My policy overhaul leaves a blank space at the usual people's expense
have been wondering whether the his toric overhaul of Europe's Common Agricultural Policy will get as far as this column. Overhaul? Historic?
Well, that's what it says on the label. 'Although the plan does not cut farm spending', the Financial Times explains, 'it will cut the link between subsidies and production.' Is that clear? The Mark I version encourages farmers to grow crops that no one wants. Their butter accumulates in mountains and their wine sits around in lakes, or is re-distilled as industrial alcohol, which might be an improvement. Surpluses are dumped on the Third World, below cost, to knock out the local producers. Under the Mark II version, no change is foreseen in the scale of the agricultural budget, now running at £32 billion a year, but the farmers will be paid whether they grow the crops or not. Perhaps the landscape would look better if they left it alone. This theory was given a test run in last week's Spectator, which (thanks to a generous sponsor) contained a large number of restful blank spaces where the advertisements would have appeared. I had hoped that I might find a sponsor for a restful blank space where this column appears. Now all I need do is to have my work reclassified as essentially agricultural in nature (no doubt the illustration will help) and I can stay in bed and wait for my cheque to arrive through the post. Who will foot the bill for my share of the £32 billion? The usual people. What would happen if all Europe's industries were given the agricultural treatment? In the end, some Commissioner would propose an historic overhaul. Would this do the trick? Don't bet on it.
Putting it across
Britain, as usual, tags along with these European arrangements and remains a net contributor. Our payment in equals Ireland's payment out, and we could save time by sending the cheque straight to Dublin. Or we could model our tactics on those of the mercantile republic of Dubrovnik, whose envoys (so I learn from Robin Harris's new history) put it across Suleyman the Magnificent, securing a virtual monopoly of the Balkan trade on terms which understated its value and at a rate of exchange miscalculated in their favour. Their instructions were to plead poverty, make their pitch with tears in their eyes, and distribute suitably generous sweeteners around the royal court. This week Italy assumes the presidency of the European Union, putting Silvio Berlusconi in the chair of state, and it is not obvious that any other tactics would be more effective.
Park that nose
You photocopy your gas bill, and post it off to your bank or your broker so that they know who you are, in case you are laundering money, and then what happens? They file reports of their own, and the paperwork piles up and nobody reads it for eight or ten months. The Economic Crime Branch of the National Criminal Intelligence Service is supposed to be watching you, but it can't cope, say KPMG, the accountants. True to form, the Home Office is setting up a task force, hiring more people, spending more money and collecting more information, relevant or not, in the cause of minding other people's business: ours, to be precise. If you want a job as a teacher, you now have to identify yourself by giving details of your bank account, including the confidential passwords that give access to it. This information then lies around in some computer company's database, unless it gets outsourced to India. My first cheque-book came with a printed promise on its cover: 'The officers of the bank are bound to secrecy as regards the transactions of its customers.' Not any more.
Russian Blues
There is a touch of the wild east about the Russian rouble zillionaires now riding into town. If they were Czechs, you would have them specially cleared. One of them has made a bid for Chelsea Village, football club included, and values it at £150 million. Another made his fortune as the KGB's guardian of a secret store of aviation fuel — so secret that when the regime changed, no record could be found of its existence. He sold it as a job lot to the highest bidder, and never looked back.
Great expectations
Who would have thought it? The Compensation Fairy won't pay. She says (through her mouthpiece, the Parliamentary Ombudsman) that no compensation is owed to the sufferers at Equitable Life for any failings of its regulators. People expect too much, she says, sweepingly. Only a month ago, and speaking through another ombudsman, she waved her wand to compensate some of them — they should, so she thought, have been told about the test case that the Equitable ultimately lost — and left their fellow-sufferers to find the money, because, of course. she has none of her own. Waving her wand at the Treasury seems to be harder, as, perhaps, we should expect.
Sauce Savoyarde
Fishknives at dawn at the Dealmakers' Arms. The clash of wills at the Savoy Hotel between the Grill's modish new chef and his unreconstructed City customers is turning ugly. Only the other day an habitual luncher, perched on his accustomed banquette, waved the menu away and asked for some plainly grilled turbot. 'Yes, sir.' And a little hollandaise sauce? 'I will inquire, sir' — but the waiter returned, looking blank: 'The chef is not making sauce hollandaise today, sir.' This scene was foreshadowed a century ago by Arnold Bennett in The Grand Babylon Hotel, his novel set, in all but name, in the Savoy: 'Situated on the Embankment, first in expensiveness, first in exclusiveness, first in that mysterious quality known as style.' In the Grand Babylon, Theodore Racksole, under pressure from his daughter, dares to order fillet steak for two and a bottle of Bass. His request is referred to Mr Rocco, the chef, who turns it down: 'He regrets to be unable to serve steak and Bass tonight, sir.' At this Mr Racksole leaves the room, buys the hotel, and gets the dinner he wanted. Today's dealmakers may care to test whether Blackstone, the investment group which now owns the Savoy, would be open to offers. The hollandaise could be thrown in.
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