QE, austerity, trade… has the UK anything left to prop it up?

"No action" is not an option.

You would have to travel a long way to find anyone more safety-conscious than a coal miner. So you might have found it strange that when steel pit props were introduced miners objected with a ferocity that shocked management. Their reasoning was simple; before a wooden pit prop broke it gave out a characteristic creak. Steel props shattered without any warning signal. Your chances of getting away before the cave-in became vanishingly small.

So where’s the creaking pit prop in the UK economy? You wouldn’t have to look much further than the behaviour of the Monetary Policy Committee (MPC) of the Bank of England. The committee seems to have been intent on stealing the thunder of the "Greatest Central Banker of His Generation", otherwise known as Mark Carney, even before he has had time to warm the seat of the out-going Mervyn King. The MPC has been implementing Carney’s favoured ideas (promoting bank lending) whilst laying the ground to stop him increasing the Quantitative Easing (QE) programme by voting Sir Mervyn down on the issue four meetings in a row. At the same time Charles Bean, a voting member of the MPC, has, once again, been waving the spectre of negative interest rates in the face of the markets. As the old leader faded others have jumped into the vacuum before the new one arrived.

But the reality is that the lending policies won’t deliver the impact that some expect. The Funding for Lending Scheme is tiny compared to the size of the overall economy whilst some of the Help To Buy schemes meant to promote the housing market look positively dangerous if interest rates start to rise. Besides, consumers, who are seeing their real incomes decline, are still historically geared-up to their eyeballs and are highly sensitive to even small interest rate movements. They aren’t likely to throw a credit party whilst government expenditure is continually cut in real terms during the next five years, a policy to which both the UK coalition and the opposition parties are committed. In short, as in the past four years, housing approvals are going nowhere – that prop has been taken away.

The spending freeze has reinforced the sense of economic hibernation to the point that there is no obvious domestic engine for growth in the UK. To compound the situation our nearest and arguably most important trading partner, Europe, is still in the grips of a decline. Either Mr Carney will get round the MPC nay-sayers and extend QE to a level unthinkable even to the Japanese or politicians are going to have to start spending again; such a volte face would provide the Labour Party with a purpose and relevance that it has now lost.

"No action" is not an option. The electorate won’t have it, especially when they can organize themselves through social media on a level and with ferocity never seen before. Either way, by design or by accident, the pound would take the strain if more and more stimulus is poured into the economy just to prop it up. The defining moment for Mark Carney may yet be how he handles a sterling crisis that will feel like a mineshaft collapsing in on him. The creak is there if he wants to hear it.

Bank of England Governor, Mark Carney. Photograph: Getty Images

Head of Fixed Income and Macro, Old Mutual Global Investors

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How Donald Trump is slouching towards the Republican nomination

There was supposed to be a ceiling above which Trump’s popular support could not climb.

In America, you can judge a crowd by its merchandise. Outside the Connecticut Convention Centre in Hartford, frail old men and brawny moms are selling “your Trump 45 football jerseys”, “your hats”, “your campaign buttons”. But the hottest item is a T-shirt bearing the slogan “Hillary sucks . . . but not like Monica!” and, on the back: “Trump that bitch!” Inside, beyond the checkpoint manned by the Transportation Security Administration and the secret service (“Good!” the man next to me says, when he sees the agents), is a family whose three kids, two of them girls, are wearing the Monica shirt.

Other people are content with the shirts they arrived in (“Waterboarding – baptising terrorists with freedom” and “If you don’t BLEED red, white and blue, take your bitch ass home!”). There are 80 chairs penned off for the elderly but everyone else is standing: guys in motorcycle and military gear, their arms folded; aspiring deal-makers, suited, on cellphones; giggling high-school fatsos, dressed fresh from the couch, grabbing M&M’s and Doritos from the movie-theatre-style concession stands. So many baseball hats; deep, bellicose chants of “Build the wall!” and “USA!”. (And, to the same rhythm, “Don-ald J!”)

A grizzled man in camouflage pants and combat boots, whose T-shirt – “Connecticut Militia III%” – confirms him as a member of the “patriot” movement, is talking to a zealous young girl in a short skirt, who came in dancing to “Uptown Girl”.

