Ed Miliband speaks at Senate House on November 13, 2014 in London. Photograph: Getty Images.
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PMQs review: Miliband comes out swinging for the mansion tax

The Labour leader has doubled-down on his strategy of painting Cameron as the friend of the rich and himself as the friend of poor. 

Rather than being unnerved by Ed Miliband's clash with Myleene Klass over the mansion tax on The Agenda, Labour aides regard it as a valuable opportunity to make the case for a popular policy. At today's PMQs, Miliband did just that, contrasting his support for the mansion tax (backed by 72 per cent of the public) with David Cameron's support for the bedroom tax (opposed by 59 per cent). In response, Cameron sought to defend the latter as the removal of the unjustified "spare room subsidy" but he was fighting a battle lost long ago. 

Aided by the proximity of tomorrow's Rochester by-election, and the Tories' now certain defeat to Ukip, Miliband had opened by dryly remarking: "Let’s see if they’re still cheering on Friday". He later declared: "Two of the people behind him have jumped ship. And the other people are waiting for the result to see if they should follow." Cameron predictably sought to turn Miliband's encounter with Klass to his advantage, deriding his "pasting from a pop star" and quipping: "We’re not seeing a Klass act". But his jibes only served to demonstrate how unwilling he was to make a principled defence of the mansion tax. 

In response, Miliband threw populist punch after populist punch (evidence of the fire inserted in the leader's belly by the newly-promoted Jon Trickett and Lucy Powell) . "He only feels the pain of people struggling to find a £2m garage. That is this Prime Minister," he declared (a reference to Klass's moan that it was impossible to afford more in London). He went on to turn to the NHS, Labour's strongest suit, and the promised recipient of the £1.2bn the party hopes the mansion tax would raise.

But it was Miliband's last line that will live longest in the memory. "We all know, Mr Speaker, why this Prime Minister thinks the bedroom tax is great and the mansion tax to fund the NHS is terrible. If you’ve got big money you’ve got a friend in this prime minister. If you haven’t he couldn’t care less," he cried. It was a reminder of how sharp the dividing lines will be at this election and a demonstration of Labour's belief that its best hope lies in framing the Tories as the friends of the rich and themselves as the friends of the poor. It is a strategy antithetical to that of New Labour, which sought partnership, rather than confrontation, with the elite. But defying the dissenters within and without of his party, it is one that Miliband has doubled-down on. Should he achieve victory on these terms, decades-long assumptions about the "centre ground" of British politics will be blown apart.   

George Eaton is political editor of the New Statesman.

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Would you jump off a cliff if someone told you to? One time, I did

I was walking across the bridge in Matlock park, which is about 12 feet high, with a large group of other kids from my year, in the pouring rain.

Ever heard the phrase, “Would you jump off a cliff if they told you to?” It was the perpetual motif of my young teenage years: my daily escapades, all of which sprang from a need to impress a peer, were distressing and disgusting my parents.

At 13, this tomboyish streak developed further. I wrote urgent, angry poems containing lines like: “Who has desire for something higher than jumping for joy and smashing a light?” I wanted to push everything to its limits, to burst up through the ceiling of the small town I lived in and land in America, or London, or at least Derby. This was coupled with a potent and thumping appetite for attention.

At the height of these feelings, I was walking across the bridge in Matlock park, which is about 12 feet high, with a large group of other kids from my year, in the pouring rain. One of the cool girls started saying that her cousin had jumped off the bridge into the river and had just swum away – and that one of us should do it.

Then someone said that I should do it, because I always did that stuff. More people started saying I should. The group drew to a halt. Someone offered me a pound, which was the clincher. “I’m going to jump!” I yelled, and clambered on to the railing.

There wasn’t a complete hush, which annoyed me. I looked down. It was raining very hard and I couldn’t see the bottom of the riverbed. “It looks really deep because of the rain,” someone said. I told myself it would just be like jumping into a swimming pool. It would be over in a few minutes, and then everyone would know I’d done it. No one could ever take it away from me. Also, somebody would probably buy me some Embassy Filter, and maybe a Chomp.

So, surprising even myself, I jumped.

I was about three seconds in the air. I kept my eyes wide open, and saw the blur of trees, the white sky and my dyed red hair. I landed with my left foot at a 90-degree angle to my left ankle, and all I could see was red. “I’ve gone blind!” I thought, then realised it was my hair, which was plastered on to my eyes with rain.

When I pushed it out of the way and looked around, there was no one to be seen. They must have started running as I jumped. Then I heard a voice from the riverbank – a girl called Erin Condron, who I didn’t know very well. She pushed me home on someone’s skateboard, because my ankle was broken.

When we got to my house, I waited for Mum to say, “Would you jump off another cliff if they told you to?” but she was ashen. I had to lie that Dave McDonald’s brother had pushed me in the duck pond. And that’s when my ankle started to throb. I never got the pound, but I will always be grateful to Erin Condron. 

This article first appeared in the 25 August 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Cameron: the legacy of a loser