PMQs review: the problem for Miliband is that the numbers are moving in Cameron's favour

In politics, trajectory is everything. The return of growth and falling unemployment means that Miliband now struggles to discomfort the PM.

So long as growth was falling and unemployment was rising, Ed Miliband could comfortably secure victory at PMQs by declaring that David Cameron had failed on the economy. The problem for Miliband and Labour is that the numbers are now moving in the right direction. Economically speaking, there may be little difference between a growing economy and a stagnant one, but politically speaking, there is all the difference in the world.

As a result, it has become much harder for Miliband to discomfort Cameron. Today's session was a wounding one for the Labour leader, with the PM landing blow after blow and Miliband falling back on the old charge of "complacency". Cameron replied, rather effectively, that "real complacency is promising to end boom and bust". Later, Miliband declared that it was George Osborne who "choked off the recovery" in 2010 but if a week is a long time in politics, that is now ancient history. 

Miliband went on to point out that wages had fallen in real terms for 38 of the 39 months that Cameron had been Prime Minister (the one exception being April 2013 when deferred bonuses were paid out to benefit from the cut in the top rate of tax). But the problem for him is that he has yet to clearly explain how Labour would improve living standards. Cameron was able to quote Alistair Darling's remark that he was "waiting to hear" what the party had to say on the economy. The other danger for Labour is that is now not inconceivable that wages could move decisively ahead of prices before the election. 

While at times veering into Flashman mode, Cameron's one-liners meant he had the Tory backbenches behind him today. He declared that Miliband's speeches were "so poor" that "it's hard to know when he's finished" and concluded (in reference to the TUC): "he promised us Raging Bull, he gave us Chicken Run" (a prize to whichever Tory scripted that). 

Miliband's strongest moment came when he referenced Michael Gove's comments on foodbanks ("It's often as a result of some decisions that have been taken by those families which mean that they are not best able to manage their finances.") and asked the coalition frontbench: "have you ever tried living on £150 a week?" But it says much about Cameron's increased confidence, that he didn't even break a sweat. 

David Cameron and Ed Miliband walk through the Members' Lobby to listen to the Queen's Speech at the State Opening of Parliament on May 8, 2013. Photograph: Getty Images.

George Eaton is political editor of the New Statesman.

Getty
Show Hide image

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