How could one devalue the pound?

A new Civitas report suggests devaluing the pound to boost exports. But can it work?

With fascinating timing, Civitas has released a report calling for the UK to devalue the pound. The author, John Mills, argues that Bank of England policy has been too heavily focused on keeping inflation at two per cent, and has instead lost sight of the more important priority, which is to promote full employment and a trade surplus (or at least balanced trade). He thinks that the best way to achieve those goals would be for the bank to chart a course which will reduce the value of the pound.

Mills argues that Britain should: sell sterling and buy foreign currencies; introduce more QE; lend directly to organisations capable of paying the money back from income flows, such as local authorities and housing associations; and "deliberately increase its spending in relation to its revenues to widen the foreign payments deficit temporarily, to assist in making the parity of the currency fall."

To call his argument balshy would be an understatement. He also steers clear of the msot important distinction, which is that between a floating and fixed currency. Most talk of "devalutions" occurs in the context of a fixed currency, like that which Britain had under the Bretton Woods system. Then, devaluations were real government policy; a decision was made to peg the pound to a certain number of dollars (for instance, in 1949, £1=$2.80), and the Bank of England guaranteed that rate. If the government decided it was too high, it would change the rate the Bank paid out at.

With a floating currency, the situation is very different. The bank can still spend pounds buying up dollars, and if it does so the exchange rate will indeed drop. But without a committment to keep the rate at the new devalued level, exports will briefly rocket, dollars will become pounds, and the whole thing will return to the market determined rate.

It is possible to enact that committment in a slightly different way; the bank could commit to buying a certain amount of foreign currency each month, for instance. This would certainly devalue the pound slightly, but it would also leave the nation open to the sort of extremely damaging speculation that caused Black Friday. A speculator has to be brave or foolish to take on a central bank committed to maintaining a fixed rate, but if the bank has already put a maximum on the amount of foreign currency it will buy, then it's a lot easier to enter a face-off. It's like having a staring competition with someone who has told you they blink every ten seconds no matter what.

Of course, it may be that Mills is suggesting a whole return to a fixed currency. If he is, then apart from the obvious question – fixed to what? – it does also feel rather like he's buried the lede. The return to a fixed currency would be a far bigger decision than the subsequent choice of what level to fix it at.

Mills claims that those who are opposed to his idea are people who value low inflation over high quality of life. Be that as it may, it does feel like he values his heterodoxity over quality. Or, to put it another way: Stop trying to be different, and start trying to be right.

Mount Washington Hotel, Bretton Woods, where the pound was fixed to the dollar in 1940.

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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The footie is back. Three weeks in and what have we learned so far?

Barcleys, boots and big names... the Prem is back.

Another season, another reason for making whoopee cushions and giving them to Spurs fans to cheer them up during the long winter afternoons ahead. What have we learned so far?

Big names are vital. Just ask the manager of the Man United shop. The arrival of Schneiderlin and Schweinsteiger has done wonders for the sale of repro tops and they’ve run out of letters. Benedict Cumberbatch, please join Carlisle United. They’re desperate for some extra income.

Beards are still in. The whole Prem is bristling with them, the skinniest, weediest player convinced he’s Andrea Pirlo. Even my young friend and neighbour Ed Miliband has grown a beard, according to his holiday snaps. Sign him.

Boots Not always had my best specs on, but here and abroad I detect a new form of bootee creeping in – slightly higher on the ankle, not heavy-plated as in the old days but very light, probably made from the bums of newborn babies.

Barclays Still driving me mad. Now it’s screaming from the perimeter boards that it’s “Championing the true Spirit of the Game”. What the hell does that mean? Thank God this is its last season as proud sponsor of the Prem.

Pitches Some groundsmen have clearly been on the weeds. How else can you explain the Stoke pitch suddenly having concentric circles, while Southampton and Portsmouth have acquired tartan stripes? Go easy on the mowers, chaps. Footballers find it hard enough to pass in straight lines.

Strips Have you seen the Everton third kit top? Like a cheap market-stall T-shirt, but the colour, my dears, the colour is gorgeous – it’s Thames green. Yes, the very same we painted our front door back in the Seventies. The whole street copied, then le toot middle classes everywhere.

Scott Spedding Which international team do you think he plays for? I switched on the telly to find it was rugby, heard his name and thought, goodo, must be Scotland, come on, Scotland. Turned out to be the England-France game. Hmm, must be a member of that famous Cumbrian family, the Speddings from Mirehouse, where Tennyson imagined King Arthur’s Excalibur coming out the lake. Blow me, Scott Spedding turns out to be a Frenchman. Though he only acquired French citizenship last year, having been born and bred in South Africa. What’s in a name, eh?

Footballers are just so last season. Wayne Rooney and Harry Kane can’t score. The really good ones won’t come here – all we get is the crocks, the elderly, the bench-warmers, yet still we look to them to be our saviour. Oh my God, let’s hope we sign Falcao, he’s a genius, will make all the difference, so prayed all the Man United fans. Hold on: Chelsea fans. I’ve forgotten now where he went. They seek him here, they seek him there, is he alive or on the stairs, who feckin’ cares?

John Stones of Everton – brilliant season so far, now he is a genius, the solution to all of Chelsea’s problems, the heir to John Terry, captain of England for decades. Once he gets out of short trousers and learns to tie his own laces . . .

Managers are the real interest. So refreshing to have three young British managers in the Prem – Alex Neil at Norwich (34), Eddie Howe at Bournemouth (37) and that old hand at Swansea, Garry Monk, (36). Young Master Howe looks like a ball boy. Or a tea boy.

Mourinho is, of course, the main attraction. He has given us the best start to any of his seasons on this planet. Can you ever take your eyes off him? That handsome hooded look, that sarcastic sneer, the imperious hand in the air – and in his hair – all those languages, he’s so clearly brilliant, and yet, like many clever people, often lacking in common sense. How could he come down so heavily on Eva Carneiro, his Chelsea doctor? Just because you’re losing? Yes, José has been the best fun so far – plus Chelsea’s poor start. God, please don’t let him fall out with Abramovich. José, we need you.

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 27 August 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Isis and the new barbarism