60 per cent of FTT revenues would come from Britain (even if we "opted out")

An interesting note from Ernst & Young's ITEM club outlook has been going around today. It's from way back in February, but I can't find anything that contradicts it since:

The European Commission (EC) has not published detailed revenue estimates of the FTT at a national level, but the EC acknowledges they would be distributed unevenly in line with trading volumes at EU exchanges. The Ernst & Young ITEM Club has used the information provided by the Commission to consider the impact on the UK in two scenarios, the introduction of the FTT across the EU including the UK and the scenario if the UK opts out. 

[Neil Blake, senior economic adviser to the Ernst & Young ITEM Club] comments: “Taking the EC’s estimates at face-value, if the FTT is introduced across the EU, the UK financial sector would generate around 75 per cent of the total revenues.

“However, even if the UK were to opt out of the FTT, if a reverse charge mechanism was applied, we expect the UK financial sector would still contribute around 60 per cent of total revenues. Moreover, these revenues would flow directly to governments in the Eurozone rather than to the UK Exchequer.”

The financial transaction tax has been rather on the back foot in recent months. The eurocrisis has moved far beyond the level where simple government revenues could be imputed as a possible solution, while the debate in Britain was derailed by the veto-that-never-was. Most of the debate this summer, including on this blog, has focused on the tax's behavioural effects, particularly with regard to high frequency trading.

But the revenue benefits of the tax shouldn't be forgotten. There's a lot of trading which isn't HFT, and which will go on largely unaffected by a transaction tax. And if 60 per cent of the revenue would come from Britain, that's quite a lot of money which the Government wants to leave on the table. 

 

Alex Hern is a technology reporter for the Guardian. He was formerly staff writer at the New Statesman. You should follow Alex on Twitter.

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Why do the words “soup, swoop, loop de loop” come to mind every time I lift a spoon to my lips?

It’s all thanks to Barry and Anita.

A while ago I was lending a friend the keys to our house. We keep spare keys in a ceramic pot I was given years ago by someone who made it while on an art-school pottery course. “That’s er . . . quite challenging,” the friend said of the pot.

“Is it?” I replied. “I’d stopped noticing how ugly it is.”

“Then it’s a grunty,” she said.

“A what?” I asked.

“A grunty. It’s something you have in your house that’s hideous and useless but you’ve stopped noticing it completely, so it’s effectively invisible.”

I was much taken with this idea and realised that as well as “grunties” there are also “gruntyisms”: things you say or do, though the reason why you say or do them has long since been forgotten. For example, every time we drink soup my wife and I say the same thing, uttered in a strange monotone: we say, “Soup, swoop, loop de loop.” How we came to say “soup, swoop, loop de loop” came about like this.

For a married couple, the years between your mid-thirties and your late forties might be seen as the decade of the bad dinner party. You’re no longer looking for a partner, so the hormonal urge to visit crowded bars has receded, but you are still full of energy so you don’t want to stay in at night, either. Instead, you go to dinner parties attended by other couples you don’t necessarily like that much.

One such couple were called Barry and Anita. Every time we ate at their house Barry would make soup, and when serving it he would invariably say, “There we are: soup, swoop, loop de loop.” After the dinner party, as soon as we were in the minicab going home, me and Linda would start drunkenly talking about what an arse Barry was, saying to each other, in a high-pitched, mocking imitation of his voice: “Please do have some more of this delicious soup, swoop, loop de loop.” Then we’d collapse against each other laughing, convincing the Algerian or Bengali taxi driver once again of the impenetrability and corruption of Western society.

Pretty soon whenever we had soup at home, Linda and I would say to each other, “Soup, swoop, loop de loop,” at first still ridiculing Barry, but eventually we forgot why we were saying it and it became part of the private language every couple develop, employed long after we’d gratefully ceased having soupy dinners with Barry and Anita.

In the early Nineties we had an exchange student staying with us for a year, a Maori girl from the Cook Islands in the southern Pacific. When she returned home she took the expression “soup, swoop, loop de loop” with her and spread it among her extended family, until finally the phrase appeared in an anthropological dissertation: “ ‘Soup swoop, loop de loop.’ Shamanistic Incantations in Rarotongan Food Preparation Rituals” – University of Topeka, 2001. 

This article first appeared in the 21 July 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The English Revolt