Darling in the hall of horrors

Unflattering comparisons to certain predecessors have dogged the Chancellor's week. He is damaged, w

By no stretch of the imagination can Alistair Darling be regarded as a chancellor who has chalked up unalloyed triumphs. The fumbled nationalisation of Northern Rock, the perceived U-turns on capital gains and the taxation of non-doms and the sharp deterioration in the public finances have framed him, in the public mind, as inept.

Indeed, a YouGov poll found that 44 per cent of those surveyed believe that Darling, once regarded as new Labour's "safe pair of hands", should be fired. Only 27 per cent of those polled could bring themselves to support him staying at the Treasury. In the City, where opinion turns on a sixpence, the calls for his head have become shrill. New Labour's traditional enemies have detected weakness and have pounced upon it.

Following Gordon Brown at the Treasury was always going to be a difficult task, even for someone who gave the appearance of being as calm as Darling. But no one could have predicted the opprobrium that has been heaped upon him.

Once Brown, with all his bustling ambition, had gone to No 10, all those critics and commentators who feared to cross the former chancellor saw his successor as an easy target. This has led to some very unfortunate comparisons for the current incumbent at No 11. In recent weeks Darling has variously been described as the worst chancellor since the late Anthony Barber and Norman Lamont. Neither comparison bears much scru tiny. Barber and Lamont were Tories and both held office for several years before shortcomings became apparent.

Barber's "Competition and Credit Control" unleashed the first great inflation and the secondary banking collapse of 1974-75. In that crisis the Bank of England, still in charge of financial supervision, launched a secret rescue of the kind which might have saved Darling the embarrassment of Northern Rock. However, even Darling's most bitter opponents cannot blame him for a Barber-style credit explosion.

As for Lamont, he presided over a huge public sector debt and the UK's chaotic exit from the Exchange Rate Mechanism, when interest rates went up and down like a Yo-yo as the chancellor famously sang in the bath.

Many of Darling's problems stem from next door at No 10. When Brown became Prime Minister he removed some of the Treasury's most skilled operators. On the ministerial front the biggest loss was the economic secretary, Ed Balls, in effect the City minister, who spent much of his time responding to the complaints of the Square Mile. There was also an outflow of senior officials, including John Cunliffe, Tom Scholar (now back), Michael Ellam and the gung-ho special adviser Damian McBride.

Huge anger

Brown rushed next door so quickly that he failed to clear his desk. Among the issues he left behind were two long-standing, delicate tax questions surrounding the super-rich. Huge anger was building in the media and in the Commons over the exploitation of tax loopholes by the private equity princelings - tearing the heart out of Brit ish business - and non-domiciled freeloaders.

The Prime Minister must also take his share of the blame for the Northern Rock fiasco. In the aftermath of the nationalisation decision, Brown in particular sought to depict the implosion at the Newcastle bank as part of a much broader international event. At his regular Downing Street press conference there was much talk of obscure branches of finance - US monolines, for instance, which insure financial instruments such as bonds.

Brown was right to point out that the credit crunch which struck on 9 August was born in America's trailer-trash mortgage market. But it was changes made by Brown to Britain's system of regulation in 1997 that led to months of dith ering, uncertainty, charges of incompetence and eventually, when all other escape routes had been closed, nationalisation.

The "Tripartite" system of regulation was designed by Brown and Balls. The intention was to remove responsibility for banking supervision from the Bank of England, so that it could concentrate on its core function of controlling inflation. Bank supervision was moved lock, stock and barrel to the new super-regulator, the Financial Services Authority at Canary Wharf.

But there was a fundamental flaw in the system. The Bank of England, like all central banks, controlled the liquidity - the ability to provide cash to institutions in difficulty - but it was the ineffectual FSA that determined when they were in trouble. This disconnection meant that no one was directly in charge and when Northern Rock hit the buffers because it ran out of ready cash, no one was willing to organise the kind of rescue by the banking industry that is the norm in almost every other country. This even though there was at least one offer on the table, from Lloyds TSB, the high street bank.

