Kelvin MacKenzie isn't a good macroeconomist

Transfers from rich areas to poor ones are really very useful for not screwing up the economy.

Former Sun editor Kelvin MacKenzie wrote a silly column yesterday. In it, he argued that "the middle class of London and the South East" are underserved by politicians, and called for a new political party which "believes that the striving classes in the South are overtaxed and overburdened".

It was, clearly, bunk. Charlie Hallam took most of it apart yesterday, pointing out that high pay is not the same as a large contribution to society, and that much of the boost London and the South East gets is merely entrenched advantage:

A start-up will find loans easier to obtain with a London address. Contacts are easier to make. Lobbying is easier. And there's that whole prejudice thing you don't have to deal with if you're based in the south.

The Economist's Daniel Knowles also points out that:

Every example he offers of London and the south being attacked takes the form of taxes on the rich—stamp duty for example—which also apply in the north. Meanwhile, the subsidy he says that the north gets is in the form of public spending: welfare benefits or social housing for example, which also apply in the south.

That is, far from wanting to fight for the South, MacKenzie is arguing for the rich of Britain and against the poor, wherever they actually are.

But there's a far simpler reason why MacKenzie is talking crap. The Telegraph's Ed West touched upon it in an otherwise faintly patronising post, writing:

Different parts of the economy require different economic policies, which is why the convergence of interest rates made the euro such a fundamentally bad idea for those countries on the fringe, such as Greece and Spain, since monetary policy would be set by people in Frankfurt and Brussels and therefore would be suited towards Frankfurt and Brussels. That’s a model that will work fine so long as the Greeks are prepared to live in perpetual poverty in the name of European solidarity, and that Germans are happy to pay the Greeks’ welfare bills.

The north and south of Britain are, by virtue of sharing the same currency, yoked to the same monetary policy. Short of some extraordinarily unorthodox economics – banknotes which catch fire south of Watford Gap? – that policy will be suboptimal for one or both areas of the country. Aggregate demand shocks rarely affect the nation uniformly, and so the Bank of England has to decide whether (say) inflation in the south is worth preventing a recession in the north.

But one way of lessening that impact is with common fiscal policy. That way, shocks in part of the country can be dealt with more quickly by transferring revenue from the healthy part to the struggling part. Which is, of course, exactly what MacKenzie was complaining about.

(It is worth noting that this analysis is roughly that which was relied on by every anti-Euro economist ever, who all feel very smug these days as Greece needs continual fiscal transfers just to stay in the economic bloc.)

The alternative – giving the north its own currency and monetary policy – may, I suppose, be what MacKenzie was angling for all along. It would certainly get those pesky Scousers out of his hair.

The North. Photograph: Getty Images

Alex Hern is a technology reporter for the Guardian. He was formerly staff writer at the New Statesman. You should follow Alex on Twitter.

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I can’t follow Marie Kondo's advice – even an empty Wotsits packet “sparks joy” in me

I thought I’d give her loopy, OCD theories a go, but when I held up an empty Wotsits bag I was suffused with so many happy memories of the time we’d spent together that I couldn’t bear to throw it away.

I have been brooding lately on the Japanese tidying freak Marie Kondo. (I forgot her name so I typed “Japanese tidying freak” into Google, and it was a great help.) The “Japanese” bit is excusable in this context, and explains a bit, as I gather Japan is more on the case with the whole “being tidy” thing than Britain, but still.

Apart from telling us that we need to take an enormous amount of care, to the point where we perform origami when we fold our underpants, which is pretty much where she lost me, she advises us to throw away anything that does not, when you hold it, “spark joy”. Perhaps I have too much joy in my life. I thought I’d give her loopy, OCD theories a go, but when I held up an empty Wotsits bag I was suffused with so many happy memories of the time we’d spent together that I couldn’t bear to throw it away.

After a while I gave up on this because I was getting a bit too happy with all the memories, so then I thought to myself, about her: “This is someone who isn’t getting laid enough,” and then I decided that was a crude and ungallant thought, and besides, who am I to wag the finger? At least if she invites someone to her bedroom no one is going to run screaming from it, as they would if I invited anyone to my boudoir. (Etym: from the French “bouder”, to sulk. How very apt in my case.) Marie Kondo – should bizarre circumstance ever conspire to bring her to the threshold – would run screaming from the Hovel before she’d even alighted the stairs from the front door.

I contemplate my bedroom. As I write, the cleaning lady is in it. To say that I have to spend half an hour cleaning out empty Wotsits packets, and indeed wotnot, before I let her in there should give you some idea of how shameful it has got. And even then I have to pay her to do so.

A girlfriend who used to be referred to often in these pages, though I think the term should be a rather less flippant one than “girlfriend”, managed to get round my natural messiness problem by inventing a game called “keep or chuck”.

She even made up a theme song for it, to the tune from the old Spiderman TV show. She would show me some object, which was not really rubbish, but usually a book (it may not surprise you to learn that it is the piles of books that cause most of the clutter here), and say, “Keep or chuck?” in the manner of a high-speed game show host. At one point I vacillated and so she then pointed at herself and said, “Keep or chuck?” I got the message.

These days the chances of a woman getting into the bedroom are remote. For one thing, you can’t just walk down the street and whistle for one much as one would hail a cab, although my daughter is often baffled by my ability to attract females, and suspects I have some kind of “mind ray”. Well, if I ever did it’s on the blink now, and not only that – right now, I’m not even particularly bothered that it’s on the blink. Because, for another thing, I would frankly not care to inflict myself upon anyone else at the moment.

It was all a bit of a giggle eight years ago, when I was wheeled out of the family home and left to my own devices. Of course, when I say “a bit of a giggle”, I mean “terrifying and miserable”, but I had rather fewer miles on the clock than I do now, and a man can, I think, get away with a little bit more scampish behaviour, and entertain a few more illusions about the future and his own plausibility as a character, when he is squarely in his mid-forties than when he is approaching, at speed, his middle fifties.

Death has rather a lot to do with it, I suppose. I had not actually seen, or touched, a dead body until I saw, and touched, my own father’s a few weeks ago. That’s what turns an abstract into a concrete reality. You finally put that to one side and gird up your loins – and then bloody David Bowie snuffs it, and you find yourself watching the videos for “Blackstar” and “Lazarus” over and over again, and reach the inescapable conclusion that death is not only incredibly unpleasant, it is also remorseless and very much nearer than you think.

And would you, dear reader, want to be involved with anyone who kept thinking along those lines? I mean, even if he learned how to fold his undercrackers into an upright cylinder, like a napkin at a fancy restaurant, before putting them in his drawer? When he doesn’t even have a drawer?

Nicholas Lezard is a literary critic for the Guardian and also writes for the Independent. He writes the Down and Out in London column for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 05 February 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Putin's war