Coronavirus is our chance to completely rethink what the economy is for

The pandemic has revealed the danger of prizing ‘efficiency’ above all else. The recent slowdown in our lives points to another way of doing things. Malcolm Bull in The Guardian

 

Illustration: Matt Kenyon/The Guardian


There’s been a lot of argument about how best to handle the coronavirus pandemic, but if there are two things on which most people currently agree, it’s that governments should have been better prepared, and that everyone should get back to work as soon as it is safe to do so. After all, it seems more or less self-evident that you need to be ready for unexpected contingencies – and that it is better for the economy to function at full capacity. More PPE would have saved doctors’ and nurses’ lives; more work means less unemployment and more growth.

But there is a catch to this, and it has been at the heart of political debate since Machiavelli. It is impossible to achieve both goals at once. Contingency planning requires unused capacity, whereas exploiting every opportunity to the full means losing the flexibility needed to respond to sudden changes of fortune.

It wasn’t until the mid-20th century that economists started to realise that it might be better to leave a bit of slack in the economy to help cope with exogenous shocks. In the years after the Great Depression, governments saw the problem as “idle men, idle land, idle machines and idle money”. But there were also economists, such as the Englishman William Hutt, who went against the Keynesian consensus and pointed out that there were some things – fire extinguishers, for example – that were valuable precisely because they were never used. Having large stocks of PPE, underemployed nurses, or a lot of spare capacity in ICUs, falls into the same category. Idle resources are what you need in a crisis, so some degree of inefficiency isn’t necessarily a bad idea. 

Trying to manage a pandemic in a world of just-in-time production lines and precarious labour brings these issues into sharper focus. On the one hand, there weren’t enough idle resources for most countries to cope adequately with the spread of the virus. On the other, the enforced idleness of the lockdown leads to calls to get the economy moving again.

For Donald Trump, the prospect of a prolonged shutdown is particularly alarming because it threatens to undermine the competitiveness of the US economy relative to other nations (notably China) that have dealt with the crisis more efficiently. That’s an argument Machiavelli would have understood very well. One of his constant refrains was that idleness could lead to what he called corruption (the diversion of resources from the public good, which Trump equates with the Dow Jones Industrial Average) – and that corruption leads inevitably to defeat at the hands of your rivals.

For Machiavelli, the contagion of corruption was spread above all by Christianity, a “religion of idleness”. And it is true that the Judeo-Christian tradition, with its sabbaths, jubilees, feast days, and religious specialists devoted to a life of prayer and contemplation rather than martial virtue, built a lot of slack into the system. Machiavelli thought it should be squeezed out through laws that would prevent surplus becoming the pretext for idleness, rather in the way that later economists looked to the pressure mechanism of competition to do the same.

But there’s a contradiction in Machiavelli’s thinking here, because he also acknowledged that one of the things every polity needed was periodic renewal and reform, and that corruption was what preceded it. So you’re in a double bind: either you can squeeze out the slack and never experience renewal, or you can court corruption and create an opportunity to start over and make things better.

With hindsight it looks like that’s one of the problems the religions of idleness tried to address, by incorporating idleness into the calendar. In ancient Hebrew tradition, there were weekly sabbaths, and every seventh year was meant to be a year of release in which the land was left to lie fallow, debts were forgiven and slaves emancipated. The idea was picked up by the Chartist William Benbow, who in 1832 used it as the model for what he called a Grand National Holiday, in effect a month-long general strike that would allow a National Congress to reform society “to obtain for all at the least expense to all, the largest sum of happiness for all”.

Benbow’s plan came to nothing, but it provides an alternative model for how the lockdown might be viewed. The Italian philosopher Giorgio Agamben has complained that the lockdown is a state of exception with an increase in executive powers and a partial abrogation of the rule of law; but the flipside is that it is the closest thing to a Grand National Holiday that most of us have ever experienced. Despite all the suffering the pandemic has caused, for many it has also meant no work, debt relief, empty roads and a rare opportunity to live on free money from the government.

Generally speaking, exogenous threats like wars or natural disasters act as pressure mechanisms forcing us to redouble our efforts to combat them together. The benefit of contagion is that the only way to combat it is to do less rather than more. That has some demonstrable advantages. There has been a dramatic global fall in carbon emissions. The only comparable reduction in greenhouse gases during the past 30 years came as the result of the decline of industrial production in eastern Europe after the fall of communism. That was managed exceptionally badly because neoliberal economists thought that what post-communist states needed was the pressure of free market competition. Shock therapy would galvanise the economy.

The pandemic has been a shock alright, but its effect has been the opposite of galvanising. People everywhere had to stop whatever they were doing or planning to do in the future. That provides an altogether different model of political change. The philosopher Walter Benjamin once noted that while Karl Marx claimed that revolutions were the locomotives of world history, things might actually turn out to be rather different: “Perhaps revolutions are the human race … travelling in this train, reaching for the emergency brake.”

Everyone keeps saying that we are living through strange times, but what is strange about it is that because everything has come to a stop, it is as though we are living out of time. The emergency brake has been pulled and time is standing still. It feels uncanny, and there’s more slack in the world economy than there ever has been before. And that means, as both Benjamin and Machiavelli would have recognised, that there is also a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for change and renewal.

For some, this might mean a shorter working week, or less air travel. For others, it might suggest the opportunity for a more fundamental remaking of our political system. A space of possibility has unexpectedly opened up, so although the lockdown may be coming to an end, perhaps the standstill should continue.

