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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The dog at the end of the lead may be small, but in fact what I’m walking is a hound of love

There is a new, hairy face in the Hovel.

There is a new, hairy face in the Hovel. I seem to have become a temporary co-owner of an enthusiastic Chorkie. A Chorkie, in case you’re not quite up to speed with your canine crossbreeds, is a mixture of a chihuahua and a Yorkshire Terrier, and while my friend K— busies herself elsewhere I am looking after this hound.

This falls squarely into the category of Things I Never Thought I’d Do. I’m a cat person, taking my cue from their idleness, cruelty and beauty. Dogs, with their loyalty, their enthusiasm and their barking, are all a little too much for me, even after the first drink of the day. But the dog is here, and I am in loco parentis, and it is up to me to make sure that she is looked after and entertained, and that there is no repetition of the unfortunate accident that occurred outside my housemate’s room, and which needed several tissues and a little poo baggie to make good.

As it is, the dog thinks I am the bee’s knees. To give you an idea of how beeskneesian it finds me, it is licking my feet as I write. “All right,” I feel like saying to her, “you don’t have to go that far.”

But it’s quite nice to be worshipped like this, I have decided. She has also fallen in love with the Hovel, and literally writhes with delight at the stinky cushions on the sofa. Named after Trude Fleischmann, the lesbian erotic photographer of the Twenties, Thirties and Forties, she has decided, with admirable open-mindedness, that I am the Leader of the Pack. When I take the lead, K— gets a little vexed.

“She’s walking on a loose lead, with you,” K— says. “She never does that when I’m walking her.” I don’t even know what that means, until I have a think and work it out.

“She’s also walking to heel with you,” K— adds, and once again I have to join a couple of mental dots before the mists part. It would appear that when it comes to dogs, I have a natural competence and authority, qualities I had never, not even in my most deranged flights of self-love, considered myself to possess in any measurable quantity at all.

And golly, does having a dog change the relationship the British urban flâneur has with the rest of society. The British, especially those living south of Watford, and above all those in London, do not recognise other people’s existence unless they want to buy something off them or stop them standing on the left of the sodding escalator, you idiot. This all changes when you have a dog with you. You are now fair game for any dog-fancier to come up to you and ask the most personal questions about the dog’s history and genealogy. They don’t even have to have a dog of their own; but if you do, you are obliged by law to stop and exchange dog facts.

My knowledge of dog facts is scant, extending not much further beyond them having a leg at each corner and chasing squirrels, so I leave the talking to K—, who, being a friendly sort who could probably talk dog all day long if pressed, is quite happy to do that. I look meanwhile in a kind of blank wonder at whichever brand of dog we’ve just encountered, and marvel not only at the incredible diversity of dog that abounds in the world, but at a realisation that had hitherto escaped me: almost half of London seems to have one.

And here’s the really interesting thing. When I have the leash, the city looks at me another way. And, specifically, the young women of the city. Having reached the age when one ceases to be visible to any member of the opposite sex under 30, I find, all of a sudden, that I exist again. Women of improbable beauty look at Trude, who looks far more Yorkie than chihuahua, apart from when she does that thing with the ears, and then look at me, and smile unguardedly and unironically, signalling to me that they have decided I am a Good Thing and would, were their schedules not preventing them, like to chat and get to know me and the dog a bit better.

I wonder at first if I am imagining this. I mention it to K—.

“Oh yes,” she says, “it’s a thing. My friend P-J regularly borrows her when he wants to get laid. He reckons he’s had about 12 shags thanks to her in the last six months. The problems only arise when they come back again and notice the dog isn’t there.”

I do the maths. Twelve in six months! That’s one a fortnight. An idea begins to form in my mind. I suppose you don’t have to be a rocket scientist to work out what it is. But no. I couldn’t. Could I?

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 28 April 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The new fascism