The poor could be the losers from Labour's welfare cap

If measures designed to tackle low pay and reduce rents fail to make sufficient progress, the danger is that families will be further impoverished.

Ed Miliband was right in his speech on social security today to suggest that it is neither a decrepit structure, nor an underclass of lazy layabouts, which is the real source of stress in the system. Instead, an analysis acknowledging that it is the broader structural causes of need that are testing the workings of (or at least sympathy for) social security is clearly the right way to go. We all know that in part it is low wages that underpin a large tax credits bill, and rising rents that have to some extent driven up housing benefit in recent years.

Where Miliband went off track, however, was in then echoing coalition rhetoric on expenditure control, and in particular his suggestion that a Labour government would cap ‘structural’ social security spending on a three-year basis. The politics behind this move are clear– talking tough on spending - but does the proposal make good sense in policy terms?

To begin, there is a problem of definition. The distinction between structural as opposed to cyclical social security spending is not as neat as one might like. While unemployment benefits are clearly connected to the rise and fall of the economy, few other working-age benefits are immune from the vagaries of the cycle. It is underemployment alongside low wages that has driven up demand for tax credits, and a rising caseload that, to some degree, explains the growth in cash terms of the housing benefit bill since 2008.

In addition, the structural-cyclical dichotomy is from a decidedly pre-universal credit world. When in and out-of-work benefits, housing benefit and children’s support are rolled up into one from October this year the distinction will be even harder to fathom. While the practicalities of the coalition’s plans for capping annually managed expenditure have already been questioned, it’s hard to see how adding hazy distinctions into the exercise will make it any more workable.

That said, in the last three years the social system has been riddled with caps of one sort or another. While the overall benefit cap has attracted most attention, the coalition has also sought to hem in housing benefit in a number of ways: since April 2011, for example, support to claimants has been restricted to smaller sized properties, to more limited levels of rent, and if single, is cut according to age.

This tangle of new rules is designed to constrain housing benefit expenditure, albeit in an opaque and confusing manner. But has it? A quick look at housing benefit statistics shows that the increase in the average award since April 2011 is actually no different than that observed prior to these changes being introduced, suggesting that rents have not responded as anticipated.

Instead, to date, the squeeze from the various caps has been felt by claimants, not budget lines. Low income families and individuals have had to eke out already meagre budgets to cover shortfalls, make difficult decisions about whether to move and disrupt their and their children’s lives, or go cap (ha) in hand and apply for discretionary housing payments or charitable forms of support.

If Labour, or indeed the coalition, were to limit the overall social security budget, what we would see is this scenario writ large. It would be ordinary families who would bear the risk that programmes designed to tackle low pay, reduce rents, and connect the unemployed more effectively to the labour market fail to make sufficient progress; families whose lives would be constrained in ever-more oppressive ways; and families who would be further impoverished as a result. 

If Labour wants to rein in social security spending they have to do this by reducing need, not by rationing decency. But of course, whether social security expenditure really is out of control, as we are all incessantly told, is an entirely different question

A boy walks through the Heygate Estate in the Walworth area in London. Photograph: Getty Images.

Lindsay Judge is senior policy and research officer for the Child Poverty Action Group.

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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