At least estate agents are happy. Image: Getty.
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Two charts that show why London home buyers are totally screwed

Everybody move to Paris.

More hilarious news from the London housing market. In the year to June, the average house price in the city climbed 25.8 per cent. The average price has now breached £400,000 for the first time.

To put that in a context, a healthy mortgage is generally agreed to cover no more than 90 per cent of a property's value, and to represent a maximum of 4.5 times the borrowers' income. So a couple of first-time-buyers hoping to buy an average London home would need a joint income of £78,000, putting them in the richest 4 per cent of households in the country. Oh, and they'll also need £40,000 in the bank.

Should you already own your own home in the city, and are consequently mystified that anyone could consider this a problem – congratulations on successfully having been born at the right time.

All this looks a lot like a bubble – prices are rising at their fastest rate since 1987, and look what happened then – but it's in the nature of bubbles that we can't be certain we're in one until they burst. So in the mean time, here are two charts.

The first one compares price increases in London with those in various other major world cities, over the course of 2013. (They’re a bit out of date because December was the most recent month for which we could find enough figures.) We've compiled it using data from the Bank of International Settlements, and the S&P/Case-Shiller Home Prices Index: the various indexes it's based on work in slightly different ways and cover slightly different things, so we're not claiming the figures are anything more than indicative. Nonetheless, they do give you a sense of the trends in various cities.

London is an outlier – but it's not the only place having a crazy house price boom. Prices have gone nuts in Sydney and Shanghai, too. The difference is, of course, that Australia and China both have much faster growing economies than the UK, much of which still remains in the doldrums.

All that said, it looks like a great time to buy a nice pied-a-terre in Paris, if you've got the cash to hand.

This second chart uses data from government research, asking the public whether they were in favour of building new houses in their area. The polling was conducted in 2011, so it's just possible attitudes have changed in the mean time. Either way, though, it explains rather a lot.

In inner London, where land is scarce and most people rent, everyone wants more housing. But in outer London, where there's more space, and where any major new housing programme is realistically going to have to begin, opposition to house building is stronger than the national average. In fact, people in outer London oppose house building more strongly than people in any other region of England.

So to sum up, we're screwed.

This is a preview of our new sister publication, CityMetric. We'll be launching its website soon - in the meantime, you can follow it on Twitter and Facebook.

Jonn Elledge is the editor of the New Statesman's sister site CityMetric. He is on Twitter, far too much, as @JonnElledge.

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What David Hockney has to tell us about football

Why the sudden glut of blond footballers? A conversation I had with the artist back in 1966 gave me a clue. . .

In 1966, I went to interview David Hockney at a rather run-down flat in Bayswater, central London. He was 28 and had just won a gold medal at the Royal College of Art.

In his lavatory, I noticed a cut-out photograph from a newspaper of Denis Law scoring a goal. I asked if he was a football fan. He said no, he just liked Denis Law’s thighs.

The sub-editors cut that remark out of the story, to save any gossip or legal problems. In 1966 homosexual activity could still be an offence.

Hockney and a friend had recently been in the United States and had been watching an advert on TV that said “Blondes have more fun”. At two o’clock in the morning, slightly drunk, they both went out, bought some hair dye and became blond. Hockney decided to remain blond from then on, though he has naturally dark hair.

Is it true that blonds have more fun? Lionel Messi presumably thinks so, otherwise why has he greeted this brand-new season with that weird blond hair? We look at his face, his figure, his posture and we know it’s him – then we blink, thinking what the heck, does he realise some joker has been pouring stuff on his head?

He has always been such a staid, old-fashioned-looking lad, never messing around with his hair till now. Neymar, beside him, has gone even blonder, but somehow we expect it of him. He had foony hair even before he left Brazil.

Over here, blonds are popping up all over the shop. Most teams now have a born-again blondie. It must take a fortune for Marouane Fellaini of Man United to brighten up his hair, as he has so much. But it’s already fading. Cheapskate.

Mesut Özil of Arsenal held back, not going the full head, just bits of it, which I suspect is a clue to his wavering, hesitant personality. His colleague Aaron Ramsey has almost the full blond monty. Paul Pogba of Man United has a sort of blond streak, more like a marker pen than a makeover. His colleague Phil Jones has appeared blond, but he seems to have disappeared from the team sheet. Samir Nasri of Man City went startlingly blond, but is on loan to Seville, so we’re not able to enjoy his locks. And Didier Ndong of Sunderland is a striking blond, thanks to gallons of bleach.

Remember the Romanians in the 1998 World Cup? They suddenly appeared blond, every one of them. God, that was brilliant. One of my all-time best World Cup moments, and I was at Wembley in 1966.

So, why do they do it? Well, Hockney was right, in a sense. Not to have more fun – meaning more sex – because top footballers are more than well supplied, but because their normal working lives are on the whole devoid of fun.

They can’t stuff their faces with fast food, drink themselves stupid, stay up all night, take a few silly pills – which is what many of our healthy 25-year-old lads consider a reasonably fun evening. Nor can they spend all their millions on fun hols, such as skiing in the winter, a safari in the spring, or hang-gliding at the weekend. Prem players have to be so boringly sensible these days, or their foreign managers will be screaming at them in their funny foreign accents.

While not on the pitch, or training, which takes up only a few hours a day, the boredom is appalling, endlessly on planes or coaches or in some hotel that could be anywhere.

The only bright spot in the long days is to look in the mirror and think: “Hmm, I wonder what highlights would look like? I’ve done the beard and the tattoos. Now let’s go for blond. Wow, gorgeous.”

They influence each other, being simple souls, so when one dyes his hair, depending on where he is in the macho pecking order, others follow. They put in the day by looking at themselves. Harmless fun. Bless ’em.

But I expect all the faux blonds to have gone by Christmas. Along with Mourinho. I said that to myself the moment he arrived in Manchester, smirking away. Pep will see him off. OK then, let’s say Easter at the latest . . . 

Hunter Davies is a journalist, broadcaster and profilic author perhaps best known for writing about the Beatles. He is an ardent Tottenham fan and writes a regular column on football for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 22 September 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The New Times