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Marginalia

Remembering the holocaust

Over the past few weeks I’ve been reading some books about the holocaust. I never dreamed that all this would become so relevant.

Art Spiegelman’s graphic memoir Maus (UK) (US) is brilliant, devastating, and occasionally very funny. Spiegelman’s father and mother, Vladek and Anja, survived Auschwitz against dreadful odds. Anja later killed herself. The contrast between the elderly Vladek – weak, needy, apparently socially clueless – and the younger Vladek – strong, ingenious, and socially nimble – is striking. And the details come alive in Spiegelman’s brutally direct telling.

Elie Wiesel’s Night (UK) (US) seems to be required reading in the US but I’d not read it until recently. It’s simple, excellent, unremittingly bleak. I think the figure of Moishe the Beadle – who has witnessed an atrocity but cannot get any of his fellow Jews to believe him – is the most tragic I’ve ever encountered. Grim and brilliant.

Viktor Frankl’s Man’s Search For Meaning (UK) (US) has, I’m told, changed people’s lives. Like Wiesel, Frankl survived life the camps. Unlike Wiesel he has a message of inspiration and redemption. It’s an interesting contrast. (Both books are very short.)

Then there’s Anne Frank’s Diary of a Young Girl. (UK) (US) It’s heartbreaking.

I’m glad I read these books. I’ll be reading others – histories as well as memoirs.

17th of August, 2017MarginaliaComments off
Undercover Economist

Think like a supermodel if you want to win from the gig economy

Are we misunderstanding the endgame of the annoyingly named “gig economy”? At the behest of the UK government, Matthew Taylor’s review of modern working practices was published this week. The title could easily have graced a report from the 1930s, and the review is in many ways a conservative document, seeking to be “up to date” while preserving “enduring principles of fairness”.

Mr Taylor, chief executive of the RSA and a former policy adviser to the Blair government, wants to tweak the system. One proposal is to sharpen up the status of people who are neither employees nor freelancers, calling them “dependent contractors” and giving them some employment rights. In the US, economists such as Alan Krueger — formerly the chairman of Barack Obama’s Council of Economic Advisers — proposed similar reforms.

There is nothing wrong with this; incremental reform is often wise. Quaint ideas such as the employer-employee relationship are not yet obsolete. Yet they might yet become so, at least in some industries. If they do, I am not sure we will be ready. The obsolescence I have in mind was anticipated by Silicon Valley’s favourite economist, Ronald Coase. Back in 1937, a young Coase wrote “The Nature of the Firm”, calling attention to something strange: while corporations competed within a competitive marketplace, corporations themselves were not markets. They were hierarchies. If you work for a company, you don’t allocate your time to the highest bidder. You do what your boss tells you; she does what her boss tells her. A few companies dabble with internal marketplaces, but mostly they are islands of command-and-control surrounded by a sea of market transactions.

Coase pointed out that the border between hierarchy and market is a choice. Corporations could extend their hierarchy by merging with a supplier. Or they could rely more on markets, spinning off subsidiaries or outsourcing functions from cleaning and catering to IT and human resources. Different companies make different choices and the ones that choose efficiently will survive.

So what is the efficient choice? That depends on the nature of the job to be done. A carmaker may well want to have the engine manufacturer in-house, but will happily buy bulbs for the headlights from the cheapest bidder.

But the choice between hierarchy and market also depends on the technology deployed to co-ordinate activity. Different technologies favour different ways of doing things. The bar code made life easier for big-box retailers. While eBay favoured the little guy, connecting buyers and sellers of niche products.

Smartphones have allowed companies such as Uber and Deliveroo to take critical middle-management functions — motivating staff, evaluating and rewarding performance, scheduling and co-ordination — and replace them with an algorithm. But gig workers could install their own software, telling it where they like to work, what they like to do, when they’re available, unavailable, or open to persuasion. My app — call it GigBot — could talk to the Lyft app and the TaskRabbit app and the Deliveroo app, and interrupt me only when an offer deserves attention.

