I don’t know if the country can afford to pay hard-working and well-motivated primary-school headteachers, who also work in the community to help other schools, £180,000 a year (which is roughly what he got after backpay for the previous year and employers’ pension contributions are taken away). But I hope so, and I’m pleased that Mark Elms has been well paid for doing a good job. The fact that so many felt otherwise is a sign of how hysterical with envy some people, and a lot of news reporting, have become.
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Occasionally, just for a moment, I think it might be a good thing if money ceased to exist, if the eurozone sovereign debt crisis spiralled so hopelessly out of control that there was an international bank run of catastrophic proportions, and so all of the numbers – and, in millions of cases, negative numbers – next to our names on screens became academic because the screen-owning institutions had run out of the pieces of paper that the numbers were supposed to represent – and indeed weren’t even sure for how much longer they’d receive the electricity to run the computers that stored these now notional numbers.
Maybe, I catch myself thinking, such a great levelling would remind us of the fundamental truth that we’re just a few billion humans clinging to a rock spinning in space, with certain requirements and problems, and certain resources and skills with which to address them. The bottom line is not the proverbial bottom line. Our obsession with money has even infected our idioms; it’s made us believe that cash is something concrete. (The builders got to that one before the accountants, which makes a bit more sense.) When you think about things in this way, you’re harder to sway when people argue that the British economy depends on a vibrant financial services sector or that environmental campaigners don’t understand the real world.
The reason I try to romanticise this potential cataclysm is that I’m depressed by how money always latches on to power – how affluent people and institutions aggressively and unashamedly lobby to sustain and advance themselves. With money gone, this couldn’t happen. Admittedly, the chequebook’s demise as a sign of power would mean a return of the mace. Might would be right again, which is hardly a fairer system – but at least it encourages people to take exercise.
For now, money remains sovereign. Chris Huhne’s girlfriend, Carina Trimingham, has made the papers for sending a “Nod nod, wink wink, I know lots of cabinet ministers” email to a lobbying company in the hope of getting a job. Meanwhile, we had cross-party cross parties in response to Sir Christopher Kelly’s proposed reforms of their funding. He wanted a cap of £10,000 on money given by individual donors so that people are primarily giving to support rather than influence a political cause; state funding would make up the shortfall.
The Trimingham email isn’t much of a scandal; it’s just another own goal by the Lib Dems. I doubt they’ve got the organisational skills to be properly corrupt. Like the priests at St Paul’s when Occupy moved in, they’ve just been flustered by the unaccustomed limelight into briefly abandoning all their principles. And, while there’s a thriving market for governmental influence, Trimingham doesn’t strike me as a major stallholder. I doubt that the networking overtures of the younger woman your colleague just left his wife for seem any more inviting in political circles than they do anywhere else. She’s just another hapless jobseeker, a victim of history: a hundred years ago, a woman having an affair with a cabinet minister would have been set up in her own flat on a generous allowance. Chris Huhne would probably think that was sexist. He’s very much a new man who was always happy to let his wife drive, for example.
The rejection of reform to how political parties are financed is more troubling. Clearly, the parties fear that a £10,000 cap would open up a massive funding gap. This would partly be caused by genuine, generous supporters being forced to give less. But some of it would definitely be a result of those who wish to buy influence being unable to. From trade unions to Lord Ashcroft, many institutions and individuals give money to political parties because they want, at the very least, to be listened to more intently than those who haven’t donated. They want to get round the pesky one-person-one-vote principle that democracies anachronistically cling to in the face of economic reality.
This is money that, in an ideal world, honourable political parties wouldn’t want. But this isn’t an ideal world and politicians probably tell themselves, sometimes accurately, that they can take the money, nod and smile at the donor’s weird views, and then use it in pursuit of legitimate political goals. And while this grubbiness sometimes brings bad PR, it’s less hassle than asking for public money at a time of hysterical state parsimony.
But this approach is not in the taxpayer’s or the people’s interests. The money Sir Christopher Kelly wants political parties to get would be a pittance, in terms of the national budget, and it could save us so much. In allowing political parties to be so broke they’re prey to cynical donors and politicians to be so underpaid they grub around for directorships, we risk spoiling the ship of state for a ha’p’orth of tar.
The link between money and power may never be broken but, in a well-run democracy, the overall wealth of the many can be brought to bear. Collectively, the electorate is much more financially powerful than any corporation. Big business wants our wealth, our custom and preferential trading conditions in our realm. We, as customers and taxpayers, can make or break them; they know it and will pay to subvert that power. This causes immense waste and injustice, much of which would be obviated if our political system enjoyed the comparatively modest state funding that would protect it from lobbyists’ cash.
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By December 2011, over three years after the collapse of Lehman Brothers, the country still felt like shit …
Sometimes it’s down to the director-general of the British Retail Consortium to sum up the national mood. “Non-food is having a thoroughly miserable and difficult time,” he said. He’s so right – it really is. And, of all the non-foods, the humans are particularly depressed, with more than 2.64 million of us now out of work. But I like his note of optimism. We remain non-foods. We haven’t started to eat one another. While we’ve not yet been reduced to carrion or prey, there are still grounds for hope.