Fixing Britain's work ethic is not the answer to this economic mess

It suits the Tory austerity narrative to blame 'idle' Britons for the recession rather than flaws in the modern labour market

• 
• • Gaby Hinsliff
  • guardian.co.uk, Monday 20 August 2012 17.00 BST

A new book by five Tory MPs has accused Britons as being among the worst idlers in the world. Photograph: Erik Dreyer/Getty

Well, that didn't last long, did it? The victory parades have barely begun, and already the midsummer dream is rudely shattered. No more talk of herculean efforts to win gold, no more hammering of iron rings of fire, no more warm fuzzy feelings towards our national broadcaster.

No, it's back to being depicted as a nation of slack-jawed lummoxes incapable of a decent day's work, and to Iain Duncan Smith accusing the BBC's economics editor Stephanie Flanders of "peeing all over British industry", after she failed to greet falling unemployment figures with unquestioning wonderment. So much for the legacy.

In fairness to the five Tory MPs who first pricked the bubble, via leaked excerpts from their forthcoming book arguing that we're not the nation of champions we had giddily begun imagining but "among the worst idlers of the world", this wasn't quite the plan.

Perhaps provocative references in Britannia Unchained to people preferring "a lie in to hard work" will look less inflammatory in context, or at least in season (the book's due out in September, traditional month of noses back to grindstones and party conference tub-thumping). But still, the politics of idleness deserves unpicking.

Here's a test: does the word "idle", when used by politicians, instinctively set alarm bells ringing? If so, you're probably left of centre, because it's an indisputably Tory buzzword – reeking of Norman Tebbit's father getting on his bike and rightwing tabloids haranguing welfare "scroungers", stirring in leftwing breasts the old fear of attack on the vulnerable.

But if it's that word "vulnerable" which gets your hackles up then you're probably right of centre, because vulnerability is a Labour buzzword – reeking for you of excuses to do nothing, of lily-livered bleating about why the welfare state couldn't possibly be reformed which ultimately traps those it purports to protect. You probably cheered when Eric Pickles ditched the term "vulnerable families" (Whitehall speak for impoverished families with multiple social problems) for "problem families", saying it was time to stop making excuses. For the right, the word "vulnerable" smacks of victimhood, of ducking blame and not holding individuals accountable for their actions.

Because that's really the difference between "vulnerable" and "idle". The first suggests that being broke or desperate is at least partly to do with external circumstances, which may need help to overcome; the second suggests it's your own dumb fault. "Vulnerable" resonates for those who believe in the transformative power of the state; "idle" for those who believe in the power of individuals.

And what's giving the politics of idleness a new lease of life is the marriage of an ancient Tory belief – that anyone can haul themselves up by their bootstraps, that failure means you're not trying hard enough – with a newly fashionable argument about the decline of the decadent west and rise of the industrious east.

The young Tory turks are busy weaving a narrative not just of individual moral failing (too many workshy scroungers) but of national degeneration: a sense that we've been spoiled by years of easy money and need a collective kick up the backside. It's intimately connected to austerity politics, with its inference that only rich countries can afford to go this soft.

The idea that developed nations have grown fat and lazy with prosperity, and that only the children of hungry tiger economies still understand the value of hard graft, is quietly embedding itself in political culture. Think Michael Gove raiding Singapore's education system for ideas on toughening up exams; or even the Indian steel magnate Ratan Tata, complaining last year that his company's western workers were overfond of their leisure and blaming "a certain comfort level that comes from a country that has had good times". (Tata is shortly to retire but says at 75 his life's work won't be done, a sentiment of which the Britannia Unchained quintet would doubtless approve.)

It's not clear yet exactly who these pampered slackers supposedly dragging Britain down are, beyond familiar vague complaints of a bloated public sector and kids "more interested in pop music and football" than in becoming lawyers. Perhaps inevitably, they exist now more in the realm of anecdote – the intern who thinks she's above making the coffee, young men scorning the menial jobs subsequently snapped up by immigrants – than hard fact.

And while Britain does, as the book's authors say, have unusually short average working hours, that's mainly because we have an unusually high percentage of part-timers, many of whom want fulltime work but can't find it. (Those working fulltime still do some of the longest hours in Europe.) Perhaps all those frantically juggling part-time mothers of small children – the ones who a generation ago wouldn't have worked at all – are to be deemed lazy? But there's a bigger problem with the politics of idleness than quibbling over definitions.

Hauling ourselves out of recession might indeed be as easy as demanding everyone pull their socks up, if declining GDP really was just a fancy name for indolence.

But the many dull technical reasons why value of output per worker might fall – from the shrinking of highly productive sectors like the City to the rise of self-employed freelances commanding a lower hourly rate than they did as staffers – aren't solved by simply clocking up more hours. Our challenges are not those of tiger economies, suggesting their recipe of working harder for longer for less won't necessarily work miracles here.

Yet for exploring this complicated new reality in her Newsnight report, Flanders was accused by the work and pensions secretary of "carping and moaning", running down an "incredibly robust" private sector. It's apparently fine to call individuals lazy, but not to suggest any flaw in modern labour markets.

And perhaps that's partly because doing the latter suggests we may be vulnerable (that word again) to global economic trends beyond our immediate control – trends not so easily reversed by the classic Tory formula now being touted for unleashing our inner tiger, namely slashing employment regulations and cutting benefits. Idle, or vulnerable? The story we believe about ourselves has wider implications than we think.