Not every job can be broken down into microtasks that can be rented out by the minute, but we might be surprised at how many can. Remember that old line from supermodel Linda Evangelista, “We don’t wake up for less than $10,000 a day”? GigBot will talk to your alarm clock; $10 or $10,000, just name the price that would tempt you from your lie-in.

It is easy to imagine a dystopian scenario in which a few companies hook us in like slot-machine addicts, grind us in circles like cogs, and pimp us around for pennies. But it is not too hard to imagine a world in which skilled workers wrest back control using open-source software agents, join electronic guilds or unions and enjoy a serious income alongside unprecedented autonomy.

Nothing empowers a worker like the ability to walk out and take a better offer; in principle the gig economy offers exactly that. Indeed both scenarios may come true simultaneously, with one type of gig for the lucky ones, and another for ordinary folk.

If we are to take the best advantage of a true gig economy, we need to prepare for more radical change. Governments have been content to use corporations as delivery mechanisms for benefits that include pensions, parental leave, sick leave, holidays and sometimes healthcare — not to mention the minimum wage. This isn’t unreasonable; even a well-paid freelancer may be unable to buy decent private insurance or healthcare. Many of us struggle to save for a pension. But if freelancers really do start to dominate economic activity — if — the idea of providing benefits mostly through employers will break down.

We will need governments to provide essential benefits, perhaps minimalist, perhaps generous, to all citizens. Above that safety net, we need portable benefits — mentioned warmly but briefly by Mr Taylor — so that even a 10-minute gig helps to fill a pension pot or earn time towards a holiday. Traditional corporate jobs have been socially useful, but if you push any model too far from reality, it will snap.

 
Written for and first published in the Financial Times on 14 July 2017.

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Fantasy gaming can be better than reality

“The only thing that can make me happy is computer games!” So declares my five-year-old son, tears streaming down his cheeks, with a vehement desperation that merely encourages me to ration this potent experience. I don’t recall my own parents restricting the time I spent gaming, but then I didn’t have access to computers until I was nearly 10, with the arrival of an Oric-1, with 8 glorious colours and a magnificent 48K of memory.

Maybe I didn’t spend much time on the computer anyway — my ability to play games would have been limited by the fact that my mother, something of a hacker, would be hogging it. Or perhaps I found the games less addictive than my son does, although I seem to remember many hours as a teenager playing the magnificent interstellar odyssey Elite. It cannot be denied that games are getting better: varied, beautiful, narratively engaging, and often social, too, with millions logging into online worlds, forging alliances and waging battles, all in character and alongside friends. Some games are dreadful clickfests, little better than slot machines. But that should not discredit all games any more than Fifty Shades of Grey discredits Finnegans Wake.

I stopped playing computer games in 1999, at the age of 25. Increasingly realistic games on ever-larger screens gave me motion sickness — few disincentives are quite as visceral as nausea. Then, in 2004, I met Edward Castronova. He is an economist who had enjoyed some media attention after calculating the gross domestic product per capita of Norrath, the entirely-imaginary setting of an online game called EverQuest. Mr Castronova pointed out that players who slogged away at the mundane parts of the game could earn real money. In-game achievements — stronger characters, magical abilities — could be sold to other players who wanted a short-cut. The wage was about $3.50 an hour, not a lot for a New Yorker, but serious money if you lived in Dar es Salaam.

The surprising idea that people could earn a living slaying orcs attracted some attention, but Mr Castronova pointed out something else: some gamers were spending serious amounts of time online. They played not for money but for fun, devoting many hours a week to engaging, challenging and persistent online roles. And if games are really such fun, who needs reality? Why work in Starbucks when you could command a starship? Mr Castronova published a book, Exodus to the Virtual World (UK) (US), in 2007, describing people turning their back on the physical world and spending more time in virtual ones. It seemed highly speculative at the time. But data from the US labour market increasingly suggest that Mr Castronova was on to something.

