Does the Makerfield Test Really Work?

When Local Justice Meets National Responsibility

One of the most attractive political ideas to emerge in Britain this year is also one of the simplest.

Andy Burnham calls it the Makerfield Test.

His argument is straightforward: government should judge its success not merely by economic growth, favourable statistics or the approval of financial markets, but by whether life genuinely improves for ordinary people in communities such as Makerfield and thousands of places like it.

At first glance, it is difficult to disagree, isn’t it?

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The Accidental Outsiders

Accidental outsider on a bridge with the University of Oxford University on the right and a northern English town on the left.
Why We Need More Than One Perspective

I have come to realise that the most valuable education I ever received was learning to see the same country from two completely different points of view.

I was reminded of this recently while listening to Andy Burnham speak about the “Makerfield test”: his promise that national policy should be judged by whether it improves life in places such as Makerfield, rather than merely satisfying the economic and political orthodoxies of Westminster.

I was attracted to the idea immediately. That was not altogether surprising. Burnham and I have several things in common.

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Why Did Nobody Teach Me This at School?

What history should really teach
How a Spanish football shirt unexpectedly changed the way I think about history, education and the origins of our globalised world.

I recently bought a Spanish football shirt to wear at a bar while watching Spain’s 3:0 win against Austria on Thursday.

That simple purchase unexpectedly led me down one of the most fascinating rabbit holes I have explored in a while.

It began with two Latin words embroidered on Spain’s coat of arms: Plus Ultra.

I knew from my school-Latin what the words meant, further beyond, but I still needed some context to understand the meaning.

A little research revealed that they are a reference to the Pillars of Hercules at the Strait of Gibraltar. For the ancient world, these marked the edge of the known earth. The old warning was “Non Plus Ultra” nothing lies beyond.

Then came the voyages of exploration.

The warning became an invitation.

There was indeed more beyond.

That discovery prompted another question.

Christopher Columbus sailed for Spain. Yet I vaguely remembered reading somewhere that he was Italian. Was that right?

It was. I kept digging.

Born in Genoa, Columbus spent years trying to persuade different European rulers to finance his ambitious plan to reach Asia by sailing west. It was only when the Spanish Crown agreed to back him that history changed forever.

Then I discovered something even more surprising.

Ferdinand Magellan, whose expedition first circumnavigated the globe, wasn’t Spanish either. He was Portuguese. And he himself was killed in the Philippines before the expedition was completed.

Like Columbus, he simply happened to be sailing under the Spanish flag.

As I kept digging, I also learnt for the first time why America is called America and why the Pacific is called the Pacific. I learnt why Brazil speaks Portuguese while much of South America speaks Spanish, why Spain became one of history’s great global powers, how its sudden enormous wealth became a resource curse, and, most strikingly of all, how all these historical facts are mirrored in the events happening in the world today.

By now, all this led to another kind of question:

Why was I only learning this as I approach retirement?

None of these are obscure historical curiosities.

They explain the world we live in.


The more I thought about it, the more I realised that perhaps history has often been taught backwards.

Schools understandably devote considerable attention to national history. In Britain, we studied the Tudors, the Industrial Revolution and the Second World War. In Germany, where I spent many years teaching, National Socialism understandably occupies a central place throughout secondary education.

These are all profoundly important topics.

But too often history becomes an exercise in remembering names, dates, battles and treaties.

The examination rewards recall.

Real understanding often comes later.

History is not simply the story of what happened.

History can be the highly relevant explanation of why today’s world looks the way it does.

Why does almost an entire continent speak Spanish?

Why is Brazil different?

Why was Córdoba (Spain) once much bigger and more important than London?

Why are Europe and Latin America still so culturally intertwined?

Why and how did globalisation begin centuries before the Internet?

Those are historical questions too.

They just happen to illuminate the present rather than merely describe the past.


While I was training teachers at the University of Sussex, one of the finest history lessons I have ever witnessed contained almost no conventional history.

The young trainee teacher warned parents in advance that the lesson would be unusual.

