What will you cut next, Mr Osborne?

The Tories' plans mean that tax giveaways can only be funded by even deeper cuts somewhere else. Labour should take a different path.

George Osborne’s speech did little to answer the question that is at the heart of the Tories’ plans for the next election: what will be cut next? The conference has opened with news of mortgage guarantees, tax giveaways and the introduction of a new 'Help to Work' programme, but this week’s announcements will be dwarfed in scale by the spending plans the government has already published earlier in the year, which promise a further £24bn of cuts in 2016 and 2017.

The Fabian Society’s commission on future spending choices has examined the impact these plans might have. We found that if all the cuts were levied on day-to-day public service spending, department budgets would fall by 8 per cent over two years. In principle these cuts could be spread thinly between public services, but continued protection for the NHS and schools is more likely. If all the areas George Osborne protected in this summer’s spending round were safeguarded again, on average, other public services would see their budgets fall by a quarter. Coming after so many cuts during this parliament, areas like local government, the criminal justice system and further education would face collapse.

At last year’s Conservative conference, George Osborne set out his alternative: a further £10bn of social security cuts. So far, in the face of Lib Dem resistance, he’s found only one third of that total - by restricting increases to many benefits to 1 per cent a year. Presumably a Conservative manifesto will promise further restrictions to social security and our commission looked at where £10bn of benefit cuts might come from. The news is not good for politicians looking to win elections: we concluded that savings on this scale would only be possible by reducing pensioner entitlements or means-testing all the remaining universal entitlements for working-age households.

Attacking the popular parts of social security would be highly controversial of course, but it would only slightly ease the pressures on public services. Even after £10bn of new social security cuts, many departments could still face budget cuts of 15 per cent over the two years from April 2016. So when Conservative politicians offer more of anything over the next 18 months, voters should beware. On their current spending plans, a new promise can only mean even deeper cuts somewhere else.

There is an alternative, according to the Fabian commission. With the economy finally growing again, big post-election reductions to social security and public service spending are a choice, not a necessity. Whichever party is in power, there will need to be financial discipline and tough choices, but there is also more room for manoeuvre than George Osborne seems to think. This is because today’s unexpectedly strong economic growth will translate into higher than predicted tax revenues. The Conservatives are earmarking this money for pre-election tax cuts, but it can instead be used to stop cuts. There is also the option of raising taxes for high income groups who are set to be the first to feel the benefits of recovery. Together these two measures would more or less avoid the need for cuts after 2015.

This week the Conservatives are confirming they would prefer a different route. Devoting the 'proceeds of growth' to pre-election tax cuts may seem like good politics, but it will create avoidable devastation to public services and further reduce public spending in areas critical for future economic success.

So far Labour has been silent on its post-2015 spending choices; it was the missing link for the party’s conference relaunch. But in due course Labour must set out spending plans which are fiscally water-tight but also entail spending more than the Conservative’s plan for cuts.

This is the, so far unspoken, dividing-line which will come to shape the next election. Labour should start to shout about it, because Conservative tax cuts will come with huge costs.

George Osborne arrives to deliver his speech to the Conservative conference in Manchester. Photograph: Getty Images.

Andrew Harrop is general secretary of the Fabian Society.

Getty
Show Hide image

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