Four economists — Mark Aguiar, Mark Bils, Kerwin Kofi Charles and Erik Hurst — have published their latest research paper studying the impact of awesome computer games on the US job market. The basic observation is this: the unemployment rate in America is at its lowest level for 16 years; if it drops a little further it will be at its lowest level since 1969. Yet some people — young men in particular — are completely disengaged from the labour market. (They don’t count as unemployed because they’re not looking for work.) In 2016 — excluding full-time students — 15 per cent of men in their twenties did not work a single week in the entire year. In the year 2000, the last time unemployment was this low, the comparable figure was 8 per cent

So at a time when most of the people looking for jobs find them, why are so many young men not even looking? One explanation is that they think there is no hope, but another explanation is that they would rather be playing a game. Food is cheap; living with your parents is cheap; computer games are cheap. Why work? Distinguishing the two hypotheses is not easy, but Prof Aguiar and his colleagues make a good case that the pull of video games is an important part of the story. Women and older men — who spend less time playing games — are more engaged with the labour market.

This is an alarming trend: if basement-dwelling videogamers are turning their backs on reality, they are missing a vital opportunity to pick up the skills, experience and contacts they will need if they’re ever to earn a proper living. The long-term prognosis is worrying.

Then again, good games do bring happiness. Joblessness is usually a reliable predictor of misery, yet men under 30 are far less likely to be unhappy than in the early 2000s. The proportion saying they’re “very happy” or “pretty happy” has risen from 81 to 89 per cent, almost halving the rate of unhappiness. The reverse is true for men over 30.

Without exception, the longest and firmest friendships in my life are with other gamers. I favour face-to-face games with dice and pencils, but those games still involve me and my friends stepping into a fantasy world. I am worried that so many young men are disconnected from the job market. But perhaps we should stop blaming the games, and see if we can get reality to pull its socks up.

 
Written for and first published in the Financial Times on 7 July 2017.

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We are still waiting for the robot revolution

The cash machine turned 50 this week — old enough, I think, to teach us a few lessons about the dawning of a new machine age. It seems a good advertisement for practical innovation that makes life a little easier. But with its very name a promise to replace a human being, the “automated teller machine” seems a harbinger of mass technological unemployment.

The story of the robot takeover has become familiar: robots came first for the bank tellers, and I did not speak out, for I was not a bank teller. Then overnight the robots were driving trucks, performing legal research and interpreting mammographic X-rays. The only jobs remaining were those writing books with titles such as Race Against The Machine and Rise of the Robots.

The difficulty with these visions of technological joblessness is that there are plenty of jobs around at the moment. In the UK, the employment rate is nearly 75 per cent; it hasn’t been higher since records began in 1971. The job situation is not quite so rosy in the US, where participation in the labour market is down since the Clinton and Bush years. Still, the unemployment rate is at a 16-year low. A job apocalypse this is not.

The ATM may help to explain this apparent puzzle. James Bessen of Boston University points out that the ATM did not, in fact, replace bank tellers — there are more bank teller jobs in the US now than when the ATM was introduced.

This should not entirely be a surprise: the original story of the cash machine is that its inventor John Shepherd-Barron had the door of his local bank slammed in his face on a Saturday lunchtime, and was frustrated that there was no way to get his money until Monday morning. Mr Shepherd-Barron didn’t invent a replacement for human tellers so much as a way to get cash at any time of the day or night. Banks opened more branches and employed humans to cross-sell loans, mortgages and credit cards instead. The automated teller worked alongside more human tellers than ever.

The ATM is no outlier here. Mr Bessen found that in the 19th century, 98 per cent of the labour required to weave cloth was automated — yet employment in the weaving industry increased as our demand for clothes more than offset the labour-saving automation. The same process seems to be at work today in the legal sector: artificial intelligence is increasingly being deployed to do tasks once done by legal clerks, but employment of those clerks is up, not down. Mr Bessen has found only one clear example of automation entirely eliminating a human job: elevator operators. There are other jobs that haven’t been taken by robots, but nevertheless have disappeared — Hansom cab driving, or operating a telegraph. Banks are not being replaced by cash dispensers so much as bypassed entirely by contactless payments and online accounts.

