A Robin Hood Tax will stop the machines wiping out the market

A small tax on each transaction will stop pointless yet risky high-frequency trading.

From Terminator to the Matrix, our fear that humanity may be supplanted by the machines we create has helped Hollywood make mega-bucks. But while Arnie’s cyborg killing machine and the Neo’s alternative reality remain firmly in the realms of science fiction, our financial sector’s love of a fast buck is leading us to cede control of markets to computers with sometimes disastrous consequences.

The extent to which financial markets are now dominated by computer-driven high frequency trading was revealed again last week, when Knight Capital, a leading New York trading firm made a mistake in its computer programming. The rogue programme swamped the stock market with errant trades, cost the firm $440 million and put the future of the firm in jeopardy.

So what? I hear you ask. Why should we care if a firm of traders loses millions because they rushed out a new computer programme before it was ready?

The fact is that beyond acting as a casino for traders to make or lose fortunes, financial markets are crucial to the functioning of the global economy. They are supposed to allocate resources efficiently and help firms raise capital and manage risk. When things go wrong, as in the crisis of 2008, the consequences for the real economy can be devastating.

A growing number of economists and financial experts – including more than 50 financiers who wrote a recent letter to David Cameron and other world leaders – are warning that unchecked high-frequency trading undermines markets’ economic efficiency and risks disaster. In May 2010, the most infamous "flash crash" dragged the Dow Jones index of shares down nine per cent with more than half the fall happening in just seven minutes. Shares in Accenture plunged from $40 per share to just $0.01, almost wiping out the value of the company.

High frequency trading (HFT) conducted may now account for more than three-quarters of all equity deals in the UK. When you consider that this sort of trading, managed by computers according to complex algorithms, was almost unheard of seven years ago, it is hard to avoid the conclusion that traders have been competing in a technological arms race that has left regulators floundering.

So what can be done? As anti-nuclear campaigners have discovered, it is not possible to un-invent a technology once the genie has left the bottle. But fortunately this is not necessary. High-frequency trading is only profitable because of the sheer volume of trades carried out; the profit margin on each trade is incredibly low.

A tiny tax of a fraction of a percent on each transaction would curb the worst excesses of this cyborg-style casino capitalism, while having little effect on long-term investments such as pensions where trades are carried out far less frequently.

European leaders are working towards such a tax – covering stocks, bonds and derivatives – but the UK government has chosen to side with City interests rather than back the efforts of Germany, France, Spain, Italy and others to make finance work in the interests of society rather than the other way around.

UK opposition to the tax, based as it is on the claim that such taxes have to be global to work, is somewhat ironic. The UK already has an FTT on shares, known as the Stamp Duty, which at 0.5 per cent is many times larger than the proposed European tax (0.1 per cent for shares and bonds, 0.01 per cent for derivatives). The problem is that banks, hedge funds and other high-frequency traders avoid the stamp duty by trading in derivatives.

Extending the UK’s existing FTT to derivatives and bonds would not only "throw sand in the wheels" of HFT and therefore increase stability in financial markets and the wider-economy; it would also raise billions in revenue – the reason the Robin Hood tax campaign is backed by almost 120 organisations from Oxfam to the TUC and by global figures such as Kofi Annan and Bill Gates.

Despite avoidance, the UK Stamp Duty raise £3bn a year. A full-blown FTT could raise as much as £20bn – money that could be used to help those hit by the economic crisis at home and abroad and to meet the UK’s obligations to help poor countries cope with climate change.

It can be done. The UK’s Stamp Duty is one of 40 or so FTTs that already exist around the world. Hong Kong has introduced an FTT on derivatives precisely to curb the excess of computer-driven trading. Charles Li, Chief Executive of the Hong Kong Stock Exchange, says it "effectively limits high frequency trading, just like a highway with many toll booths limits speeding."

By rejecting a broader FTT, the UK government is making its own bet on the markets. It is accepting instability and forgoing much needed revenue in the hope the City’s casino capitalism will help drive recovery from recession.

It is a risky bet. As Andrew Haldane, Executive Director of Financial Stability at the Bank of England has put it:

"Grit in the wheels, like grit on the roads, could help forestall the next crash."

"Whoa" ~ Neo, The Matrix. Do we all fear that machines will supplant us?

Jon Slater is a Senior Press Officer for Oxfam and a spokesperson for the Robin Hood Campaign

Getty
Show Hide image

France is changing: an army stalks the streets and Boris Johnson wanders the Tuileries

Will Self on the militarisation of France, and Boris Johnson at the Foreign Office.

At the corner of the rue D’Hauteville and the rue de Paradis in the tenth arrondissement of Paris is a retro-video-games-themed bar, Le Fantôme, which is frequented by some not-so-jeunes gens – the kind of thirtysomethings nostalgic for an era when you had to go to an actual place if you wanted to enter virtual space. They sit placidly behind the plate-glass windows zapping Pac-Men and Space Invaders, while outside another – and rather more lethal – sort of phantom stalks the sunlit streets.

