Nick Clegg and Danny Alexander at the opening ceremony of the Commonwealth Games in Glasgow. Photograph: Getty Images.
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The Lib Dems' tax cut plans won't help the poorest

We need to reform regressive taxes, not progressive ones. 

After yesterday’s news that wages have once again fallen in real-terms, it’s becoming increasingly clear that political parties cannot avoid the issue of low pay. This is particularly pressing given growing awareness and concerns over inequality, which has highlighted that pay at the top is not so shabby.

Today’s announcement from the Liberal Democrats that they would raise the income tax threshold to £12,500 is an example of this, presented as it is as a way to help people on low and middle incomes. Previous increases to the personal allowance have been a key coalition policy and touted as part of their anti-poverty strategy. But while this will help many households with middle incomes, it won’t help as many people on low incomes. In fact, some on high salaries will also see a tax cut. 

People on individual incomes up to £99,000 will be getting a £500 tax cut, while people working full-time on the minimum wage will be getting less than £400, and those earning less than £10,000 won’t benefit at all from this proposed change. The introduction of Universal Credit will mean that this change would have even less of an effect on low income households as 65 per cent of any gain they get would be lost as their Universal Credit is withdrawn. Analysis by the liberal think-tank Centre Forum has shown that an increase in the personal allowance would benefit households higher up the income distribution (the 6-9th decile benefit most) far more than it would the poorest third of households. 

Similarly, National Insurance (NI) has been looked at, with the Lib Dems again looking to raise the threshold to £12,500. The same analysis by Centre Forum shows that such changes would help the top 20 per cent of households more than the bottom 20 per cent. A far better way to make NI more progressive would be to raise the upper limit so that those at the top pay a greater share of tax.

The point that this policy misses, and most tax reforms miss, is that people on low incomes don’t pay much income tax. As the Equality Trust’s recent report on the tax system shows, for people with low incomes, VAT and council tax, even after taking into account council tax support, are each individually bigger than income tax. When politicians discuss tax they often discuss it interchangeably with income tax but this doesn't chime with how most people experience tax. Income tax only makes up the majority of tax for those in the top 10 per cent ... like those on an MP’s salary.

If politicians want to make the tax system fairer, benefit the low paid and reduce inequality it makes much more sense to reform council tax than it does to reform income tax. Income tax is the only fully progressive tax, where those at the top pay a greater proportion of their income than those at the bottom, and many don’t pay any income tax at all. Council tax, on the other hand is, as Paul Johnson of the IFS recently noted, is the only tax which is deliberately regressive in its design. Rather than cutting council tax support and tinkering with income tax, political parties need to urgently look at reforming regressive taxes. 

Tim Stacey is Policy and Campaigns Officer at The Equality Trust.

Tim Stacey is Senior Policy and Research Adviser at the Equality Trust. 

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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