She darkened the classroom. She played the sound of air-raid sirens followed by distant explosions. Beforehand, she asked the children to climb underneath their desks and lie silently on the floor with their eyes closed.

For several minutes they simply listened.

Afterwards she asked them to write, not about dates, military strategy or political leaders, but about how they had felt.

For a brief moment, those children had experienced uncertainty, vulnerability and fear. Not the reality of war, of course, but enough to begin imagining what it might feel like to be a child living through one.

I have forgotten countless historical dates since leaving school. I have never forgotten that lesson.

Nor, I suspect, have the children who experienced it.

That teacher wasn’t merely teaching history.

She was teaching empathy and vividly demonstrating how history is so relevant to life in the 21st Century.


As I have grown older, I find myself increasingly drawn to education that asks questions rather than rewards memorisation.

The same thought has appeared repeatedly in my recent writing about economics.

Financial literacy is not really about memorising definitions.

It is about understanding why economies behave as they do.

Likewise, history should not simply teach us to remember what happened.

It should help us understand why our world became what it is.

Perhaps that is why I have found these discoveries in Spain so unexpectedly exciting.

I wasn’t simply learning historical facts.

I was discovering connections.

The voyages of Columbus and Magellan were not isolated adventures.

They marked the beginning of the first great wave of globalisation.

Trade routes expanded.

Ideas travelled.

Plants, animals, diseases and cultures crossed oceans.

The Mediterranean outside my window here was once dry land – another fact I was unaware of. It is only thanks to the Zanclean Flood that water entered from the Atlantic through the Strait of Gibraltar and opened up the possibility of a future global trade highway.

The world became permanently interconnected.

Five centuries later we are still living with the consequences.

History also reminds us that no civilisation remains permanently at the top.


Sometimes I wonder whether schools unintentionally leave us with the impression that education ends when we pass our examinations.

In reality, the opposite is true.

The most rewarding learning often begins afterwards.

It begins when curiosity replaces obligation.

When we are no longer asking, “Will this be in the exam?”

Instead we ask, “Why did nobody ever explain this?”

Perhaps that is the real purpose of education.

Not to fill our minds with information.

But to awaken a curiosity that lasts for the rest of our lives.

“The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes.”
— Marcel Proust

When a Country Gets Richer, Who Owns the Wealth?

Wealth. A man reading a financial newspaper about who owns Spain's wealth in the background.A newspaper headline over breakfast in Spain made me question something I’d never really considered before. When a country’s economy is booming, who actually owns the wealth that’s being created?

One of the unexpected pleasures of moving to Spain has been rediscovering the lost art of breakfast.

Most mornings I walk to my favourite café, order a café con leche and toasted bread rubbed with fresh tomato and olive oil, then spend half an hour simply watching the town wake up. The same waiter greets familiar faces with effortless warmth. Elderly couples linger over coffee. Shopkeepers raise their shutters. Sunburnt tourists wobble by. There is something reassuring about the rhythm of ordinary life here.

A few mornings ago, however, it wasn’t the people who caught my attention. It was a newspaper.

The gentleman at the next table was reading Expansión, Spain’s financial newspaper. Across the front page was a headline that immediately made me stop.

The real owners of the IBEX 35.

The real owners?

Surely Spain’s largest companies belong to Spain.

I finished my breakfast, but the question followed me home.


The Assumption

Like most people, I have spent much of my life assuming that when a country’s economy grows, its people become wealthier. I’ve lived in Germany for 16 years, which always provided me with the perfect example.

And that is how the news is usually presented.

The economy is booming.

Corporate profits are rising.

The stock market reaches another record.

We instinctively hear those as different ways of saying the same thing.

But they are not.

Companies create wealth where they operate.

Ownership determines where much of that wealth ultimately accumulates.

The distinction sounds almost trivial.

It isn’t.

It changes the way we think about almost everything.


Creating and Owning Wealth

Imagine two people.

One spends forty years working.

The other spends forty years owning.

The first helps create prosperity.

The second receives part of the return from that prosperity.

Sometimes, of course, they are the same person.

Often they are not.