Overall, though, machines have been tools that have enhanced human productivity. They automate some routine tasks. This expands output and it also boosts demand for humans to perform complementary, non-routine tasks. This leads to better pay, more interesting work and as many jobs as ever overall.

Or at least — it should. Our chief economic problem right now isn’t that the robots are taking our jobs, it’s that the robots are slacking off. We suffer from slow productivity growth; the symptoms are not lay-offs but slow-growing economies and stagnant wages. In advanced economies, total factor productivity growth — a measure of how efficiently labour and capital are being used to produce goods and services — was around 2 per cent a year in the 1960s, when the ATM was introduced. Since then, it has averaged closer to 1 per cent a year; since the financial crisis it has been closer to zero. Labour productivity, too, has been low.

Plenty of jobs, but lousy productivity: imagine an economy that was the exact opposite of one where the robots took over, and it would look very much like ours. Why? Tempting as it may be to blame the banks, a recent working paper by John Fernald, Robert Hall and others argues that productivity growth stalled before the financial crisis, not afterwards: the promised benefits of the IT revolution petered out by around 2006. Perhaps the technology just isn’t good enough; perhaps we haven’t figured out how to use it. In any case, results have been disappointing.

There is always room for the view that the productivity boom is imminent. A new policy paper from business economists Michael Mandel and Bret Swanson argues that we are starting to find digitally driven efficiencies in physical industries such as energy, construction, transport, and retail. If this happens, Silicon Valley-style innovation will ripple through the physical economy. If.

It is in the nature of exponential growth that the near future can easily outweigh the recent past. But we are still waiting. For now, the machine has stalled and the error message reads: “Sorry: this robot takeover could not be completed at present.”

Written for and first published in the Financial Times on 30 June 2017.

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Why we need to build more homes

If we were living in a movie, the ash-blackened cage looming over West London would be a metaphor for something. Instead, the Grenfell Tower disaster — so catastrophic that we are told we may never know how many people died — is a distinctly un-metaphorical national disgrace.

The least we can do now is learn the lessons of the fire, as we did not after the Lakanal House fire of 2009, which killed six people. Some of those lessons should emerge from the public inquiry. Grenfell Tower was built in 1974 but had recently been renovated. In a sane world such a renovation should have improved safety standards. Apparently we do not live in such a world.

But beyond the life-and-death details of fire safety rules and enforcement, a bigger picture has long been apparent: the British housing system, particularly in London, is in a shocking state. Decades of policy failure have left us with unaffordable housing. That is why the residents of unsafe housing feel trapped and voiceless, unable to afford to move, and powerless to demand change.

A better politician than Theresa May might have used this tragedy to justify housing reform, announcing a bold plan to build a million new quality homes before 2020. That target is less ambitious than it sounds, merely making up many years of undersupply. Having many more decent homes on the market would lower rents and make other housing policy goals — choice, fairness, quality, safety — easier to achieve. But perhaps that expecting too much of Mrs May. Stronger prime ministers in luckier circumstances have failed to make headway on housing.

What of Jeremy Corbyn, the man who is keen to remind us that he’d be quite willing to run the country? The Labour leader certainly made a better job of appearing prime ministerial after the fire, showing concern where Mrs May seemed distant. But this — the performance part of the job — is not what matters most. Boris Johnson could also have played the necessary role to perfection, but that would hardly qualify him to lead the country.

What we really need from our politicians is a willingness to advocate and execute wise policies. Mr Corbyn, instead, focused on grabbing and redistributing property. “There are a large number of deliberately kept vacant flats and properties all over London,” he told ITV journalist Robert Peston, arguing that these properties should be used to house the victims of the fire. When pressed for detail he added, “Occupy, compulsory purchase it, requisition it, there’s a lot of things you can do.”

This is a telling statement — even leaving aside the use of the word “occupy”, which seems to wink at the idea of breaking into other people’s homes. Since Mr Corbyn’s remarks are often uncharitably interpreted by the British press, let us assume that was not his goal.

Still, there is little ambiguity in the word “requisition”. This reflects a consistent theme in Mr Corbyn’s thinking: that the British public can best be served by forcing others — including international corporations and foreign property investors — to bear most of the cost.

