Kids are fun, y’know. Only the other night I asked my five year-old what she’d like for her tea. “I’m not bothered,” she said, not looking up from her colouring. So off I toddled and whipped up a wonderfully piquant Spiderman pasta shapes on toast. “I don’t want that,” she said upon seeing my gastronomic tour de force, “I wanted a dippy egg and soldiers.”
(Progressive parents don’t slap their children. No, what you have to do these days is supress that anger and channel it towards your first duodenal ulcer.)
I was reminded of this after hearing that Gordon Brown isn’t happy with Lord Turner’s review of the state of Britain’s pension system and his recommendations into how to fix it. Lord Turner is said to be livid at Brown’s dismissal of his report. After all, he’s only spent three years of his life researching and writing the thing only for Brown to turn around and say, “I don’t want this, take it away,” like a petulant child told to eat up. If only Lord Turner had thought to consult the Chancellor, all this unpleasantness could have been avoided. Or did Gordon say, “do what you like,” only to regret this later?
This government has spent a fortune over the last eight years commissioning reviews into this and commissions on that only to bury them when the resulting reports didn’t tell them exactly what they wanted to hear. It makes you wonder why they bother in the first place. What they should do at the outset of all the commissions, reports, reviews, or whatever these done deals are called these days, is get the fix in right at the start. That way, the government get what they want, all the money which might as well have been given to the Blairs for all the good it’s done the public will be saved, nobody loses their temper, and we can all go back to hoping we get hit by a bus before we reach 65. Or 67.
Couldn’t somebody have had a word in Lord Turner’s ear right at the beginning and said: “Look Turner, don’t want to interfere or anything old boy, but Gordon will be in a frightful bait if you suggest anything that he thinks might jeopardise his ascension to the throne.”
Which is, one suspects, what this is all about. Gordon’s pulling the ladder up - if only for a little while - until he gets the big chair. Screw the coffin dodgers, with the economy heading South, he’s not going to have the cash to splash about to ensure that these economic drag factors don’t freeze or starve to death. To do so would threaten his reputation for “fiscal responsibility” or whatever phrase he uses to induce a glassy-eyed trance in the public. Brown might be convinced that dark Blairite forces leaked the letter detailing his shafting of Turner in order to shaft him in turn, but I think we can be pretty sure sinister Blairites didn’t put those thoughts in Gordon’s head in the first place.
You see, you’ll never become the head factotum by looking after the little guy, Gordon. There’s no hearty slaps on the back from Digby Jones in worrying about the pondlife too stupid or lazy to get MBAs, seats on the board, and nice juicy pensions. I bet a third of Digby’s or Rupert’s or Paul’s or David’s phone calls don’t go unanswered.
What’s the public’s future and piece of mind compared to Gordon’s personal ambition? They say he’s going to save the Labour Party for an encore. The Narnia branch, presumably.
As Peter Mandelson once (in)famously said, New Labour are “are intensely relaxed about people getting filthy rich.” What the cosy middle classes seem to forget is that their government is also pretty sanguine about people being dirt poor as well. The minimum wage and tax credits might buy Guardian readers’ votes but they don’t buy much more. They certainly don’t buy even remotely comfortable retirements.
And then the dismal John Hutton, the Work and Pensions Secretary, a man with all pith and vinegar of a rice cake, turned up yesterday to give us his five tests in a speech of such inpenetrable dullness and meaningless, I bet you could have used George Orwell’s corpse to drill for oil. I mean, Christ, we’re only talking about how the whole population is going to spend the final years of their lives.
…”the impact of these challenges”, “challenges and opportunities”, “a consumer led world that rationalises consumption today above saving for the long term”, “maximising the contribution”, “no magic wand solution”. The dread “balancing rights with responsibilities” was in there as well, as if Hutton needed to reinforce his nutrition-free New Labour credentials.
Apparently Hutton was married for 15 years before separating from his wife in 1993. I’d have loved to have been there when he chatted her up for the first time:
Of course, my attraction to you presents challenges as well as opportunities. I, of course, want to maximise my contribution to the relationship and of course realise that with my rights within said relationship come responsibilities if I am to rationalise the initial romance with sustained companionship in the long term.
It’s a wonder he’s not the loneliest man on Earth, the soulless and uninspiring wafer of a man.
There was some guff about “consensus” in there as well. Ed Balls, Gordon Brown’s Metatron, also used the c-word, while trying to take a bullet for his boss, as well as my personal favourite, “national debate“. It’s a great one, that is. Conjures up comforting images of Gordon nodding sagely while listening sympathetically to the personal concerns of everybody when, in actual fact, it means: “You’ll die in penury set to a level of our choosing”.
Anyway. Oh yes, five tests. I take it Hutton’s speechwriters and political overlords who surely vetted the speech knew what “five tests” would make those paying attention (that is, those able to drag themselves away from “celebrities” shilling their “dignity” in some jungle) think of. Gordon Brown’s five tests that he drew up so that he gets to decide whether Britain enters the Euro or not.
Yep, it looks like the Turner Review is not only being kicked into the long grass, but somebody’s released a hungry tiger into there as well to make sure nobody goes and retrieves the offending dossier. The future wellbeing of every man woman and child in Britain at the mercy of a bunch of petulant, selfish, whining squits who, if they were yours, would be sitting on their beds right now thinking about what they had done.