Why benefit loans still aren't the answer to Labour's welfare problems

A salary insurance scheme that would impose a 9 per cent tax on jobseekers after they return to work isn't worthy of the name.

I think it’s important to clear up some of the arguments made by IPPR’s associate director Graeme Cook in his response to criticisms of the think-tank’s idea for benefit loans. If you haven’t been following, you can read my original criticism of the plan here.

Graeme says:

To clear up one thing straight away: this proposal is in addition to existing entitlements to Jobseeker's Allowance (we do not want to turn JSA into a loan). This means that, contrary to one claim, it wouldn’t mean people who hadn’t worked get more than those who had.

People who hadn’t worked wouldn’t get access to this scheme, because access is based on NI contributions, so clearly they’re not getting more within the confines of the proposal – that’s not up for dispute. The point is that when looking at welfare benefits as a whole there would be people who hadn’t contributed and who were on benefits who got more in non-repayable benefits than people who were on repayable benefit loans and who had contributed. This would create resentment.

If it’s not immediately obvious why this would be, consider a typical staple of negative press welfare coverage – a workless household with a large family receiving child benefit for each child, and on housing benefit.  There are plenty of examples of this kind of piece, and it is these intensively reported, atypical outliers that shape the negative public perception of welfare.

Yes, these articles are unfair and ridiculous for countless reasons. But now consider sums like £30,000 being banded around for supposedly 'feckless' families in the context of other people who find themselves unemployed, receive less than that because they’re not eligible for housing benefit (maybe they have a mortgage) or child benefit (maybe they don’t have any children) and are then told they have to repay most of their benefits - unlike the person they’ve been told is a 'scrounger'. If Labour are planning to successfully explain to the public why this isn’t as unfair as it looks, they’re in for a shock.

If the policy is aiming to destroy the notion that the welfare state "pays out too much to people who have not worked, but also that it offers so little protection to those who have" (Graeme’s words), treating contributors as second class will not help. This policy has the potential to create a whole new genre of articles about how the welfare state is on the side of the wrong people, even if its intention is to do the opposite.

Graeme:

Some have argued that repayment will create a disincentive for people to return to work. Clearly this risk should be monitored on implementation, and the point at which repayments began and the repayment rate could be amended to reduce this concern.

Apart from this being a bit of a cop-out, I think it seriously misses a wider point: even if there was no deterrent to work from a 9 per cent hike in your tax rate, it’s just not fair to tax people for losing their jobs. To paraphrase Tony Benn: you don’t tax people because they lose their job, you tax people because they can afford it. The fact that it’s probably economically the absolute worst situation you could levy a tax on someone is probably secondary.

If you thought the ‘bedroom tax’ or the ‘jobs tax’ were politically toxic, wait until you hear about the ‘unemployment tax’. It’ would be the Poll Tax and the 10p rate rolled into one, and for good reason.

Graeme:

Critics of this idea have questioned why the extra income protection provided by NSI cannot be attained simply by increasing the level of contributory JSA. The problem of course is where the money would come from (we estimated the upfront cost at somewhere between £1.8bn and £2.6bn, though it is hard to be precise).

The first thing to say to this is that if you’re not prepared to actually spend any money on a group, don’t expect them to actually thank you. There are no free political lunches here: If Labour or IPPR are merely trying to address the perception that some people don’t get enough out of the welfare state, rather than the fact, then they haven’t learned the lessons from the empty, headline-grabbing, initiative-driven spin years of New Labour.

But this needn’t be a problem. The £2bn or so a year needed to substantially increase contributory JSA is roughly what the coalition is planning on spending on the Universal Credit, so it’s hardly a fanciful sum of money for a flagship welfare policy.

IPPR also misses that someone is going to pay this money, it’s just a question of who. Under their proposals, it’s funded by a 9 per cent tax on people who have lost their jobs. A fairer approach would be for everyone to pay before they were made unemployed, as is conventional in any kind of insurance scheme I’ve come across. Why is the think-tank calling this an insurance scheme if the costs are borne by the person who suffers the accident? It’s not really worthy of the name. In its current form it’s more of a bank than an insurance policy.

But the killer here is that the policy doesn’t need to be – and indeed ought not to be – deficit neutral. Businesses are not investing because there is no demand in the economy; putting money in the hands of consumers is a good thing because it creates demand, which allows businesses to invest, which results in growth. There are better and worse places to spend a demand stimulus, and giving it to the unemployed as disposable income one of the best: unemployed people have low incomes, therefore they spend all their money and have a very low propensity to save. This means the money has what is called a "high velocity" in that it changes hands very quickly and has a multiplier effect throughout the economy.

Labour has to some extent been talking the language of stimulus, but politically is scared of committing to spending anything. It should be jumping at the chance to combine Keynesianism with a politically savvy commitment that would restore the political reputation of the welfare state.

A man stands outside the Jobcentre Plus on January 18, 2012 in Trowbridge, England. 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