No, house prices are not falling

It's just a summer blip.

Time to don youy hard hats, cancel this winters ski trip and think twice about the kids school fees, house prices have dropped by 1.8 per cent compared to July. The time for panic though may be a little premature however: what the newly released figures from Rightmove, a property website, have shown is no more than the annual summer blip. In fact since January house prices have continued to rise by 5.5 per cent, the fastest rate since 2006 and that’s £20,000 on January’s average house price of £230,000.

But is a rise in house prices really something to be happy about? Even if we dismiss the much publicised concerns over first time buyers (hard to do I know) the rise in prices may have greater worries for us all. One of the areas for concern is the ability to deal with inflation, as almost any rise in house price will mean higher levels of debt among households.

Even at just 2.8 per cent inflation is outstripping wage rises by 1.1 per cent month on month according to the office of national statistics. That’s a real terms wage cut of 1.1 per cent per month for everyone compared to the price of things like food. Conventional logic dictates that the Bank of England (BoE) cuts inflation back by raising interest rates when that happens, poverty not being a popular condition in a democracy.

But the Bank of England is doing the opposite. They hope that by keeping the lending rate at 0.5 per cent banks will lend more, and in turn we will spend more, boosting the economy. But after four years the BoE has not changed its policy despite banks stubbornly refusing to lend ro all but the safest bets. So maybe there’s another reason to keep rates low?

Maybe the answer lies in the fears of a collapsing housing bubble, a housing bubble so huge it can’t be inflated away.

Mortgage default levels have remained low despite rising unemployment and lower wages. This has been because the main affect of the crisis was that the BoE cut rates to record lows of just 0.5 per cent.  This helped the overleveraged homeowner from defaulting when living costs rose but their wages didn’t. The new rates gave them a cushion on which to land softly.

Any rise in the BoE rate though will pull away that cushion and the bump will be a hard one. Politically a hard bump is unacceptable. Voters could suddenly be homeless or struggling to pay debts. Any government in power when this happens can effectively say goodbye to any chance of a return to power, no matter how independent the BoE is supposed to be.

Therefore the pressure on the BoE to keep rates low and let house prices climb must be huge, if unspoken. The problem is that it’s a short sighted policy. Even if the average homeowner is not likely to default today or tomorrow because they can afford the low repayments, those repayments will inevitably be squeezed by other rapidly rising costs of living. Sooner or later there may not be enough money in the house-holders pockets to pay for all their outgoings including their mortgage. And by holding rates low, the BoE has no room for manoeuvre. Raise rates and be seen to cause a property crash, or keep rates low, increase our daily costs and cause a crash anyway.

They are caught between the devil and the deep blue sea.

So maybe it is time to don our hard hats and cancel that holiday. Not because house prices are falling, but because they’re not.

Photograph: Getty Images

Mike Cobb is a reporter at Private Banker International

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France is changing: an army stalks the streets and Boris Johnson wanders the Tuileries

Will Self on the militarisation of France, and Boris Johnson at the Foreign Office.

At the corner of the rue D’Hauteville and the rue de Paradis in the tenth arrondissement of Paris is a retro-video-games-themed bar, Le Fantôme, which is frequented by some not-so-jeunes gens – the kind of thirtysomethings nostalgic for an era when you had to go to an actual place if you wanted to enter virtual space. They sit placidly behind the plate-glass windows zapping Pac-Men and Space Invaders, while outside another – and rather more lethal – sort of phantom stalks the sunlit streets.

I often go to Paris for work, and so have been able to register the incremental militarisation of its streets since President Hollande first declared a state of emergency after last November’s terrorist attacks. In general the French seem more comfortable about this prêt-à-porter khaki than we’d probably be; the army-nation concept is, after all, encrypted deep in their collective psyche. The army was constituted as a revolutionary instrument. France was the first modern nation to introduce universal male conscription – and it continued in one form or another right up until the mid-1990s.