It’s not hard to see why this seems appealing. It taps into the same ideals exploited by Donald Trump and the Leave campaign: that there’s money being left on the table, that foreigners are rigging the game against us. Time to give the “Gnomes of Zurich” a poke in the eye.

Such xenophobia-tinged ideas have taken nations to very dark places in the past, but today it is more likely that they will simply lead to inept policies and bad outcomes. Seizing foreign-owned property in London — even proposing seizure — will reduce the tax base and do yet more harm to the reputation of the UK as a grown-up country. (Perhaps that ship has sailed.)

Rich and apparently wasteful foreigners are an easy scapegoat for the problem of high prices and high rents in London. But they have become a target based on anecdotes. What limited data we have — it is admittedly patchy — suggests that the idea of widespread “buy to leave” is a myth. Wealthy foreign investors did not become so by squandering rental income.

We should be taxing all property, with expensive properties taxed at higher rates, occupied or not, foreign-owned or not. There is no need to be vindictive. And we should be building more. There is still scope in London — to say nothing of the leafy south-east — to build safe, pleasant apartments in high-rise and medium-rise blocks. There are costs of doing so, but the costs of not doing so are far greater.

As for the survivors of the Grenfell Tower fire, plans have been announced to offer them homes in a new local development. Good. Surely the British taxpayer is willing and able to do what is right, and pay from our own pockets to rehouse them swiftly and well. There is no need to requisition anything.

This disaster should provoke a rethink not just of rules on sprinkler systems, but the entire rotten edifice of British housing policy. I am not optimistic; I fear we’re getting the politics — and the politicians — we deserve. But the residents of Grenfell Tower deserved so much better.

 

Written for and first published in the Financial Times on 23 June 2017.

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Marginalia

Three great books about getting the important things done

I’ve been thinking a lot, recently, about getting things done, and at the top of my list is Cal Newport’s remarkable book Deep Work. (US) (UK) Newport makes a persuasive case that our success in the world of work is often dependent on the amount of time we can devote to serious, deep thinking. This isn’t true for every job, of course, but it’s true for many. (Management is an obvious exception, an example of a knowledge-economy job that requires decisiveness and judgement rather than depth.)

One thing I appreciated about Newport’s book is that while he’s uncompromising in his belief that deep work is essential both for productivity and for happiness, he’s quite flexible in his understanding of how it’s to be achieved, and gives a variety of examples from Walter Isaacson, who seemed to be able to snatch focused time in twenty-minute chunks, to coder-hermits who shun email and deal with most mail in quarterly.

Another powerful observation – one that hit home for me – is that for many of us, the productivity-sink isn’t watching YouTube videos or gossiping on Snapchat. It’s ostensibly-serious stuff like emails and meetings. Email, in particular, is a severe temptation for me – I find it easy and it feels and looks like work. Swift, decisive email etiquette feels very professional – but all too often it’s just an excuse for avoiding the real work.

Deep Work is a brilliant book and I unreservedly recommend it.

 

For a playful take on related themes, I turned to Robert Twigger’s wonderful little book Micromastery. (US) (UK) Twigger – among other things an explorer, prize-winning poet, and Aikido master – makes the case for mastering many deep-but-narrow skills. Learn how to do an Eskimo roll, or a racing turn, or how to draw a smooth circle by hand. Don’t aim to become a brilliant cook; start instead by mastering the omelette. Twigger offers a cornucopia of little tricks – the kind of thing that you might find in a “how to amaze your friends and win bar bets” book – but far more interesting and compelling is his idea of micromastery, which he sees as empowering (because you remember how to learn and discover), as a source of creativity (because you acquire an ever-larger range of insights) and as a step towards broader mastery (because learning one narrow skill well is a fun, motivating way to begin in a new field). A really fun book – and a wise idea explained well.

Micromastery also bridges an apparent conflict between Deep Work and my own book Messy, which sings the praises of switching from one project to another. Twigger argues that if you want to go deep you need variety: master something narrow, but when you feel yourself getting jaded, switch to something else. Day by day you are focused, but month by month or year by year, your experiences and skills are varied.

