The problems with Labour's benefit loan plan

A salary insurance scheme would disincentive work, penalise low earners and likely prove unpopular.

The Observer has reported that Labour is toying with a proposal from IPPR to give unemployed people loans to supplement their benefits. Under the plan, people who qualify for contributory Jobseekers’ Allowance (JSA) would get an extra 70 per cent of their previous pay, capped at £200 a week, which they would pay back like a tuition fee loan when they got a job. Here are four reasons why the plan isn’t a good idea.

It disincentives work

The proposal effectively increases the tax rate unemployed people face when they eventually return to work. Automatic deductions from salary to pay back a loan are, from the worker’s perspective, the same as an income tax. IPPR do not specify at what rate the loan would be paid back, but tuition fee loans, on which the proposal is modelled, deduct 9 per cent from graduates’ salaries past a £16,365 threshold. The unemployed could face what was effectively a substantial hike in the basic rate of income tax were they to find a job. This would have the opposite effect of 'making work pay' and potentially disincentive people from taking jobs. If redundant miners in the 80s had taken out these loans, structural unemployment in former mining areas could be even worse.

Loans are regressive

The longer you take to pay back a loan, the more you have to pay, and the more quickly you pay it back, the less you pay. This means people who go into high-paying jobs will end up paying a smaller amount back than people on lower incomes, because they accrue less interest. The opposite is true if the money is raised through progressive taxation. The IPPR proposal is to tie the rate of interest to inflation but with real earnings increasing at well below inflation, as a percentage of people’s incomes, the loan will continue to increase.

It will make over-leveraging worse

Households in the UK are seriously overleveraged on debt as a result of easy credit before the financial crisis. They are now in the process of paying down this debt. One effect of this de-leveraging is that the UK is facing a demand crisis because instead of people spending money on goods and services, they spend it paying down their loans. This has a knock-on effect on businesses, who do not invest because there is no one to buy their products, which all contributes to flat-lining growth. Encouraging unemployed people to take on more debt and forcing them to deleverage it when they get their job back will further exacerbate this problem and prolong the economic crisis.

It will be very unpopular

Once child benefit and housing benefit are taken into account, there would be thousands of cases where households who had not contributed were getting as much in non-repayable benefits as someone who had worked all their lives was getting in repayable benefit loans. The anti-welfare press would ruthlessly seize on this disparity as evidence that the system does not work for people who had paid in while giving people who never worked a free ride. The proposal has not been thought through and does not do what it sets out to do.

If Labour is going to pursue the contributory principle, it should do it properly and increase contributory JSA to 70 per cent of prior income, capped at £200 a week. IPPR estimates between 700,000 and 1,000,000 people are eligible for contributory JSA – roughly half of all JSA claimants. The total cost of all JSA is £4.9bn, so as a flagship welfare policy a substantial increase in the contributory element would have a cost in a similar region to the coalition’s £1.7bn a year Universal Credit. Labour will not convince people they are getting more out of the system unless they actually give them more.

Under the plan, people who qualify for contributory Jobseekers’ Allowance (JSA) would get an extra 70 per cent of their previous pay, capped at £200 a week. Photograph: Getty Images.

Jon Stone is a political journalist. He tweets as @joncstone.

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How Donald Trump is slouching towards the Republican nomination

There was supposed to be a ceiling above which Trump’s popular support could not climb.

In America, you can judge a crowd by its merchandise. Outside the Connecticut Convention Centre in Hartford, frail old men and brawny moms are selling “your Trump 45 football jerseys”, “your hats”, “your campaign buttons”. But the hottest item is a T-shirt bearing the slogan “Hillary sucks . . . but not like Monica!” and, on the back: “Trump that bitch!” Inside, beyond the checkpoint manned by the Transportation Security Administration and the secret service (“Good!” the man next to me says, when he sees the agents), is a family whose three kids, two of them girls, are wearing the Monica shirt.

Other people are content with the shirts they arrived in (“Waterboarding – baptising terrorists with freedom” and “If you don’t BLEED red, white and blue, take your bitch ass home!”). There are 80 chairs penned off for the elderly but everyone else is standing: guys in motorcycle and military gear, their arms folded; aspiring deal-makers, suited, on cellphones; giggling high-school fatsos, dressed fresh from the couch, grabbing M&M’s and Doritos from the movie-theatre-style concession stands. So many baseball hats; deep, bellicose chants of “Build the wall!” and “USA!”. (And, to the same rhythm, “Don-ald J!”)