We’re in the grip of a historically significant slump, possibly as notable as the Great Depression. Our current trials will definitely be on the A-level history syllabuses of the decades to come. Any more disastrous developments and we may even make GCSE.
The question the kids of the future will be trying to answer is: “What caused all that suffering?” As a former lazy history student myself, I know that the trick here is to look for the point in the debate where someone says, “It’s a bit more complicated than that,” and then go back to the previous assertion. The things that historical events are a bit more complicated than are, in my experience, also the things that they basically are.
Proper controversy is when one historian says “This is caused by Thing A,” and another says “Shut up, you! It was caused by Thing B.” But when one is saying “It was Thing A,” and the other says “It’s more complicated than that,” I reckon we pretty much have an answer. Some say it’s Thing A, others say it’s partly Thing A – that’s as close to a consensus as naturally argumentative people are ever likely to come to.
In the case of our current troubles, the thing that it’s a bit more complicated than, but also basically is, is “all the bankers’ fault”. I know my saying that will annoy some people, but that’s OK because they’re the very people I take most pleasure in annoying. So if you’re thinking about getting annoyed, you might want to consider not giving me the satisfaction and agree with me instead.
The Financial Services Authority has finally offered its considered opinion that the collapse of RBS in 2008 was caused by “underlying deficiencies in RBS management, governance and culture, which made it prone to make poor decisions”. It’s easy to take the piss out of this because it’s a bland statement of such a self-evident fact; but it’s like when a miss-hit at Wimbledo
n flies off into the crowd – a linesman still has to call “Out!” when it finally hits the ground.
So it’s clear that, while other factors must be borne in mind, such as feckless midwestern property developers, consumers spending beyond their means, Greek fiscal imprudence, George Osborne’s point that it was the snow and George Osborne, we’d be in shallower shit now if more bankers had got theirs together. This is why I’m worried about Bob Diamond.
Barclays’ new boss first came to my attention in January, when he told MPs that the “period of remorse and apology for banks … needs to be over”. I didn’t like that, partly because I hadn’t really noticed any period of remorse and apology, unless you count “I’m sorry our various scams didn’t work” as an apology; and partly because it’s not for him to say. If you’re really sorry for something, you should just keep being sorry. It’s for others to decide when you can be let off the hook. If you’re the first to be asking whether you’ve apologised enough, then you haven’t.
More recently, he’s changed tack in a way that makes his judgment seem even more questionable. In an interview with The Times, he said he’d introduced a “no-jerk rule” that had led to his parting company with more than 30 senior executives. “If someone can’t behave with their colleagues and can’t be part of the culture, it doesn’t matter how good they are at what they do, they have to be asked to leave,” he said.
This doesn’t make sense. Since well before the crisis began, investment bankers, and indeed all top City executives, have defended their stratospheric pay deals on the basis that, in the cold light of economic reality, they were worth it. They got the big bucks because they brought in the bigger bucks. They possessed rare profit-making skills. They had the magic touch, everyone was crying out to employ them, so being paid millions was nothing more sinister than the market functioning as it should.
But what Bob Diamond appears to be saying is that he’s willing to sack the goose that lays the golden eggs for being rude to its PA. That can only mean one of two things: either Bob is an incredibly poor, albeit principled, businessman and, regrettably, Barclays probably needs to look for someone harder-nosed; or highly paid bankers aren’t geese that lay golden eggs but are eminently replaceable. If so, why are they so highly paid? Is being a jerk specifically harmful to business acumen? I’m afraid I don’t believe it is, even if I’m willing to accept it isn’t necessarily helpful either (which I only am when I’m in a very good mood).
Diamond cites the example of six Barclays bankers who spent £44,000 on wine at a posh restaurant in 2001, saying: “to have acted that way in a public place is inexcusable”. I don’t understand this either. It was their money. If you want to make sure your employees don’t spend tens of thousands on wine, don’t pay them millions. Otherwise they’ll spend it as they like, whatever the PR cost to the company. To do otherwise would imply that they were ashamed, that the money was ill-gotten, that they were bank robbers, not its employees, and were being careful not to attract suspicion.
Wayne Rooney doesn’t seem like a model employee. I’m not sure he’d survive a “no-jerk rule”. Conspicuous consumption is the least of his PR crimes. Yet he evades the sack because his talent is undeniably rare. What Diamond’s remarks reveal is that the same cannot be said of bankers who enjoy equivalent remuneration.
If Diamond isn’t bright enough to grasp that what he said, far from being canny or diplomatic, fundamentally undermines his profession’s justification for existing in its current form, then it’s clear that we’re still in the era of overpaid mediocrities running banks.
That era, as far as Diamond was concerned, ended in July 2012, when he resigned as a result of Barclays being implicated and fined in the Libor scandal.
