Should Labour adopt the four per cent inflation policy?

Controversial ideas of the past are becoming consensus of the present.

A 1998 proposal by Paul Krugman that the western world should target inflation at four per cent rather than two per cent, has got the backing of the IMF (pdf). The intention would be to erode government debt, and to give policy makers a more flexible tool in the future, rather than resorting to quantitative easing (QE).

In our battle to combat inflation, we fought for it to be as close to zero as it can be without grinding growth out. Two per cent seemed to be that point. However, now that we’ve got that control, we don’t have to keep it so low.

In 2007, if inflation had been at four per cent instead of two per cent, then interest rates would have been seven per cent rather than five per cent, and the Bank of England would have had more room to cut when crisis struck. In other words, they wouldn’t have needed to go beyond zero to engage QE.

Some people might say that since we’ve finally beaten inflation, it’s not wise to bring it back? But it’s not inflation that causes problems, it’s unpredictable inflation that we fear. If we had a high rate of say 10 per cent, but steady, year in year out, then companies and people would be able to plan around it. But if we didn’t know whether inflation will be 5 per cent or 15 per cent, then how much should a bank charge for a loan? Can a company calculate the profit they’ll make, if they don’t know how much the money will be worth. So four per cent is fine, as long as it’s steady.

The other benefit of running a higher inflation rate is that we would erode our debt much faster. If the interest on a gilt is four per cent, then two per cent inflation would cancel it out. If your mortgage were two per cent, then four per cent inflation would leave you with a negative real interest rate of minus two per cent.

Krugman accepts that this would be rewarding debtors for their past excesses, but argues that “economics is not a morality play.” Is he right to dismiss morality so easily? Surely modern day politicians make their living from telling bankers they are not good citizens. Is it appropriate to dismiss investors with the refrain of caveat emptor, buyer beware?

It’s worth remembering that no investor complained when QE was buying up that same debt for higher than it’s real value. Besides, if investors had feared inflation, they could have bought index linked gilts. These track inflation and rise in value proportionately. They make up only about 10 per cent of gilts. So when it comes to the other 90 per cent, I contend that ethical arguments are insufficient to reject the policy.

The big question is whether policy could easily switch inflation from two to four. Much of the cause of inflation is expectation. In the '70s, inflation was high because trade unions made demands for wage rises on the expected future inflation rate. These rises then caused inflation to rise to the same level, and unions would demand a rise again. It was self-perpetuating.

Conversely, when Gordon Brown made the Bank of England independent, inflation markedly dropped off and stayed low. This wasn’t due to a policy of the bank, but due to the confidence inspired by it’s independence.

Should a policy of increased inflation be kept a secret? My experience of politics is that if you have something controversial to say, then be confident, say it forcefully, then stick around to face down your critics. The public aren’t experts on economics. They will make judgements on the confidence of the advocate and the reaction of pundits.

On the question of whether the markets will react badly to such a policy, I think that depends on the timing. Right now, with no demand in the economy, the market wouldn’t react badly because they have nowhere else to go. These days most savers keep their money on deposit with an interest rate lower than inflation. They are losing money in preference to the uncertainty elsewhere.

There are few safe havens in today’s investment world, partly due to the bad policy imposed by politicians such as David Cameron and Angela Merkel. When considering our economic policy for a future government, we must recognise that controversial ideas of the past are becoming consensus of the present, and deserve our serious consideration as policy for the future.

The Bank of England. Photograph: Getty Images

Dan McCurry  is a photographer in east London and a Labour activist. He is a former chair of the Bow Labour Party.

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The Tinder dating app isn't just about sex – it's about friendship, too. And sex

The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, as I found out quickly while using the app.

The first time I met someone using Tinder, the free dating app that requires users to swipe left for “no” and right for “yes” before enabling new “matches” to chat, it was an unqualified success. I should probably qualify that. I was newly single after five years in a committed relationship and wasn’t looking for anything more than fun, friendship and, well, who knows. A few weeks earlier I had tried to give my number to a girl in a cinema café in Brixton. I wrote it on a postcard I’d been using as a bookmark. She said she had a boyfriend, but wanted to keep the postcard. I had no date and I lost my page.

