The growth-shaped hole in the Queen's Speech

There was little in the speech to revive growth and employment this side of the election. But can Labour take advantage?

The Queen's Speech was proof that David Cameron has taken Lynton Crosby's advice to scrape "the barnacles off the boat" and focus on what he regards as voters' core concerns: the economy, immigration, welfare reform and education. Out went the international aid bill, the "snoopers' charter", minimum alcohol pricing and plain packaging for cigarettes. In came bills limiting immigrants' access to public services and benefits, making it easier to deport foreign criminals and giving the government new powers to tackle anti-social behaviour. In another concession to the right, the speech made no reference to the equal marriage bill (which was introduced in the last session and is being carried over), although the energy bill, which is similarly being carried over, was mentioned. 

David Cameron and Nick Clegg will point to bills introducing a £72,000 cap on social care costs, a single-tier pension scheme and High Speed Two as proof that the coalition is not short on ambition. But the social care and pensions measures aren't due to take effect until 2016 (so after the next general election), while the high speed rail project won't be completed until 2033. In the short-term, both Cameron and Clegg's fortunes will hinge on the performance of the economy, and here the speech was decidedly lacking. 

"My Government’s legislative programme will continue to focus on building a stronger economy," it read (almost as if the double-dip recession, the loss of Britain's AAA credit rating and the £245bn increase in forecast borrowing never happened), promising "the creation of more jobs and opportunities". But aside from the new £2,000 Employment Allowance for small businessses, there was little with the potential to stimulate growth and job creation. It is here that Labour will concentrate its attack in this afternoon's debate. Last week, Ed Miliband unveiled an alternative Queen's Speech, which included the creation of a British Investment Bank, a temporary VAT cut, a one year national insurance holiday for small firms and a jobs guarantee for every adult out of work for more than two years and every young person out of work for more than a year. But Labour's reluctance to make the case for a short-term increase in borrowing (highlighted by Peter Hain today) has left it struggling to take advantage of the coalition's inertia. After a mixed set of local election results and the first hints of a Tory recovery since the "omnishambles" Budget, Miliband needs a strong performance today to earn him the political breathing space he requires. 

David Cameron and Ed Miliband walk through the Members' Lobby to listen to the Queen's Speech. Photograph: Getty Images.

George Eaton is political editor of the New Statesman.

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I can’t follow Marie Kondo's advice – even an empty Wotsits packet “sparks joy” in me

I thought I’d give her loopy, OCD theories a go, but when I held up an empty Wotsits bag I was suffused with so many happy memories of the time we’d spent together that I couldn’t bear to throw it away.

I have been brooding lately on the Japanese tidying freak Marie Kondo. (I forgot her name so I typed “Japanese tidying freak” into Google, and it was a great help.) The “Japanese” bit is excusable in this context, and explains a bit, as I gather Japan is more on the case with the whole “being tidy” thing than Britain, but still.

Apart from telling us that we need to take an enormous amount of care, to the point where we perform origami when we fold our underpants, which is pretty much where she lost me, she advises us to throw away anything that does not, when you hold it, “spark joy”. Perhaps I have too much joy in my life. I thought I’d give her loopy, OCD theories a go, but when I held up an empty Wotsits bag I was suffused with so many happy memories of the time we’d spent together that I couldn’t bear to throw it away.

After a while I gave up on this because I was getting a bit too happy with all the memories, so then I thought to myself, about her: “This is someone who isn’t getting laid enough,” and then I decided that was a crude and ungallant thought, and besides, who am I to wag the finger? At least if she invites someone to her bedroom no one is going to run screaming from it, as they would if I invited anyone to my boudoir. (Etym: from the French “bouder”, to sulk. How very apt in my case.) Marie Kondo – should bizarre circumstance ever conspire to bring her to the threshold – would run screaming from the Hovel before she’d even alighted the stairs from the front door.

I contemplate my bedroom. As I write, the cleaning lady is in it. To say that I have to spend half an hour cleaning out empty Wotsits packets, and indeed wotnot, before I let her in there should give you some idea of how shameful it has got. And even then I have to pay her to do so.

A girlfriend who used to be referred to often in these pages, though I think the term should be a rather less flippant one than “girlfriend”, managed to get round my natural messiness problem by inventing a game called “keep or chuck”.

She even made up a theme song for it, to the tune from the old Spiderman TV show. She would show me some object, which was not really rubbish, but usually a book (it may not surprise you to learn that it is the piles of books that cause most of the clutter here), and say, “Keep or chuck?” in the manner of a high-speed game show host. At one point I vacillated and so she then pointed at herself and said, “Keep or chuck?” I got the message.

These days the chances of a woman getting into the bedroom are remote. For one thing, you can’t just walk down the street and whistle for one much as one would hail a cab, although my daughter is often baffled by my ability to attract females, and suspects I have some kind of “mind ray”. Well, if I ever did it’s on the blink now, and not only that – right now, I’m not even particularly bothered that it’s on the blink. Because, for another thing, I would frankly not care to inflict myself upon anyone else at the moment.

It was all a bit of a giggle eight years ago, when I was wheeled out of the family home and left to my own devices. Of course, when I say “a bit of a giggle”, I mean “terrifying and miserable”, but I had rather fewer miles on the clock than I do now, and a man can, I think, get away with a little bit more scampish behaviour, and entertain a few more illusions about the future and his own plausibility as a character, when he is squarely in his mid-forties than when he is approaching, at speed, his middle fifties.

Death has rather a lot to do with it, I suppose. I had not actually seen, or touched, a dead body until I saw, and touched, my own father’s a few weeks ago. That’s what turns an abstract into a concrete reality. You finally put that to one side and gird up your loins – and then bloody David Bowie snuffs it, and you find yourself watching the videos for “Blackstar” and “Lazarus” over and over again, and reach the inescapable conclusion that death is not only incredibly unpleasant, it is also remorseless and very much nearer than you think.

And would you, dear reader, want to be involved with anyone who kept thinking along those lines? I mean, even if he learned how to fold his undercrackers into an upright cylinder, like a napkin at a fancy restaurant, before putting them in his drawer? When he doesn’t even have a drawer?

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 05 February 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Putin's war