One size does not fit all: why Universal Credit needs to work for older people

With its age-blind design, Universal Credit is a missed opportunity to tackle the UK’s demographic challenge.

The shape of our labour market has altered dramatically in recent decades. Among the starkest changes is the increase in the number of older workers – from five million in 1992 to 7.5 million in 2012. One in three people of working age in the UK is already over 50 and the growth of this group will continue to far outpace that of their younger counterparts.

For many of these baby boomers, their working lives have coincided with good times of rising employment and a boom in assets like house prices. But it is naïve to think that all the boomers are now sailing into affluent, easy retirements. The UK has four million inactive or unemployed older people, many of whom might still want to work but are prevented by a mix of caring responsibilities, poor health, poor skills and the fact that there’s often no real financial incentive for them to do so. As a result, many people retire or drift out of the labour market without having been able to save all they need for a comfortable old age.

This is bad news for those households left without the savings they need to maintain decent living standards into retirement. But it also spells trouble for the public finances, putting upward pressure on benefit spending and reducing tax revenues just as public spending constraints are at their tightest.

The ageing challenge provides the context for the introduction of Universal Credit (UC). The interaction between the welfare system and incentives is one of the main ways a government can shape labour market behaviour and UC is the government’s flagship welfare reform. The financial support it offers low earners is a potentially powerful tool to boost employment – indeed providing incentives (“work always pays”) is the principle at the heart of UC. And one in five families receiving UC will include at least one person aged 50 or over.

But how effective will UC be in increasing an older person’s incentive to work? This question has received almost no attention. Yet a report out today from the Resolution Foundation, Getting on: older workers and universal credit, shows that while UC offers some benefits to older workers, it also misses an opportunity to develop an age-specific approach to raise their incentives to stay in a job, or return to work.

In fact, while many older workers will be better off under UC, others will see their financial incentives to work sharply reduced. In the most severe case, someone aged over 60 and earning £7 an hour could see their annual income from work fall by £1,640 (from £9,120 to £7,480). This is because many older workers doing between 16 and 30 hours a week on low incomes receive an extra level of support under the current system of tax credits which will disappear under UC. The result is that an additional tranche of low-paid older people working more than 16 hours a week will be worse off.

The problem is that in its welcome attempt to simplify the current mishmash of working and workless benefits, UC has been designed on an age-blind basis. This passes up the opportunity to incorporate age-specific measures which would make work more appealing to older people, especially those over 55 who are nearing retirement. For example, UC could allow older workers to keep more of their earnings before support starts to be withdrawn (raising the ‘disregard’). A new, higher disregard for workers over 55 would leave low paid older workers better off by £150 a month. This would come at an overall public cost of £200 million; however this cost would fall if older people moved into in work as a result - the Treasury saves around £5,300 a year when a person moves from longer-term unemployment to work 25 hours a week.

The introduction of UC is by no means all bad news. Greater simplicity is to be welcomed. UC also makes support more flexible, helping those who wish to retire gradually and those who can’t work full-time because of caring duties or poor health. UC also provides more incentive to save into a pension than the current system, a very desirable change.

Despite the positives, there is a strong case for making UC more attractive for people to work past the age of 50 and on into their 60s. The UK would add another 1.5 million workers if it matched the older employment rates of other advanced economies, and efforts to boost employment among this group will be vital to living standards in the coming decades.

Our ageing population and relatively poor performance in this field makes this a crucial economic issue for the country. As things stand, UC with its present age-blind design is a missed opportunity to tackle the UK’s demographic challenge.

Giselle Cory is senior research and policy analyst at the Resolution Foundation

Work and Pensions Secretary Iain Duncan Smith speaks at last year's Conservative conference in Birmingham. Photograph: Getty Images.

Giselle Cory is senior research and policy analyst at IPPR.

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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