Libor: what about the regulators?

More light needs to be shone on the FSA.

It’s hard to know who to point the finger at when it comes to the Barclays’ culture of deceit. While most are simply blaming the bankers, Ann Pettifor, for one, blames the economists. Others, meanwhile, are blaming the regulators. 

One should probably blame all three (not to mention politicians), but if an enquiry is to be pursued, more light certainly needs to be shone on the regulators. The Times yesterday implicates the Bank of England in the Libor scandal, suggesting they may have not only condoned the system of manipulation but actively encouraged it. From our experience this doesn’t appear to be at all far-fetched.

Looking into the role of the finance sector in commodity speculation, we became increasingly disturbed by the lax approach adopted by the FSA. When we dug deeper, we found that the FSA was lobbying the European Union on behalf of the City, to prevent effective regulation of speculation by Brussels. 

As the FSA is paid for by the City, almost entirely governed by the City or ex-City bankers, and with virtually no transparency, its weak approach to Barclays’ failings should come as no surprise. This is in stark contrast to US authorities, who imposed fines on Barclays almost 4 times greater than those levied by the FSA.

Barclays has been at the heart of commodity speculation activity AND at the heart of fighting off any regulation. A letter to the Commodities Futures Trading Commision in the US, urges a light touch approach.  However WDM research has exposed Barclays as the biggest UK bank involved in speculation in the commodity derivative markets, which has contributed to price spikes such as those in 2008 and 2011 which pushed millions into hunger and deeper poverty. While the bank claimed under pressure at its 2012 AGM that it only facilitated deals for third parties, the reality is a little more complex, with Barclays' risk-taking approach to dealing suggesting that it effectively speculates itself. They state of the Barclays Capital’s Commodities division that “Our Commodities Traders build ‘trading books’ specialising in goods from energy products to agricultural assets, all over the world.”  

As we gear up for a new regulatory model under the aegis of the Bank of England, we have to question about the direction. And we have to ask questions about the relationship between the regulators and Barclays in particular. Now that more evidence has come to light of the failings of the regulators, and their incestuous relationship with the banks they’re meant to oversee, nothing short of a complete overhaul of the banking and regulatory system will suffice.

The numbers:

Barclays

  • Fines imposed by the FSA: £59m
  • Fines imposed by US Authorities: £230m
  • Earnings from speculation on commodity derivatives: £189m/year
  • Statement from Bob Diamond at the Barclays AGM: “our traders are not involved in direct speculation.”

FSA

Board of Directors:

  • 26 of 36 members of the board linked to the Finance sector since 2000 before or after appointment
  • 9 continued to hold appointments in financial corporations while at the FSA
  • Board Directors linked to consumers or other stakeholder: 1

Meetings held with the finance sector about European Markets in Financial Instruments Directive

  • 87 per cent of all meetings held with industry bodies
  • Only 1 meeting held with a third party stakeholder

Deborah Doane is the director of the World Development Movement

FSA. Photograph, Getty Images.
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How Donald Trump is slouching towards the Republican nomination

There was supposed to be a ceiling above which Trump’s popular support could not climb.

In America, you can judge a crowd by its merchandise. Outside the Connecticut Convention Centre in Hartford, frail old men and brawny moms are selling “your Trump 45 football jerseys”, “your hats”, “your campaign buttons”. But the hottest item is a T-shirt bearing the slogan “Hillary sucks . . . but not like Monica!” and, on the back: “Trump that bitch!” Inside, beyond the checkpoint manned by the Transportation Security Administration and the secret service (“Good!” the man next to me says, when he sees the agents), is a family whose three kids, two of them girls, are wearing the Monica shirt.

Other people are content with the shirts they arrived in (“Waterboarding – baptising terrorists with freedom” and “If you don’t BLEED red, white and blue, take your bitch ass home!”). There are 80 chairs penned off for the elderly but everyone else is standing: guys in motorcycle and military gear, their arms folded; aspiring deal-makers, suited, on cellphones; giggling high-school fatsos, dressed fresh from the couch, grabbing M&M’s and Doritos from the movie-theatre-style concession stands. So many baseball hats; deep, bellicose chants of “Build the wall!” and “USA!”. (And, to the same rhythm, “Don-ald J!”)

