This double-dip looks like a trade problem

Britain is importing more and exporting less, and that's where the recession stems from.

A lot of people – myself included  – were surprised by the economic contraction announced today. There had been lots of positive noises from the various surveys and data releases since the New Year, and the expectation was for positive (if meagre) growth. Retail spending has increased strongly in the new year, employment has picked up slightly, and the various surveys of businesses all suggested that the economy was growing slightly.

But there was one big problem: trade. It was export growth that propped up the UK economy during 2011 – without exports, the economy would have shrunk by 0.8 per cent over the year. However, UK exports slipped back at the start of 2012, and this may have been enough to tip the economy into recession.

Exports are key to the UK’s economic recovery, because conditions in the domestic economy are so strained. Consumer spending, which underpinned economic growth during the goods years, is being suppressed by falling incomes and stifling household debts. Add in the cuts in public spending, and the banks’ failure to lend money to the real economy, and it’s clear that the domestic economy is unlikely to lead us into recovery. Business investment, another potential route out of the crisis, is being crippled by a lack of confidence and weak demand. The UK economy is caught in a demand trap, and the only easy way out of it is to look overseas.

This export-led approach is at the heart of the government’s economic strategy. The government’s fiscal plan has enabled the Bank of England to keep interest rates low, and pump more money in through quantitative easing. These low interest rates have not been enough to boost consumer spending or investment, but they do have one very helpful side effect – they keep the pound weak, which boosts exports. In principle, this is a decent strategy, but the latest figures suggest it may be unravelling.

The latest ONS trade stats show that the UK’s trade deficit worsened dramatically in January and February, after having improved through 2011. Rather than helping to prop up the economy, trade has started to act as a drag this year, as imports grow and exports shrink. As a result, some of the contraction in the economy came mostly from the production sector, which tends to export more. And perhaps this trade problem shouldn’t come as a surprise, because the pound has been steadily appreciating over recent months. This makes exports more expensive, and imports cheaper – and suggests that the government’s efforts to keep the pound weak are no longer working.

This trade problem may also help to explain how the economy could shrink if retail sales grew. As it turns out, an awful lot of what we buy in the shops is imported, whether its clothes from East Asia or cars from Germany. If the increase in retail spending has helped fuel a rise in imports (or if the imports, such as petrol, have become more expensive), this will not help the economy grow. That isn’t just bad in the short term – it suggests our economy is heading in the wrong direction altogether, and certainly not re-balancing. We will have to hope that this trade problem turns itself around, or it will be even harder to get out of the economic slump.

There is one more point to address: the biggest factor in the GDP contraction was construction. But this should surprise no-one – we already knew that domestic spending was going to be weak, that the government is cutting back investment, and that there are questions over how reliable construction figures are anyway. The problem is that, up until now, these domestic weaknesses have been compensated for by export growth. If that stops being the case, the economy could be in even more trouble, and there will be even more onus on the government to come up with another economic strategy.

Cranes help build the Bishopsgate Tower in London, but construction has fallen flat nationwide. Photograph: Getty Images

Andrew Sissons is a researcher at the Big Innovation Centre based at the Work Foundation.

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In defence of orientalism, the case against Twenty20, and why Ken should watch Son of Saul

My week, from Age Concern to anti-semitism.

Returning late from a party I never much wanted to go to, I leap up and down in the middle of the Harrow Road in the hope of flagging down a taxi, but the drivers don’t notice me. Either they’re haring down the fast lane or they’re too preoccupied cursing Uber to one another on their mobile phones. My father drove a black cab, so I have a deep loyalty to them. But there’s nothing like being left stranded in NW10 in the dead of night to make one reconsider one’s options. I just wish Uber wasn’t called Uber.

Just not cricket

Tired and irritable, I spend the next day watching sport on television – snooker, darts, cricket, anything I can find. But I won’t be following the Indian Premier League’s Twenty20 cricket again. It’s greedy, cynical, over-sponsored and naff. Whenever somebody hits a boundary, cheerleaders in cast-off gym kit previously worn by fourth-form Roedean girls wave tinsel mops.