 

I could hardly finish this without a shout-out for David Allen’s Getting Things Done. (US) (UK) (Not to be confused with Ed Bliss’s classic of the same name (US) (UK) – a great book too, if somewhat dated.) Allen’s book is inelegantly-written and has always felt wordy – but it’s been a huge success because it works. The central ideas of GTD are: take vague incoming issues (a phone message, an email, a meeting, an idea that pops into your head) and turn then into some specific next action, then write the next action down somewhere where you’re confident you’ll see it when you need it. This stops your subconscious constantly churning over the issue.

That makes GTD sound simple and in many ways it is. But in the messy reality of modern work it’s often easier to appreciate the principle than to make it work in practice. I don’t follow every piece of David Allen’s advice but I follow a lot, because it’s smart, practical and useful stuff.

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19th of July, 2017MarginaliaComments off
Undercover Economist

Wishful thinking in politics is a recipe for foolishness

Shortly after the hilarious UK election, I had the opportunity to ask a Conservative politician (retired, centrist) what he made of the result. “Good news for a soft Brexit,” was one of his conclusions. That was my impression, too. Since both of us were Remainers, it was a comforting thought.

And then I reflected for a moment. Back when Theresa May was expected to secure a stonking majority, wasn’t that also supposed to be good news for a soft Brexit? I reflected on how I’d felt when Mrs May called the election. My dismay at the political choices on offer was offset a little by the hope that, with a clear victory, Mrs May would be unafraid of the extremist Eurosceptics.

I was forced to admit that I could take almost any scenario and produce a soothing interpretation of it. Wishful thinking is a powerful thing, and common. Recently the data journalist Nate Silver wrote that “Donald Trump is making Europe liberal again” and explored the possibility that Mr Trump’s toxic reputation in Europe was helping to suppress the far-right from Austria’s Freedom party and France’s Front National to Britain’s UK Independence party. Mr Silver made a good case, but I couldn’t help feeling that it was widely shared among my European liberal friends because it’s exactly what they wanted to believe.

A more scientific illustration of the same tendency in US politics comes courtesy of the psychologists Ben Tappin, Leslie van der Leer and Ryan McKay. The researchers wanted to tease apart two psychological tendencies that are often conflated: confirmation bias and desirability bias. Desirability bias is wishful thinking: we see what we want to see. Confirmation bias is our tendency to see what we expect to see (now that I’m aware of confirmation bias, I see it everywhere).

A month before the US presidential election, Mr Tappin and his colleagues recruited US-based experimental participants in four categories: Hillary Clinton supporters who expected her to win, Trump supporters who expected him to win, and supporters of each candidate who expected to be disappointed. Then the researchers showed their participants fresh opinion poll data that suggested either that Mrs Clinton was likely to win, or that Mr Trump was.

The research suggested that people seized not upon what they expected to see, but what they hoped to see instead. They tended to focus on encouraging evidence, whether or not it was surprising. They ignored unwelcome evidence. Desirability bias was stronger than confirmation bias.

There is a place in the world for wishful thinking — for example, in business. Without the sunny overconfidence of entrepreneurs few good ideas would ever get off the ground, because the chances of failure are so high.

Even the successes tend to generate more benefits for customers than shareholders. One study, by the great economist Bill Nordhaus, concluded that US companies retained less than 4 per cent of the social value of their innovation. The other 96 per cent went to customers. Given their inability to profit even when things go well, rational entrepreneurs would never quit their day jobs. Business innovation is built on the back of giddy optimism.

Wishful thinking even has its role in politics. The quest for marriage equality, for civil rights, for votes for women and for the abolition of slavery were all once distant dreams. Emmanuel Macron has surfed to success on a wave of optimism that an untested centrist can fix what ails France; I hope he succeeds, but hope alone will not be enough.

In many cases wishful thinking in politics is a recipe for foolishness. Much of Mr Trump’s appeal lay in the idea that the people who said policy was complicated were lying. Solutions were simple if you were strong and smart. It turns out that wishful thinking does not solve problems, but creates them.