A grizzled man in camouflage pants and combat boots, whose T-shirt – “Connecticut Militia III%” – confirms him as a member of the “patriot” movement, is talking to a zealous young girl in a short skirt, who came in dancing to “Uptown Girl”.

“Yeah, we were there for Operation American Spring,” he says. “Louis Farrakhan’s rally of hate . . .”

“And you’re a veteran?” she asks. “Thank you so much!”

Three hours will pass. A retired US marine will take the rostrum to growl, “God bless America – hoo-rah!”; “Uptown Girl” will play many more times (much like his speeches, Donald J’s playlist consists of a few items, repeated endlessly), before Trump finally looms in and asks the crowd: “Is this the greatest place on Earth?”

There was supposed to be a ceiling above which Trump’s popular support could not climb. Only a minority within a minority of Americans, it was assumed, could possibly be stupid enough to think a Trump presidency was a good idea. He won New Hampshire and South Carolina with over 30 per cent of the Republican vote, then took almost 46 per cent in Nevada. When he cleaned up on Super Tuesday in March, he was just shy of 50 per cent in Massachusetts; a week later, he took 47 per cent of the votes in Mississippi.

His rivals, who are useless individually, were meant to co-operate with each other and the national party to deny him the nomination. But Trump won four out of the five key states being contested on “Super-Duper Tuesday” on 15 March. Then, as talk turned to persuading and co-opting his delegates behind the scenes, Trump won New York with 60 per cent.

Now, the campaign is trying to present Trump as more “presidential”. According to his new manager, Paul Manafort, this requires him to appear in “more formal settings” – without, of course, diluting “the unique magic of Trump”. But whether or not he can resist denouncing the GOP and the “corrupt” primary system, and alluding to violence if he is baulked at at the convention, the new Trump will be much the same as the old.

Back in Hartford: “The Republicans wanna play cute with us, right? If I don’t make it, you’re gonna have millions of people that don’t vote for a Republican. They’re not gonna vote at all,” says Trump. “Hopefully that’s all, OK? Hopefully that’s all, but they’re very, very angry.”

This anger, which can supposedly be turned on anyone who gets in the way, has mainly been vented, so far, on the protesters who disrupt Trump’s rallies. “We’re not gonna be the dummies that lose all of our jobs now. We’re gonna be the smart ones. Oh, do you have one over there? There’s one of the dummies . . .”

There is a frenzied fluttering of Trump placards, off to his right. “Get ’em out! . . . Don’t hurt ’em – see how nice I am? . . . They really impede freedom of speech and it’s a disgrace. But the good news is, folks, it won’t be long. We’re just not taking it and it won’t be long.”

It is their removal by police, at Trump’s ostentatious behest, that causes the disruption, rather than the scarcely audible protesters. He seems to realise this, suddenly: “We should just let ’em . . . I’ll talk right over them, there’s no problem!” But it’s impossible to leave the protesters where they are, because it would not be safe. His crowd is too vicious.

Exit Trump, after exactly half an hour, inclusive of the many interruptions. His people seem uplifted but, out on the street, they are ambushed by a large counter-demonstration, with a booming drum and warlike banners and standards (“Black Lives Matter”; an image of the Virgin of Guadalupe, holding aloft Trump’s severed head). Here is the rest of the world, the real American world: young people, beautiful people, more female than male, every shade of skin colour. “F*** Donald Trump!” they chant.

After a horrified split-second, the Trump crowd, massively more numerous, rallies with “USA!” and – perplexingly, since one of the main themes of the speech it has just heard was the lack of jobs in Connecticut – “Get a job!” The two sides then mingle, unobstructed by police. Slanging matches break out that seem in every instance to humiliate the Trump supporter. “Go to college!” one demands. “Man, I am in college, I’m doin’ lovely!”

There is no violence, only this: some black boys are dancing, with liquid moves, to the sound of the drum. Four young Trump guys counter by stripping to their waists and jouncing around madly, their skin greenish-yellow under the street lights, screaming about the building of the wall. There was no alcohol inside; they’re drunk on whatever it is – the elixir of fascism, the unique magic of Trump. It’s a hyper but not at all happy drunk.

As with every other moment of the Trump campaign so far, it would have been merely some grade of the cringeworthy – the embarrassing, the revolting, the pitiful – were Trump not slouching closer and closer, with each of these moments, to his nomination. 

This article first appeared in the 28 April 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The new fascism