If Miliband is serious about tackling low pay, he needs to embrace the unions

The one thing proven to improve the conditions and pay of workers across the board is trade unionism. Labour should do more to champion it.

Much of the coverage of Ed Miliband’s recent welfare speech focused on his promise to cap social security spending. This was perhaps understandable considering welfare is the pet subject of the tabloids. The speech also attracted attention because it was widely believed to mark a turning point for Labour. The party had 'seen the light' and was now dancing to George Osborne’s tune on spending, or so it was claimed.

Also contained in the speech, however, was a great deal of content which should have warmed the cockles of any socialist heart. Miliband pledged to look at the underlying structural factors which have contributed to increased social security spending, including the abuse by employers of zero hour contracts and what the trade unions have called "low pay UK". He also said Labour would do "everything in its power" to promote a living wage.

Not bad for a party that is regularly dismissed by some on the left as being beyond redemption. Miliband has publicly recognised that it is structural, rather than individual failings, that are busting our benefits system - a world away from the cheap and nasty murmurings about the meaning of Mick Philpott emanating from George Osborne’s office just a few months back.

But something has so far been missing from Labour’s narrative on workplace justice, the one thing proven to improve the conditions and pay of workers across the board: trade unionism. 

Given the predilection in the right-wing press for depicting Ed as the unions’ man (in the Labour leadership election the only group he won was the unions), it's perhaps understandable that Labour should be seeking to portray Ed as beholden to nobody but the electorate. But if Miliband is serious about dealing with the causes of Britain’s bloated social security bill then at some point he is going to have to recognise that in order to be decently treated (and by that I also mean decently paid), workers often have to take their destiny into their own hands – and that requires a trade union.

At the very least, Labour needs to look at reversing the trend of declining union membership, which is at its lowest level since the 1940s. Although there was a slight jump in membership recently, just two million private sector employees are now members of a union, which gives them a much weaker hand when it comes to asking for a pay rise.

The benefits to the workforce of unionisation are numerous. Studies have shown that unionised workers receive a higher premium for the work they do than non-unionised workers in both the private and public sectors. They also receive better sickness and pension benefits, more holiday and more flexible working hours than non-union members.

For many, the workplace remains one of the few areas of life completely untouched by democratic accountability. A recent survey by the Chartered Institute of Personnel and Development (CIPD) found that only a third of British workers were engaged in any form of dialogue with their bosses at their place of work, another third were largely "disengaged", while the remaining third were indifferent.

The fear of being labelled "Red Ed" because of his link with the unions may also be based on a misreading of public opinion. According to Ipsos MORI, three quarters of adults believe trade unions are "essential" for protecting workers' interests, while only 15 per cent disagree. Only 35 per cent believe unions have too much power, against 53 per cent who don’t.

Instead of running scared of those in the press who have always viewed workers’ rights with something approaching contempt, Labour should be asking how it can make unions relevant to a new generation of workers who are often unaware of the benefits collective bargaining can bring.

After all, improving the pay and conditions of Britain’s workforce - and in the process cutting the benefits bill - will not come about by compromise alone. While it may provide comfort to imagine that all will be well if only employers are sufficiently paternal, improved pay and conditions will only become a reality for the many through unglamorous collective struggle.

Demonstrators take part in a TUC march in protest against the government's austerity measures on October 20, 2012 in London. Photograph: Getty Images.

James Bloodworth is editor of Left Foot Forward

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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