Morning:
6°c
The other evening, after work, I popped into the grocer's down the road. I needed Nurofen. Ahead of me in a queue were two men and a woman. They were together and they were buying Special Brew. They were already drunk, so much so they could barely speak.
None of them looked as though they had been engaged in any sort of work for quite some time. Previously, I'd passed another shop where, whatever the day or the time, a group of hoodies congregate on a low wall outside.
It was the day of the Budget and my head was spinning. I was tired and angry. Tired at having to read between the lines for the truth of what the Chancellor was saying, angry that he should take us for idiots. My mood wasn't helped by hearing one of his ministers, Yvette Cooper, excusing the breaking of an election manifesto pledge by saying the raising of the tax rate for high earners to 50% was necessary because circumstances had changed, Britain was fighting a global recession.
Her determination to stick to the patronising, platitudinous script was infuriating and insulting. No matter that the increased rate will raise
£2.4 billion and that the Institute of Fiscal Studies reckons indirect tax revenues could fall by £1.5 billion because the rich will spend less, so the actual take may be just £900 million.
It's clearly of no concern to Cooper and her colleagues that while some in the City can take part of the blame for getting us into this financial mess, it's also the same City that was responsible for generating so much of our wealth and the same City that will play a key role in bringing recovery. In the window of the Department for Business, Enterprise and Regulatory Reform (even writing it makes me smile) in Victoria Street there is a poster that says “Manufacturing Matters”.
Well it might do now, but it certainly didn't throughout the New Labour years. Then, the City was everything and industry withered, a policy that was dangerously lopsided. City figures were courted, while those in engineering and other sectors, where people dirtied their hands and made things, were more or less ignored. Factories closed and became heritage parks and loft apartments; apprenticeships and training programmes were abandoned.
Saying that manufacturing is suddenly vital now is not going to get us out of this recession. Rebuilding that desperately weakened base is a long-term measure that will take years to bear fruit.
It's also not clicked with Cooper and co that the City has a mobility today than it's never had in the past. Yes, the new rate is far short of the charges heaped on high-rollers by Old Labour.
But then, those in the Revenue's sights had no choice. This was pre-computers, pre-modern technology, pre-fast transport links. Then, they had to stay and pay. Not any more. No company needs to be here and there are plenty of tax-friendlier places eager to have them.
And while it's true that 50% is nowhere near the tax of over 80% levied in the past, there is only one direction in which the rate is going. No sooner does Tony Blair go than we've had an attempted crackdown on non-domiciles and the levy on the big earners climbs from 40% to 50%. What next, 55% or 60%? What is especially galling is the way Cooper and her pals cite the global recession as justification for what is clearly a political act, intended to wrong-foot the Tories.
It's not a large revenue earner but a move purely designed to embarrass the party that is closely identified with the wealthy. I've no problem with the principle of making the rich pay more. But it's the manner of its execution and the sudden switch in policy, from being a party that has no problem with high-earners and declared its love for the City, that is so irritating.
They've also used the slump to explain the scrapping of an election promise. It's this that should concern us more than anything. What is the significance of manifestos if they can be shoved aside, just like that? In a year's time, Labour will fight a ballot proclaiming a new set of commitments. After what has occurred this week, they are meaningless.
When I drove home last night, the same hoodies were sitting on the wall. They'll be there tomorrow and the day after that...
American dream to be wary of
Some years ago, a couple I knew tried to interest me in a business venture. They said they were making a good living working for Amway, a US organisation, in their spare time selling household goods and cosmetics.
I could join them if I wished. I would be trained in how to sell and, if I introduced recruits to Amway, I would receive a share of their sales as well. It was that simple. But something about their keen persistence made me uneasy.
Today, Amway — it stands for American Way — is one of the world's biggest direct-selling organisations. But some people regard it as a cult. Indeed, that is how it was described in Steve Butterfield's book, Amway: The Cult Of Free Enterprise. Butterfield, an ex-Amway distributor, claims the company preached devotion and obedience to its rightist leaders, applied peer pressure to sales teams and took over their lives. He says often well-paid sales representatives were “hooked in to the Amway lifestyle, including its rallies, products, Cadillacs and cult doctrine”.
So it comes as a shock to find Amway has taken 9000 square feet in Southampton Row for its first store in London despite UK Government attempts to wind it up because it was the purveyor of “unachievable dreams.” Amway has given undertakings as to its future conduct. We shall see.
A clip on a caddie's shoulder and I threw the match away
Having extolled the delights of playing golf at Wentworth a few weeks ago, I received a dream invitation to join the club's owner and restaurateur (Ivy, Scott's, Le Caprice) Richard Caring, with two of his friends, George Goulandris, scion of the Greek shipping family, and Barry Townsley, the stockbroker and philanthropist, in a four on Saturday morning.
It was a beautiful day and Wentworth looked superb. Alas, my golf.
Caring is a former scratch player, good enough to turn professional, who now claims to play off 13 handicap. I'm also 13 but there the similarity ends. He's possessed of a quite beautiful swing that hits the ball miles and he has a sure touch around the greens. As for myself, let's just say I'm not as good.
He was my partner and on the sixteenth on the famous West course, we were two up with three to play. His drive was perfection. George and Barry were struggling, off the fairway. I was further adrift, in thick rough. It looked like Richard's hole and our game.
When I took my second, George and his caddie were up ahead of me. I hooked the shot and it headed straight, for all of a few metres, before bearing down on George's caddie. I shouted “fore!” but too late. It clipped him on the shoulder.
The caddie was unhurt, thank goodness. Once I'd apologised, he said, “technically sir, I'm classed as equipment' and under the rules if you hit your opponent's equipment you automatically lose the hole.”
The others nodded. He was right. Richard was speechless. Still, one up with two to go. We halved the seventeenth. On the par-five eighteenth, I managed a decent drive. Richard blocked his into the trees.
“It's all down to you,” he said. Barry also went into the bushes. It was me versus George. I was three short of the green. George was on in four but not near the pin. “Just pitch on and two putt,” said Caring. “George isn't going to make that putt and we'll have the half.” I duffed it. “Just chip close and sink the putt, no problem,” murmured Caring.
The ball travelled barely a couple of metres. George got his six. I holed out, eventually, for an eight.
Match drawn. Richard, what can I say? I'm sorry, I really am.