A grizzled man in camouflage pants and combat boots, whose T-shirt – “Connecticut Militia III%” – confirms him as a member of the “patriot” movement, is talking to a zealous young girl in a short skirt, who came in dancing to “Uptown Girl”.

“Yeah, we were there for Operation American Spring,” he says. “Louis Farrakhan’s rally of hate . . .”

“And you’re a veteran?” she asks. “Thank you so much!”

Three hours will pass. A retired US marine will take the rostrum to growl, “God bless America – hoo-rah!”; “Uptown Girl” will play many more times (much like his speeches, Donald J’s playlist consists of a few items, repeated endlessly), before Trump finally looms in and asks the crowd: “Is this the greatest place on Earth?”

There was supposed to be a ceiling above which Trump’s popular support could not climb. Only a minority within a minority of Americans, it was assumed, could possibly be stupid enough to think a Trump presidency was a good idea. He won New Hampshire and South Carolina with over 30 per cent of the Republican vote, then took almost 46 per cent in Nevada. When he cleaned up on Super Tuesday in March, he was just shy of 50 per cent in Massachusetts; a week later, he took 47 per cent of the votes in Mississippi.

His rivals, who are useless individually, were meant to co-operate with each other and the national party to deny him the nomination. But Trump won four out of the five key states being contested on “Super-Duper Tuesday” on 15 March. Then, as talk turned to persuading and co-opting his delegates behind the scenes, Trump won New York with 60 per cent.

Now, the campaign is trying to present Trump as more “presidential”. According to his new manager, Paul Manafort, this requires him to appear in “more formal settings” – without, of course, diluting “the unique magic of Trump”. But whether or not he can resist denouncing the GOP and the “corrupt” primary system, and alluding to violence if he is baulked at at the convention, the new Trump will be much the same as the old.

Back in Hartford: “The Republicans wanna play cute with us, right? If I don’t make it, you’re gonna have millions of people that don’t vote for a Republican. They’re not gonna vote at all,” says Trump. “Hopefully that’s all, OK? Hopefully that’s all, but they’re very, very angry.”

This anger, which can supposedly be turned on anyone who gets in the way, has mainly been vented, so far, on the protesters who disrupt Trump’s rallies. “We’re not gonna be the dummies that lose all of our jobs now. We’re gonna be the smart ones. Oh, do you have one over there? There’s one of the dummies . . .”

There is a frenzied fluttering of Trump placards, off to his right. “Get ’em out! . . . Don’t hurt ’em – see how nice I am? . . . They really impede freedom of speech and it’s a disgrace. But the good news is, folks, it won’t be long. We’re just not taking it and it won’t be long.”

It is their removal by police, at Trump’s ostentatious behest, that causes the disruption, rather than the scarcely audible protesters. He seems to realise this, suddenly: “We should just let ’em . . . I’ll talk right over them, there’s no problem!” But it’s impossible to leave the protesters where they are, because it would not be safe. His crowd is too vicious.

Exit Trump, after exactly half an hour, inclusive of the many interruptions. His people seem uplifted but, out on the street, they are ambushed by a large counter-demonstration, with a booming drum and warlike banners and standards (“Black Lives Matter”; an image of the Virgin of Guadalupe, holding aloft Trump’s severed head). Here is the rest of the world, the real American world: young people, beautiful people, more female than male, every shade of skin colour. “F*** Donald Trump!” they chant.

After a horrified split-second, the Trump crowd, massively more numerous, rallies with “USA!” and – perplexingly, since one of the main themes of the speech it has just heard was the lack of jobs in Connecticut – “Get a job!” The two sides then mingle, unobstructed by police. Slanging matches break out that seem in every instance to humiliate the Trump supporter. “Go to college!” one demands. “Man, I am in college, I’m doin’ lovely!”

There is no violence, only this: some black boys are dancing, with liquid moves, to the sound of the drum. Four young Trump guys counter by stripping to their waists and jouncing around madly, their skin greenish-yellow under the street lights, screaming about the building of the wall. There was no alcohol inside; they’re drunk on whatever it is – the elixir of fascism, the unique magic of Trump. It’s a hyper but not at all happy drunk.

As with every other moment of the Trump campaign so far, it would have been merely some grade of the cringeworthy – the embarrassing, the revolting, the pitiful – were Trump not slouching closer and closer, with each of these moments, to his nomination. 

This article first appeared in the 28 April 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The new fascism