Are women "intimidated" by finance? Photo: Getty.
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Do women really need extra help managing their money?

A Financial Times columnist has written a book of financial advice for “independent women”.

A picture has been recently circulating online of a bearded, tattooed man wearing nothing but a white vest. With one hand he pulls the front of the vest down to expose his hairy cleavage, with the other he tugs a triangle of white cotton over his crotch. He is mouth hangs open, his expression is slightly vacant, and needless to say he looks ridiculous. The image is a parody by the Bondi Hipsters of a GQ shoot with the Australian model Miranda Kerr, and it provided a neat, internet-friendly comment on the way in which women are used to sell men’s glossies.

Sometimes an easy way to expose sexism is to flip the genders round. This, at least, is why the Bondi Hipsters image sprung to mind when a new book by the Financial Times columnist Mrs Moneypenny landed on my desk. It’s called Financial Advice for Independent Women. No one would write a book of Financial Advice for Independent Men – the assumption is that adult men are inherently independent. Apparently only some women are, and they should buy a special book on finance illustrated with an old fashioned old lady's purse and with chapter titles like “Your Financial Goals (or Money is Not Boring)”.

But ignoring the unfortunate title, is Mrs Moneypenny right, do women need different financial advice from men? She gives a few sensible reasons why they might. For a start, women live longer than men – the average woman in the UK will live 2.8 years longer than the average man. Women are also more likely to be caring for dependents, whether they are children or older relatives. And globally they earn less than men:  in the UK the gender pay gap is 18.2 per cent (check out this interactive on how the UK compares internationally.) 70 per cent of the world’s poor are women.

Considered as a general group, women are under more financial strain than men – they have to support more people with less money – which suggests perhaps they do need different advice from most men. At the same time, in the UK only 11 per cent of senior managers in banking are women – and a male-dominated banking sector is less likely to be sensitive to the specific needs of women customers, whether they are single mothers, caring for older relatives, or simply struggling along on four-fifths of the salary of their male colleague. 

Mrs Moneypenny then gives an entirely ludicrous reason for offering women separate financial advice: they “lack confidence” and so “in the areas of finance – so set about by jargon and idiosyncrasies – it’s all too easy to become intimidated” – a sentiment that sounds dangerously close to suggesting that women are scared by long words. (If this isn't patronising enough, check out Mrs Moneypenny's advice on how to read a newspaper.) 

It’s become quite fashionable recently to point out women’s lack of confidence – it’s a running theme in Facebook COO Sheryl Sandberg’s Lean In, and in a new book called The Confidence Code by Katty Kay and Claire Shipman.  It might be true that a (rational and socially enforced) lack of confidence can prevent woman from successfully negotiating pay rises and climbing the greasy corporate pole, but that doesn’t mean they are less financially astute than men.

There's plenty of evidence to suggest that – even if they lack "financial literacy" (another popular buzzword at the moment) - women are better than men at managing money, and are reliable customers for banks. Charities and microfinance institutions often find it’s more effective to give loans or cash grants to women, because they are more likely to pay back the money and less likely to squander it.

Despite this, in the US, women are consistently charged higher interest on their credit cards than men. And although a UK government review of women and banking concluded in 2013 that there was no evidence of banks discriminating against women when it comes to accessing credit (refuting an earlier IPPR report), it did suggest banks need to do more to engage women. A lack of discrimination doesn't mean that the UK banking sector is attuned to women's specific financial needs.

Yet perhaps the gender divide in finance reflects a bigger, and more important point: financial advice is usually least available to those who need it most, whatever their gender. It’s more expensive to access cash if you’re poor in the UK, because more than 300,000 of the UK’s poorest live more than 1km away from a free-to-use cash machine.

The UK’s wealthiest have access to private bankers who can give them personalised advice, but the poorest have to make do with mainstream banking services with a box-ticking attitude towards giving out loans and with little time to consider individual circumstanes. Campaigners like Faisel Rahman of the UK-based microfinance institution Fair Finance believe the least well-off need the same personal attention as the wealthiest. His organisation lends to those who have been excluded by mainstream banks, and by assessing each individual’s finances on a case-by-case basis he can make loans that are affordable and life-changing for his customers.

Given that women are disproportionately more likely to live in poverty, a banking sector that is more responsive to the needs of the least-well off will also disproportionately benefit women. Confidence and jargon has very little to do with it. 

Sophie McBain is a freelance writer based in Cairo. She was previously an assistant editor at the New Statesman.

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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