A member of the Bank of England's ruling court told me that as important as the institutional paralysis were the people at the helm. Imagine if (Lord) Eddie George were still governor of the Bank of England, Howard Davies (now at the London School of Economics) were head of the FSA and Brown were still at the Treasury. For sure, the willpower and leadership required for a secret banking rescue, which would have prevented the humiliating run on the Rock, would have been present.

Instead, the Bank, the FSA and the Treasury all seemed intent in mid-September to avoid responsibility and blame for a debacle that would run on until February. Again Brown must take a share of the blame. It was he who insisted that every private-sector route be explored before nationalisation took place, on the grounds that public ownership was too old Labour, a throwback to the dark days of the Wilson government and British Leyland and British Steel in the 1970s. Yet the long delays in taking firm decisions gave the impression of a vacillating administration that found it impos sible to make the tough political choice until all other options had run out.

Darling is also the victim of fundamental Budget failings. Brown, despite his reputation as the "iron chancellor", had taken his eye off fiscal policy, and public borrowing was soaring. The time to cut the Budget deficit is when the economy is growing. Instead, Brown chose to go on a public spending splurge in a vain attempt to deal with the problems of the NHS and education.

His ability to spend freely was heavily dependent on buoyant tax income, much of it from the City. Unfortunately, when the credit crunch set in, tax income from banks and those who work for them plummeted and a chasm opened up in the Budget. At the very moment when the Treasury might have adopted the Keynesian solution of spending or tax-cutting its way out of recession - as the International Monetary Fund now recommends - Darling found his hands tied.

As a consequence, when he delivers his first Budget next month, Darling will have to explain away a budgetary black hole similar to that faced by Norman Lamont when he introduced Britain's biggest ever tax-raising Budget in 1993. Not a comparison that Darling will relish.

Yet it was the unresolved tax issues that have been the real undoing of Darling. The rushed pre-Budget report in October took the decisive steps to tax the super-rich. Capital gains tax was to be simplified and raised from 10 per cent to 18 per cent. And Labour, stealing and wearing Tory clothes, would impose a £30,000 charge on the non-doms.

It is what followed that so damaged Darling's reputation. The City, supported by the CBI, the Financial Times and the Telegraph, launched a vitriolic campaign against both proposals, claiming they would destroy London's leadership as a financial centre and send the private equity princelings and non-doms fleeing to Monaco and Switzerland. Proposals that enjoyed the support of millions of ordinary, hard-working, taxpaying Britons were being attacked by a small clique of vested interests.

Was it avoidable?

In both cases the pressure on the Chancellor became so strong that No 10 orchestrated retreats which left Darling looking weak and indecisive. In the case of non-doms, Darling was specifically undermined by one from Brown's government of all the talents, the excitable former CBI boss Digby Jones - the trade minister.

Could all of this have been avoided? A more robust chancellor could have taken on his critics, rather than allow them to dominate the agenda. The private equity bosses and non-doms have no political constituency in the UK, apart from the disgraced bankers of the City. Yet the reality is that the tax retreats were not humiliating U-turns, as portrayed in lurid headlines, but mid-course adjustments of the kind that happen with all complex tax changes.

The assassination of Darling by a peculiar combination of forces from next door at No 10, the CBI and sections of the media has not been pretty to watch. They sensed weakness and attacked relentlessly. His image will not have been helped by his muddled media appearances after the nationalisation of Northern Rock was announced. As jobs in Newcastle are axed by his chosen company doctor, Ron Sandler, Darling may well come to regret the phrase "business as usual". It is also likely that "temporary" ownership could mean anything up to a decade, given the history of previous bank nationalisations on both sides of the Atlantic.

Darling needs to find the inner reserves to take on his enemies in the Budget on 12 March. Most importantly, he must stake out an aggressive, US-style growth strategy for keeping recession at bay. Otherwise he will find his survival at the Treasury foreshortened and could join the hall of horrors of Britain's worst chancellors.

Alex Brummer is City editor of the Daily Mail

This article first appeared in the 25 February 2008 issue of the New Statesman, Pakistan reborn

Chris Ball/UNP
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The fish-eaters and the fasters

With a population split between whites and Asian Muslims, in some ways Nelson in Lancashire feels like similar-sized towns in Ulster: two communities separated by a gulf of non-communication.

