Signs you've gone on holiday to a fascist dictatorship

And what that means for the markets in Italy and Spain.

In 1969, as a nine year-old, the only real sign that we had gone on holiday to a fascist dictatorship was the policemen with machine guns walking up and down outside the hotel. The only other real sign was that Maria, my first true holiday love and our waitress at the Riviera Hotel Benidorm, would religiously count the number of chips each of us were given. Say what you will about Spanish fascism, it had the regularity and order of a well-run capitalist fast food outlet.

Meanwhile, across the Mediterranean, in Italy, they were about to embark upon "The Years of Lead" a roughly decade-long strategy of tension that would see both left and right-wing bombing and kidnapping campaigns designed to discredit their opponents and destabilize Italy. So serious was the threat, in 1990, the government of Giulio Andreotti revealed to Parliament the existence of "Gladio", NATO’s secret network of weapons readied should there be a communist coup in Italy.

Since the installation of King Juan Carlos I in Spain in 1975 and the creation of the First Republic in Italy after the Second World War both nations have designed political systems specifically to keep the extremes out of their politics – in the case of Spain it is fascism and, in the case of Italy, communism. The transition of, in particular, Spain to an unrecognizable modern democracy within a lifetime makes it almost inconceivable that either of these countries could return to their former roots. And yet as the financial crisis intensifies, the disenfranchisement of the young through unemployment and the loss of a stake in society re-ignites the 1899 words of Gustave Le Bon in The Psychology of Socialism when he says, "As soon as he has a family, a house, and few savings, the workman becomes immediately a stubborn Conservative. The Socialist, above all, the Anarchist-Socialist, is usually a bachelor, without home, means or family; that is to say a nomad…and barbarian."

Reinforcing the disenfranchisement, the contradictions within Europe are intensifying; German house prices are continuing to rise whilst Spanish property is still falling. Some estimates suggest that prices in Spain will decline between 10 and 30 per cent in the years to come, putting increased pressure on the banking system. Another cash injection can’t be ruled out. Some twenty billion euros from the European Stability Mechanism – equivalent to one year’s profits - would do the trick. In Italy property prices have hardly started to fall – they are only some six per cent down since 2010. But that isn’t the problem.

What is more worrying for the system is that the crisis that started in the property markets is now spreading to the funding of the small and medium-sized businesses which are the life blood of these nations. Euphemistically these are called "Non-Performing Loans" but to you and me they are businesses that can’t meet their debts because the economy is still in reverse gear. Larger companies have recognized this and are cutting out the banks (who can’t lend, won’t lend) and are going straight to the bond markets for their money. For smaller companies, a self-reinforcing spiral has been put in place at an employer level.  It’s also showing up in the habits of the eurozone as a whole – household borrowing has descended to a crawling pace and as we know capitalism can’t survive without a functioning credit cycle.

Problems in the banks will exclude the young from having a stake in society, as le Bon identified, which turns the financial crisis into a petri dish of social unrest. The post-war political structures of Italy and Spain were arguably put there on a "so-it-can’t-happen-again" basis. Powerful national democracies reinforced by semi-autonomous regional governments rife with self-interest and corruption makes it near-on impossible to have an electoral fascist or communist up-rising that would return them to their collective pasts. But also it creates a sclerotic system unable and unwilling to adapt and respond to crisis in a timely way. So it can’t be said that there won’t arise out of the intensification of the financial crisis a marked movement either to the left or the right in either or both of these countries borne out of a disenfranchised youth which spells trouble for their financial markets. At present both the Spanish and Italian bond markets are being held up by overt or covert market operations which is saving them from any form of real market analysis but this isn’t going to last and with it will come political change and even the end of the euro experiment.

Source: Bloomberg

 

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