Wishful thinking infects the political left, too. Many diehard Democrats seem bewildered that Republicans have had five full months to impeach their own man and still haven’t done it. In the UK, Jeremy Corbyn and his fan base have been enthused by his better than expected performance but seem not to have noticed that he lost the election.

Last year’s Brexit campaign was based on a simple piece of wishful thinking: Boris Johnson’s idea that the UK could have its cake and eat it. How, exactly, was never quite clear, but desirability bias gave a foolish idea more credibility than it deserved. Voters hoped that Mr Johnson was right, and so they began to believe him: it is so much easier to believe what we already wish is true.

That glib optimism stood in stark contrast to what experienced technocrats were saying behind the scenes. They warned that the UK simply didn’t have the time, the people or the expertise we needed to handle the process of leaving and then forging new trade agreements.

Mr Johnson told us that things were easy; the mandarins cautioned that they were difficult. I have my suspicions as to who will be proved correct, but we already know which proposition resonated with the voters. We need to be careful what we wish for.

Written for and first published in the Financial Times on 16 June 2017.

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If your country lets you down, make a new one

Forget Brexit: I’m declaring independence from the rest of the UK. I’ll always have a deep and special connection with the land where I was born and grew up. Nevertheless, I’m taking back control, just as soon as I can figure out what that means.

I also need to choose a name for the divorce process. “Texit” sounds like a fajita laced with pesticide. “Hexit” is better, with something of the evil eye about it. Then there’s just the simple formality of the exit negotiations — if I can find someone in the British government with enough authority to negotiate.

To be clear, this isn’t because of petulance about the election, which did at least give us an amusing twist at the end. Well, it is — but not the result so much as the campaign, and what that campaign revealed. Both Labour and the Conservatives have traditions that I find admirable, but seemed to have concluded that none of those admirable traditions would win votes. The spin-doctors had decided that they could either appeal to me, or the typical British voter, but not both.

But as a wise man once sang, it seems like I’m not alone in being alone. Many people feel like strangers in their own country. Many Scots would rather not be British citizens; there are secessionists in California; and of course, the now-familiar threats of American liberals that they will move to Canada. (In a poetic display of trolling, Emmanuel Macron responded to Donald Trump’s rejection of the Paris agreement by inviting Americans to come to France to work on climate change.)

Such woes are felt across the political spectrum. Many Leave voters felt that Britain was being dragged away from them by a strange coalition of Brussels bureaucrats, the Westminster establishment and a gang of Lithuanian fruit-pickers. Any referendum result that would have pleased me would have left them feeling more alienated than ever. No result could have made both sides happy.

Still, that’s democracy for you: everyone has a vote, and if most people don’t see things your way, you just have to take it on the chin. Or do you? That’s not how things work in other parts of life. If you don’t like the coffee at Starbucks, go elsewhere or brew a cup at home. If your boyfriend is a slob, dump him and find someone better.

So if you don’t like the turn your country has taken, why not join another country — or even start up your own? I live in Oxford, surrounded by people who ride bicycles, marry foreigners and voted Remain. I don’t agree with my neighbours about everything but we do seem to be on the same wavelength. An Ivory Tower city state? Or maybe we could carve out a larger independent nation: London, Oxford, Cambridge, Brighton. Maybe Bristol, too. I love Bristol. And since the rest of the UK never seemed to like London much, maybe it’s best all round if we separate.

Of course, I’m not very serious about this idea. But then Brexit was never a very serious idea either. It’s going to happen, nevertheless.

A more flexible breakaway nation would float. Libertarian Patri Friedman — grandson of economist Milton and protégé of PayPal co-founder Peter Thiel — champions the idea of “seasteading” (UK) (US), setting up ocean-going colonies, powered by waves, wind and the fresh air of freedom. If you don’t like the way your particular floating city is going, unplug and find another one. It’s an intriguing alternative to traditional democracy. If you can’t live with the decisions of your fellow citizens, find some new fellow citizens.

