The broke, bewildered, battered middle classes

Robin Angus has words of comfort for them — and in elegant heroic couplets, too. . .

Qf all the woes a long bear market brings, Here (by request) an honest Scotchman sines — Of ISAs wasted half away to naught; Of dwindled TEPs' once dearly bought; Of shares gone down. that late we deemed

defensive; And money cheap, so houses are expensive. Pensions at risk? Endowments much the same?

Lo! 'Life assurance' contradicts its name! 'Dotcoms' were duds; your phone shares' gains proved phoney: Your walls are hung with paper marked • Marconi'; Tho' cheerier bards Calliope may choose, Mine is Melpomene, the Tragic Muse... . No Waugh am I, nor Wilde, nor Peter Simple. Nor Peter Jones, nor Theodore Dalrymple; I'd ask Mark Steyn to write in praise of France Rather than face Dot W'ordsworth's frowning glance!

But lo! at last my verses are complete, And Helicon I quit for Doughty Street To hail, great Fildes! your readers in their masses — The broke, bewildered. battered middle classes.

Pity the poor. 'tis said; but some prefer To pity those less rich than once they were. For long they've plied their pens or tilled the soil To earn a competence from honest toil: They yearn to see their savings working harder To keep their cellars stocked, and fill the larder,

But new demands appear in well-worn guise—

Watch 'Prudence' Brown make sure your taxes rise!

Interest rates fall? Tho' borrowers be delighted, Your prospects of an income have been blighted. A thousand pounds in giks, tho' times were bleak.

Once earned a useful two pounds ten a week; Now that inflation's shadows disappear, You're `passing rich 1.11 on forty pounds a year'.

But soft! What horrors greet your anxious gaze?

Why, mailings from the 'sharper' IFAs, Or those with tongues too glib for mortal telling, Who 'manage wealth' but live by pressure selling!

Take care! You've heard their 'best advice' before And now you're wiser. Now you know the score —

Canapes! Cocktails! Such a nice hotel!

'Sign here, dear sir, and all will then be well!' Guileless as Campbell, free and frank as Hoon, Your friend this morning, gone by afternoon,

Their El Dorado's somewhere in the skies Where lo! on bristled wings a pigling flies, 'Alice von Schlieffen' edits The Spectator And Prescott plies his trade, a lag'-less waiter. So what avails the man by torments racked Who strives to keep his capital intact, To sleep at nights, to sec his income flow, And (over time) to make his money grow? The best advice a Scotchman can dispense Is, 'Always, always, use your common sense.' While oft a young 'wealth manager' will

strive To prove to you that two and two make five.

To make them four is good enough for me — Nothing you're promised ever comes for free. Garishly wrapped, there glitter on the shelf 'Offers' and 'discounts' funded by — yourself; Let savings sink through folly or attrition, There's nothing guaranteed but his commission. And then, if things that glistered turn to

dross, His silver tongue's no surety 'gainst loss; Risk to reward was never yet a stranger, And double-figure yields spell double danger.

His products sold to last? I fear you're wrong; 'Tis 'everything by starts, and nothing long'. Each twinkling star the sober morn dispels, Emerging markets shrink into their shells, He'll switch and churn, but still (if losses

double)

He charges you commission for his trouble And warns you of the market's varied tricks (He's awfully wise, for only 26. . . . ); So, when you fear he's selling you a pup, Just stop and say, 'The numbers don't add up!'

What, then, would suit our wherefores and our whys,

Awaking glints in frugal northern eyes? Investment trusts are surely shares to watch — Safe. sound, secure and favoured by the

Scotch!

These granite bastions, 'neath our northern gaze, Have prospered well since Queen Victoria's days, Kept Glasgow's merchants rich and lawyers keen, Awakened generous thoughts in Aberdeen, Sent Edinburgh matrons happy to their tea And pleased the purse-proud burghers of Dundee.

'Tis true, you must be sure to check them first — Corruption of the best is oft the worst, And some have lost their wealth, and some their wits,

By rash investing in the newer splits. Enormous yields? I knew they'd never last — They vanish, when the dividends are passed, While zeros, gladly bought on 'best advice', Now match to zero yields a zero price: The smell of burning banknotes fills the air — Your lifetime's savings are no longer there! Yet all investment trusts are not as one; Who would compare the Speccie to the Sun? Choose long-established trusts of decent

size, Their dividends secure and set to rise,

With buy-back powers the Boards will use, to see

Their trust shares tightly priced and discount-free; Let costs be low (no large donations vain) And Annual Reports kept dull and plain (I warn you, I reserve my sternest strictures For Boards who waste my cash on pretty

pictures),

Simple in structure (that will help you sleep), Geared if you must, but all their gearing cheap, To liquid shares and markets safe confined And run by men of independent mind Who do not care for Higgs' or Hampel's scoldings And back their public words with private holdings.

(A large commitment to the shares assures Directors' interests are the same as yours.)

What do I do myself? (I think it's nice If scribbling pundits take their own advice.) Most's in investment trusts. I put the rest Wherever fun and fancy would suggest. My dour Scotch fingers itch today for gold. Which wise men bought while Brown the

Braggart sold.

Sought for its shine and splendour, hue and 'heft', Loved by the Right, and hated by the Left, Outlasting Midas, Mill and Maynard Keynes, Since gold's for glamour, grace and (maybe) gains,

I've sovereigns, shimmering in my northern lair,

That shine as bright as Boris Johnson's hair. . . .