Leaked EU FTT will likely hit the City too, whether we want it or not

If you can't beat them, maybe you should think about joining them?

The Financial Times' Alex Barker has seen a draft version of the financial transaction tax which is to be implemented by 11 euro area nations, and writes that it:

casts a wider net than expected by adding anti-avoidance measures to the original plan for an EU-wide levy, so that financial business does not decamp to safe havens.

The plan will levy a 0.1 per cent tax on stock and bond trades, and a 0.01 per cent tax on derivatives. It is imposed on any transaction involving a financial institution with its headquarters in the area, or on any transaction on behalf of a client based in the tax area.

It will also apply to transactions based on where the financial product was issued.

The news makes Britain's decision to opt-out from the tax look increasingly questionable. We already have a transaction tax of 0.5 per cent on any trades involving British stock — called stamp duty — which hasn't impacted on Britain becoming a centre of European finance. And the anti-avoidance measures included in the proposed draft will hit a relatively hefty proportion of trades involving the City.

Overall, around €30bn-€35bn is expected to be raised by the FTT, while similar measures implemented in the UK could raise around £8bn for the exchequer, according to the Robin Hood Tax Campaign, who say:

When our European neighbours are making their City firms pay for the damage they've caused it is shocking that our Government is refusing to get our banks to do the same.

With the UK facing welfare cuts and increased austerity, it is incomprehensible that the Chancellor should turn down the opportunity.

While the move looks likely to be effective on a revenue-raising front, it is less so when it comes to altering behaviour — the other key motivation for financial transaction taxes. The EU has less high-frequency trading (HFT) than the US, and the EU-wide FTT doesn't include a measure proposed by the Hollande government in France which would impose a minuscule tax on requests for quotes. That tax was aimed at stopping a type of HFT — quote spamming — which involves very few actual stock purchases; its absence leaves that abuse open.

Similarly, the value of the tax is low enough that it's unlikely that it will promote the "buy and hold" mentality that many were hoping for. Markets will still be volatile, and speculators will still rule. But hopefully the revenue will help.

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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The dog at the end of the lead may be small, but in fact what I’m walking is a hound of love

There is a new, hairy face in the Hovel.

There is a new, hairy face in the Hovel. I seem to have become a temporary co-owner of an enthusiastic Chorkie. A Chorkie, in case you’re not quite up to speed with your canine crossbreeds, is a mixture of a chihuahua and a Yorkshire Terrier, and while my friend K— busies herself elsewhere I am looking after this hound.

This falls squarely into the category of Things I Never Thought I’d Do. I’m a cat person, taking my cue from their idleness, cruelty and beauty. Dogs, with their loyalty, their enthusiasm and their barking, are all a little too much for me, even after the first drink of the day. But the dog is here, and I am in loco parentis, and it is up to me to make sure that she is looked after and entertained, and that there is no repetition of the unfortunate accident that occurred outside my housemate’s room, and which needed several tissues and a little poo baggie to make good.

As it is, the dog thinks I am the bee’s knees. To give you an idea of how beeskneesian it finds me, it is licking my feet as I write. “All right,” I feel like saying to her, “you don’t have to go that far.”

But it’s quite nice to be worshipped like this, I have decided. She has also fallen in love with the Hovel, and literally writhes with delight at the stinky cushions on the sofa. Named after Trude Fleischmann, the lesbian erotic photographer of the Twenties, Thirties and Forties, she has decided, with admirable open-mindedness, that I am the Leader of the Pack. When I take the lead, K— gets a little vexed.

“She’s walking on a loose lead, with you,” K— says. “She never does that when I’m walking her.” I don’t even know what that means, until I have a think and work it out.

“She’s also walking to heel with you,” K— adds, and once again I have to join a couple of mental dots before the mists part. It would appear that when it comes to dogs, I have a natural competence and authority, qualities I had never, not even in my most deranged flights of self-love, considered myself to possess in any measurable quantity at all.

And golly, does having a dog change the relationship the British urban flâneur has with the rest of society. The British, especially those living south of Watford, and above all those in London, do not recognise other people’s existence unless they want to buy something off them or stop them standing on the left of the sodding escalator, you idiot. This all changes when you have a dog with you. You are now fair game for any dog-fancier to come up to you and ask the most personal questions about the dog’s history and genealogy. They don’t even have to have a dog of their own; but if you do, you are obliged by law to stop and exchange dog facts.

My knowledge of dog facts is scant, extending not much further beyond them having a leg at each corner and chasing squirrels, so I leave the talking to K—, who, being a friendly sort who could probably talk dog all day long if pressed, is quite happy to do that. I look meanwhile in a kind of blank wonder at whichever brand of dog we’ve just encountered, and marvel not only at the incredible diversity of dog that abounds in the world, but at a realisation that had hitherto escaped me: almost half of London seems to have one.

And here’s the really interesting thing. When I have the leash, the city looks at me another way. And, specifically, the young women of the city. Having reached the age when one ceases to be visible to any member of the opposite sex under 30, I find, all of a sudden, that I exist again. Women of improbable beauty look at Trude, who looks far more Yorkie than chihuahua, apart from when she does that thing with the ears, and then look at me, and smile unguardedly and unironically, signalling to me that they have decided I am a Good Thing and would, were their schedules not preventing them, like to chat and get to know me and the dog a bit better.

I wonder at first if I am imagining this. I mention it to K—.

“Oh yes,” she says, “it’s a thing. My friend P-J regularly borrows her when he wants to get laid. He reckons he’s had about 12 shags thanks to her in the last six months. The problems only arise when they come back again and notice the dog isn’t there.”

I do the maths. Twelve in six months! That’s one a fortnight. An idea begins to form in my mind. I suppose you don’t have to be a rocket scientist to work out what it is. But no. I couldn’t. Could I?

Nicholas Lezard is a literary critic for the Guardian and also writes for the Independent. He writes the Down and Out in London column for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 28 April 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The new fascism