“Yeah, we were there for Operation American Spring,” he says. “Louis Farrakhan’s rally of hate . . .”

“And you’re a veteran?” she asks. “Thank you so much!”

Three hours will pass. A retired US marine will take the rostrum to growl, “God bless America – hoo-rah!”; “Uptown Girl” will play many more times (much like his speeches, Donald J’s playlist consists of a few items, repeated endlessly), before Trump finally looms in and asks the crowd: “Is this the greatest place on Earth?”

There was supposed to be a ceiling above which Trump’s popular support could not climb. Only a minority within a minority of Americans, it was assumed, could possibly be stupid enough to think a Trump presidency was a good idea. He won New Hampshire and South Carolina with over 30 per cent of the Republican vote, then took almost 46 per cent in Nevada. When he cleaned up on Super Tuesday in March, he was just shy of 50 per cent in Massachusetts; a week later, he took 47 per cent of the votes in Mississippi.

His rivals, who are useless individually, were meant to co-operate with each other and the national party to deny him the nomination. But Trump won four out of the five key states being contested on “Super-Duper Tuesday” on 15 March. Then, as talk turned to persuading and co-opting his delegates behind the scenes, Trump won New York with 60 per cent.

Now, the campaign is trying to present Trump as more “presidential”. According to his new manager, Paul Manafort, this requires him to appear in “more formal settings” – without, of course, diluting “the unique magic of Trump”. But whether or not he can resist denouncing the GOP and the “corrupt” primary system, and alluding to violence if he is baulked at at the convention, the new Trump will be much the same as the old.

Back in Hartford: “The Republicans wanna play cute with us, right? If I don’t make it, you’re gonna have millions of people that don’t vote for a Republican. They’re not gonna vote at all,” says Trump. “Hopefully that’s all, OK? Hopefully that’s all, but they’re very, very angry.”

This anger, which can supposedly be turned on anyone who gets in the way, has mainly been vented, so far, on the protesters who disrupt Trump’s rallies. “We’re not gonna be the dummies that lose all of our jobs now. We’re gonna be the smart ones. Oh, do you have one over there? There’s one of the dummies . . .”

There is a frenzied fluttering of Trump placards, off to his right. “Get ’em out! . . . Don’t hurt ’em – see how nice I am? . . . They really impede freedom of speech and it’s a disgrace. But the good news is, folks, it won’t be long. We’re just not taking it and it won’t be long.”

It is their removal by police, at Trump’s ostentatious behest, that causes the disruption, rather than the scarcely audible protesters. He seems to realise this, suddenly: “We should just let ’em . . . I’ll talk right over them, there’s no problem!” But it’s impossible to leave the protesters where they are, because it would not be safe. His crowd is too vicious.

Exit Trump, after exactly half an hour, inclusive of the many interruptions. His people seem uplifted but, out on the street, they are ambushed by a large counter-demonstration, with a booming drum and warlike banners and standards (“Black Lives Matter”; an image of the Virgin of Guadalupe, holding aloft Trump’s severed head). Here is the rest of the world, the real American world: young people, beautiful people, more female than male, every shade of skin colour. “F*** Donald Trump!” they chant.

After a horrified split-second, the Trump crowd, massively more numerous, rallies with “USA!” and – perplexingly, since one of the main themes of the speech it has just heard was the lack of jobs in Connecticut – “Get a job!” The two sides then mingle, unobstructed by police. Slanging matches break out that seem in every instance to humiliate the Trump supporter. “Go to college!” one demands. “Man, I am in college, I’m doin’ lovely!”

There is no violence, only this: some black boys are dancing, with liquid moves, to the sound of the drum. Four young Trump guys counter by stripping to their waists and jouncing around madly, their skin greenish-yellow under the street lights, screaming about the building of the wall. There was no alcohol inside; they’re drunk on whatever it is – the elixir of fascism, the unique magic of Trump. It’s a hyper but not at all happy drunk.

As with every other moment of the Trump campaign so far, it would have been merely some grade of the cringeworthy – the embarrassing, the revolting, the pitiful – were Trump not slouching closer and closer, with each of these moments, to his nomination. 

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