I often go to Paris for work, and so have been able to register the incremental militarisation of its streets since President Hollande first declared a state of emergency after last November’s terrorist attacks. In general the French seem more comfortable about this prêt-à-porter khaki than we’d probably be; the army-nation concept is, after all, encrypted deep in their collective psyche. The army was constituted as a revolutionary instrument. France was the first modern nation to introduce universal male conscription – and it continued in one form or another right up until the mid-1990s.

Even so, it was surprising to witness the sang-froid with which Parisians regarded the camouflaged phantoms wandering among them: a patrol numbering eight ­infantrymen and women moved up the roadway, scoping out doorways, nosing into passages – but when one peered into Le Fantôme, his assault rifle levelled, none of the boozing gamers paid the least attention. I witnessed this scene the Saturday after Mohamed Lahouaiej-Bouhlel ran amok on the Promenade des Anglais in Nice – it was a little preview of the new state of emergency.

On Monday 18 July the French premier, Manuel Valls, was booed at a memorial service for the victims of the Nice attacks – while Marine Le Pen has been making all the populist running, whipping up anxieties about the enemy within. For many French, the events of the past week – including the failed Turkish coup – are steps along the way limned by Michel Houellebecq in his bestselling novel Submission; a via dolorosa that ends with La Marianne wearing the hijab and France itself annexed by a new caliphate.

Into this febrile drama comes a new player: Boris Johnson, the British Foreign Secretary. What can we expect from this freshly minted statesman when it comes to our relations with our closest neighbour? There is no doubt that Johnson is a Francophile – I’ve run into him and his family at the Tuileries, and he made much of his own francophone status during the referendum campaign. In Paris last winter to launch the French edition of his Churchill biography, Johnson wowed a publication dinner by speaking French for the entire evening. He was sufficiently fluent to bumble, waffle and generally avoid saying anything serious at all.

Last Sunday I attended the Lambeth Country Show, an oxymoronic event for which the diverse inhabitants of my home borough gather in Brockwell Park, south London, for jerked and halal chicken, funfair rides, Quidditch-watching, and “country-style” activities, such as looking at farm animals and buying their products. Wandering among ancient Rastafarians with huge shocks of dreadlocks, British Muslims wearing immaculate white kurtas blazoned with “ASK ME ABOUT ISLAM” and crusty old Brixton punks, I found it quite impossible to rid my mind of the Nice carnage – or stop wondering how they would react if armed soldiers were patrolling, instead of tit-helmeted, emphatically unarmed police.

I stepped into the Royal Horticultural Society marquee, and there they were: the entire cast of our end-of-the-pier-show politics, in vegetable-sculpture form and arrayed for judging. There was Jeremy Corbyn (or “Cornbin”) made out of corncobs – and Boris Johnson in the form of a beetroot, being stabbed in the back by a beetroot Michael Gove. And over there was Johnson again, this time rendered in cabbage. The veggie politicians were the big draw, Brixtonians standing six-deep around them, iPhones aloft.

The animal (as opposed to the vegetable) Johnson has begun his diplomatic rounds this week, his first démarches as tasteless and anodyne as cucumber. No British abandonment of friends after Brexit . . . Coordinated response to terror threat . . . Call for Erdogan to be restrained in response to failed coup . . . Blah-blah, whiff-whaff-waffle . . . Even someone as gaffe-prone as he can manage these simple lines, but I very much doubt he will be able to produce rhetorical flourishes as powerful as his hero’s. In The Churchill Factor: How One Man Made History, Johnson writes of Winnie overcoming “his stammer and his depression and his ­appalling father to become the greatest living Englishman”. Well, I’ve no idea if Bojo suffers from depression now but he soon will if he cleaves to this role model. His Churchill-worship (like so many others’) hinges on his belief that, without Churchill as war leader, Britain would have been ground beneath the Nazi jackboot. It may well be that, with his contribution to the Brexit campaign, Johnson now feels he, too, has wrested our national destiny from the slavering jaws of contingency.

Of course the differences between the two politicians are far more significant: Johnson’s genius – such as it is – lies in his intuitive understanding that politics, in our intensely mediatised and entirely commoditised era, is best conceived of as a series of spectacles or stunts: nowadays you can fool most of the people, most of the time. This is not a view you can imagine associating with Churchill, who, when his Gallipoli stratagem went disastrously wrong, exiled himself, rifle in hand, to the trenches. No, the French people Johnson both resembles and has an affinity for are the ones caught up in the virtual reality of Le Fantôme – rather than those patrolling the real and increasingly mean streets without. 

Will Self is an author and journalist. His books include Umbrella, Shark, The Book of Dave and The Butt. He writes the Madness of Crowds and Real Meals columns for the New Statesman.

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