Why Estonia should not be our economic poster-boy

Estonia has much to recommend it, but a look at its recent economic history should give anyone pause

Baltic boosterism is back. Last week Fraser Nelson used his new Telegraph column to sing the praises of Estonia's economic performance, taking his cue from an earlier editorial in the Wall Street Journal which lavished praise on the small Baltic state for cutting spending and keeping taxes "flat and low". Estonia is growing fast -- motoring along at an annualised 8.4 per cent -- and proof positive according to Nelson that expansionary contraction works. It has cut its way back to prosperity.

Last time libertarians cheer-led for the Baltic states like this was when their flat taxes were in vogue, back in 2005. Flat taxes were said to be sweeping across Eastern Europe towards Berlin faster than the Red Army, as Germany's general election approached. George Osborne even briefly flirted with the idea -- until Gerhard Schroder tore chunks out of Angela Merkel's poll lead by demolishing her on the issue. The libertarians retreated wounded, to regroup and find a new line of attack.

Estonia is indeed a fine country. Its people are resilient and dynamic. Its government is open and transparent and it invests heavily in innovation. Like other Northern European countries, it has historically exercised fiscal prudence. It has much to recommend it.

But a brief look at its recent economic history should give anyone pause for thought. During the financial crisis, Estonia's GDP contracted sharply -- by over 5 per cent in 2008 and then a massive 13.9 per cent in 2009. Unemployment rocketed to nearly 17 per cent -- one of the highest levels in the EU. It is still very high at over 13 per cent.

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Given such a deep loss of output, high unemployment and lower labour costs, one would expect rapid post-recessionary growth. But even then, much of Estonia's recent bounce back has been driven by increased exports, chiefly to its high performing social democratic neighbours. Meanwhile, inflation is high and consumer spending low, and GDP growth is now returning to a trend that is lower than before the crisis in 2008, in part because of the constraints imposed by euro membership.

That the balance sheet effects of the internal devaluations of the Baltic republics were not more severe was largely the result of negligible public debt before the crisis struck, as Roubini has recently spelled out:

The international experience of "internal devaluations" is mostly one of failure. Argentina tried the deflation route to a real depreciation and, after three years of an ever-deepening recession/depression, it defaulted and exited its currency board peg. The case of Latvia's "successful" internal devaluation is not a model for the EZ periphery: Output fell by 20 per cent and unemployment surged to 20 per cent; the public debt was -- unlike in the EZ periphery -- negligible as a percentage of GDP and thus a small amount of official finance -- a few billion euros -- was enough to backstop the country without the massive balance-sheet effects of deflation; and the willingness of the policy makers to sweat blood and tears to avoid falling into the arms of the "Russian bear" was, for a while, unlimited (as opposed to the EZ periphery's unwillingness to give up altogether its fiscal independence to Germany); and even after devaluation and default was avoided, the current backlash against such draconian adjustment is now very serious and risks undermining such efforts (while, equivalently, the social and political backlash against recessionary austerity is coming to a boil in the EZ periphery).

The Baltic republics are also curious poster-boys for British Eurosceptics, who generally favour the break-up of the eurozone, and positively urge Greece to default and bring back a devalued Drachma. It is doubly odd, therefore, that they should commend a country like Estonia for sacrificing everything on the altar of euro membership, particularly as it now has to contribute to eurozone bailout funds.

Still, when you're arguing for expansionary contraction, why let a little matter of intellectual consistency get in the way?

Nick Pearce is Director of IPPR

 

Nick Pearce is Professor of Public Policy & Director of the Institute for Policy Research, University of Bath.

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Andy Burnham and Sadiq Khan are both slippery self-mythologisers – so why do we rate one more than the other?

Their obsessions with their childhoods have both become punchlines; but one of these jokes, it feels to me, is told with a lot more affection than the other.

Andy Burnham is a man whose policies and opinions seem to owe more to political expediency than they do to belief. He bangs on to the point of tedium about his own class, background and interests. As a result he’s widely seen as an unprincipled flip-flopper.

Sadiq Khan is a man whose policies and opinions seem to owe more to political expediency than they do to belief. He bangs on to the point of tedium about his own class, background and interests. As a result he’s the hugely popular mayor of London, the voice of those who’d be proud to think of themselves as the metropolitan liberal elite, and is even talked of as a possible future leader of the Labour party.

