Skinflint's City Diary
Those, like me, who argue against the desirability of building a Channel tunnel or bridge, are accused of being blimpish reactionaries or penny-pinching misers. My deeply-felt dislike of the Channel tunnel is not due to natural chauvinism nor is it a matter of defence, nor yet a matter of cost and return on capital. It is not a dislike of those City interests who see huge profits on the floating of loans guaranteed by the taxpayer. It is not a dislike of giving the trade between Europe and Britain as hostage to France, through whose territory it will be funnelled. It is a very real fear of what a Channel tunnel will do to the rail, road and port system of Britain. The cost of a Channel tunnel is merely a matter of deciding the proportion of national resources that are worth committing. The direct risk will be inflationary and not a charge on the balance of payments. The multiplier, in Keynesian terms, will be at work, but only within the already hard-pressed low technology construction business. What I see is a Channel tunnel, apparently financially successful but at the expense of withering •ports and over-used roads as year in and year out the motor hordes fill the roads the length of the land as they make for the plughole of Britain — instead of using their nearest airfield or seaport, the historical bridge between Britain and the world.
Raider of the year
Maxwell Joseph is a remarkable man, chosen by Kenneth Fleet of the Daily Telegraph as 'Business Man of the Year.' He has built up Grand Metropolitan Hotels from within, borrowing a lot from Isaac Wolfson's money-lending department, through a mixture of property dealing and entrepreneurial skill. Comparatively recently he has grown by large-scale acquisition, by share exchange. How different from other businessmen who started with greater advantages but have fallen badly on their noses. A friend of mine owns an Aston Martin car. He tells me he often sees that little cocksparrow of British Industry, Sir David Brown, who has had to make an embarrassing come-down recently. Once, this friend mentioned to Sir David some trouble he was having with his car -which he thought might be an inherent fault of design — only to be put down petulantly by Sir David saying, "Who do you think I am — the Service Manager?" This same friend was staying in the South of France some weeks ago in a hotel belonging to Maxwell Joseph's Grand Metropolitan Hotels, when he met Maxwell Joseph fresh from his triumph in acquiring Watneys. Saying how much he enjoyed the hotel he just thought he ought to mention—being a helpful sort—that the orange juice at breakfast was tinned, not fresh. Ominously for the staff of GMH Joseph replied, "I shall see to it that the next time you come it will be."
Rough humour
Commission-hungry friends of mine in Lloyds have been telling me of a roughhumoured joke that has been played in the City and of which you may care to hear. If you have the time, it goes something like this. Someone telephones a friend, who is, say, a maker of ice buckets, to tell that at a city dinner the previous night he was sitting, beside someone who claimed to own a multiple restaurant operation in the West Country. This restaurant owner said, in passing, that he was about to order several hundred ice buckets. The man from Lloyds goes on to say he had mentioned, his friend's wares and if he telephoned quickly he would be able to pick up some trade before he left for London. If he experienced difficulty he should say he wants to speak to Mr J. Thomas on a personal matter, urgently. The telephone number to call was 01-246 8072.
I don't recommend that you waste money on the GPO by telephoning for the punch line. You have my assurance that it is all part of the coarse good humour of the City in 1972.
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