Generation Strains

The generational divide isn't just in how much we get, but also how much we want to give.

Ed Miliband’s comments in a recent interview that "redistribution is important but it's not the only route to social justice" could be more important than even he realises. New research shows not just that there has been an overall decline in support for redistribution of wealth through the tax and benefits system, but that we may be witnessing a generational shift in attitudes. Younger generations are less supportive of redistribution than their parents.

The overall decline in support for redistribution is relatively well understood. The percentage of the population agreeing with the statement, "the government should spend more money on welfare benefits for the poor, even if it leads to higher taxes," peaked in 1989 and has been on a broad, downward trajectory ever since. More people disagreed than agreed with the statement for the first time in 2007.

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But it is the second, generational, aspect that poses perhaps the most profound, long-term questions about Britain’s welfare settlement. Not only are younger generations less supportive of redistribution than older ones, but attitudes appear to remain steady within cohorts over time. There is little sign of a "lifecycle effect", in which our attitudes become more like those of our parents as we grow older. The implication is that the declining public support for redistributive policies may not be cyclical but rather a glimpse of the future.

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These are the initial findings of an ongoing study of attitudes towards welfare. Should this generational shift be replicated across the welfare state – with, for example, greater scepticism towards public pensions and elderly care – the implications could be seismic. Redistributive policies in particular and welfare state in general, require buy-in from significant proportions of society to remain sustainable. Changes in attitudes are therefore at least as important as demographic and financial pressures – not least because they will shape our collective response to them.

In the short-term the government has guaranteed a "triple lock" to protect the generosity of pensions; in the medium term a "triple block" of austerity, ageing and attitudes could force us to reconsider our current models of provision. In such a scenario, policymakers would have no option but to face up to some big questions. What has caused this fragmentation of support between the generations? Is it linked to people’s own experiences of the welfare state, or to wider social currents that policy has far less purchase on? Can it be reversed? If not, what are the policy responses that are consistent both with changing attitudes and long-standing policy commitments?

"The social democratic project is not just about spending more money" Miliband recently insisted. "We have surely learnt that it is not enough merely to keep funding more and more generous tax credits", urged David Cameron before the last election. Governments cannot depend solely on "the power of the central state to shift money around", argued Nick Clegg in the same year. Miliband, Clegg and Cameron had all better hope they are right. Two "A"s – austerity and ageing – already cast a long shadow over social welfare policy. We may be seeing the emergence of a third equally significant pressure: attitudes.

Pensioners in Blackpool. Photograph: Getty Images

Bobby Duffy is managing director of the Ipsos MORI social research institute and Duncan O’Leary is deputy director of Demos.

CREDIT: GETTY
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Barb Jungr’s diary: Apart-hotels, scattered families and bringing the Liver Birds back to Liverpool

My Liver Birds reboot, set in the present day with new music and a new story, is coming to life at the Royal Court Theatre.

For the last three years I’ve been writing a musical. Based on Carla Lane and Myra Taylor’s Liver Birds characters Beryl and Sandra, but set in the present day with new music and a new story, it is coming to life at the Royal Court Theatre – in Liverpool, appropriately. Amazingly, the sun shines as the train ambles into Lime Street, where Ken Dodd’s statue has recently been customised with a feather duster tickling stick and some garlands of orange and lime green. Outside the station, composer Mike Lindup and I buy a Big Issue. We have a scene opening Act Two with a Big Issue seller and we are superstitious. We check into our “apart-hotel”. Apart-hotel is a new word and means a hotel room with a kitchen area you will never, ever use.

At the theatre everyone hugs as though their lives depend on it; we are all aware we are heading into a battle the outcome of which is unknown. There will be no more hugging after this point till opening night as stress levels increase day by day. I buy chocolate on the way back as there’s a fridge in my apart-hotel and I ought to use it for something.

