It's astonishing the banks haven't been ring-fenced earlier

The in-kind subsidy to consumer banks has been crying out for a limit.

The chancellor has announced his plan to "electrify" the proposed ring-fence between retail and investment arms of British banks — which George calls the "Jurassic Park solution" — ensuring that if a bank tries to breach the ring-fence, it will be separated fully.

Much of the criticism of the ring-fence, as well as the Chancellor's defence of it, stems from its effects on financial stability. That's obviously important, but there's a bigger reason why such a move is long over-due, and that's the state backing of retail banks.

This backing isn't even a question of the too big to fail subsidies which hand around £34bn to the biggest banks. Instead, it's the effect of the financial services compensation scheme.

That's the government body which protects up to £85,000 of individuals' deposits with accredited banks. Since it was formed, it has paid out over £26bn, mostly in the aftermath of the financial crisis, to customers of retail banks which went bust.

And that's good! The FSCS is necessary in a world in which customers can't be expected to judge the financial health of a bank when deciding where to keep their money, and even more necessary given that a bank account is largely deemed a prerequisite of living a normal life in the UK today (hence the concern over the lack of basic bank accounts). But, at least on a cursory analysis, the FSCS also reduces the cost of capital for banks, because they don't have to compensate customers for the risk that they will lose all their deposits.

For a bank that's not failing, though, the FSCS is an in-kind subsidy, and it makes sense to limit that distortion. That's the reason for a ring fence: it ensures that the government is only subsidising the consumer banking sector, rather than the entire sector at once.

The stability arguments are important; and the ring-fence does indeed lessen the downside of a casino bank going under (although the amount it will lead to broader stability of the financial system is more questionable). But even without them, there'd be a strong prima facie reason for some kind of limit to the amount consumer deposits can be leveraged.

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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Is there such a thing as responsible betting?

Punters are encouraged to bet responsibly. What a laugh that is. It’s like encouraging drunks to get drunk responsibly, to crash our cars responsibly, murder each other responsibly.

I try not to watch the commercials between matches, or the studio discussions, or anything really, before or after, except for the match itself. And yet there is one person I never manage to escape properly – Ray Winstone. His cracked face, his mesmerising voice, his endlessly repeated spiel follow me across the room as I escape for the lav, the kitchen, the drinks cupboard.

I’m not sure which betting company he is shouting about, there are just so many of them, offering incredible odds and supposedly free bets. In the past six years, since the laws changed, TV betting adverts have increased by 600 per cent, all offering amazingly simple ways to lose money with just one tap on a smartphone.

The one I hate is the ad for BetVictor. The man who has been fronting it, appearing at windows or on roofs, who I assume is Victor, is just so slimy and horrible.

Betting firms are the ultimate football parasites, second in wealth only to kit manufacturers. They have perfected the capitalist’s art of using OPM (Other People’s Money). They’re not directly involved in football – say, in training or managing – yet they make millions off the back of its popularity. Many of the firms are based offshore in Gibraltar.

Football betting is not new. In the Fifties, my job every week at five o’clock was to sit beside my father’s bed, where he lay paralysed with MS, and write down the football results as they were read out on Sports Report. I had not to breathe, make silly remarks or guess the score. By the inflection in the announcer’s voice you could tell if it was an away win.

Earlier in the week I had filled in his Treble Chance on the Littlewoods pools. The “treble” part was because you had three chances: three points if the game you picked was a score draw, two for a goalless draw and one point for a home or away win. You chose eight games and had to reach 24 points, or as near as possible, then you were in the money.

“Not a damn sausage,” my father would say every week, once I’d marked and handed him back his predictions. He never did win a sausage.

Football pools began in the 1920s, the main ones being Littlewoods and Vernons, both based in Liverpool. They gave employment to thousands of bright young women who checked the results and sang in company choirs in their spare time. Each firm spent millions on advertising. In 1935, Littlewoods flew an aeroplane over London with a banner saying: Littlewoods Above All!

Postwar, they blossomed again, taking in £50m a year. The nation stopped at five on a Saturday to hear the scores, whether they were interested in football or not, hoping to get rich. BBC Sports Report began in 1948 with John Webster reading the results. James Alexander Gordon took over in 1974 – a voice soon familiar throughout the land.

These past few decades, football pools have been left behind, old-fashioned, low-tech, replaced by online betting using smartphones. The betting industry has totally rebooted itself. You can bet while the match is still on, trying to predict who will get the next goal, the next corner, the next throw-in. I made the last one up, but in theory you can bet instantly, on anything, at any time.

The soft sell is interesting. With the old football pools, we knew it was a remote flutter, hoping to make some money. Today the ads imply that betting on football somehow enhances the experience, adds to the enjoyment, involves you in the game itself, hence they show lads all together, drinking and laughing and putting on bets.

At the same time, punters are encouraged to do it responsibly. What a laugh that is. It’s like encouraging drunks to get drunk responsibly, to crash our cars responsibly, murder each other responsibly. Responsibly and respect are now two of the most meaningless words in the football language. People have been gambling, in some form, since the beginning, watching two raindrops drip down inside the cave, lying around in Roman bathhouses playing games. All they’ve done is to change the technology. You have to respect that.

Hunter Davies is a journalist, broadcaster and profilic author perhaps best known for writing about the Beatles. He is an ardent Tottenham fan and writes a regular column on football for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 05 February 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Putin's war