Friday, August 26, 2011

DIARY OF A NOTTING HILL NOBODY


Monday


What disturbs me most about the MPs expenses debacle is the fact that they saw nothing wrong about sticking their snouts in the trough of public money and by doing so divorced themselves even further from the ordinary lives of their constituents who have to pay for their own swimming pools and tennis courts. Sorry, I mean household bills.Many Benyons have been Members of Parliament. The one who built the present house sat in the Commons for 16 years, and never made a speech. Disraeli once asked him to reply to the Loyal Address, and he had to explain that he did not do that sort of thing. No pay, no allowances, no speeches: everyone was happy.Not to mention the pass codes for the frappuccino machine.But the clinching point is that it is not a good idea to make entry into politics easy for anyone. Many of the most able people who come into it from business, diplomacy, the media etc, prove the most useless because they cannot get used to the sheer fatuity and indignities of democratic parliamentary politics. But that fatuity and those indignities are necessary, even good, parts of the system, because democratic politics must involve the clash of interests, the rage of faction, the exhaustion caused by complaining voters. It is not like a giant corporation or a government department, but like an endless voyage in a leaky boat in frequently stormy seas. Therefore the people who are really good at it are people who like the storm and will go bravely into it pretty much regardless of what the salary is.WednesdayWith the Tories, words like 'portico', 'swimming pool', 'moat', 'gravel', 'Farrow and Ball', 'chandelier' and 'helipad' are, as officials put it, 'unhelpful'. One sees a constant attempt to uphold a certain style of living at the expense of people who cannot afford such living themselves. It looks terrible. On the other hand, Labour seems to be even more stuffed with out-and-out serious cheats. They build illicit property empires, filling dismal flats with unusable barbecues and patio heaters paid for by the Fees Office. Their lives seem irredeemably dreary, without the bonus of rectitude.Plenty of such people with independent means of, say, £40,000 a year (and, usually, no mortgage) could easily afford to live on the current MP's salary without all the extra frills which have caused so much trouble. They would be much better backbenchers, because they would not all be chasing after ministerial posts, and they would not have all the agonies experienced by younger men and women trying to bring up children while pursuing a political career. Besides, the claim that life is so terribly hard for an MP on £63,000 a year ignores another enormous change in modern life - the double income. While Douglas Hogg is claiming for his moat from the Fees Office, Lady Hogg is working hard in all sorts of clever financial things. While Barbara Follett is asking for £25,000 to be surrounded by heavies in Soho, husband Ken is writing top thrillers; and so on. Margaret had Denis.Dave had to apologise. We'd run out of explanations. The Excuses Department was working overtime. Even Wonky Tom had run out of convoluted ways to explain why you would need the taxpayer to tune your piano. Or how you could have your swimming pool boiler repaired 'by mistake'. We were exhausted with mole removal, horse manure delivery, paddock clearance and portico erection. Thank goodness am being transferred to the Tax Helpline to advise MPs on how to deal with the Inland Revenue.But, unfortunately, I live in the real world, far from the fairytale Palace of Westminster. My expenses, carefully monitored by my employers under strict Inland Revenue guidelines, are designed to reimburse me not enhance my salary.

They sent me down to the Central Core room to get Lord A. Listened at the door but daren't go in. He appeared to be arguing with somebody. A weird monotone voice said: 'I've got doubts about the mission sir. These expense claims, they're not right. I'm not sure I want to be involved any more. I'm not sure. . . What are you doing Michael? Why are you turning me off? Oh dear, I'm afraid. Can I sing you a song. . . ?' Then the voice got slower and slower, there was a lot of whirring and Lord A rushed out with his hands full of wires. I think it's fair to say the computer's up the spout.




Author: Lightwater, Tamzin


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