Retail sales up: but then January-March has been an exception

We shouldn't call recovery just yet.

With the British Retail Consortium showing that retail sales increased in March by 3.7 per cent on a total basis and by 1.9 per cent on a like-for-like basis, many are now suggesting that the beleaguered retail sector is seemingly moving into recovery mode. The March numbers follow on from an upbeat February and both have helped to contribute to first quarter sales growth which was the strongest of any three-month period since December 2009.

While such momentum is clearly welcome, in order assess the true strength of the recovery the figures do need to be set in a wider context.

With the earlier timing of Easter this year, it was always inevitable that March would be a good month for sales growth. What is perhaps surprising, however, is that given this sales growth was not higher. Indeed, despite the boost of Easter, both the total and like-for-like growth rates were relatively subdued to those seen in February. So, if anything, the March numbers represent a slight deterioration in growth momentum rather than a strengthening.

The other point to which attention needs to be drawn is that the growth was fairly unevenly distributed. Food retailers, helped in large part by inflation, saw some good gains. However, the clothing sector had a torrid time as the unseasonal weather drove down demand for spring merchandise.

Then there is the unusually buoyant demand for electricals. On this front, while there is inevitably strong demand for products like tablets, some of the growth reported by retailers is likely to have come from the collapse of chains like Comet and Jessops – the sales of which have been reallocated to those left standing. Neither the British Retail Consortium nor the Office for National Statistics adjust for such failures which means, in essence, that their aggregation of growth reported by retailers becomes divorced from a proper reading of actual underlying consumer spending growth. While the impact of this methodological anomaly should not be overstated, it is worth bearing in mind when assessing the growth figures.

None of this takes away, of course, from the strong growth seen in February which will, inevitably, be pointed to as a sign that things are getting better. However, even here context remains important. The February numbers were partly flattered by a weaker January when some spending was postponed due to the winter weather. This was especially true of fashion where not only did depleted footfall on high streets dint sales, but the cold temperatures were out of kilter with the spring stock which was on the shop floor towards the end of the month. Comparatively, most of February was fairly mild which encouraged consumers out onto the high street and into buying spring fashion lines.

So, in many ways, the first three months of this year have been fairly exceptional – in terms of the weather, in the timing of Easter, and in the amount of churn with various failures in the sector. As such, this is perhaps not the best period over which to pronounce that a meaningful and sustained retail recovery has begun. Only when we get into May and June will we have a more rounded picture of retail prospects.

Retail sales increased in March. Photograph: Getty Images

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In defence of orientalism, the case against Twenty20, and why Ken should watch Son of Saul

My week, from Age Concern to anti-semitism.

Returning late from a party I never much wanted to go to, I leap up and down in the middle of the Harrow Road in the hope of flagging down a taxi, but the drivers don’t notice me. Either they’re haring down the fast lane or they’re too preoccupied cursing Uber to one another on their mobile phones. My father drove a black cab, so I have a deep loyalty to them. But there’s nothing like being left stranded in NW10 in the dead of night to make one reconsider one’s options. I just wish Uber wasn’t called Uber.

Just not cricket

Tired and irritable, I spend the next day watching sport on television – snooker, darts, cricket, anything I can find. But I won’t be following the Indian Premier League’s Twenty20 cricket again. It’s greedy, cynical, over-sponsored and naff. Whenever somebody hits a boundary, cheerleaders in cast-off gym kit previously worn by fourth-form Roedean girls wave tinsel mops.

Matches go to the final over where they’re decided in a thrashathon of sixes hit by mercenaries wielding bats as wide as shovels. Why, in that case, don’t both teams just play a final over each and dispense with the previous 19? I can’t wait for the elegant ennui of a five-day Test match.

Stop! Culture police!

I go to the Delacroix exhibition at the National Gallery to shake off the sensation of all-consuming kitsch. Immediately I realise I have always confused Delacroix with someone else but I can’t decide who. Maybe Jacques-Louis David. The show convincingly argues that Delacroix influenced every artist who came after him except Jeff Koons, who in that case must have been influenced by David. It’s turbulent, moody work, some of the best of it, again to my surprise, being religious painting with the religion taken out. Christ’s followers lamenting his death don’t appear to be expecting miracles. This is a man they loved, cruelly executed. The colours are the colours of insupportable grief.

I love the show but wish the curators hadn’t felt they must apologise for Delacroix finding the North Africans he painted “exotic”. Cultural studies jargon screams from the wall. You can hear the lecturer inveighing against the “appropriating colonial gaze” – John Berger and Edward Said taking all the fun out of marvelling at what’s foreign and desirable. I find myself wondering where they’d stand on the Roedean cheer-leaders of Mumbai.

Taking leave of the senses

My wife drags me to a play at Age Concern’s headquarters in Bloomsbury. When I see where she’s taking me I wonder if she plans to leave me there. The play is called Don’t Leave Me Now and is written by Brian Daniels. It is, to keep it simple, about the effects of dementia on the families and lovers of sufferers. I am not, in all honesty, expecting a good time. It is a reading only, the actors sitting in a long line like a board of examiners, and the audience hunched forward in the attitude of the professionally caring.  My wife is a therapist so this is her world.

Here, unlike in my study, an educated empathy prevails and no one is furious. I fear that art is going to get lost in good intention. But the play turns out to be subtly powerful, sympathetic and sharp, sad and funny; and hearing it read engages me as seeing it performed might not have done. Spared the spectacle of actors throwing their bodies around and singing about their dreams against a backdrop painted by a lesser, Les Mis version of Delacroix, you can concentrate on the words. And where dementia is the villain, words are priceless.

Mixing with the proles

In Bloomsbury again the next day for a bank holiday design and craft fair at Mary Ward House. I have a soft spot for craft fairs, having helped run a craft shop once, and I feel a kinship with the designers sitting bored behind their stalls, answering inane questions about kilns and receiving empty compliments. But it’s the venue that steals the show, a lovely Arts and Crafts house, founded in the 1890s by the novelist Mary Ward with the intention of enabling the wealthy and educated to live among the poor and introduce them to the consolations of beauty and knowledge. We’d call that patronising. We’re wrong. It’s a high ideal, to ease the burden of poverty and ignorance and, in Ward’s words, save us from “the darker, coarser temptations of our human road”.

An Oscar-winning argument for Zionism

Speaking of which, I am unable to empty my mind of Ken Livingstone and his apologists as I sit in the cinema and watch the just-released Academy Award-winning Son of Saul, a devastating film about one prisoner’s attempt to hold on to a vestige of humanity in a Nazi death camp. If you think you know of hell from Dante or Michelangelo, think again. The inferno bodied forth in Son of Saul is no theological apportioning of justice or deserts. It is the evisceration of meaning, the negation of every grand illusion about itself mankind has ever harboured. There has been a fashion, lately, to invoke Gaza as proof that the Holocaust is a lesson that Jews failed to learn – as though one cruelty drives out another, as though suffering is forfeit, and as though we, the observers, must choose between horrors.

I defy even Livingstone to watch this film, in which the Jews, once gassed, become “pieces” – Stücke – and not grasp the overwhelming case for a Jewish place of refuge. Zionism pre-dated the camps, and its fulfilment, if we can call it that, came too late for those millions reduced to the grey powder mountains the Sonderkommandos were tasked with sweeping away. It diminishes one’s sympathy for the Palestinian cause not a jot to recognise the arguments, in a world of dehumanising hate, for Zionism. Indeed, not to recognise those arguments is to embrace the moral insentience whose murderous consequence Son of Saul confronts with numbed horror. 

This article first appeared in the 06 April 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The longest hatred