In the late afternoon of local election day this month, the chairman of Nelson Town Council was working the terraces of old cotton weavers’ houses on his patch. Sajid Ali was wearing a red rosette and a navy blue cardigan over his capacious white shalwar kameez, and what looked like his dancing shoes.

This was not the forlorn ritual of unanswered doors, blank looks and curt responses habitually experienced by Labour canvassers even in more promising political times. Along these streets Sajid is a figure of some consequence: a jolly fellow and, as one opponent put it, an “interesting character”.

Almost everyone was in; Sajid knew almost all of them; and they in turn understood what was required. Sometimes a quick burst of Lancy Punjabi did the job: “Salaam alaykum, yoong maan, how yer doing? What time yer coomin’ to vote?” To older voters his spiel would be entirely in Punjabi and the response would often be a head-wobble, that characteristic south Asian gesture, which, when given to Westerners, can be baffling, but in these cases clearly signified solid intention.

The Labour candidate in the Brierfield and Nelson West division of Lancashire County Council, Mohammed Iqbal, held his seat comfortably on the day his party lost control of the county. And he did so on a poll of 58 per cent: a far higher turnout than in any of the other, whiter areas of Pendle; the highest in Lancashire; and higher than wards with these demographics would usually expect even at a general election. The average across Lancashire on 4 May was 37 per cent. It seems reasonable to conclude that the votes from those of ­Pakistani heritage, marshalled by Sajid, were wholly responsible.

Nelson is a strange, sad, divided, forgotten old cotton town, not without beauty. The weavers’ houses are stone not brick, which, elsewhere, might make them rather chic. A few minutes from town is wonderful Pennine countryside, and to the north the view is dominated by Pendle Hill itself, brooding like some sleeping sea monster.

Pendle is both the borough council and the constituency, where the mix of urban and rural has delivered it to the winning side in seven of the eight general elections since its creation 34 years ago. (Labour took it, five years prematurely, in 1992.) No one seriously believes the 5,400 Tory majority is in play. Nonetheless, Nelson can explain a lot about British politics in 2017.

“This was a cracking town,” said John Bramwell (“John the Fish”), who has been purveying cod, haddock and non-stop banter to Nelson for 41 years, first on the market, now from one of the last white-run, independent shops in the town centre. Nelson had a football team that played fleetingly (1923-24) in the old Second Division, what is now called the Championship. And in 1929 the Lancashire League cricket team, flashing cash in a manner that baffled the national press, signed Learie Constantine, the most gifted and thrilling West Indian all-rounder of his generation.

“When he arrived, no one in Nelson had ever seen a black man close-to,” said Derek Metcalfe, the club’s historian. “People would cross the road when he passed by. But he grew into their affections. He was a highly intelligent man as well as a great player.” Constantine, after a post-cricket career in the law, Trinidadian politics and diplomacy, finished life in the House of Lords as Baron Constantine of Maraval and Nelson, Britain’s first black peer. In July 1943 the Imperial Hotel in Bloomsbury accepted his booking but not his presence, and he promptly sued. His victory at the high court the following year was an early landmark in the fight against racial discrimination.

It was the 1950s before Nelson would get used to seeing non-white faces again, when the mill owners, battling labour shortages and overseas competition, turned to Pakistan to find biddable and affordable workers. They found them in Gujrat District, which is not one of the more worldly places, even in the rural Punjab.

“The first group were young men who in many ways integrated better than they do now. There were no mosques. They went to the pubs with their workmates and knocked around with local women. Then they had to go to the airport to collect the intended wives they hadn’t met yet,” recalled Tony Greaves, the Liberal Democrat peer who is deputy leader of Pendle Borough Council.

The mills disappeared, gradually but inexorably, but the Pakistani community kept growing and has now reached its fourth generation. The young men do not normally spend time in pubs; indeed, in a town of 30,000 people, there are only two left, plus a couple on the outskirts. It is hard to imagine anywhere that size in Britain with fewer. There are, however, at least a dozen mosques. The 2011 census recorded 40 per cent of the population as Asian, but on market day in the town centre the proportion seems much higher. The most prominent retail outlets are two bazaars: the Nelson (the
old Poundstretcher) and the Suraj opposite (the old Woolworths). Few white faces are seen in either: the saris and hijabs are beautiful but of little interest. They are all imported to this textile town from south Asia.