Oh, and also they were both born in 1970. So that’s a thing they have in common, too.

Why it is this approach to politics should have worked so much better for the mayor of London than the would-be mayor of Manchester is something I’ve been trying to work out for a while. There are definite parallels between Burnham’s attempts to present himself as a normal northern bloke who likes normal things like football, and Sadiq’s endless reminders that he’s a sarf London geezer whose dad drove a bus. They’ve both become punchlines; but one of these jokes, it feels to me, is told with a lot more affection than the other.

And yes, Burnham apparent tendency to switch sides, on everything from NHS privatisation to the 2015 welfare vote to the leadership of Jeremy Corbyn, has given him a reputation for slipperiness. But Sadiq’s core campaign pledge was to freeze London transport fares; everyone said it was nonsense, and true to form it was, and you’d be hard pressed to find an observer who thought this an atypical lapse on the mayor’s part. (Khan, too, has switched sides on the matter of Jeremy Corbyn.)

 And yet, he seems to get away with this, in a way that Burnham doesn’t. His low-level duplicity is factored in, and it’s hard to judge him for it because, well, it’s just what he’s like, isn’t it? For a long time, the Tory leadership’s line on London’s last mayor was “Boris is Boris”, meaning, look, we don’t trust him either, but what you gonna do? Well: Sadiq is Sadiq.

Even the names we refer to them by suggest that one of these two guys is viewed very differently from the other. I’ve instinctively slipped into referring to the mayor of London by his first name: he’s always Sadiq, not Khan, just as his predecessors were Boris and Ken. But, despite Eoin Clarke’s brief attempt to promote his 2015 leadership campaign with a twitter feed called “Labour Andy”, Burnham is still Burnham: formal, not familiar. 

I’ve a few theories to explain all this, though I’ve no idea which is correct. For a while I’ve assumed it’s about sincerity. When Sadiq Khan mentions his dad’s bus for the 257th time in a day, he does it with a wink to the audience, making a crack about the fact he won’t stop going on about it. That way, the message gets through to the punters at home who are only half listening, but the bored lobby hacks who’ve heard this routine two dozen times before feel they’re in the joke.

Burnham, it seems to me, lacks this lightness of touch: when he won’t stop banging on about the fact he grew up in the north, it feels uncomfortably like he means it. And to take yourself seriously in politics is sometimes to invite others to make jokes at your expense.

Then again, perhaps the problem is that Burnham isn’t quite sincere enough. Sadiq Khan genuinely is the son of a bus-driving immigrant: he may keep going on about it, but it is at least true. Burnham’s “just a northern lad” narrative is true, too, but excludes some crucial facts: that he went to Cambridge, and was working in Parliament aged 24. Perhaps that shouldn’t change how we interpret his story; but I fear, nonetheless, it does.

Maybe that’s not it, though: maybe I’m just another London media snob. Because Burnham did grow up at the disadvantaged end of the country, a region where, for too many people, chasing opportunities means leaving. The idea London is a city where the son of a bus driver can become mayor flatters our metropolitan self-image; the idea that a northerner who wants to build a career in politics has to head south at the earliest opportunity does the opposite. 

So if we roll our eyes when Burnham talks about the north, perhaps that reflects badly on us, not him: the opposite of northern chippiness is southern snobbery.

There’s one last possibility for why we may rate Sadiq Khan more highly than Andy Burnham: Sadiq Khan won. We can titter a little at the jokes and the fibs but he is, nonetheless, mayor of London. Andy Burnham is just the bloke who lost two Labour leadership campaigns.

At least – for now. In six weeks time, he’s highly likely to the first mayor of Greater Manchester. Slipperiness is not the worst quality in a mayor; and so much of the job will be about banging the drum for the city, and the region, that Burnham’s tendency to wear his northernness on his sleeve will be a positive boon.

Sadiq Khan’s stature has grown because the fact he became London’s mayor seems to say something, about the kind of city London is and the kind we want it to be. Perhaps, after May, Andy Burnham can do the same for the north – and the north can do the same for Andy Burnham.

Jonn Elledge edits the New Statesman's sister site CityMetric, and writes for the NS about subjects including politics, history and Daniel Hannan. You can find him on Twitter or Facebook.