The eurozone slowdown spells trouble for the UK

Eurozone growth is at its weakest level since October 2009.

The world economy appears to be slowing. This is bad news for Slasher and the UK economy.

This morning, Markit released its flash eurozone purchasing manager indices (PMIs), which are pretty good predictors of what is happening to output. Official data takes some months to be published and is frequently revised, so the timeliness of the PMIs is a big asset. What do they show?

Eurozone growth turns out to have been the weakest since October 2009, led by a sharp manufacturing slowdown. Input costs showed their smallest rise in eight months.

The main indices were as follows:

Flash eurozone PMI composite output index at 53.6 (55.8 in May). Twenty-month low.

Flash eurozone services PMI business activity index at 54.2 (56.0 in May). Six-month low.

Flash eurozone manufacturing PMI at 52.0 (54.6 in May). Eighteen-month low.

Flash eurozone manufacturing PMI output index(4) at 52.4 (55.2 in May). Twenty-one-month low.

Yesterday, the Fed completed its policy meeting and Ben Bernanke held his second press conference, in which he left open the possibility of more quantitative easing. Most importantly, the members of the FOMC downgraded their forecast for US growth and increased their forecasts for unemployment. This had an impact on oil and other commodity prices, which fell on the news. West Texas intermediate crude was down to $92.75 a barrel on the news, having been over $102 earlier in June.

The hawks on the MPC are wrong. Inflation is headed down.

David Blanchflower is economics editor of the New Statesman and professor of economics at Dartmouth College, New Hampshire

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Would you jump off a cliff if someone told you to? One time, I did

I was walking across the bridge in Matlock park, which is about 12 feet high, with a large group of other kids from my year, in the pouring rain.

Ever heard the phrase, “Would you jump off a cliff if they told you to?” It was the perpetual motif of my young teenage years: my daily escapades, all of which sprang from a need to impress a peer, were distressing and disgusting my parents.

At 13, this tomboyish streak developed further. I wrote urgent, angry poems containing lines like: “Who has desire for something higher than jumping for joy and smashing a light?” I wanted to push everything to its limits, to burst up through the ceiling of the small town I lived in and land in America, or London, or at least Derby. This was coupled with a potent and thumping appetite for attention.

At the height of these feelings, I was walking across the bridge in Matlock park, which is about 12 feet high, with a large group of other kids from my year, in the pouring rain. One of the cool girls started saying that her cousin had jumped off the bridge into the river and had just swum away – and that one of us should do it.

Then someone said that I should do it, because I always did that stuff. More people started saying I should. The group drew to a halt. Someone offered me a pound, which was the clincher. “I’m going to jump!” I yelled, and clambered on to the railing.

There wasn’t a complete hush, which annoyed me. I looked down. It was raining very hard and I couldn’t see the bottom of the riverbed. “It looks really deep because of the rain,” someone said. I told myself it would just be like jumping into a swimming pool. It would be over in a few minutes, and then everyone would know I’d done it. No one could ever take it away from me. Also, somebody would probably buy me some Embassy Filter, and maybe a Chomp.

So, surprising even myself, I jumped.

I was about three seconds in the air. I kept my eyes wide open, and saw the blur of trees, the white sky and my dyed red hair. I landed with my left foot at a 90-degree angle to my left ankle, and all I could see was red. “I’ve gone blind!” I thought, then realised it was my hair, which was plastered on to my eyes with rain.

When I pushed it out of the way and looked around, there was no one to be seen. They must have started running as I jumped. Then I heard a voice from the riverbank – a girl called Erin Condron, who I didn’t know very well. She pushed me home on someone’s skateboard, because my ankle was broken.

When we got to my house, I waited for Mum to say, “Would you jump off another cliff if they told you to?” but she was ashen. I had to lie that Dave McDonald’s brother had pushed me in the duck pond. And that’s when my ankle started to throb. I never got the pound, but I will always be grateful to Erin Condron. 

This article first appeared in the 25 August 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Cameron: the legacy of a loser