Is marriage really better than any other type of relationship?

Tax-breaks would send a clear signal.

There has been a flurry of infighting in the government over the last week over social policy as Tory MPs piled the pressure on the PM to introduce marriage tax breaks, in part, to “buy off” the Tory right who are squeamish about gay marriage. 

The tax has since been ruled out for the 2013 budget but Tory leadership still promise to bring it in before the end of this parliament. The marriage tax break would be worth about £150 a year. It would go to around a third of married couples: only those where one person (whisper it – the man) is the breadwinner and the other (whisper it – the woman) is the homemaker. A tax break to incentivise this 1950s family model never fails to cause outrage amongst those of us who believe the government has absolutely no right to judge our families.

The Don’t Judge My Family campaign was flooded with emails from those who would lose out: the one in four children who grow up in a single parent family, widows and widowers, victims of domestic violence who leave violent marriages, those couples where both have to work simply to make ends meet, and those who simply choose not to be married. After all, it’s 2013! All of them share real anger that the marriage tax break is telling them their family is not the right kind of family. How dare David Cameron tell them that?

Last, the marriage tax break would cost over half a billion pounds a year. The Tories themselves admit it is to “send a signal” about marriage. That’s a very expensive signal to send. If they were really serious about supporting families rather than pandering to the right, they’d use that money to save SureStart centres and other essential services which are being slashed up and down the country. 

 David Cameron wants to “send a signal” that marriage is better than any other type of relationship. Sign up to send a signal back: don’t judge my family.

You shouldn't judge a family. Photograph: Getty Images

Josie Cluer is the Campaign Director of Don't Judge My Family.

STF/AFP/Getty Images
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Must I unremember the day I wept over the long, slow suicide of a 27-year-old man?

At that time we did talk about the occupation of Ireland. Now we have to pretend we didn’t and it’s all the jolly UK and thank you, England for the peace process.

The misremembering of history interrupts these tales of my own squalid past. Very often I find myself wishing my memories were wrong, or that I’d forgotten more than I have. This would certainly be the case were I to be a politician, albeit a small-time one in big-time government. In the era of renunciations and sincere apologies, I would have to say sorry most of the time.

But I can’t. I can’t get past that clear day in May 1981, when the tangy cold spring air of a New York day got right inside me. Ambling home from another long, messy night in the Village, I was near 52nd when I saw people carrying a coffin.

“It’s not him, of course. It’s a fake coffin,” said a woman who saw the shock on my face. Maybe I was already crying. I knew and didn’t know but asked anyway.

“Yes. Bobby.”

Bobby Sands had died. Crowds were gathering with banners about Smashing Long Kesh and Smashing Thatcher.

The shock of it has never left me and God knows “martyrs” come two a penny now. Yet the idea that someone can starve themselves slowly to death for an idea is shocking. The idea that someone can let them do it, either “for” a United Ireland or “for” a United Kingdom, remains profoundly disturbing to me.

I need no lectures about what vile and murderous bastards the IRA were, or the numbers of innocents they killed. Nor about the smeary sentimentality of martyrdom itself. All I can say is that I had little idea of what “we” did in Ireland as long as I lived in England. A boy at school had run off to join the IRA. My mum said, “Well, he’s always been tapped, that one.”

We were kept ignorant. For some stupid reason, I did not think that Thatcher would let the hunger strikers die.

Their demands, remember, were the right not to wear prison uniform or to do prison work, rights to free association and education within the prison, one visit, one parcel, one letter a week. They wanted to be treated as political prisoners. Thatcher said Sands had no mandate. He was actually an MP, with more votes than she ever won in Finchley.

In New York that day, when we got to Third Avenue, there was anger and then solemnity. There were mumblings about what a death like that entailed . . . Mandela then instigated a hunger strike on Robben Island. There were protests in Milan and Ghent. French towns would name streets after Sands.

At that time, though, yes, we did talk about the occupation of Ireland. Now we have to pretend we didn’t and it’s all the jolly UK and thank you, England for the peace process.

So, must I unremember that day when I sat down on the pavement and wept over the long, slow suicide of a 27-year-old man? Let me know how to uncry all those tears shed for that terrible, terrible waste.

Suzanne Moore is a writer for the Guardian and the New Statesman. She writes the weekly “Telling Tales” column in the NS.

This article first appeared in the 01 October 2015 issue of the New Statesman, The Tory tide