Proudly trumpeting a tax cut for the rich. (Photo: Peter Macdiarmid)
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Budget 2015: The great tax giveaway to the rich masquerading as help for the poor

Raising the personal allowance does not help who it is supposed to.

There is no policy that George Osborne will trumpet more proudly than the increase in the personal allowance: evidence of a Conservative Party simultaneously helping the poorest and rewarding work.

Of course, the policy is a Liberal Democrat one. When Nick Clegg advocated the increase in the personal allowance during a TV debate five years ago, David Cameron said: “I would love to take everyone out of their first £10,000 of income tax, Nick...We cannot afford it.” The coalition has not just lifted the tax-free personal allowance to the Lib Dems’ target, but also exceeded it. Next month, the personal allowance will rise to £10,600 – and there are heavy hints that George Chancellor will today announced a further increase in the allowance in £11,000. In an era when voters are used to broken promises, the policy is a welcome antidote: an example of politicians under-promising and over-delivering.

The only problem, of course, is it does almost nothing to help those who the policy was designed for: those struggling on low incomes. "The UK’s five million lowest-paid employees will gain nothing at all," says Adam Corlett of the Resolution Foundation. Raising the personal allowance is useless for those earning less than £10,600, but much appreciated by the highest earners. Increasing the personal allowance to £12,500 would be worth £28 a year to the poorest 20 per cent of households, but £445 a year to the richest 20 per cent. It is a massive tax cut for the rich masquerading as substantive help for the poorest in society. And increasing tax on the poor is funding it. After today’s Budget, the total cost of increasing the personal allowance this Parliament will be about £14 billion – or about the same as the cost of the hike in VAT from 17.5 to 20 per cent, a tax that is as regressive as they come.

In a saner political climate, the coalition partners would be fighting to blame the increase on the personal allowance on each other, not to claim the credit. A policy that is superficially appealing when explained on the back of a cigarette packet is best left there.

Not that other parties have learned the lesson. Labour’s policy to cut tuition fees to £6,000 amounts to an annual £2.5 billion tax cut for City high-flyers, while doing nothing to improve access to universities. The problems with University policy are not £9,000 fees that you don’t pay back if you are not successful, but the derisory provision of maintenance grants and egregious fall in part-time and mature students. But these issues, critically important as they are, did not lead to effigies of Nick Clegg being burned, so Labour have calculated that there is less political gain to be had addressing them.

Even Ukip, those supposed purveyors of home truths, are as guilty of prioritising gimmickry over good policy. While their income tax proposals are couched in the language of helping the lowest earners, they would give an extra £1,143 a year to the richest 10 per cent – and just £35 to the poorest 10 per cent.

Tim Wigmore is a contributing writer to the New Statesman and the author of Second XI: Cricket In Its Outposts.

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In the 1980s, I went to a rally where Labour Party speakers shared the stage with men in balaclavas

The links between the Labour left and Irish republicanism are worth investigating.

A spat between Jeremy Corbyn’s henchfolk and Conor McGinn, the MP for St Helens North, caught my ear the other evening. McGinn was a guest on BBC Radio 4’s Westminster Hour, and he obligingly revisited the brouhaha for the listeners at home. Apparently, following an interview in May, in which McGinn called for Corbyn to “reach out beyond his comfort zone”, he was first threatened obliquely with the sack, then asked for a retraction (which he refused to give) and finally learned – from someone in the whips’ office – that his party leader was considering phoning up McGinn’s father to whip the errant whipper-in into line. On the programme, McGinn said: “The modus operandi that he [Corbyn] and the people around him were trying to do [sic], involving my family, was to isolate and ostracise me from them and from the community I am very proud to come from – which is an Irish nationalist community in south Armagh.”

