Osborne is unafraid of the "nasty party" label. Is he right?

The Chancellor works on the assumption that voters have a boundless appetite for ever tighter welfare limits.

Is there a limit to how hard the coalition can be on people who depend on unemployment benefit? George Osborne clearly calculates that there isn't. Among the announcements in today’s spending review was a further tightening of the conditions to be imposed on people signing on when they lose their jobs. They are:

Introducing upfront work search, requiring all claimants to prepare for work and search for jobs right from the start of their claim;

Introducing weekly rather than fortnightly visits to Jobcentres for half of all jobseekers;

Requiring all unemployed claimants, and those earning less than the Government expects them to, to wait seven days before becoming eligible for financial support;

 Requiring all claimants who are subject to conditionality to verify their claim every year;

 Requiring all claimants whose poor spoken English is a barrier to work to improve their  English language skills; and

 Requiring lone parents who are not working to prepare for work once the youngest child turns three.

According to the Treasury, this will save the taxpayer £350m per year. (See page 7 here.) Hidden in that dry bureaucratic language are measures whose net effect will be to increase the likelihood of people with no money finding themselves without help.

Especially harsh is the obligation to wait seven days before making a claim. This, said the Chancellor, was to make sure people start their job search immediately and don’t just roll up to a Job Centre on day one of their unemployment. What they are expected to do on days 2-6 if their job search isn’t immediately successful isn’t explained.

Besides, the presumption here is that the DWP is a well-oiled machine that efficiently processes benefit claims and disburses money like some social action ATM. That plainly isn’t the case, as anyone who has claimed benefits - or even just met someone who has claimed benefits - would know. The main effect of introducing an arbitrary delay in eligibility will be a hike in rent arrears and a surge in visits to loan sharks.

The stipulation that non-English speakers improve their language skills before claiming is a pretty crude device to show that the government doesn’t like paying benefits to immigrants. How that will be assessed should be interesting to watch. Maybe a private sector provider could be awarded a contract to hurl difficult spellings at people with funny sounding names? The evidence shows that immigrants are proportionately less likely than other sections of the population to claim benefits but that isn’t really the point. It doesn’t take a huge leap of the political imagination to see why the Chancellor came up with this particular wheeze. It is a dash of Ukip-lite in the spending review.

Overall the welfare debate in Britain has become dismal and sterile. Supporters of the Chancellor will today say there is nothing inherently unjust about the new measures – they simply ask that people make the appropriate effort to find work before taking cash from the taxpayer. The left will point out that every increase in “conditionality” amounts to a new hole in the safety net through which vulnerable people fall, leading to deeper poverty, social problems and  – if you want to be all utilitarian about it – higher costs to the taxpayer in the long run.

The opposition will denounce the measures and then refuse to say whether or not it would reverse them. The Tories will jeer. Labour will tie itself in little angsty knots trying to work out whether it is supposed to be channeling the anger of voters against a faulty benefits system it generally failed to reform during 13 years in power or debunking welfare myths and reversing prejudices against benefit claimants.

Immigrants, the unemployed and single mums will drop another rung down the social hierarchy as the supposed authors of their own immiseration. I have asked very well-placed Tories if they are ever worried that at some point this strategy – mining ever deeper into people’s resentment of the way their neighbours appear to game the benefits system  - will backfire. Is there a compassion threshold beyond which voters will recoil from the harsh language and the social consequences of a brutal welfare settlement. (The myth that there is anything generous about the UK’s provision is well addressed here.) The answer from Treasury sources is “no”. I have been told by one senior  advisor that, having looked at opinion polls, the Chancellor has concluded that he would struggle to meet the public’s appetite for welfare crackdowns. Some Conservatives are more cautious, insisting that the party has to be very careful about the language it uses in this context – no explicit references to “scroungers”. “More in sorrow than in anger” is the guidance from one Tory strategist on the tone MPs should take when talking about benefit cuts.

Still, I find it hard to believe that the Tory party, given the whole legacy of brand toxicity from the 1980s and 1990s – the “nasty party” image – won’t eventually suffer some kind of backlash in connection with this stuff. As I’ve written before, voters are capable of holding two contradictory thoughts in their heads at the same time: first, yes we wanted you to cut the benefits bill but, second, in so doing you have reinforced every suspicion we had that you are mean at heart.

Maybe Osborne is right. Perhaps there is no bottom – the axe can go ever deeper, the sanctions can get tougher, the dividing lines with Labour can grow wider. Cracking down on welfare could be the political gift that keeps on giving for the Tories. But there are also swing voters who struggle to put their cross in the Conservative box on polling day because they feel that, ultimately, it is a party that has it in for foreigners, single mums, disabled people, the sick, the poor. Today the Chancellor didn’t do much to persuade them otherwise.

George Osborne leaves 11 Downing Street on August 11, 2011 (Getty Images)

Rafael Behr is political columnist at the Guardian and former political editor of the New Statesman

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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