It’s a looking-glass world. Up is down. Black is white. War is peace. Just a few months ago we were told the UK economy was in a desperate state: no room for tax cuts. Just more of the same. Suck it up. But in the last few weeks we’ve been getting noises off. Anonymous briefings from Treasury ministers. All is well. Things have never been better. Thanks to the diligence of the Tories, we can all expect some more pocket money in the autumn statement.
If you’re confused by this, then spare a thought for Jeremy Hunt. The chancellor who was never meant to be chancellor. The chancellor who knows next to nothing about macroeconomics. Just think. A man of almost limitless ambition – he twice thought he would make a good prime minister – but who never once aspired to be chancellor. Because even he knew he would be hopeless at it. A glimpse of self-awareness. The entrepreneur who knows how to create a small business. Start with a big one.
But greatness was thrust upon him. Or at least, necessity was thrust upon him. This time last year the Tories were in shit street. Kwasi Kwarteng had crashed the economy with his mini-budget and the Tory brand was on its knees. A new chancellor was needed. Someone who could be the grownup.
And that person was Jezza. Not because of any ability. But because of his plausibility. He looked like the sort of Tory chancellor to which the country had grown accustomed. And now we’re rather lumbered with him. At least for another year. An eighth chancellor in 13 years would begin to look a lot worse than carelessness. More like catatonia. A death wish.
Long before Hunt stood up to give his autumn statement, his wife and children had filed into the back seats of the MPs’ visitors’ gallery. You got the feeling they all knew this would be his last but one big set-piece event in the Commons. Jezza certainly did. This wasn’t the kind of budget you would give if you had any intention of being around for the next five years to oversee its delivery. This was a budget designed to destroy a future chancellor. So Hunt was just there to soak up the vibes. To enjoy it while he still could.
The kindest interpretation is that Jezza was just too dim to know what he was doing. That he was just the useful idiot for Rishi Sunak. You certainly can’t blame his ministerial colleagues in the Treasury. They are even more half-witted than Hunt. That’s why they were chosen. Not that there is anyone better lurking on the backbenches.
Hunt began by insisting he was putting the economy back on track. An odd admission. It rather acknowledged that the Tories had done untold damage over the last 13 years and were only now getting round to trying to fix the problem. Thanks for that. “We’ve got inflation cracked,” he boasted. “Just as the prime minister promised.” It was now only two and a half times the Bank of England’s target – and its fall nothing to do with government intervention – so could we please have a two-minute love-in for Rish!? The Great Gratitude. Thank you, Supreme Leader.
This was going to be an autumn statement for growth, he continued. Yup. Talk us through this one, Jezza. He did, slowly and with few signs of understanding what someone else had written for him. His eyes started to revolve anticlockwise in terror. As if every sentence was dynamite. Sweat formed on his brow. He could sense the danger. But he didn’t know what direction it was coming from. No choice but to press ahead. The Office for Budget Responsibility had revised its forecasts. Down was up. It was fantastic news. Growth would more or less stagnate for the next five years. He was a man who was going places. Perdition.
“We are taking decisions for the long term,” he announced. Long term as in sheer desperation. Every government reset had failed – now there were at least two a week – and this was more or less the last throw of the dice. Thanks to his brilliance, he had managed to create extra fiscal headroom. Largely thanks to inflation and capped departmental budgets – hooray for inflation! – he had extra money to spend. So he was going to squander almost all of it on tax cuts and let public services die. Austerity 2.0.
Here the speech rather meandered. Jezza isn’t the best of readers and even the faithful Tory backbenchers could see this budget was a pig’s ear. Many began to doze off. It would get a few half-hearted cheers in the Tory press for a day or so, but the electorate would soon see through it. There was nothing there to make you want to live. Though there was some gratuitous sadism. Or “compassionate” cuts to the disabled. Work, you losers. Stop scrounging. Always scrounging. Most of you have deliberately chosen to have mental health problems.
Finally, after some business tax cuts that even Hunt had to admit were well above his pay grade, we got to the 2p cut in national insurance. A cut to a tax that Rishi Sunak had raised. Go, Tories! And just in case everyone hadn’t realised how screwed the government was, he was going to introduce the cut from January rather than March. Just so that everyone would feel better off before the election. Only, because of fiscal drag, the tax burden would be reaching its highest ever level in five years’ time. The tax cut that wasn’t a tax cut. The chancellor who isn’t a chancellor. The sweat-stain of sheer panic.
Rachel Reeves could barely contain her contempt in her reply. Where to start? She was all for tax cuts – what aspiring chancellor wouldn’t be? – but this was just economic vandalism. And she would be the one left to pick up the pieces. She wasn’t going to say no, obviously. But really? Did they have any more giveaways for the spring budget? There was a few billion left unspent. How about something for the most well-off? Like inheritance tax?
Over on the government benches, Sunak and Jezza giggled and bounced up and down like children. A sure tell. They knew they were busted. If they had honour – a sense of grace – they might have given up there and then. But they mean to take us all down with them. They’re so pretty, oh so pretty. They’re vacant.
Depraved New World by John Crace is published by Guardian Faber, price £16.99. To support the Guardian and Observer, order your copy and save 18% at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply.