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The recession in advertising is having an interesting side-effect. Cheaper TV and radio slots mean the government can afford to crack down on that most despised area of mortality: accidental death. No one is in favour of that form of demise, while, with any other sort, there’s always someone who’ll break the consensus: in murder, the murderer’s pleased; in suicide, the victim is; in war, it’s one up for the enemy; dying after a horrible disease can be a mercy; and death from old age ultimately needs to happen for reasons of space. I’m not saying these eventualities are exactly a picnic, but neither are they a picnic on to which a jumbo jet has accidentally fallen.
Now we can attempt to eradicate accidents entirely. A host of government campaigns telling us to be sensible has leapt into the breach left by the retreat of luxury car and holiday advertisers. And, as well-known dangers such as fire, drinking, driving, drink-driving, sparklers and playing near pylons are covered, the campaigns are getting more specific. The “Level Crossings – Don’t Run the Risk” initiative is an inspiring example. Nevertheless, in 2009, there were 13 people for whom it came tragically too late – or who were no more persuaded of the momentum of an express train by TV adverts than they were by barriers and flashing lights.
The bar has been raised and a formidable safety barrier put in its place. From now on, if a pattern of events kills a dozen people annually, the full might of the media will be brought to bear against it. And not just life-threatening situations but all kinds of mishap can be prevented in what will amount to a government bailout of our whole common-sense sector. Soon we will be living in a utopia where nobody gets hurt except on purpose. Here’s a taste of what’s being planned:
Getting your fingers caught in a door jamb
Health professionals claim this is the most upsetting thing that can happen to you which doesn’t really matter. The pain and feeling of stupidity are ludicrously out of proportion to the long-term consequences – a fact which evokes a detectable superficiality in the sympathy expressed by witnesses, which in turn leads to intensified feelings of agony and rage in the victim.
“This could be costing the country millions!” remarked the head of Aspergers Owl, the advertising company which has landed the campaign contract, although it’s thought he was referring to his company’s fees. A series of hard-hitting TV commercials is being planned, starring Martin Freeman as Freddie Finger and Tom Baker as the voice of the hinge.
Not taking two trips
The back strain and property damage caused by young people refusing to take two trips when moving slightly too many objects to carry safely in one go is apparently more than the economy can bear.
“There’s a real problem of perception amongst the young – taking two trips just isn’t cool,” says Oscar-winner Danny Boyle, who’s directing the new commercial. “People’s parents are always saying ‘Take two trips!’ so trying to carry more than is sensible becomes a rite of passage, an act of rebellion. It’s liberating, it’s sexy – right up until you slip a disc or drop a book!”
Forgetting you’re wearing a Christmas cracker hat
This is more dangerous than it sounds – although only marginally. The unpleasant atmosphere that can develop at family Christmases, as a booze-and-carb-addled dusk begins to fall, is well known. But while screaming at your loved ones, because you’ve landed on Mayfair with a hotel or just been told you’re adopted, is an important part of making sure everyone’s relieved to get back to work, doing so wearing a festive hat can cause terminal dignity damage. This campaign features a harrowing viral clip in which actor Daniel Day-Lewis roars “You’ve never loved me!” through a mouthful of mince pie while wearing a paper hat and a reindeer jumper.
Having that weird feeling you’re still wearing a Christmas cracker hat even though you’ve taken it off
This phenomenon, known as “phantom hat”, is usually harmless but could be an early symptom of a stroke or head lice. It can also lead to social problems in families where there’s a pervasive culture of “being a sport”. A companion viral for this initiative contains footage of Day-Lewis, this time hatless, being shouted at by family members not to take himself so seriously.
Worrying about carbon monoxide
Stress caused by fear of
this silent killer among those far too nervous and fastidious not to have their boiler regularly serviced is costing businesses thousands of man hours. “And ironically these are the hours of some of our most conscientious men,” says the head of the stress-related-statistic-generating unit at the CBI. “The problem’s all about targeting our message. Monoxide warnings which just about penetrate the skulls of criminal landlords and their feckless student tenants drive the already safety-conscious into a frenzied terror of an invisible soporific assailant.” So the government is launching a counterbalancing “Carbon monoxide a killer? Well, I never got food poisoning off a fart!” drive. “Of course, we’ll have to be very careful that this only reaches the right people,” said the minister in charge. When asked how this would be achieved, he replied: “The internet?”
Wearing the trousers of a younger man
This is not a euphemism for internet grooming but refers to the dangers incurred by men in their early 30s who affect a younger man’s low-hanging trousers but lack the jealously guarded teenage technology which keeps them and an exposed eight inches of underpants from falling down despite no visible sign of support. The consequent risk of sphincteral exposure in already image-conscious men can result in lasting psychological damage. A billboard campaign is being planned with the slogan: “Don’t be an arsehole at work.”
Having unforeseen accidents
This is the big one. As the junior minister of the Unforeseeable and Communities points out: “99.9% of accidental deaths are unforeseen. The rest are just murders where someone gets away with it.” For this campaign, they’ve relicensed the old Camelot slogan “It could be you!” in order to point out how much less likely you are to win the lottery than to die of tetanus because some rust particles from the Holy Grail fell into a Magna Carta-induced paper cut.
Thinking About It Only Makes It Worse Page 17
