John Harris

Journalist & Author

Do you have firsthand experience of the Work Programme? | John Harris

We want to see how the government’s scheme hopes to get people off benefits – and what those of you on it really think
For the next instalment of Comment is free’s Anywhere but Westminster series, we’re following a suggestion posted by one RichJames on a thread about the economy we put up towards the end of last year. He wrote:

“Personally, I would value…

Do you have firsthand experience of the Work Programme? | John Harris

We want to see how the government’s scheme hopes to get people off benefits – and what those of you on it really think
For the next instalment of Comment is free’s Anywhere but Westminster series, we’re following a suggestion posted by one RichJames on a thread about the economy we put up towards the end of last year. He wrote:

“Personally, I would value…

The scale of the challenge is shocking us into action | John Harris

Through protest, we are finding a new left politics that can propel glaring iniquities to the centre of public debate
Last week, in the wake of David Cameron wielding his veto in Brussels, I was dispatched to tour the West Midlands and sample the views of the public. When I asked one woman whether we should stay in the EU or get out, her answer said it all. “Doesn’t make a scrap of difference…

Politics Weekly podcast: Michael White’s political year

This was the year that the government hoped would see economic growth return. The initial public goodwill enjoyed by the new coalition government would be built upon and Britain would gradually accept that cuts to some services were necessary. The private sector was waiting to step in to employ those laid off by the state and a “big society” would be willing to lend a hand. It didn’t quite pan out like that.
The economic…

Here’s to Mick Hucknall’s amazing voice | John Harris

Admitting I liked Simply Red didn’t fit with the NME’s Maoist indie conspiracy, but Hucknall’s repertoire is studded with triumphs
It was 1987, and I was 17, that eager and impressionable age when booze, nightclubs and inconclusive romantic encounters embody all the wonderment that the adult world has to offer. Most weeks, I would go to a Mancunian place called – but of course – Brahms and

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