The white people have retreated, either out of the town altogether or to the semis of Marsden, on the hill. In the visible life of Nelson, they are clearly a minority. Population change on this scale can be accommodated, if not always easily, in large cities. It is a different proposition in a small town that was once tight-knit and, despite its closeness to larger places such as Blackburn, Accrington and Burnley, largely self-contained.

Even after 60 years, hardly anything has melted in the pot. The early migrants were villagers who placed little value on education. Recent history has led Muslims all over the world to turn inwards, to their own religion and culture. This is being exacerbated by white flight and by the advent of religious free schools, a disaster for anywhere in search of cohesion. The old Nelsonians have turned away. “Nelson is not multiracial or multicultural. It is biracial and bicultural,” says Greaves. “I would love to tell you that I go round to Abbas’s house to have chicken jalfrezi and he comes to mine for steak pudding and chips,” says John the Fish. “It’s just not like that.”

Unemployment is high at 18 per cent; there is no shortage of taxis. Educational attainment is patchy. Teachers at the two high schools fear their best pupils will be creamed off further by the promised grammar-school boom.

The vicar of Nelson, Guy Jamieson, and at least some of the local imams do their utmost to make connections between the communities. In certain respects Nelson feels like similar-sized towns in Ulster: two communities separated by a gulf of non-communication. In other ways, this description is unfair. When Burnley, just four miles away, suffered riots in 2001, Nelson stayed quiet. I could sense no threat, no active tension, merely resigned indifference on both sides. “There’s a poverty of confidence,” Jamieson said. “They don’t know how to sit down and engage.”

***

A modern English town council, subordinate to Brussels, Westminster, county and district, is an improbable power base, but Sajid Ali seems to be making Nelson’s work. Its precept is only £330,000 a year but this is not capped, so it suits both district and town if Pendle offloads smaller assets: parks, play areas, community centres. It is a minimalist form of devolution, but harks back to the days when Nelson was a borough in its own right, and looks forward to an improbable future when our towns might again be allowed to take their own decisions as they do in more grown-up countries.

But the council votes on party lines, Labour’s 16 councillors trumping the Tories’ eight. “They won’t work with us,” Sajid says flatly. “They don’t run it fairly for the town itself,” says the Conservative Neil McGowan. “If we put something forward for Marsden, we are always outvoted. One council official told me they’d never come across a town like it.” In Tony Greaves’s words, “The
politics in Nelson were always sour.” In the 1930s it was known as Little Moscow.

When I first met Sajid, however, he was outside a polling station doing a stint as a teller and laughing merrily along with his blue-rosetted counterpart, Arshad Mahmood. Yet things were not quite as they seemed. Mahmood was part of a mass defection of Pakistani Lib Dems to the Conservatives which appears to have nothing to do with Brexit, extra taxes for the NHS or Maymania. What it does have to do with remains elusive even to local politicians: “clan politics” and “personal ambition” were mentioned. It may be even more complicated than that. “So you’ll be voting for Theresa May next month?” I asked Mahmood. “Oh, no, I like Jeremy Corbyn. Very good policies.”

Perhaps this helped Sajid maintain some enthusiasm for the bigger campaign ahead, though he was daunted by one fact: the general election coincides with Ramadan, and dawn-to-dusk fasting comes hard in these latitudes when it falls in summertime. Still, he was impressed by all the new members Corbyn had brought to Labour: “The way I see it is that each new member has five, ten, 15, 20 people they can sell the message to.”

This seemed a bit strange: it implied he thought politics in the rest of Britain worked as it did in these streets. He had boasted earlier that he knew everyone. “All over Nelson?” “Oh, no,” he had backtracked. “In the English community nobody knows their next-door neighbour.” Which was an exaggeration, but perhaps not much of one.