Even so, it was surprising to witness the sang-froid with which Parisians regarded the camouflaged phantoms wandering among them: a patrol numbering eight ­infantrymen and women moved up the roadway, scoping out doorways, nosing into passages – but when one peered into Le Fantôme, his assault rifle levelled, none of the boozing gamers paid the least attention. I witnessed this scene the Saturday after Mohamed Lahouaiej-Bouhlel ran amok on the Promenade des Anglais in Nice – it was a little preview of the new state of emergency.

On Monday 18 July the French premier, Manuel Valls, was booed at a memorial service for the victims of the Nice attacks – while Marine Le Pen has been making all the populist running, whipping up anxieties about the enemy within. For many French, the events of the past week – including the failed Turkish coup – are steps along the way limned by Michel Houellebecq in his bestselling novel Submission; a via dolorosa that ends with La Marianne wearing the hijab and France itself annexed by a new caliphate.

Into this febrile drama comes a new player: Boris Johnson, the British Foreign Secretary. What can we expect from this freshly minted statesman when it comes to our relations with our closest neighbour? There is no doubt that Johnson is a Francophile – I’ve run into him and his family at the Tuileries, and he made much of his own francophone status during the referendum campaign. In Paris last winter to launch the French edition of his Churchill biography, Johnson wowed a publication dinner by speaking French for the entire evening. He was sufficiently fluent to bumble, waffle and generally avoid saying anything serious at all.

Last Sunday I attended the Lambeth Country Show, an oxymoronic event for which the diverse inhabitants of my home borough gather in Brockwell Park, south London, for jerked and halal chicken, funfair rides, Quidditch-watching, and “country-style” activities, such as looking at farm animals and buying their products. Wandering among ancient Rastafarians with huge shocks of dreadlocks, British Muslims wearing immaculate white kurtas blazoned with “ASK ME ABOUT ISLAM” and crusty old Brixton punks, I found it quite impossible to rid my mind of the Nice carnage – or stop wondering how they would react if armed soldiers were patrolling, instead of tit-helmeted, emphatically unarmed police.

I stepped into the Royal Horticultural Society marquee, and there they were: the entire cast of our end-of-the-pier-show politics, in vegetable-sculpture form and arrayed for judging. There was Jeremy Corbyn (or “Cornbin”) made out of corncobs – and Boris Johnson in the form of a beetroot, being stabbed in the back by a beetroot Michael Gove. And over there was Johnson again, this time rendered in cabbage. The veggie politicians were the big draw, Brixtonians standing six-deep around them, iPhones aloft.

The animal (as opposed to the vegetable) Johnson has begun his diplomatic rounds this week, his first démarches as tasteless and anodyne as cucumber. No British abandonment of friends after Brexit . . . Coordinated response to terror threat . . . Call for Erdogan to be restrained in response to failed coup . . . Blah-blah, whiff-whaff-waffle . . . Even someone as gaffe-prone as he can manage these simple lines, but I very much doubt he will be able to produce rhetorical flourishes as powerful as his hero’s. In The Churchill Factor: How One Man Made History, Johnson writes of Winnie overcoming “his stammer and his depression and his ­appalling father to become the greatest living Englishman”. Well, I’ve no idea if Bojo suffers from depression now but he soon will if he cleaves to this role model. His Churchill-worship (like so many others’) hinges on his belief that, without Churchill as war leader, Britain would have been ground beneath the Nazi jackboot. It may well be that, with his contribution to the Brexit campaign, Johnson now feels he, too, has wrested our national destiny from the slavering jaws of contingency.

Of course the differences between the two politicians are far more significant: Johnson’s genius – such as it is – lies in his intuitive understanding that politics, in our intensely mediatised and entirely commoditised era, is best conceived of as a series of spectacles or stunts: nowadays you can fool most of the people, most of the time. This is not a view you can imagine associating with Churchill, who, when his Gallipoli stratagem went disastrously wrong, exiled himself, rifle in hand, to the trenches. No, the French people Johnson both resembles and has an affinity for are the ones caught up in the virtual reality of Le Fantôme – rather than those patrolling the real and increasingly mean streets without. 

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 21 July 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The English Revolt