Leader: Don’t bet the bank on Mark Carney

Until the government marries monetary activism with fiscal activism, Britain will not have a recovery worthy of the name.

We live in the age of the cult of the central banker. As governments of both left and right have retreated from economic interventionism, it is Ben Bernanke in the United States, Mario Draghi in Europe and Haruhiko Kuroda in Japan who have led the fightback against recession. Few of the new masters of the universe are more feted than the Canadian Mark Carney, who takes office as governor of the Bank of England on 1 July. Since being named as Mervyn King’s successor six months ago, he has been continually hailed as a saviour for the British economy. When it was pointed out to George Osborne that the Office for Budget Responsibility had forecast that the measures included in his most recent Budget would have “no impact on the level of GDP”, he replied that the estimate did not take into account the changes that Mr Carney would make. The Chancellor is a self-described “fiscal conservative” and “monetary activist”. He is banking on Threadneedle Street to deliver the recovery that he has not.

The appointment of Mr Carney (who is profiled by Alex Brummer on page 20) was a shrewd one. As our economics editor, David Blanchflower, a former member of the Bank’s Monetary Policy Committee (MPC), has written, he was “the best person available” for the job. Untainted by any of the recent banking scandals, he performed admirably as governor of the Bank of Canada, cutting interest rates aggressively in March 2008, a year before the Bank of England and the European Central Bank did. Mr Osborne was right to prefer him to the City’s candidate of choice, the deputy governor Paul Tucker, who ignored early warnings of the manipulation of LIBOR by Barclays and responded sluggishly to the financial crisis.

But if Mr Carney, in the words of one of his defeated rivals, has been “launched on the nation as a messiah”, there are good reasons to believe he will be a false one. The base rate is already at a record low of 0.5 per cent, where it has been for more than four years, and the Bank has already performed £375bn of quantitative easing (QE), the equivalent of nearly a quarter of annual GDP. With growth still anaemic and inflation at just 2.4 per cent, there is a strong case for further loosening but Mr Carney will need to overcome the resistance of the MPC, which has voted against additional QE for 11 consecutive months. Unlike in Canada, where the governor has sole responsibility for policy, he will require the support of a majority of the other eight committee members, six of whom have consistently opposed new stimulus.

Where Mr Carney is more likely to prevail is in following the example of the US Federal Reserve and offering “forward guidance” on interest rates. This would entail a commitment to keep rates low until a certain economic threshold has been met (the Federal Reserve has adopted an unemployment target of 6.5 per cent). Although the markets already expect the base rate to remain at 0.5 per cent until 2016, this would have the beneficial effect of dampening expectations of a rise should growth exceed current forecasts. The principal reason to remain sceptical of Mr Carney’s potential is the inherent limits of monetary policy. When consumers are unwilling to borrow and banks unwilling to lend, it is the state that must act as a spender of last resort and stimulate growth through measures such as temporary tax cuts, housebuilding programmes and infrastructure spending. It is Mr Osborne’s reluctance to accept this truth that does much to explain the parlous performance of the British economy, which has grown just 1.1 per cent since 2010 and remains 2.6 percentage points below its pre-recession peak. The Chancellor is fond of citing the example of Mr Carney’s native Canada, which eliminated its deficit in just three years in the mid-1990s, but it was the concurrent boom in the US, not an “expansionary contraction”, that enabled it to do so.

As even the new governor has said, “Some people may be expecting central banks to do too much” – and none more so than Mr Osborne. Until the government marries monetary activism with fiscal activism, Britain will not have a recovery worthy of the name.

Incoming governor of the Bank of England Mark Carney arrives at the G7 finance ministers and central bank governors meeting in Aylesbury on 10 May, 2013. Photograph: Getty Images.
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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