CITY AND SUBURBAN
Settling down to 142 days' hard labour, with not enough to show for it
CHRISTOPHER FILDES
Welcome back to the grindstone, as we start another year in the service of our com- mon taskmaster. A genial enough fellow in his private life, but exigent in his demands on us, his name is Kenneth Clarke. This year, as last, we shall have to spend the first 142 days working for him. Before Christmas he gave the impression that he had budget- ed to let us off more lightly this year, but this proves little more than a tease. On Tax Freedom Day each year, we are set free to start working for ourselves. The Adam Smith Institute, which works it out, says that it has moved from 22 May last year to 21 May this year. The catch is that this year we must work for the taxmaster on 29 Febru- ary. There are people who would rather work for him than for themselves, or so they keep telling the pollsters — don't cut my taxes, they say, do spend more. Even if I believed them I would not claim to be one of them, but this may be personal. So little of his spending seems to come my way. Health, welfare, education? Not at this address, thank you. Defence and justice are the classic common services that citizens cannot provide for ourselves, but the bal- ance is shifting away from them. Far-called, our navies melt away, on dune and headland sinks the fire, but the social security budget carries straight on upwards, year in, year out, and now swallows the whole yield from income tax and most of national insurance, too. It is an arbitrary form of transfer from one group of citizens to another, and some of the losers may be crude enough to won- der what there is in it for them, as they set- tle down to their 142 days' hard labour for the taskmaster.
Pride, prejudice and Emma
I WAS going to draw a political moral from this. It seemed to me that the Conservative Party's natural supporters were more likely to be on the losing end of this £92 billion transfer than the winning end, and that penalising them on this scale might not help the party's chances. I must have got this wrong, though, as Emma Nicholson has been explaining. She, after all, was a Con- servative MP until the other day, and she says that it is no longer a party of compas- sion and concern for all. How should it show these qualities? In the traditional manner? She may think that £92 billion is not enough to qualify, though she does not say how much would be. She may think that other good causes risk being frozen out: the econ- omy, for instance. She may have taken offence at her ex-colleagues' rhetoric. Unlike Theodore Roosevelt, they speak loudly — proclaiming harsh attacks on cheats and scroungers — but turn out to carry a small stick. She might even be con- cerned about a system which creates its own dependents and catches them in traps if they try to break free. Successive governments have tinkered with it, some government is going to have to tackle it, but on all known form Miss Nicholson need not have feared that this one would.
Ruat justicia
IT IS New Year's Eve in the Temple, and Niggler QC drains his glass. 'We must look forward', he says. 'Lloyd's has been wonder- ful to us — five years' guaranteed litigation with ourselves as the only sure winners but we've seen the best of it now, and there's always a danger of settlement.' Grockle, his junior, winces. 'Yes, and look at that new rule Tom Bingham made the other day no more silly damages in libel actions. He'll spoil the whole game. Now where shall we go for honey? Suing auditors? Binder Ham- lyn, £70 million damages, costs . . . "I've got something even better', Niggler tells him. 'Suing regulators! It's in its infancy. Have you spotted Three Rivers Council v. Bank of England?' Is that the BCCI case?' `Exactly — ran for twelve days in the High Court, five counsel on each side and two silks each — some humorist at Freshfields briefed a chap called Bankim Thanki judgment still to come, and that's just a pre- liminary hearing! Misfeasance in public office, an unexplored branch of the law of tort, with European implications! Just think what that case will cost before it's over, if it ever is!"Oh, the fees, the refreshers!' moans Grockle. 'How can we . . . "I bet', Niggler tells him, 'we can find some bombed-out life assurer cross enough to sue the SIB, the PIA and the rest of that regulatory alphabet soup.' For millions and millions?' For ages and ages.' Midnight strikes, and the two drink to a litigious new year: Ruat justicia!' Ascendimus in caelum.'
It's drier by Tube
MY COMMISERATIONS to the press offi- cers of London Underground, now forced to carry out their thankless task without the necessary lubrication. Some booby has decided that the rules which apply to tube train drivers should apply equally to them: no drinking on duty. 'We're all wearing black arm bands,' a parched voice informs me. Governments have whole departments and agencies to know better than us in our life and work, and companies have learned to mimic them, usually with the help of their human resources divisions, which used to be called personnel before everybody got a pay rise and a bigger car. In the name of healthy working practices or one-size-fits-all regula- tion, their whim must prevail, even if a tee- total press office is about as much use as elastic-band propulsion on the Circle Line. London Underground now joins the list of hosts whose luncheon invitations I shall take extra care not to accept.
Gift dogs, open mouths
BY NOW we must all have had presents which were more blessed to give than to receive. At Christmas two years ago, one of these turned out to be a present from Lord Archer, who in his open-handed way sent out signed copies of his latest novel. Telling the story last month, I quoted Mr Jorrocks's response (or so I said) to a gift horse: 'Con- found all presents wot eat.' From Yorkshire, Mr R.L. Bates courteously corrects me: `Jor- rocks was not speaking of a horse but of ten couple of fox-hounds which his bagman or representative Bagginson had picked up dog cheap for ten shillings at an auction of the hunting establishment of Sir Guy Spanker under a writ of execution from the Sheriff of Fleetshire: Handley Cross, ch. xlii.' Con- found indeed. Dear Father Christmas, I would rather have Handley Cross in paper- back, or even ten couple of ravenous fox- hounds, than a copy of Lord Archer's latest, signed or not.
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