PMQs review: Cameron still lacks answers on living standards

If the PM wants to dismiss Miliband's energy price freeze as "a con", he needs to come up with a superior policy.

Ed Miliband arrived well armed at today's PMQs: food-bank use has tripled, pay growth is at its lowest level on record and the number of people working part-time because they can't find a full-time job has reached a new high. But after last week's floundering performance, David Cameron put up a better defence. He was able to boast that unemployment had fallen in every category and that there were now a million more people in work than in 2010 (a statistic you can expect to hear every day from now on). The PM also finally settled on a line of attack against Miliband's proposed energy price freeze, branding it a "price con". It is doubtful whether those forced to choose between heating and eating will agree, but this appeal to cynicism is an improvement on last week's red-baiting.

In response to Miliband's questions, all of which were on living standards, Cameron strikingly argued that the best way to improve voters' incomes is to "cut taxes". As was reported earlier this week, the Tories are set to mimic the Lib Dems and pledge to raise the income tax threshold to £12,500. But for voters who are seeing their wages fall by an average of 2% in real-terms, a promise from the government to take a smaller chunk away is unlikely to prove sufficient. The Tories need a plan to increase the minimum wage and to spread use of the living wage, a subject on which they remain oddly silent.

If he wants to dismiss Miliband's energy policy as "a con", Cameron also needs to devise an attractive policy of his own. He currently boasts that the government is ensuring consumers are put on the lowest tariff but figures show that only 10% will benefit from this. Others in his party pin their hopes on a bonfire of green taxes and regulations but these account for just a fraction of the average bill. Polling shows that 75% of the public don't believe that rising bills are due to green levies. Miliband also delivered an effective riposte to the charge that his environmentalism was to blame for excessive prices: "They’ve been floundering all over the place and they blame the last government and green levies. Who was it who said: ‘I think green taxes as a whole need to go up’? It was him as leader of the opposition ... I look back at the record on the energy bill of 2010. Did he oppose the energy bill of 2010? No. He supported the energy bill of 2001. You could say, Mr Speaker, two parties working together in the national interest."

Until Cameron devises a policy with as much appeal as Miliband's price freeze, it is still Labour that will look like the party with answers on living standards.

David Cameron leaves Downing Street earlier today. Photograph: Getty Images.

George Eaton is political editor of the New Statesman.

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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