Matches go to the final over where they’re decided in a thrashathon of sixes hit by mercenaries wielding bats as wide as shovels. Why, in that case, don’t both teams just play a final over each and dispense with the previous 19? I can’t wait for the elegant ennui of a five-day Test match.

Stop! Culture police!

I go to the Delacroix exhibition at the National Gallery to shake off the sensation of all-consuming kitsch. Immediately I realise I have always confused Delacroix with someone else but I can’t decide who. Maybe Jacques-Louis David. The show convincingly argues that Delacroix influenced every artist who came after him except Jeff Koons, who in that case must have been influenced by David. It’s turbulent, moody work, some of the best of it, again to my surprise, being religious painting with the religion taken out. Christ’s followers lamenting his death don’t appear to be expecting miracles. This is a man they loved, cruelly executed. The colours are the colours of insupportable grief.

I love the show but wish the curators hadn’t felt they must apologise for Delacroix finding the North Africans he painted “exotic”. Cultural studies jargon screams from the wall. You can hear the lecturer inveighing against the “appropriating colonial gaze” – John Berger and Edward Said taking all the fun out of marvelling at what’s foreign and desirable. I find myself wondering where they’d stand on the Roedean cheer-leaders of Mumbai.

Taking leave of the senses

My wife drags me to a play at Age Concern’s headquarters in Bloomsbury. When I see where she’s taking me I wonder if she plans to leave me there. The play is called Don’t Leave Me Now and is written by Brian Daniels. It is, to keep it simple, about the effects of dementia on the families and lovers of sufferers. I am not, in all honesty, expecting a good time. It is a reading only, the actors sitting in a long line like a board of examiners, and the audience hunched forward in the attitude of the professionally caring.  My wife is a therapist so this is her world.

Here, unlike in my study, an educated empathy prevails and no one is furious. I fear that art is going to get lost in good intention. But the play turns out to be subtly powerful, sympathetic and sharp, sad and funny; and hearing it read engages me as seeing it performed might not have done. Spared the spectacle of actors throwing their bodies around and singing about their dreams against a backdrop painted by a lesser, Les Mis version of Delacroix, you can concentrate on the words. And where dementia is the villain, words are priceless.

Mixing with the proles

In Bloomsbury again the next day for a bank holiday design and craft fair at Mary Ward House. I have a soft spot for craft fairs, having helped run a craft shop once, and I feel a kinship with the designers sitting bored behind their stalls, answering inane questions about kilns and receiving empty compliments. But it’s the venue that steals the show, a lovely Arts and Crafts house, founded in the 1890s by the novelist Mary Ward with the intention of enabling the wealthy and educated to live among the poor and introduce them to the consolations of beauty and knowledge. We’d call that patronising. We’re wrong. It’s a high ideal, to ease the burden of poverty and ignorance and, in Ward’s words, save us from “the darker, coarser temptations of our human road”.

An Oscar-winning argument for Zionism

Speaking of which, I am unable to empty my mind of Ken Livingstone and his apologists as I sit in the cinema and watch the just-released Academy Award-winning Son of Saul, a devastating film about one prisoner’s attempt to hold on to a vestige of humanity in a Nazi death camp. If you think you know of hell from Dante or Michelangelo, think again. The inferno bodied forth in Son of Saul is no theological apportioning of justice or deserts. It is the evisceration of meaning, the negation of every grand illusion about itself mankind has ever harboured. There has been a fashion, lately, to invoke Gaza as proof that the Holocaust is a lesson that Jews failed to learn – as though one cruelty drives out another, as though suffering is forfeit, and as though we, the observers, must choose between horrors.

I defy even Livingstone to watch this film, in which the Jews, once gassed, become “pieces” – Stücke – and not grasp the overwhelming case for a Jewish place of refuge. Zionism pre-dated the camps, and its fulfilment, if we can call it that, came too late for those millions reduced to the grey powder mountains the Sonderkommandos were tasked with sweeping away. It diminishes one’s sympathy for the Palestinian cause not a jot to recognise the arguments, in a world of dehumanising hate, for Zionism. Indeed, not to recognise those arguments is to embrace the moral insentience whose murderous consequence Son of Saul confronts with numbed horror. 

This article first appeared in the 06 April 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The longest hatred