New lending rules for banks: what's really at stake is choice for borrowers

Forget banks' "competitive disadvantages".

“Give us a chance, mate”, seems to sum up the reaction from new banks, to a report by the Independent Commission on Banking which claims they must hold up to seven times as much capital against mortgage loans as their high street rivals.

The regulation behind this state of affairs, specifically the offering of lower capital requirements to those banks able to use their own databases to model risk on individual loans, is being criticised because only the biggest banks have the critical mass to earn the rewards.

Of course, the rationale that capital requirements wouldn’t be lowered unless regulators felt the database resources of those favoured were of sufficient scale to mitigate the risk of doing so sounds a bit dull in its affirmation that bigger, in some cases, really is better in banking.

More stirring, surely, to condemn the rules as stifling to the range of borrowing options available to consumers and small businesses at a competitive rate. Hence comments in the FT about a “glass ceiling” from Arbuthnot-owned Secure Trust Bank and “competitive disadvantage” from new bank Aldermore.

Once again, it’s the unstoppable force of “SMEs must be fed” smashing into the immovable object of “banks must be risk-averse”; a ringing collision that has underscored four years of regulatory discussion like a tireless blacksmith bashing away at the back of a press conference.

What’s at stake in this particular iteration of the discussion is the range of mortgage options borrowers have access to. Regulatory impact on this range is definitely not great for the competitive landscape, and certainly frustrating to smaller banks, but it’s by no means hobbling. Aldermore, for example, is well known for having grown at a blistering rate since its inception in 2009, and has had little difficulty picking up all the new business it has had an appetite for.

It’s more troubling, perhaps, to remember how the same issue of capital requirements can prove fatal to the big league.

“Increased regulatory requirements coupled with additional fiscal charges, the on-going economic malaise and other negative ‘head-winds’ require a serious response”, read an explanation sent to me by the press office of Netherlands-based banking group ING at the end of October last year.

What the statement was casually explaining was the decision by the group – based on pressure on its capital base caused by obligations both to Basel III regulation and the Dutch government – to kick a £1.5bn hole in the UK asset finance market by putting subsidiary ING Lease UK into run-off mode.

ING Lease was hugely profitable, and provided a lifeline for thousands of small businesses in need of equipment finance – but it didn’t matter. It was just too much of a drain on what was available.

Looking at the asset finance market now (where Aldermore is, out of interest, one of the banks racing to fill the gigantic gap left by ING), it’s clear to see how the demands of regulation really can have a brutal impact on the choices available to borrowers. 

Photograph: Getty Images

By day, Fred Crawley is editor of Credit Today and Insolvency Today. By night, he reviews graphic novels for the New Statesman.

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I can’t follow Marie Kondo's advice – even an empty Wotsits packet “sparks joy” in me

I thought I’d give her loopy, OCD theories a go, but when I held up an empty Wotsits bag I was suffused with so many happy memories of the time we’d spent together that I couldn’t bear to throw it away.

I have been brooding lately on the Japanese tidying freak Marie Kondo. (I forgot her name so I typed “Japanese tidying freak” into Google, and it was a great help.) The “Japanese” bit is excusable in this context, and explains a bit, as I gather Japan is more on the case with the whole “being tidy” thing than Britain, but still.

Apart from telling us that we need to take an enormous amount of care, to the point where we perform origami when we fold our underpants, which is pretty much where she lost me, she advises us to throw away anything that does not, when you hold it, “spark joy”. Perhaps I have too much joy in my life. I thought I’d give her loopy, OCD theories a go, but when I held up an empty Wotsits bag I was suffused with so many happy memories of the time we’d spent together that I couldn’t bear to throw it away.

After a while I gave up on this because I was getting a bit too happy with all the memories, so then I thought to myself, about her: “This is someone who isn’t getting laid enough,” and then I decided that was a crude and ungallant thought, and besides, who am I to wag the finger? At least if she invites someone to her bedroom no one is going to run screaming from it, as they would if I invited anyone to my boudoir. (Etym: from the French “bouder”, to sulk. How very apt in my case.) Marie Kondo – should bizarre circumstance ever conspire to bring her to the threshold – would run screaming from the Hovel before she’d even alighted the stairs from the front door.

I contemplate my bedroom. As I write, the cleaning lady is in it. To say that I have to spend half an hour cleaning out empty Wotsits packets, and indeed wotnot, before I let her in there should give you some idea of how shameful it has got. And even then I have to pay her to do so.

A girlfriend who used to be referred to often in these pages, though I think the term should be a rather less flippant one than “girlfriend”, managed to get round my natural messiness problem by inventing a game called “keep or chuck”.

She even made up a theme song for it, to the tune from the old Spiderman TV show. She would show me some object, which was not really rubbish, but usually a book (it may not surprise you to learn that it is the piles of books that cause most of the clutter here), and say, “Keep or chuck?” in the manner of a high-speed game show host. At one point I vacillated and so she then pointed at herself and said, “Keep or chuck?” I got the message.

These days the chances of a woman getting into the bedroom are remote. For one thing, you can’t just walk down the street and whistle for one much as one would hail a cab, although my daughter is often baffled by my ability to attract females, and suspects I have some kind of “mind ray”. Well, if I ever did it’s on the blink now, and not only that – right now, I’m not even particularly bothered that it’s on the blink. Because, for another thing, I would frankly not care to inflict myself upon anyone else at the moment.

It was all a bit of a giggle eight years ago, when I was wheeled out of the family home and left to my own devices. Of course, when I say “a bit of a giggle”, I mean “terrifying and miserable”, but I had rather fewer miles on the clock than I do now, and a man can, I think, get away with a little bit more scampish behaviour, and entertain a few more illusions about the future and his own plausibility as a character, when he is squarely in his mid-forties than when he is approaching, at speed, his middle fifties.

Death has rather a lot to do with it, I suppose. I had not actually seen, or touched, a dead body until I saw, and touched, my own father’s a few weeks ago. That’s what turns an abstract into a concrete reality. You finally put that to one side and gird up your loins – and then bloody David Bowie snuffs it, and you find yourself watching the videos for “Blackstar” and “Lazarus” over and over again, and reach the inescapable conclusion that death is not only incredibly unpleasant, it is also remorseless and very much nearer than you think.

And would you, dear reader, want to be involved with anyone who kept thinking along those lines? I mean, even if he learned how to fold his undercrackers into an upright cylinder, like a napkin at a fancy restaurant, before putting them in his drawer? When he doesn’t even have a drawer?

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 05 February 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Putin's war