Cory Doctorow’s new dystopian novel Walkaway (UK) (US) explores what happens when some people decide they’d rather fend for themselves than accept life in a default corporate world. It turns out that scavenger drones and 3D printers can get you a wonderful quality of life — until someone powerful doesn’t like what you’re doing and calls an air strike.

This is awkward. Being small makes you vulnerable. Ask Qatar. Oxford doesn’t have much of an air force; I don’t think we even have any tanks. I’m not sure what we’d do if Milton Keynes invaded.

Still, Iceland, Monaco and Singapore all seem to be surviving. Globalisation and peace does make it easier to be small. If the typical nation has a stiff border tariff and 10 infantry divisions, it pays to be one of the big boys. Yet as trade barriers fall, micro-nations become viable. Two decades ago the economists Alberto Alesina, Enrico Spolaore and Romain Wacziarg pointed out that there was a clear negative correlation between the average tariff rate and the number of independent countries in the world. Economic integration allows political disintegration.

There’s a cruel irony in all this. Small nations rely on being able to plug into a liberal global economy shielded from protectionists, pirates and week-long waits to clear customs. The very forces that make people like me worry for our own nations — nationalism, illiberalism and xenophobia — also make the world a more difficult place for breakaway states.

On reflection, perhaps it would be better to stay and try to sort things out. But the predicament is harder to swallow than a pesticide-laced fajita.

Written for and first published in the Financial Times on 9 June 2017.

My new book is “Fifty Things That Made The Modern Economy” – out now in the UK! If you want to get ahead of the curve you can pre-order in the US (slightly different title) or through your local bookshop.

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Marginalia

Publication Day!

50things-hb-uk-205x300
For those of us who aren’t J.K. Rowling, publication day is a slightly soft concept. None of this opening bookstores at midnight, or releasing at 3.35pm in order not to disrupt school – alas.
Still, it’s always a good day for the hard-working author, and sometime around now copies of “Fifty Things That Made the Modern Economy” will be available on the UK Amazon website and in your local bookshop – if you live in the UK. You may also wish to come along to one of the talks I’m giving.
I loved writing this book and I hope you love reading it. Thanks!

6th of July, 2017MarginaliaComments off
Other Writing

Books about calling statistical bullshit

A friend recently emailed to ask me for books that might help navigate a world full of statistical bullshit. Here are some recommendations.

I can’t think of a better science writer than Ben Goldacre, who burns with righteous mischief. His Bad Science (UK) (US) isn’t always about statistics, but it’s excellent throughout and an essential read for anyone who wants to understand some of the faults of modern health and nutrition journalism. Wonderful book.

Of course you should subscribe to the More or Less podcast, but you could also enjoy The Tiger That Isn’t (UK) (US). This is the unofficial book of the series, written by More or Less founders Andrew Dilnot and Michael Blastland. A highly readable guide to making sense of numbers in the wild.

Also very good – with more US examples – is Stat-Spotting (UK) (US) by Joel Best. Best’s book has given me some of my favourite examples of bad stats, but it currently seems a bit overpriced on Amazon, alas.

The classic of the field is, of course, Darrell Huff’s How To Lie With Statistics (UK) (US). There’s a sad coda that will tarnish your view of Huff; but this is still a terrific book.

Brand new book by the very splendid Evan Davis is called Post Truth (UK) (US) – haven’t yet read much but looks good.

And finally try Naked Statistics (UK) (US) by Charles Wheelan, who with wit and clarity wrote the similarly excellent Naked Economics (UK) (US).

Best, Dilnot, Huff and Wheelan all cover quite similar ground. If I was picking just one of them I’d go for Dilnot for a UK audience and Wheelan in the US.

My new book is “Fifty Things That Made The Modern Economy” – coming very, very soon and available for pre-order. Grab yourself a copy in the US (slightly different title) or in the UK or through your local bookshop.

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26th of June, 2017Other WritingComments off
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  • Fifty Inventions That Shaped the Modern Economy
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About Tim

Tim Harford is an author, columnist for the Financial Times and presenter of Radio 4's "More or Less".
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