The nasty world Vickers missed

In his banking review, John Vickers said there isn’t enough competition among high street banks. He

Doorstep lending and loan sharking is causing misery for thousands of people across the country right now, but a small credit scheme is fighting back in east London and it has had some good news.

Fair Finance, based in Stepney, has raised £1m for its loan book from Société Générale and BNP Paribas so it can offer loans to poor families that are at the mercy of doorstep lenders and loan sharks – no collateral required.

It was set up five years ago by Faisel Rahman to provide funds to those typically rejected by the banks. They typically borrow up to £500 for items such as a new oven or school uniforms.

Fair Finance runs repayment over about a year and charges an annual percentage rate of 44 per cent. It helps customers set up bank accounts and encourages the reporting of loan sharks to the police. Its default rate is just 7 per cent and the company now employs 12 people.

This system of microlending is similar to that of the Grameen Bank, started in Bangladesh by the Nobel prizewinner Professor Muhammad Yunus, now sadly battling opponents of his own after being forced to retire as Grameen's head.

The problem in the UK is that people rejected by banks as being too high a risk resort to doorstep lenders, who bring the cash to your door but charge up to 2,500 per cent. This is big business.

There are two problems at work here. The Competition Commission has warned that there aren't enough lenders prepared to take on the high-risk market (otherwise known as "poor people"). And loan sharks are flourishing because enforcement rules aren't tough enough.

But the Labour MP Stella Creasy has been steering a private member's bill through parliament. The Consumer Credit (Regulation and Advice) Bill was parked in February; however, it will return in October. Here's more about the whole issue in detail.

Trading Standards officers across the country want the bill to become law so that they can work with the police to take on the worst offenders they know by name. Doncaster has been doing some great work this way.

But, on this issue as usual, the anti-regulation-more-red-tape brigade can't see the wood from the trees.

Trading standards officers are council officials, so it would be a big help if the Communities Secretary, Eric Pickles, backed the bill. Think it through and there's an efficiency saving here which also prevents people falling into deeper problems.

But will Pickles get involved? He may need a little gentle persuading. So why don't you email him and try a bit of "nudge" behavioural change?

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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