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How the government's industrial strategy could steal your job

The industrial strategy aims to boost productivity and spread growth. But this is not the same as a well-paid job.  

Not long ago, a musician friend of mine told me about a lucrative gig. Instrumentalists were being paid to come to a recording studio, and simply play every note of a scale. The pay was good. There was only one thing that made my friend uneasy – once the project was done, the man behind it would have a recording of every orchestral instrument playing every note. And thanks to the wonders of digital technology, he’d never need to hire a live musician again. 

The government’s industrial strategy is one of the great hopes of Brexit. Pumping money into infrastructure, research, and business support has stoked dreams of reindustrialisation. The Labour donor and industrialist John Mills, who has long investigated the decline in British manufacturing, is calling for further action. He believes a further devaluation in the pound, to around $1.05, could tip the balance in favour of the home grown makers. 

Meanwhile, the Prime Minister has made it clear that the government will prioritise controls over immigration in the Brexit negotiations. Those who believe that unskilled immigrants have pushed down wages (the evidence is mixed) can expect any new jobs created to go to British workers.

But here is the question that still needs answered. What is the definition of industrial strategy success?

According to the government’s green paper, it is launching the strategy in order to enable “stronger productivity and more balanced growth”. These are laudable aims. Put simply, productivity is the ratio of what you get out compared to what you put in, and Britain isn’t good at it. But I am yet to come across an example of a struggling, northern, small-town Labour voter who said they voted Leave because of "the value added per employee". The Brexit post-mortem has revealed deep fears about employment security, the quality of jobs and the way culture and industry overlap. Productivity is not the same thing. 

Britain’s manufacturing heritage is told through faded photos of workers on assembly lines, or operating basic tools. But that was the 1970s, and in the 21st century, a factory has a lot more robots. Using robots raises productivity by 0.37 per cent, according to a recent LSE/Uppsala study, and we are still in the early stages of development. Surely any 21st century, productive, British entrepreneur worth his or her salt would embrace automation?

Whether or not robots and other automated processes steal jobs is up for debate – just as immigration is. The Bank of England’s chief economist believes robots will replace nearly half of all British workers in the next two decades. (Mills, for his part, argues that robots can never replace humans in certain sectors, like caring). What we do know, is that Foxconn, which makes Apple and Samsung components in China, replaced 60,000 factory workers with robots in 2016.

Conversely, one of the explanations for Britain’s “productivity puzzle” is that since the recession, firms have tried to avoid making good employees redundant. In other words, they have chosen humans over machines. “Firms have had incentives to substitute cheaper workers for more expensive machinery and buildings,” is how the Royal Economic Society put it in 2014. Silicon Roundabout’s “disrupters” may wince at such disregard for progress. But since unemployment leads to the erosion of skills, reliance on public services and the disintegration of the community, it’s worth putting productivity in context. 

The industrial strategy may well stimulate local economies, inspire entrepreneurs in forgotten small towns and provide some backbone in the uncertain Brexit negotiations ahead. But it will not be a return to the past. And with freedom of movement scrapped, if the workers of post-industrial Britain find they are still lacking quality manufacturing jobs, they won’t have immigrants to blame. 

Julia Rampen is the digital news editor of the New Statesman (previously editor of The Staggers, The New Statesman's online rolling politics blog). She has also been deputy editor at Mirror Money Online and has worked as a financial journalist for several trade magazines. 

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"We repealed, then forgot": the long shadow of Section 28 homophobia

Why are deeply conservative views about the "promotion" of homosexuality still being reiterated to Scottish school pupils? 

Grim stories of LGBTI children being bullied in school are all too common. But one which emerged over the weekend garnered particular attention - because of the echoes of the infamous Section 28, nearly two decades after it was scrapped.

A 16-year-old pupil of a West Lothian school, who does not wish to be named, told Pink News that staff asked him to remove his small rainbow pride badge because, though they had "no problem" with his sexuality, it was not appropriate to "promote it" in school. It's a blast from the past - the rules against "promoting" homosexuality were repealed in 2000 in Scotland, but the long legacy of Section 28 seems hard to shake off. 

The local authority responsible said in a statement that non-school related badges are not permitted on uniforms, and says it is "committed to equal rights for LGBT people". 

The small badge depicted a rainbow-striped heart, which the pupil said he had brought back from the Edinburgh Pride march the previous weekend. He reportedly "no longer feels comfortable going to school", and said homophobia from staff members felt "much more scar[y] than when I encountered the same from other pupils". 

At a time when four Scottish party leaders are gay, and the new Westminster parliament included a record number of LGBTQ MPs, the political world is making progress in promoting equality. But education, it seems, has not kept up. According to research from LGBT rights campaigners Stonewall, 40 per cent of LGBT pupils across the UK reported being taught nothing about LGBT issues at school. Among trans students, 44 per cent said school staff didn’t know what "trans" even means.

The need for teacher training and curriculum reform is at the top of campaigners' agendas. "We're disappointed but not surprised by this example," says Jordan Daly, the co-founder of Time for Inclusive Education [TIE]. His grassroots campaign focuses on making politicians and wider society aware of the reality LGBTI school students in Scotland face. "We're in schools on a monthly basis, so we know this is by no means an isolated incident." 

Studies have repeatedly shown a startling level of self-harm and mental illness reported by LGBTI school students. Trans students are particularly at risk. In 2015, Daly and colleagues began a tour of schools. Shocking stories included one in which a teacher singled out a trans pupils for ridicule in front of the class. More commonly, though, staff told them the same story: we just don't know what we're allowed to say about gay relationships. 

This is the point, according to Daly - retraining, or rather the lack of it. For some of those teachers trained during the 1980s and 1990s, when Section 28 prevented local authorities from "promoting homosexuality", confusion still reigns about what they can and cannot teach - or even mention in front of their pupils. 

The infamous clause was specific in its homophobia: the "acceptability of homosexuality as a pretended family relationship" could not be mentioned in schools. But it's been 17 years since the clause was repealed in Scotland - indeed, it was one of the very first acts of the new Scottish Parliament (the rest of the UK followed suit three years later). Why are we still hearing this archaic language? 

"We repealed, we clapped and cheered, and then we just forgot," Daly says. After the bitter campaign in Scotland, in which an alliance of churches led by millionaire businessman Brian Souter poured money into "Keeping the Clause", the government was pleased with its victory, which seemed to establish Holyrood as a progressive political space early on in the life of the parliament. But without updating the curriculum or retraining teaching staff, Daly argues, it left a "massive vacuum" of uncertainty. 

The Stonewall research suggests a similar confusion is likely across the UK. Daly doesn't believe the situation in Scotland is notably worse than in England, and disputes the oft-cited allegation that the issue is somehow worse in Scotland's denominational schools. Homophobia may be "wrapped up in the language of religious belief" in certain schools, he says, but it's "just as much of a problem elsewhere. The TIE campaign doesn't have different strategies for different schools." 

After initial disappointments - their thousands-strong petition to change the curriculum was thrown out by parliament in 2016 - the campaign has won the support of leaders such as Nicola Sturgeon and Kezia Dugdale, and recently, the backing of a majority of MSPs. The Scottish government has set up a working group, and promised a national strategy. 

But for Daly, who himself struggled at a young age with his sexuality and society's failure to accept it, the matter remains an urgent one.  At just 21, he can reel off countless painful stories of young LGBTI students - some of which end in tragedy. One of the saddest elements of the story from St Kentigern's is that the pupil claimed his school was the safest place he had to express his identity, because he was not out at home. Perhaps for a gay pupil in ten years time, that will be a guarantee. 

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