Thatcher's economic legacy

Margaret Thatcher's economic legacy was prompted by the 1976 Labour government's capitulation to the IMF – but she took it much further.

It is ironic that Margaret Thatcher’s funeral is to take place at St. Paul’s in the City of London. The world around Wren’s great monument is beginning to unravel as a result of the liberalisation forces she helped unleash. Banks are bankrupt, thousands of jobs lost, and the City’s hard-won reputation for honour and fair play is now in tatters.

The most fundamental economic action of the Thatcher era was to intensify the liberalisation of the financial sector. This was dictated by the City and endorsed by early monetarist economists.

The 1970s inflation was caused originally by this liberalisation and expansion of credit, at domestic and international level: too much money chasing too few goods and services. The Lawson boom of the late 1980s in the wake of attempted government retrenchment came as the money supply again became unhinged. Since the start of the liberalisation of finance at the end of the 1960s, the world economy has been on a roller-coaster, driven by repeated cycles of financial excess, inflations, economic failure and retrenchment. The almost unanimously celebrated 1992-2007 boom was an illusion made possible only by a debt inflation of a more severe kind than that of the 1930s.

As the debate over her legacy rages, economists are loud and united in the claim that Thatcher "fixed" the economy. Economists like Professor van Reenan of the LSE make vague assertions about improvements to the supply side, or to competitiveness. These hark back to arguments deployed by the original monetarists – Samuel Brittan of the FT; Brian Griffiths now of Goldman Sachs and an adviser to the Archbishop of Canterbury; and Peter Jay, ex-economics editor of the BBC. They were arguments used to justify liberalisation, and these policies caused the economy to deteriorate in every conceivable way.   

An examination of the post-war economic experiences of Britain was included in a 2010 PRIME report, "The Economic Consequences of Mr Osborne". 1976 is a key date: the point at which the Labour Government allegedly yielded "Keynesianism" to the IMF’s "reforms" that preceded and anticipated Thatcher’s policies. 

The most obvious economic headlines pre- and post-1976 are:

  • Unemployment averaged 2.3 per cent a year before reform and after 1976 rose to average 7.7 per cent a year;
  • GDP growth was 2.7 per cent a year before reform and 2.2 per cent a year afterwards; and
  • Income distribution narrowed almost every year before reform. 

And then the real transformation occurred. "The scale of the rise in inequality over the '80s was unparalleled both historically and compared with most other developed countries" according to the IFS in a 2011 report.

It is also a myth that the Golden Age that preceded liberalisation was burdened by an overreliance on the state, or the public sector. 

Before Thatcher came to power, the UK had a thriving manufacturing sector. In 1970, 33 per cent of the economy was accounted for by manufacturing. Today that proportion is 10 per cent. Before Thatcher, the owners of firms felt confident to invest: in real terms, capital investment grew by 4.6 per cent a year before her reforms and only 2.6 per cent afterwards.

Economic activity extended beyond the state and traditional manufacturing; there was a golden age of theatre, of design and of course of popular music. Britain could afford healthcare and education for all; secondary and higher education was free; a safety net protected the few that had no work, and a working pension system looked after the old. 

Contrary to the economic profession’s consensus, since reform, the size of government has grown as a share of the economy:

  • The broadest measure of the size of government, general government expenditure as a share of GDP, grew from 37 per cent to 41 per cent, post Thatcher.
  • In terms of the public finances, public debt measured as a share of GDP fell by an average of 5 percentage points a year in the period before Thatcherism. It rose by 1.3 percentage points per year in the period afterwards. 

This growth is of course not the positive result of more government spending on goods and services or of government investment. Rather, it represents the costs of the failure of reform. As the economy deteriorated, the cost of welfare and interest payments rocketed. 

In all this debate economists forget what the economy is for. It is not for the rich, or just about "growth" or "competitiveness". Rather, it provides an outlet for human creativity, and meets humankind’s deep desire to work. It creates frameworks that nurture and protect the young, the vulnerable and the old; that ease the adversities and enhance the pleasures of life for all those that live within it.

On these terms the reforms promoted by the economics profession and implemented by Thatcher have failed the people of Britain – catastrophically.  

The Conservative front-bench, featuring Margaret Thatcher, in 1976. Photograph: Getty Images

Ann Pettifor is director of Policy Research in Macroeconomics and Douglas Coe is a researcher with PRIME

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In the 1980s, I went to a rally where Labour Party speakers shared the stage with men in balaclavas

The links between the Labour left and Irish republicanism are worth investigating.