That morning, as I watched the waiter carrying coffees from table to table, it occurred to me that he was helping to create Spain’s prosperity every bit as much as a hotel owner, a banker or a company director. Every tourist welcomed, every breakfast served and every day’s work honestly completed contributes, however modestly, to a nation’s success.

Yet if one of Spain’s largest companies doubles its profits this year, a significant share of those profits may eventually belong to people who have never set foot in Spain.

The wealth is created here.

The ownership may be somewhere else.

For some reason, that simple distinction had never really occurred to me before.


A Global Story

The more I reflected on it, the more I realised that Spain was merely the setting.

This is the story of the modern world.

Capital crosses borders far more easily than people do.

That freedom has transformed our lives. It has financed innovation, built industries, connected economies and lifted hundreds of millions of people out of poverty. Few of us would seriously wish to reverse it.

Yet every system has consequences.

Perhaps the least discussed consequence of global capitalism is that it increasingly separates the place where wealth is created from the place where much of it is ultimately owned.

The two are no longer the same thing.


Britain Taught Me the Lesson Before Spain Did

Ironically, Britain had been teaching me this lesson for decades without my noticing.

Successive governments sold companies, utilities, railways, airports, property and infrastructure into private and often international ownership. We were told that this was modernisation, efficiency and the price of attracting investment. In many respects, it was.

Investment creates jobs.

Investment raises productivity.

Investment helps economies grow.

But every sale also carried another consequence.

A little more of tomorrow’s income would belong to someone else. And if the quality of a service such as buses and railways deteriorates in Manchester when the company owners sit in an office along the Champs Elysées, we should not be too surprised.

At the same time, Britain itself became a major owner of overseas assets. Pension funds, investment companies and multinational businesses accumulated wealth around the world. Perhaps that is one reason Britain has continued to generate considerable income despite producing far fewer of the manufactured goods that once defined its economy.

I had simply never connected those two facts before.

The newspaper in Spain finally joined the dots for me.


The Conversation We Rarely Have About Wealth

Political arguments usually revolve around wages, taxation or redistribution.

The left asks how wealth should be shared.

The right asks how more wealth can be created.

Both debates matter.

But perhaps they both overlook an earlier question.

Who owns the wealth before anyone starts arguing about how to redistribute it?

That seems to me to be one of the defining questions of our age.

Not because ownership should be concentrated within national borders.

Nor because global investment is somehow undesirable.

But because ownership itself has become strangely invisible.

Millions of people spend entire careers helping to create wealth while accumulating very little ownership of the economy they are helping to build.

They earn incomes.

But wages and ownership are not the same thing.

One pays today’s bills.

The other builds tomorrow’s security.


A Fairer Form of Globalisation

I have no desire to retreat into economic nationalism.

The extraordinary prosperity of the modern world owes much to capital flowing freely across borders. The challenge, surely, is not to make investment less global but ownership less exclusive.

Economic growth should not become a spectator sport in which millions of people spend their lives creating wealth they will never meaningfully own.

A healthy economy should produce not only better wages but broader ownership, because ownership is what allows one generation’s work to become the next generation’s security.

That does not require abandoning global markets.

It requires asking whether ordinary citizens have enough opportunities to become long-term owners of the prosperity they spend their lives creating.

What if governments devoted as much energy to widening ownership as they currently devote to encouraging growth?

What if employee share ownership became the norm rather than the exception?

What if ordinary citizens found it easier to build long-term stakes in productive businesses through pension funds, savings schemes and investment accounts?

What if the people whose daily work creates prosperity gradually came to own a larger share of that prosperity?

That strikes me as a far more constructive ambition than trying to turn back the clock on globalisation.


I still remember folding that newspaper and taking one last sip of coffee before walking home.

The headline had answered one question.

But it had raised another.

When we say that a country’s economy is booming, we usually ask how much wealth has been created.

Perhaps the more important question is one we almost never ask.

Who really owns the wealth that a nation’s workforce is creating?

“The political problem of mankind is to combine three things: economic efficiency, social justice and individual liberty.”
— John Maynard Keynes