There were no posters along Sajid Ali’s streets – not one. The information about which house to choose was on the canvass return and, more significantly, in his head. Just once he got it wrong. A little white girl opened the door and then a tattooed, muscular figure in a singlet barrelled towards the door. He wasn’t aggressive, just brisk. “Naaw. I doan’t vote.” End of. It was a sudden reminder of the norms of modern British politics.

***

Another norm is that, at any local count, no one ever thinks much of the big picture. The rise and fall of prime ministers, earthquakes and landslides are no more than distant rumours, of surprisingly little interest to the principals; what matters is the here and now. Where did that ballot box come from? How big is the postal vote? Any chance of a recount? When the five seats for Pendle were counted the next day at the leisure centre in Colne, one stop further up the clanking branch line from Nelson, no one was talking about the Tory takeover at County Hall.

Here there was something for everyone: Mohammed Iqbal won, just as Sajid predicted. Azhar Ali took the other Nelson seat even more easily for Labour. Both results were greeted with more effusive male hugs than would be considered seemly in Berkshire. In Pendle Central the Tories knocked out the sitting Lib Dem, but – heroically, in their eyes – one of the Lib Dem candidates grabbed a seat in the rural division.

But the most interesting result came in the most trifling contest: a twinned by-election for two vacancies in Nelson Town Council’s lily-white ward of Marsden, so electors had two votes each. The seats were won by a Conservative married couple, the Pearson-Ashers, who got 426 and 401; the single BNP candidate had 359 votes, with one Labour candidate on 333 and the other on 190. The first of these was called Laura Blackburn; the second Ghulam Ullah. This suggests a good deal of vote-splitting that Labour might find rather unpalatable.

In fact, Marsden already has one far-right relic: Brian Parker, who sits on Pendle Borough Council, is the last survivor in the top two tiers of local government of the BNP mini-surge that took them to 55 council seats across the country by 2009. Of Parker, two opposing councillors told me: “He’s actually a very good ward councillor.”

Curiously, Ukip has made little impact in Nelson or in Pendle as a whole. So there is not much scope for the party to fulfil what appears to be its immediate destiny: as a way station for Labour’s historic core voters to catch their breath on the arduous journey into Theresa May’s arms. According to John the Fish, whose shop functions as a kind of confessional for white opinion, they may no longer need a stopover: “I’m getting plenty of people, staunch Labourites, telling me they can’t stand Corbyn.”

I asked him how many Pakistani regulars he had. He broke off from chopping hake and held up five fingers. On 8 June the fish-eaters of Marsden can be expected to rouse themselves more energetically than the Ramadan fasters across town.

***

Seedhill, the cricket ground graced by Constantine, is pretty Nelson rather than gritty Nelson, even though a chunk of it, including the old pavilion, was lopped off years ago to form an embankment carrying the M65. Upstairs in the pavilion is a wonderful picture of the great man, eyes ablaze, down on one knee for a full-blooded cover-drive. It would have made a better monument in the town centre than the 40-foot weaving shuttle that has dominated Market Street since 2011. I thought it was a torpedo; children think it’s a giant pencil.

The packed houses that watched Constantine lead Nelson to seven league titles in nine years have dwindled now: there were only a couple of dozen to watch his successors play Accrington recently. But it was a drab day with a chilly breeze and Burnley were at home to West Brom in the winter game down the road.

And generally the club thrives better than the town. Given the lack of hotels and pubs, the pavilion is much in demand for functions, and the team remains competitive. Nelson fielded four local Asians for the Accrington match, which suggests that, in one activity at least, integration is just about where it should be.

It seems unlikely that a similar situation would apply at the crown green bowls or the brass band, or any other of the long-standing recreations in Nelson (though small but growing numbers of Pakistanis are now taking allotments). The knee-jerk liberal reaction might be that this is somehow the fault of the white Nelsonians. I think this attitude is a grave oversimplification that has done much damage.

In one respect the incomers have re-created the old life of Nelson. In the hugger-mugger stone-built terraces, the neighbourliness, the power of extended families, the external patriarchy and the internal matriarchy, the vibrancy, the sense of communal struggle . . . that is exactly what this cotton town must have been like a century ago. 

This article first appeared in the 18 May 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Age of Lies

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