Gove claims Clegg is blocking Tory policy due to Lib Dem leadership plot

Clegg's opposition to new childcare ratios is due to "a campaign" by Vince Cable's ally Lord Oakeshott to oust him, says Gove.

As he demonstrated on The Andrew Marr Show this morning, Michael Gove, a former Times journalist, has lost none of his talent for generating headlines. In the course of 10 minutes, he suggested that a Lib Dem leadership plot was the reason Nick Clegg was blocking plans to relax childcare ratios, confirmed that he would vote "no" if an EU referendum was held today and said that he would abstain when the Commons votes on a Tory amendment criticising the absence of a referendum bill from the Queen's Speech.

First, then, on Clegg and childcare. Gove suggested that his opposition to Liz Truss's plan was almost entirely due to the attempt by Vince Cable's ally Lord Oakeshott to oust him as leader. He said:

I don't think we can understand Nick Clegg's position without also appreciating the position that he's in because of internal Lib Dem politics...there's a campaign at the moment being led by Matthew Oakeshott, the Liberal Democrat in the Lords, to try to destabilise Nick Clegg because Matthew Oakeshott wants Vince Cable to succeed him

It's hardly a secret that Oakeshott wants Cable installed as Lib Dem leader but no Conservative cabinet minister has ever referred explicitly to this fact. Clegg, who outlined in detail his concerns over the childcare plans on his LBC show earlier this week, is likely to be furious at the suggestion that his position is motivated by politics, not principle.

But the mischievous Gove, artfully seeking to turn the conversation on to Lib Dem divisions, went on:

Nick, understandably, needs to show Lib Dems that he's fighting hard...you only need to look at the newspapers today to see that Lord Oakeshott is on maneouvres, he's trying to promote Vince. It's understandable that within the Lib Dems these things go on. Nick has to show a bit of leg, as it were, on these issues.

On Europe, asked if he would vote to leave the EU if a referendum was held today (as the Mail on Sunday reported last year), Gove confirmed for the first time that he would. He told James Lansdale:

Yes [I would vote to leave the EU], I'm not happy with our position in the European Union

After Nigel Lawson's intervention earlier this week, Gove's words represent another significant escalation of tensions over this issue. Tim Montgomerie lists Iain Duncan Smith, Theresa Villiers, Chris Grayling, Justine Greening, Philip Hammond, Oliver Letwin and Francis Maude as other "definite or probable EU Outers". All of these ministers (and others) will now come under pressure to say whether they, like Gove, would also vote "no" in a referendum today.

Gove added that while there would be "certain advantages" to being outside the EU (another significant admission), "the best deal" would be for Britain to successfully renegotiate its membership. David Cameron's hope is that the plausible threat of withdrawal will make it easier to achieve that.

Update: Here's how Oakeshott has responded to Gove.

Education Secretary Michael Gove speaks at last year's Conservative conference in Birmingham. 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