Balls's smart new dividing line with Osborne: a recovery for the few or one for the many?

With the return of the economy to growth, the shadow chancellor seeks to shift the terms of the debate in Labour's favour.

This week's GDP figures (released on Thursday) will further cheer Tory spirits, with the economy thought to have grown by around 0.6% in the second quarter. It may have been three years in coming, but finally, it seems, the recovery has begun.

For Labour, the return of growth represents a political challenge. While welcoming the positive figures, it must avoid letting George Osborne off the hook for what remains the slowest recovery for more than 100 years. In his pre-emptive response in today's Guardian, Ed Balls attempts to perform this balancing act, describing any growth as "both welcome and hugely overdue". In order to make up the ground the UK has lost since 2010, he notes, the economy would need to grow by 1.3% a quarter for the next two years. 

It was Balls who, almost alone among the political class, warned that premature tax rises and spending cuts could strangle growth in his 2010 Bloomberg speech. But as he conceded in another recent speech, the last thing the public "want to hear from any politician is 'we told you so'". Labour must avoid making the error of attempting to re-run the 2010 election and of seeking to prove a counter-factual: that growth would have been stronger had the last government remained in power. 

Mindful of this, Balls wisely uses the piece to stake out a new dividing line with Osborne. The question now is less whether we have a recovery or not (although, as he rightly points, no one should repeat the error of taking growth for granted) but what kind of recovery we have. Is it one for the few or one for the many? While bank bonuses rose to £4bn in April as high-earners deferred their payouts in order to take advantage of the reduction in the top rate of tax from 50p to 45p, real wages are still falling and are forecast to do so until at least 2015. The next election could be the first in modern history that sees the majority of voters worse off at the end of the parliament than they were at the start. 

It's a smart line of attack, which is why it's encouraging that Labour seems intent on developing it. Balls announces that later this week he will launch a transatlantic commission on "inclusive prosperity" with Larry Summers, his former Harvard tutor and Bill Clinton's former Treasury secretary, to "investigate what reforms our countries need to generate more high-wage jobs for the future".

Many on the left have criticised Summers for his role in the 1990s financial deregulation that paved the way for the crash (for which he has since apologised), but he has consistently been on the right side of the austerity vs. stimulus debate, memorably declaring in April 2011: "I find the idea of an expansionary fiscal contraction in the context of the world in which we now live to be every bit as oxymoronic as it sounds. And I think the consequences are likely to be very serious for the countries involved."

He added of Britain: "I have always been a believer in being an empiricist about my convictions. So I would be happy to say that if Britain enjoys a boom over the next two years, coming from increased confidence I would be required to quite radically rethink my view as to how the macro economy operates…and be quite contrite about the seriousness of the misjudgements that I’m making. Those of you who know me can make a judgement about how big a risk I would take of putting myself in a position of great contrition and you might therefore conclude that I’m fairly confident that this experiment is not going to work out well." Unfortunately for the UK, Summers was entirely right in his assessment.

But while Balls and his fellow Keynesians lost the debate in 2010, they could yet win it in 2015. In that task, Summers will prove a valuable ally. 

George Osborne and Ed Balls attend the State Opening of Parliament on May 8, 2013 in London. Photograph: Getty Images.

George Eaton is political editor of the New Statesman.

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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