Bank of England mulls pay rise for its court

"Just" £15,000 for three days work a month.

The Financial Times' Patrick Jenkins reports that Bank of England officials are considering boosting the pay of the non-executive directors in the Bank's "court" (its governing body):

The eight external non-executives in the 12-seat “court” – as the BoE’s governing body is named – are paid just £15,000 a year for a time commitment of three days a month. The chairman of the court, Sir David Lees, who works three to four days a week in his role, is paid £30,000.

“This needs to change,” said one person who is backing the reforms. “£15,000 is pitiful. It suggests people are only turning up for tea.”

Although "just £15,000" is actually a pro-rata salary of over £150,000 per year, hard for most to reconcile with the phrase "pitiful", there's a new urgency to getting this sorted out sooner rather than later. With the demise of the Financial Services Authority, which was disbanded at the end of March, financial regulation has been split between the new Financial Conduct Authority, which is operated under the aegis of the Treasury, and two bodies run by the Bank of England: the new Prudential Regulation Authority, and the Bank's own Financial Policy Committee.

On top of that, the Bank also now has an explicit remit to protect financial stability in the UK. All of those changes have made the danger of regulatory capture (when a regulator begins serving the interests of the industry they are regulating over the interests of the state) a more pressing issue than it has been for much of the bank's past; and one of the key ways of avoiding that capture is to pay the regulator enough that they don't find themselves beholden to those they are regulating.

Of course, that's less of an issue in the Bank of England than it is elsewhere. For one, sitting in the court remains a part-time job. A number of the members have other work which hardly leaves them penniless. The managing director of Lloyds Banking Group, the chairman of Legal and General Group and the managing partner of Grovepoint Capital are unlikely to find themselves suddenly corruptible because they spend a few days each month working for less than their normal pay; and regulatory capture is less of an issue if the industry being regulated already has half the seats at the table.

Which is probably why the key argument being made internally is one of perception. As one reformer tells Jenkins:

Continuing to call this body the court and paying people so little conveys the wrong impression externally.

But perception differs inside and outside the industries the Bank regulates. While it may be important in conversations with other people working in the city, there's a markedly different perception of the bank in the real world. While it's insulated from public opinion to a certain extent, it may still be a good idea for the court to let the new financial regulatory regime bed in before awarding themselves pay rises – because right now, the crash is still firm in people's minds, and that is something which doesn't justify a large salary at all.

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