Should zero-hours contracts be banned?

Banning something that works well for some people just because others are abusing it doesn’t make sense.

The blogger Stephen Tovey recently pointed out that zero-hours contracts can work well for both employer and employee. He’s right, of course. I’ll let you into a secret. I introduced zero-hours contracts back in the last century. Did I do it to exploit desperate workers and grind the faces of the poor? Well, not quite. These were very different times. Britain was coming out of recession and the organisation I was working for was in an area with almost no unemployment. The economy was growing at close to 4 percent.  (Yes, kids, it used to do that in the olden days.) Work was plentiful and we just couldn’t find people to take up full-time or part-time permanent roles. We tried putting the wages up but all the other employers were doing that too. There just weren’t enough people looking for permanent jobs. Zero-hours contracts was a way of trying to solve our labour shortage.

I remember not being entirely convinced that it would work but we decided to give it a go anyway. (Evidence-based management this wasn’t but we had to try something.) The unions were a bit dubious but, once we’d persuaded them that we were not trying to replace full-time workers, that getting the extra help would relieve pressure on the permanent staff and that having our own pool of casual workers would stop us having to pay fees to grasping temp agencies, they were ok with it. In the end, the new contracts were a great success. They opened up opportunities for people who would not otherwise have been able to work and gave the employer access to a whole new supply of labour. As I remember, there was very little complaint from either the managers or the staff. For the most part, zero-hours contracts seemed to work well both for employer and employee.

An interesting story, perhaps, but enough of the anecdotes. What does the data say? Well, the picture is not entirely clear. 

Some of it seems to support the view that many people are happy with zero-hours contracts. According to a study by the Work Foundation earlier this year, 80 per cent of people on zero-hours contracts are not looking for another job. Only 26 per cent of them said they wanted longer hours, which implies that around three-quarters are content with their current work pattern. To put this in perspective, the Work Foundation reckoned that 200,000 people were employed on zero hours contracts, which is only 0.7 per cent of the workforce, so we are not talking about a massive group of people.

However, more recent studies suggest that these figures might be on the low side. Research by the Resolution Foundation concluded that 200,000 was almost certainly an under-estimate and a parliamentary reply last month put the number at 307,000 in the social care sector aloneThis paper from Leeds University found that in 2012, nearly 60 per cent of care workers and around a quarter of their managers and supervisors were on zero hours contracts. It is likely, then, that the 0.7 per cent figure is a conservative estimate.

What most studies seem to agree on is that the number is rising. As the Work Foundation’s figures show, the use of zero-hours contracts broadly reflects the state of the economy. 

The numbers fall as the economy improves, there is a slight rise during the slowdown of the early 2000s and then a steep rise during and after the financial crisis. This suggests that firms are, to an extent, using zero-hours contracts to avoid making the commitment of taking on permanent staff when orders are volatile and uncertain.

Zero-hours contracts are used predominantly for unskilled or semi-skilled labour. The further you go up the income scale, the less likely you are to be on one. 

The relatively high figure for professionals looks like an anomaly but I suspect it conceals a wide variation in earnings. In the professional occupations, part-timers earn, on average, higher hourly rates than their full-time counterparts. Among some of the professionals on zero-hours contracts are probably a few very highly paid people who work when they feel like it and others who have been made redundant and have joined the growing army of desperate odd jobbers.

And this probably reflects the wider pattern. Zero-hours contracts are like part-time work, temporary work, interim contracts and self-employment. When the economy is good and there is plenty of employment, they give people more flexibility to work when and where they like. For those with highly marketable skills, income from a variety of sources or a spouse as the main earner, they enable people to pick and choose the sort of work they do.

On the other hand, when the economy is in the doldrums and the workforce under-employed, zero-hours contracts mean uncertainty and fear. For those with lower skill levels or for whom the zero hours job is the main household income, the precariousness of their situation can be terrifying.

There is evidence that, in some areas, the element of choice in the zero-hours contract has almost disappeared for the employee. The Resolution Foundation found that employees faced the threat of 'zeroing-down' – so if they refused to work then they wouldn’t be offered work in the future. The study concluded:

[I]t is clear that for the majority of those employed on zero-hours contracts this freedom and choice are more apparent than real. For those individuals who require a minimum number of working hours per week to ensure their family is financially secure or those who, confronting severe power imbalances in the workplace, fear that turning down hours as and when offered will result in future work being withdrawn, life on a zero-hours contract is one of almost permanent uncertainty.

It is for these reasons that some, like Labour’s Andy Burnham, have called for a ban on zero-hours contracts. That would be a bit premature though. It’s rather like the ban on contractors in government which was proposed last year. Banning something that works well for some people just because others are abusing it doesn’t make sense. Zero-hours contracts serve a purpose, just as interims, part-time workers and contractors do. In any case, some employment lawyers reckon that an outright ban would be difficult to implement.

There is clearly still a lot we don’t know about the extent of zero-hours contracts and how wide-ranging the abuse associated with them really is. Vince Cable’s review is therefore a good start, though some have called for a more detailed investigation.

There’s a more fundamental point here though. Zero-hours contracts are being used to exploit people for the same reasons that wages are being held down, in-work benefits have gone up and self-employment is at record levels. The economy is in the doldrums, the workforce is under-employed and the balance of power between employer and employee has swung in the employer’s favour. Like so many other aspects of the labour market, the exploitation of people on zero-hours contracts is a symptom of the wider economic collapse. Ban zero-hours contracts and the problems associated with them will probably re-appear in another form.

Flip Chart Rick is the author of the Flip Chart Fairy Tales blog, where this post originally appeared.

Domino's Pizza is one of the companies that has made widespread use of zero-hours contracts, with around 90% of its 23,000 UK staff on the contracts. Photograph: Getty Images.

Flip Chart Rick is the author of the Flip Chart Fairy Tales blog

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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