Will MPs reclaim the power to vote against a pay rise?

Parliament's decision to give up the right to set MPs' pay looks unwise as IPSA prepares to recommend an increase of £10,000.

After George Osborne announced last week that the 1 per cent cap on public sector pay rises would be extended until 2015-16, there could hardly be a worse time for MPs to receive an inflation-busting increase of £10,000. But it is a move that David Cameron is powerless to prevent. When MPs founded the Independent Parliamentary Standards Authority (IPSA) and gave up control over their pay and conditions it was the intention of restoring public trust after the stain of the expenses scandal. But with IPSA likely to recommend a significant increase in their pay when it reports on Friday, that decision is about to return to haunt them. 

The independent body is expected to propose that MPs' salaries rise from their current level of £65,738 to around £75,000, with IPSA head Ian Kennedy thought to favour an even greater increase to £85,000. If there is anything that could diminish the reputation of parliament even further, this is it. But ministers long abandoned the power to prevent such a PR debacle. As Francis Maude, the Cabinet Office minister, explained on Sky News, "It's not in my control, it's in the control of the Independent Parliamentary Standards Authority. It isn't even in the control of MPs themselves."

For this reason, while David Cameron declared yesterday in Islamabad that it would be "unthinkable" for "the cost of politics or Westminster" to go up, he was ultimately unable to rule out a rise. The hope is that an increase in basic pay could be offset by cuts to MPs' pensions and other benefits. But this compromise is hardly likely to placate an austerity-scarred public. 

Labour, meanwhile, has already signalled that it will oppose any increase above 1 per cent, bringing MPs into line with other public sector workers, and that Ed Miliband will pledge to scrap the rise if he becomes prime minister. As for Nick Clegg he declared in January, "I think it’s potty. It’s not going to happen, certainly if I’ve got anything to do with it."

The ultimate result of the row could be MPs reclaiming control over their pay. The often prescient David Davis (who commented, "I don't see how we could ever again even think of uttering the words 'all in it together' if we accepted this") recently suggested "that is what may end up happening". 

It's worth remembering that a private survey of 100 MPs conducted by YouGov on IPSA's behalf found that 69 per cent thought they were underpaid, with an average salary of £86,250 recommended. On average, Tory MPs proposed a salary of £96,740, the Lib Dems £78,361 and Labour £77,322. A fifth suggested that they should be paid £95,000 or more. But would they have the chutzpah to vote accordingly in parliament? That seems unlikely. 

Nick Clegg, David Cameron and Ed Miliband during a reception to mark the inaugural Queen Elizabeth Prize for Engineering at Buckingham Palace. Photograph: Getty Images.

George Eaton is political editor of the New Statesman.

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I can’t follow Marie Kondo's advice – even an empty Wotsits packet “sparks joy” in me

I thought I’d give her loopy, OCD theories a go, but when I held up an empty Wotsits bag I was suffused with so many happy memories of the time we’d spent together that I couldn’t bear to throw it away.

I have been brooding lately on the Japanese tidying freak Marie Kondo. (I forgot her name so I typed “Japanese tidying freak” into Google, and it was a great help.) The “Japanese” bit is excusable in this context, and explains a bit, as I gather Japan is more on the case with the whole “being tidy” thing than Britain, but still.

Apart from telling us that we need to take an enormous amount of care, to the point where we perform origami when we fold our underpants, which is pretty much where she lost me, she advises us to throw away anything that does not, when you hold it, “spark joy”. Perhaps I have too much joy in my life. I thought I’d give her loopy, OCD theories a go, but when I held up an empty Wotsits bag I was suffused with so many happy memories of the time we’d spent together that I couldn’t bear to throw it away.

After a while I gave up on this because I was getting a bit too happy with all the memories, so then I thought to myself, about her: “This is someone who isn’t getting laid enough,” and then I decided that was a crude and ungallant thought, and besides, who am I to wag the finger? At least if she invites someone to her bedroom no one is going to run screaming from it, as they would if I invited anyone to my boudoir. (Etym: from the French “bouder”, to sulk. How very apt in my case.) Marie Kondo – should bizarre circumstance ever conspire to bring her to the threshold – would run screaming from the Hovel before she’d even alighted the stairs from the front door.

I contemplate my bedroom. As I write, the cleaning lady is in it. To say that I have to spend half an hour cleaning out empty Wotsits packets, and indeed wotnot, before I let her in there should give you some idea of how shameful it has got. And even then I have to pay her to do so.

A girlfriend who used to be referred to often in these pages, though I think the term should be a rather less flippant one than “girlfriend”, managed to get round my natural messiness problem by inventing a game called “keep or chuck”.

She even made up a theme song for it, to the tune from the old Spiderman TV show. She would show me some object, which was not really rubbish, but usually a book (it may not surprise you to learn that it is the piles of books that cause most of the clutter here), and say, “Keep or chuck?” in the manner of a high-speed game show host. At one point I vacillated and so she then pointed at herself and said, “Keep or chuck?” I got the message.

These days the chances of a woman getting into the bedroom are remote. For one thing, you can’t just walk down the street and whistle for one much as one would hail a cab, although my daughter is often baffled by my ability to attract females, and suspects I have some kind of “mind ray”. Well, if I ever did it’s on the blink now, and not only that – right now, I’m not even particularly bothered that it’s on the blink. Because, for another thing, I would frankly not care to inflict myself upon anyone else at the moment.

It was all a bit of a giggle eight years ago, when I was wheeled out of the family home and left to my own devices. Of course, when I say “a bit of a giggle”, I mean “terrifying and miserable”, but I had rather fewer miles on the clock than I do now, and a man can, I think, get away with a little bit more scampish behaviour, and entertain a few more illusions about the future and his own plausibility as a character, when he is squarely in his mid-forties than when he is approaching, at speed, his middle fifties.

Death has rather a lot to do with it, I suppose. I had not actually seen, or touched, a dead body until I saw, and touched, my own father’s a few weeks ago. That’s what turns an abstract into a concrete reality. You finally put that to one side and gird up your loins – and then bloody David Bowie snuffs it, and you find yourself watching the videos for “Blackstar” and “Lazarus” over and over again, and reach the inescapable conclusion that death is not only incredibly unpleasant, it is also remorseless and very much nearer than you think.

And would you, dear reader, want to be involved with anyone who kept thinking along those lines? I mean, even if he learned how to fold his undercrackers into an upright cylinder, like a napkin at a fancy restaurant, before putting them in his drawer? When he doesn’t even have a drawer?

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 05 February 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Putin's war