Ships in the night

There’s no point in being in Liverpool without running by the river, so I leap up (in geriatric fashion) and head out into the rain. You’d think, since I grew up in the north-west and cannot ever remember experiencing any period of consecutive sunny days here, that I’d have brought a waterproof jacket with me. I didn’t. It springs from optimism. Misplaced in this case, as it happens. I return soaking but with a coconut latte. Every cloud.

We have been in the theatre for seven hours. Everything has been delayed. The cast are amusing themselves by singing old television themes. They have just made short shrift of Bonanza and have moved on to The Magic Roundabout. We may all be going very slightly mad.

As hours dwindle away with nothing being achieved, Mike and I pop to the theatre next door to enjoy someone else’s musical. In this case, Sting’s. It’s wonderfully palate-cleansing and I finally manage to go to sleep with different ear worms about ships and men, rather than our own, about Liverpool and women.

Wood for the trees

This morning “tech” begins (during which every single move of the cast and set, plus lighting, costume, prop and sound cues must be decided and logged on a computer). Problems loom around every piece of scenery. Our smiles and patience wear thin.

By the end of the 12-hour session we know we have the most patient, professional cast in the known cosmos. I, on the other hand, am a lost cause. I fret and eat, nervously, doubting every decision, every line, every lyric. Wondering how easy it would be to start over, in forestry perhaps? There is a drug deal going on across the road in the street outside the hotel. My apart-hotel kitchen remains as new.

First preview

I slept like a log. (All those years of working with Julian Clary make it impossible not to add, “I woke up in the fireplace”.) At the crack of dawn we’re cutting scenes in the Royal Court café like hairdressers on coke. Today is ladies’ day at Aintree, which feels apropos; tonight we open Liver Birds Flying Home, here.

The spirit of Carla Lane, who died in 2016, always dances around our consciousness when we are writing. She was very good to us when we began this project, and she was incredibly important to my teenage self, gazing out for role models across the cobblestones.

I grew up in Rochdale, a first-generation Brit. My parents had come here after the war, and what family we had was scattered to the four winds, some lost for ever and some found much later on, after the Velvet Revolution. I had a coterie of non-related “aunties” who felt sorry for us. Ladies with blue rinses, wearing mothball-smelling fur coats in cold houses with Our Lady of Fátima statues lit by votive candles in every conceivable alcove. To this day, the smell of incense brings it all back. Yet the northern matriarchy is a tough breed and I’m happy to carry some of that legacy with pride.

Seeing the theatre fill with people is terrifying and exciting in equal measure. We’ve had to accept that the finale isn’t in tonight’s show because of lack of technical time. I’m far from thrilled. The show, however, has a life of its own and the actors surf every change with aplomb. The audience cheers, even without the finale. Nonetheless, I slouch home in despair. Is it too late to change my name?

Matinee day

The fire alarm is going off. I know that because I’m awake and it’s 4am. As I stand in reception among the pyjama-clad flotsam and jetsam of the apart-hotel, I suspect I’m not the only one thinking: if only they’d had alarms this annoyingly loud in Grenfell. I don’t go back to sleep. I rewrite the last scene and discuss remaining changes for the morning production meeting with my co-writer, George.

The Saturday afternoon performance (which now includes the finale) receives a standing ovation in the circle. The ratio of women to men in the audience is roughly five to one. In the evening performance it is 50/50, so I’m curious to see how Beryl and Sandra’s story plays to the chaps who’ve been dragged out on a Saturday night with their wives. In the pub after the show a man tells Lesley, the actress playing present-day Beryl, how moved he had been by what he’d seen and heard.

A few years ago I stood behind Miriam Margolyes as we were about to go on stage at the Royal Festival Hall in a Christmas show. She turned to me, saying, “Why do we do this to ourselves?” We agreed: “Because we can’t do anything else!” I suspect forestry is out of the question at this juncture. 

“Liver Birds Flying Home” is at the Royal Court, Liverpool, until 12 May.

Barb Jungr is an English singer, songwriter, composer and writer.

This article first appeared in the 18 April 2018 issue of the New Statesman, Enoch Powell’s revenge