A spat between Jeremy Corbyn’s henchfolk and Conor McGinn, the MP for St Helens North, caught my ear the other evening. McGinn was a guest on BBC Radio 4’s Westminster Hour, and he obligingly revisited the brouhaha for the listeners at home. Apparently, following an interview in May, in which McGinn called for Corbyn to “reach out beyond his comfort zone”, he was first threatened obliquely with the sack, then asked for a retraction (which he refused to give) and finally learned – from someone in the whips’ office – that his party leader was considering phoning up McGinn’s father to whip the errant whipper-in into line. On the programme, McGinn said: “The modus operandi that he [Corbyn] and the people around him were trying to do [sic], involving my family, was to isolate and ostracise me from them and from the community I am very proud to come from – which is an Irish nationalist community in south Armagh.”

Needless to say, the Labour leader’s office has continued to deny any such thing, but while we may nurture some suspicions about his behaviour, McGinn was also indulging in a little airbrushing when he described south Armagh as an “Irish ­nationalist community”. In the most recent elections, Newry and Armagh returned three Sinn Fein members to the Northern Ireland Assembly (as against one Social Democratic and Labour Party member) and one Sinn Fein MP to Westminster. When I last looked, Sinn Fein was still a republican, rather than a nationalist, party – something that McGinn should only be too well aware of, as the paternal hand that was putatively to have been lain on him belongs to Pat McGinn, the former Sinn Fein mayor of Newry and Armagh.

According to the Irish News, a “close friend” of the McGinns poured this cold water on the mini-conflagration: “Anybody who knows the McGinn family knows that Pat is very proud of Conor and that they remain very close.” The friend went on to opine: “He [Pat McGinn] found the whole notion of Corbyn phoning him totally ridiculous – as if Pat is going to criticise his son to save Jeremy Corbyn’s face. They would laugh about it were it not so sinister.”

“Sinister” does seem the mot juste. McGinn, Jr grew up in Bessbrook during the Troubles. I visited the village in the early 1990s on assignment. The skies were full of the chattering of British army Chinooks, and there were fake road signs in the hedgerows bearing pictograms of rifles and captioned: “Sniper at work”. South Armagh had been known for years as “bandit country”. There were army watchtowers standing sentinel in the dinky, green fields and checkpoints everywhere, manned by some of the thousands of the troops who had been deployed to fight what was, in effect, a low-level counter-insurgency war. Nationalist community, my foot.

What lies beneath the Corbyn-McGinn spat is the queered problematics of the ­relationship between the far left wing of the Labour Party and physical-force Irish republicanism. I also recall, during the hunger strikes of the early 1980s, going to a “Smash the H-Blocks” rally in Kilburn, north London, at which Labour Party speakers shared the stage with representatives from Sinn Fein, some of whom wore balaclavas and dark glasses to evade the telephoto lenses of the Met’s anti-terrorist squad.

The shape-shifting relationship between the “political wing” of the IRA and the men with sniper rifles in the south Armagh bocage was always of the essence of the conflict, allowing both sides a convenient fiction around which to posture publicly and privately negotiate. In choosing to appear on platforms with people who might or might not be terrorists, Labour leftists also sprinkled a little of their stardust on themselves: the “stardust” being the implication that they, too, under the right circumstances, might be capable of violence in pursuit of their political ends.

On the far right of British politics, Her Majesty’s Government and its apparatus are referred to derisively as “state”. There were various attempts in the 1970s and 1980s by far-right groupuscules to link up with the Ulster Freedom Fighters and other loyalist paramilitary organisations in their battle against “state”. All foundered on the obvious incompetence of the fascists. The situation on the far left was different. The socialist credentials of Sinn Fein/IRA were too threadbare for genuine expressions of solidarity, but there was a sort of tacit confidence-and-supply arrangement between these factions. The Labour far left provided the republicans with the confidence that, should an appropriately radical government be elected to Westminster, “state” would withdraw from Northern Ireland. What the republicans did for the mainland militants was to cloak them in their penumbra of darkness: without needing to call down on themselves the armed might of “state”, they could imply that they were willing to take it on, should the opportunity arise.

I don’t for a second believe that Corbyn was summoning up these ghosts of the insurrectionary dead when he either did or did not threaten to phone McGinn, Sr. But his supporters need to ask themselves what they’re getting into. Their leader, if he was to have remained true to the positions that he has espoused over many years, should have refused to sit as privy counsellor upon assuming his party office, and refused all the other mummery associated with the monarchical “state”. That he didn’t do so was surely a strategic decision. Such a position would make him utterly unelectable.

The snipers may not be at work in south Armagh just now – but there are rifles out there that could yet be dug up. I wouldn’t be surprised if some in Sinn Fein knew where they are, but one thing’s for certain: Corbyn hasn’t got a clue, bloody or otherwise. 

Will Self is an author and journalist. His books include Umbrella, Shark, The Book of Dave and The Butt. He writes the Madness of Crowds and Real Meals columns for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 25 August 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Cameron: the legacy of a loser