My Tinder date was a master’s student from Valencia called Anna (her name wasn’t really Anna, of course, I’m not a sociopath). When I arrived at the appointed meeting place, she told me I was far more handsome IRL (“in real life”) than my pictures suggested. I was flattered and full of praise for the directness of continental Europeans but also thought sadly to myself: “If only the same could be said about you.”

Anna and I became friends, at least for a while. The date wasn’t a success in the traditional sense of leading us into a contract based on exclusivity, an accumulating cache of resentments and a mortgage, but it had put me back in the game (an appropriate metaphor – people speak regularly of “playing” with the app).

According to Sean Rad, the co-founder who launched Tinder in late 2012, the service was invented for people like me. “It was really a way to overcome my own problems,” he told the editor of Cosmopolitan at an event in London last month. “It was weird to me, to start a conversation [with a stranger]. Once I had an introduction I was fine, but it’s that first step. It’s difficult for a lot of people.” After just one outing, I’d learned two fundamental lessons about the world of online dating: pretty much everyone has at least one decent picture of themselves, and meeting women using a so-called hook-up app is seldom straightforwardly about sex.

Although sometimes it is. My second Tinder date took place in Vienna. I met Louisa (ditto, name) outside some notable church or other one evening while visiting on holiday (Tinder tourism being, in my view, a far more compelling way to get to know a place than a cumbersome Lonely Planet guide). We drank cocktails by the Danube and rambled across the city before making the romantic decision to stay awake all night, as she had to leave early the next day to go hiking with friends. It was just like the Richard Linklater movie Before Sunrise – something I said out loud more than a few times as the Aperol Spritzes took their toll.

When we met up in London a few months later, Louisa and I decided to skip the second part of Linklater’s beautiful triptych and fast-track our relationship straight to the third, Before Midnight, which takes place 18 years after the protagonists’ first meet in Vienna, and have begun to discover that they hate each others’ guts.

Which is one of the many hazards of the swiping life: unlike with older, web-based platforms such as Match.com or OkCupid, which require a substantial written profile, Tinder users know relatively little about their prospective mates. All that’s necessary is a Facebook account and a single photograph. University, occupation, a short bio and mutual Facebook “likes” are optional (my bio is made up entirely of emojis: the pizza slice, the dancing lady, the stack of books).

Worse still, you will see people you know on Tinder – that includes colleagues, neighbours and exes – and they will see you. Far more people swipe out of boredom or curiosity than are ever likely to want to meet up, in part because swiping is so brain-corrosively addictive.

While the company is cagey about its user data, we know that Tinder has been downloaded over 100 million times and has produced upwards of 11 billion matches – though the number of people who have made contact will be far lower. It may sound like a lot but the Tinder user-base remains stuck at around the 50 million mark: a self-selecting coterie of mainly urban, reasonably affluent, generally white men and women, mostly aged between 18 and 34.

A new generation of apps – such as Hey! Vina and Skout – is seeking to capitalise on Tinder’s reputation as a portal for sleaze, a charge Sean Rad was keen to deny at the London event. Tinder is working on a new iteration, Tinder Social, for groups of friends who want to hang out with other groups on a night out, rather than dating. This makes sense for a relatively fresh business determined to keep on growing: more people are in relationships than out of them, after all.

After two years of using Tinder, off and on, last weekend I deleted the app. I had been visiting a friend in Sweden, and took it pretty badly when a Tinder date invited me to a terrible nightclub, only to take a few looks at me and bolt without even bothering to fabricate an excuse. But on the plane back to London the next day, a strange thing happened. Before takeoff, the woman sitting beside me started crying. I assumed something bad had happened but she explained that she was terrified of flying. Almost as terrified, it turned out, as I am. We wound up holding hands through a horrific patch of mid-air turbulence, exchanged anecdotes to distract ourselves and even, when we were safely in sight of the ground, a kiss.

She’s in my phone, but as a contact on Facebook rather than an avatar on a dating app. I’ll probably never see her again but who knows. People connect in strange new ways all the time. The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, but you can be sure that if you look closely at the lines, you’ll almost certainly notice the pixels.

Philip Maughan is Assistant Editor at the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 26 May 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The Brexit odd squad