Apple's taxing problem

New York Times accuses Apple of tax avoidance on a large scale

The New York Times has published an in-depth look at Apple's tax arrangements, which finds that the computing company avoided paying around $2.4bn federal income tax in the US last year. The company paid, worldwide, tax of $3.3bn on profits of $34.2bn, although it does not break down what proportion of that tax is paid in what countries, nor does it detail which years the tax is due to – as Worstall points out, American corporation tax is usually deferred, so some of that tax will actually be on last year's profits rather than this years.

Tax avoidance stories always raise the question of definition. In this case, for instance, much of Apple's tax bill will be naturally reduced by the fact that the company sells 64 per cent of its products outside of its American home, and makes almost everything in China. Since it doesn't have to pay American tax on something made in China and sold in Ireland, it perfectly acceptably reduces its liability.

Yet as with all of these stories, that sort of reduction is not all that the company is doing. Many of their accounting structures seem to be put in place with the sole purpose of abusing the tax laws of multiple nations to pay as little as possible. Take, for example, the accounting technique improbably known as "double Irish with a Dutch sandwich". If Apple sells something in the UK, the profits are accountable to an Irish subsidiary, which then passes them on to a Dutch company taking advantage of European capital mobility, then back to a second Irish company which is technically owned by a company in a country with a 0 per cent corporation tax rate.

On paper, then, the majority of Apple's profits are made outside of the US. Despite the fact that the majority of sales are also made internationally, the NYT points out that:

The majority of Apple’s executives, product designers, marketers, employees, research and development, and retail stores are in the United States. Tax experts say it is therefore reasonable to expect that most of Apple’s profits would be American as well. The nation’s tax code is based on the concept that a company “earns” income where value is created, rather than where products are sold.

Even when profits make it into the United States, Apple still moves them in ways that seem wholly to do with paying lower taxes. The company makes all of its corporate investments through a subsidiary with the pun-tastic name Braeburn Capital, which is based in Reno, Nevada – 200 miles from Cupertino, and with a 0 per cent state corporation tax rather than California's 8.84 per cent.

Apple is far from alone in behaving like this, but the company has managed to retain a remarkably spotless image while growing to become the biggest in the world. They already suffered greatly from the perception that they were callously mistreating their workers in China, and this report could create a problem almost as large.

San Francisco, California. Apple reported a 93 percent surge in second quarter earnings with a profit of $11.6 billion Photograph: Getty Images

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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I dined behind the Houses of Parliament in my sexually connected foursome

My wife and I would sometimes dine out with another couple. We did not always check the significance of the date. 

I am self-employed and find that working from home, setting your own schedule, the days generally blur into each other, with weekends holding no significance, and public holidays, when those who are employed in factories, offices or shops get time off, meaning nothing. I am often surprised to go out and find the streets empty of traffic because it is some national day of observance, such as Christmas, that I wasn’t aware of. I find myself puzzled as to why the shops are suddenly full of Easter eggs or pancake batter.

Growing up in a Communist household, we had a distinct dislike for this kind of manufactured marketing opportunity anyway. I remember the time my mother tried to make me feel guilty because I’d done nothing for her on Mother’s Day and I pointed out that it was she who had told me that Mother’s Day was a cynical creation of the greetings card monopolies and the floral industrial complex.

Valentine’s Day is one of those I never see coming. It’s the one day of the year when even the worst restaurants are completely booked out by couples attempting to enjoy a romantic evening. Even those old-fashioned cafés you’ll find still lurking behind railway stations and serving spaghetti with bread and butter will tell you there’s a waiting list if you leave it late to reserve a table.

In the late 1980s my wife and I would sometimes dine out with another couple, he a writer and she a TV producer. One particular place we liked was a restaurant attached to a 1930s block of flats, near the Houses of Parliament, where the endless corridors were lined with blank doors, behind which you sensed awful things happened. The steel dining room dotted with potted palm trees overlooked a swimming pool, and this seemed terribly sophisticated to us even if it meant all your overpriced food had a vague taste of chlorine.

The four of us booked to eat there on 14 February, not realising the significance of the date. We found at every other table there was a single couple, either staring adoringly into each other’s eyes or squabbling.

As we sat down I noticed we were getting strange looks from our fellow diners. Some were sort of knowing, prompting smiles and winks; others seemed more outraged. The staff, too, were either simpering or frosty. After a while we realised what was going on: it was Valentine’s Day! All the other customers had assumed that we were a sexually connected foursome who had decided to celebrate our innovative relationship by having dinner together on this special date.

For the four of us, the smirking attention set up a strange dynamic: after that night it always felt like we were saying something seedy to each other. “Do you want to get together on Sunday?” I’d say to one of them on the phone, and then find myself blushing. “I’ll see if we can fit it in,” they’d reply, and we would both giggle nervously.

Things became increasingly awkward between us, until in the end we stopped seeing them completely. 

This article first appeared in the 25 May 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Why Islamic State targets Britain

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