Needless to say, the Labour leader’s office has continued to deny any such thing, but while we may nurture some suspicions about his behaviour, McGinn was also indulging in a little airbrushing when he described south Armagh as an “Irish ­nationalist community”. In the most recent elections, Newry and Armagh returned three Sinn Fein members to the Northern Ireland Assembly (as against one Social Democratic and Labour Party member) and one Sinn Fein MP to Westminster. When I last looked, Sinn Fein was still a republican, rather than a nationalist, party – something that McGinn should only be too well aware of, as the paternal hand that was putatively to have been lain on him belongs to Pat McGinn, the former Sinn Fein mayor of Newry and Armagh.

According to the Irish News, a “close friend” of the McGinns poured this cold water on the mini-conflagration: “Anybody who knows the McGinn family knows that Pat is very proud of Conor and that they remain very close.” The friend went on to opine: “He [Pat McGinn] found the whole notion of Corbyn phoning him totally ridiculous – as if Pat is going to criticise his son to save Jeremy Corbyn’s face. They would laugh about it were it not so sinister.”

“Sinister” does seem the mot juste. McGinn, Jr grew up in Bessbrook during the Troubles. I visited the village in the early 1990s on assignment. The skies were full of the chattering of British army Chinooks, and there were fake road signs in the hedgerows bearing pictograms of rifles and captioned: “Sniper at work”. South Armagh had been known for years as “bandit country”. There were army watchtowers standing sentinel in the dinky, green fields and checkpoints everywhere, manned by some of the thousands of the troops who had been deployed to fight what was, in effect, a low-level counter-insurgency war. Nationalist community, my foot.

What lies beneath the Corbyn-McGinn spat is the queered problematics of the ­relationship between the far left wing of the Labour Party and physical-force Irish republicanism. I also recall, during the hunger strikes of the early 1980s, going to a “Smash the H-Blocks” rally in Kilburn, north London, at which Labour Party speakers shared the stage with representatives from Sinn Fein, some of whom wore balaclavas and dark glasses to evade the telephoto lenses of the Met’s anti-terrorist squad.

The shape-shifting relationship between the “political wing” of the IRA and the men with sniper rifles in the south Armagh bocage was always of the essence of the conflict, allowing both sides a convenient fiction around which to posture publicly and privately negotiate. In choosing to appear on platforms with people who might or might not be terrorists, Labour leftists also sprinkled a little of their stardust on themselves: the “stardust” being the implication that they, too, under the right circumstances, might be capable of violence in pursuit of their political ends.

On the far right of British politics, Her Majesty’s Government and its apparatus are referred to derisively as “state”. There were various attempts in the 1970s and 1980s by far-right groupuscules to link up with the Ulster Freedom Fighters and other loyalist paramilitary organisations in their battle against “state”. All foundered on the obvious incompetence of the fascists. The situation on the far left was different. The socialist credentials of Sinn Fein/IRA were too threadbare for genuine expressions of solidarity, but there was a sort of tacit confidence-and-supply arrangement between these factions. The Labour far left provided the republicans with the confidence that, should an appropriately radical government be elected to Westminster, “state” would withdraw from Northern Ireland. What the republicans did for the mainland militants was to cloak them in their penumbra of darkness: without needing to call down on themselves the armed might of “state”, they could imply that they were willing to take it on, should the opportunity arise.

I don’t for a second believe that Corbyn was summoning up these ghosts of the insurrectionary dead when he either did or did not threaten to phone McGinn, Sr. But his supporters need to ask themselves what they’re getting into. Their leader, if he was to have remained true to the positions that he has espoused over many years, should have refused to sit as privy counsellor upon assuming his party office, and refused all the other mummery associated with the monarchical “state”. That he didn’t do so was surely a strategic decision. Such a position would make him utterly unelectable.

The snipers may not be at work in south Armagh just now – but there are rifles out there that could yet be dug up. I wouldn’t be surprised if some in Sinn Fein knew where they are, but one thing’s for certain: Corbyn hasn’t got a clue, bloody or otherwise. 

Will Self is an author and journalist. His books include Umbrella, Shark, The Book of Dave and The Butt. He writes the Madness of Crowds and Real Meals columns for the New Statesman.

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