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Labour have put themselves on the wrong side of the English

Ultimately, exhorting the SNP to vote against fox hunting in England and Wales will hurt Labour, warns John Denham.

Labour will pay a heavy price for its opportunistic response to English Votes for English Laws. It’s as though they have already forgotten how English sentiment swung the last election against the party. Last week’s feeble response to the debate on Evel has been made worse by the open plea to the SNP to vote on hunting with dogs. Only the Tories and the SNP will benefit in the long term, even if has helped the foxes in the short term.

This is one of those classic issues where Scottish MPs will vote on English policy when it is Scottish MSPs that decide the same issue in north of the border. In this case, the SNP MPs will be voting to reject for England a policy that actually exists in Scotland! Growing numbers of English voters simply don’t accept the anomaly as democratic or defensible. By making its appeal to Scottish MPs Labour’s frontbench knew full well that it was also making a much more important, uncritical, defence of the constitutional status quo.

It’s easy to see why a demoralised Labour enjoyed the Government’s discomfort over Evel last week.  The Evel case was poorly argued and the Government’s response was technically flawed.  It’s fun to see your opponents forced onto the back foot on their own proposal. This amusement can’t be allowed to disguise how weak and feeble was Labour’s own response.  The thin recognition that ‘something must be done’ from the frontbench was not followed by any indication of what changes Labour thinks should be made., or any sense of urgency that change should be made.

Worse was the jibe from Labour’s backbenchers that the Tories were doing this to ‘increase their majority from 12 in the UK to 100 in England’. Many Labour MPs don’t seem to realise that the Tories have a majority of 100 in England because that’s what English people voted for. It’s the hardest evidence yet of the depth of denial in Westminster about our election defeat. Instead of working out how to win an English majority, too much Labour clings to the hope it can govern Westminster through it’s Welsh and - it hopes - Scottish MPs.

Tristram Hunt argued this week that progressive patriotism and support for England will be key to Labour’s recovery. By refusing to speak to England’s political identity, and by seeking SNP support to decide English policy, Labour will simply allow the Tories to consolidate their hold over a key section of the English electorate. The SNP will gloat at their hold over Labour, making recovery in Scotland much the harder.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m a lifelong campaigner against hunting. I’m still proud of the day I got the New Forest Staghounds’ licence suspended for cruelty. So I understand the powerful call to defeat the Tories cruel and cynical proposal. Until the Commons rules are changed, there is no bar on any MP from voting. But Labour also needs to pin its flag to clear Commons reform and a clear defence of England’s right to determine its own domestic policy.

 

John Denham is former Labour MP four Southampton Itchen, and Professor of English Identity and Politics, Winchester University.

John Denham was a Labour MP from 1992 to 2015, and a Secretary of State 2007 to 2010.

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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