We all hate Fred Goodwin, don’t we. We all know he was the guy who led the Royal Bank of Scotland to disaster through what we are told was his overweening ambition, lack of business acumen, being a generally adulterous shit, et cetera. And we’re all glad that he’s suffering the ultimate indignity of being stripped of his knighthood. And having that slimy little bastard James Matthews turn up on his doorstep with his Sky News camera. Sure of course we are. But wait just a minute.
The last guy I can recall having such humiliation heaped upon him was Sir Anthony Blunt, Master of the Queen’s Pictures. Blunt was a traitor, the fourth man after Burgess, Maclean and Philby.
Is that where we’ve put Mr Goodwin? If so, and if it’s fair, should he be there alone? Fred didn’t apply for his K, somebody put him up for it. Why isn’t that person being publicly pilloried for such an awful error of judgement? And what about Sir Mervyn King, the Guv’nor of the Bank of England, the superspiv on whose watch Fred got away with it for a while? When will he be reduced to the ranks for his undoubted maladministration? How about never?
I know that in the current climate this is a minority view, but I happen to believe that in doing this, Cameron has commited a truly petty and shameful act.
Just heard a BBC Reporting Scotland piece on Broadcasting Tax non-payers. The three biggest civic offenders, they said, are Glasgow, Edinburgh and Aberdeen. Fuksik, those are our three biggest cities, so that’s hardly surprising. My old friend Stan Taylor must be birling in his box at that sort of shoddy editorial control.
Thanks for your thanks, Barbara, and for realising that it is damn hard work. Now I must get on with some more.
I would like to congratulate the BBC, its allies and its enemies in the UK media. They have united to make me feel sorry for a banker. I’ve just heard Susanna Reid announce that Stephen Hester, the CEO of RBS, is coming under ‘increasing pressure’ to renounce the share bonus, worth almost £1m, to which he appears entitled under the terms of his employment with the bank. But where does that pressure originate, and who is generating it? In fact it is among others the BBC itself, in sending reporters out to vox-pop men and women in the street, none of whom seem to have a rolled up copy of the FT under their arm, putting the simple question, ‘Do you believe that Banker X should receive a bonus of a million pounds?’ If any of those interviewees have seen the individual’s contract of employment and the bonus triggers built in, their opinions will have some merit. Those who have not might as well be shouting up the chimney for all their views are worth. Our lavishly funded public broadcasting service is becoming to the improvement of standards in public debate as Pol Pot was to population growth in Cambodia.
I have no specific view on Mr Hester’s situation, as I am not an RBS customer, and I haven’t seen his contract. (I might be jealous of the guy, and I might have disliked his bank from the day George Mathewson walked though its portal, but those are two other issues, and neither is relevant.) However I do believe that it is reasonable for a person’s reward to be related to the size and performance of the business which he or she runs, or to the profit that she or he generates by his or her efforts. It’s even more reasonable when that reward is in shares, thus motivating the recipient to work even harder to grow the business in question, and increase its capital value.
Finally, two people stand out in current debate as positively dripping in ordure. One is Sir Philip Littlehampton, the chairman of RBS, who has stabbed his colleague neatly in the back, by declining his own bonus. The other is Ed Miliband, the snivelling weasel who currently leads what is left of the Labour Party, a man who as a vassal of the former Prime Minister, Gordon ‘Captain Barbossa’ Brown, effectively gave his approval to Mr Hester’s deal when he was recruited to replace ‘Sir’ Fred Goodwin, and who is now berating the Prime Minister for not welshing on the agreement that he nodded through. This tells me that the word of Ed the Red is not worth the paper on which it’s written. Also, it leaves me observing that every time he opens his mouth, he makes David Cameron statesmanlike by comparison; quite an achievement.
Just back from a trip to a place called Saus. The ladies of the roadside were out in force; we counted four on the short journey. I found myself recalling an old faithful phrase: ‘Money can’t buy you love, but it does enable you to rent it for a short time.’
A remarkable life ended in Edinburgh on Thursday, after more than 90 years. Sally was born in the Middle East, and married a Scottish soldier during WWII. She and her first-born survived the sinking of the Laconia, and she went on to have three more children. Life wasn’t always kind to her, but she bore the bad as she enjoyed the good, and her courage shone throughout. Sleep well.
Thanks for being so nice and for your climate hints, but . . . if you go back and look at that passage again, you’ll find that Mario’s in Sydney, in August, which in terms of the seasonal cycle is, as he says, the equivalent of being in Edinburgh in September. I’ve been there in August, and in Melbourne, so he does know what he’s talking about. You had me worried there for a minute or two, until I checked.
Will there be more prequels along the lines of Grievous Angel? That’s my intention, but I’m not certain when. You’ve cast the Skinner series mentally a bunch of times, and trust me, so have I. However, you’re doing it from a Canadian perspective; I’d be interested to hear some of your choices.
A great night with Mary and Don, a Burns-ish Supper with sixteen at the table for a traditional menu, complete with MacSween’s haggis, imported somehow from Edinburgh. Thanks to both of them and to Melanie and Alan who provided great support. Perhaps one day, if I feel mischievous, I will organise a MacGonagall Supper, in celebration of Scotland’s other bard, Sir William Topaz MacGonagall, acknowledged even in his own lifetime as the world’s worst poet.
Essentially a MacGonagall supper is a Burns Supper in reverse, beginning with the poetry, whisky and cigars, followed by Cranachan, main course, haggis, all the way to the soup. However, variations are permissible; I have heard of one MacGonagall night that began with a stripper putting her clothes on. The truest of the true, though, is, they say, one that begins with the celebrants throwing up in the car park.
Further to my last post about events, I can confirm also that I’ll be doing the Edinburgh International Book Festival again, this August. Programme details will be announced in June when tickets go on sale.
