Street in central London on March 19, 2013. Photograph: Getty Images.

George Eaton is political editor of the New Statesman.

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Mister Lizard is not at home to bailiffs – he is eating salmon pâté by the river

Why is it that when people answer the question “What’s the worst thing anyone’s ever said to you?” in the Guardian questionnaire they never say, “You’ve been served”?

Summer’s nearly over. I look at the angle of the sunlight as it strikes the back terrace of the Hovel. I have been here long enough to use the terrace as a gnomon marking the passage of the year. I need, like the protagonists of Withnail and I, to go to the countryside to rejuvenate.

Last week when the Perseids were meant to be in full flow I asked frantically on a social medium for people to chum me along on a midnight walk on Hampstead Heath. In the end my new friends A— and her husband, C—, together with his new friend (whose initial I have forgotten, but he is Australian, if that helps), stepped up to the plate and after a couple at the Flask we went on a wide-ranging tour, which was a bust as far as seeing meteors – or my favourite tree – went, but was still hugely enjoyable. At about 2 am they packed me into an Uber and I went home happy, but I still felt as if I could do with more countryside.

The next few days made me even more anxious to get out of London. There are ominous signs that some serious roadworks are going to be taking place outside my bedroom window any day now. A bailiff came and rang the doorbell and I didn’t have the heart, or the nerve, to say that Nicholas Lezard was not at home at the moment and, is, in fact, on a walking tour of Patagonia now I come to think of it, due back some time next year. I just took the piece of paper into my hands as if it were a chicken come home to roost.

The previous day, presumably the same bailiff had come round and asked if Mr Lizard was in, and my housemate gallantly – and quite truthfully – said “no”. (Why is it that when people answer the question “What’s the worst thing anyone’s ever said to you?” in the Guardian questionnaire they never say, “You’ve been served”? Maybe it’s because they haven’t ever been.) In addition, as I said last week, the cleaning lady is on holiday and the Hovel is starting to look distinctly seedy.

So, then I get a call from a person who once featured quite prominently in this column, some time ago. This person is bored and wants me to go to his or her town and alleviate his or her boredom. This person and I parted company in circumstances that were far from ideal some time ago, and only recently have diplomatic relations been resumed.

It is too late, I say, for me to get on the train now; but when I have reviewed the book I am meant to be reviewing, I will hop on the train tomorrow around noon. And so I do, despite some monkey business from the departures board at King’s Cross, which tells passengers the 12:44 has been cancelled, then hasn’t been, then has, then hasn’t after all, while the 12:14 has slipped away like a thief in the night without telling anyone it was doing so.

I wonder if my return to the town of ——— is wise. As a dog returneth to its vomit, so doth a fool return to his folly. And the burnt hand fears the fire. Look, I say to myself, all we’re doing is going to have a picnic by the river. As we buy our supplies, the stallholder at the market asks if I am my companion’s husband. “No, he’s my picnic buddy,” he or she replies. “Never heard it called that before,” says the stallholder.

And the day passes perfectly pleasantly. We have two bottles of wine, cheese and smoked salmon pâté with crusty bread. People in punts drift past us, with varying degrees of competence. I remember it is A-level results day and call the eldest boy to ask how he’s done. He’s done well enough, it turns out, to get a place at university, though he feels obliged to point out that his results came in exactly a year ago. This is the kind of thing that happens when the number of children you have exceeds your mental bandwidth.

Later on, a porter from the college behind which we are picnicking asks me if I am a member, or an alumni. “Alumnus,” I correct him gently, hoping that this should establish my credentials. He asks for my name, and he radios the porters’ lodge to check my veracity. For some reason it takes him several goes to get my name right.

One of these goes is “Lizard”. We offer him some cheese, but he refuses, on the grounds that he has just had a banana and a cup of tea. I could live in a guest room here, I reflect, at not much higher rent than one pays in London. And the beauty of it is that the police, and presumably bailiffs, have to ask permission to go through the gates. 

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 25 August 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Cameron: the legacy of a loser