My Solution to the Fishing Dispute

 

Apparently, the issue that is driving Britain and France towards a full-on trade war is whether a pitiful number, 56 I understand, of small French fishing boats are entitled to fish in our coastal waters.  The qualification for renewing fishing rights, post Brexit, is childishly simple – prove that you have fished there before, for only a single day in the last few years, and we will renew your permit. The majority of French fishermen have found the low bar of qualification easy to surmount but a few applications have been refused.  From a French point of view, refusing a fishing permit is a prima facie breach of the Brexit Trade agreement.  From our point of view, permits have been refused only when the applicant is unable to prove that they are qualified in the first place.  The resulting feud is a pissing contest, “par excellence.”  If the consequences of escalation were not so serious, it would be very easy to laugh.  Macron, having marched his adoring electorate to the top of the hill, is not going to back down now and, from a British point of view, concession on such a nit-picking and economically insignificant point as this could prejudice our negotiating position on more important matters in the future. It will take a grand gesture, by one side or the other, to save face and move forward.  Sometimes only a bold and breath-taking “coup de theatre” will do.

Looking back on my time in the “Green Ink” environment of my previous post, I remember being startled by a security assessment on the potential future Naval Attaché for one of our Embassies overseas.  The security assessment had been submitted to my boss in Intelligence for his approval as the final arbiter in these matters.  My experience in security vetting was strictly limited to having been the subject but I expected the narrative reports I was about to check would have covered the usual ground of financial probity, political leanings, potential blackmail through homosexuality, honesty, drinking habits, gambling, debt etc, all the things that would make a potential spy stand out rather like Kim Philby didn’t.  I was, therefore surprised to read the single sentence assessment of character which had been signed by an Admiral – “I know this man!”  This indeed was a grand statement with at least two reputations standing on just four words.

It now occurs to me that little Emmanuel could learn something from this that could be helpful in resolving the dispute.  All he needs to do is to write to Boris with a bold statement, like the aforementioned Admiral, that he knows all these jolly fishermen personally and is confident that they are all good an honest “Jacques.”  Boris would have no alternative, as a gentleman, but to accept his counterpart’s word, grant the outstanding permits accordingly, and we could all then live happily ever after. Of course, zut alors, if the Macron declaration should later prove to have been economical with the truth, then that would be a matter for France to deal with and explain to the world.

 

 

Green Dreaming

 

A friend’s idle inquiry, “how much electricity does a heat pump use and how much do they cost to run,” prompted me to flick to Google on the mobile phone.  A helpful site informed me that, for an average 4-bedroom house, a heat pump with capacity 9-16 KW, depending upon the standard of insulation, would be required.  Mushroom Towers was constructed in 1996, according to the standards of the time so I suspect additional insulation and higher capacity radiators would now be required to keep us warm, even with a high capacity heat pump on continuously, as recommended.  At our age, we’d rather not feel pinched so let us assume a 16 KW pump.  That is an awful lot of electric fires on all the time.  The standard variable tariff with my current provider quotes a rate of 15.83 pence per KWH – until March 2022 when goodness knows what the cap increase will be – to say nothing of the cost of installation.  A Screwfix best-seller, rated at 12KW, would set me back £7799.99 including VAT to which should be added; the installations cost including higher capacity radiators and additional wall insulation.  Without reporting to the precision of Excel to crunch the numbers, on face value, it would seem impossible to construct a coherent business case to dispense with my trusty 24-year old gas boiler even if, according to British Gas, “we can’t get the parts any longer,” and I should need to replace it, like for like.

Although the economic case doesn’t stand up, who would say that they don’t want to live in cleaner and greener world?  But are we really confronting an existential climate emergency or is it more likely that the so-called “emergency” is only speculation of what could happen, other things being equal?  So it could be worth reminding ourselves how we arrived at this net zero race to the bottom.  The Spectator reminds us that it was Theresa May, in a throw away line at the fag end of her disastrous tenure, who committed us to reach net zero emissions by 2050.  This grand design was accepted with “minimal debate or scrutiny.”  Yet here we are, committed by our Parliament, to a “Net Zero Strategy,” but with no clear idea of the costs to individuals or the impact on their lives.  I realise that, by questioning the King’s new suit of clothes, I have become a “climate change denier,” which, as Charles Moore observes, is “a deliberately libellous term, echoing the Holocaust.”  Doubtless other paragons  of climate change virtue would simply brand me “scum,” in the vernacular of current political debate.

In truth, I do not know whether we face an existential climate crisis or not and I am certainly not well enough informed to opine on the most cost effective and socially acceptable measures we might ned to put in place in mitigation.  The debate has become so polarised that it has become impossible to reason – the politicians bound headlong on a virtuous journey, the global warmers shrieking that disaster is merely round the corner and those who are not too sure branded head-banging deniers.  Someone needs to call time out – time to stop and reflect.

Recognising the “groupthink de jour” surrounding environmentalism, Allister Heath, writing in the Telegraph, argues that, “the green challenge is too important, its implications too dramatic, to be left to an establishment that has embraced net zero as if it were a new religion.”  He suggests the public should have the final say through a referendum.  A referendum would afford the opportunity for all issues, not just the science of climate change, to be exposed and scrutinised.  Who, especially in a post-Brexit democracy, could argue with that?  Of course, we should need to fight to ensure that the establishment did not rig the question on the ballot paper but any party promising an open referendum on the momentous costs and changes inherent in the Net Zero Strategy would get my vote, and many more, I suspect.

But will our political elite, so intent upon cementing their place in the hall of virtue fame, take heed. They should do, especially if they have read Roger Scruton.  This extract from “Green Philosophy – How to think seriously about the planet” should preface all parliamentary discussion on the environment:

“The solution to the real environmental problems will always elude us, if we cast away the one human motive that is able to take over when markets fail, which is that of public spirit. But whence comes public spirit? It comes from patriotism, from love of country, from a sense of belonging and of a shared and inherited home. It comes from believing that this problem is our problem, and therefore my problem, as a member of the group. That belief disappears when anonymous bureaucracies confiscate our risks, and pretend that they can regulate them to extinction. Those commonsensical observations are all but politically incorrect, in a culture that has surrendered so much to the state, that it no longer trusts the ordinary human instincts.”

In other words, trust the people who elected you (in the privacy of the polling booth)!

 

Green Ink

 

I see that Sir Alex Younger, a former head of MI6, the Secret Intelligence Service, visited the set of the new James Bond film. Apparently, he had donated his pen, filled with the distinctive green ink in which it is customary for “C” to pen minutes and sign his name.  This reminded me of my tour in Defence Intelligence.

Sixteen years after enlisting in the Royal Air Force I found myself on an upward career trajectory although, at the time, blissfully unaware of the time bomb planted in my service record by a mendacious former Station Commander, Benny Jackson. I was just about to graduate from the Advanced Staff Course at Bracknell and had been appointed, following an agreeable interview in 4^th floor office at the Ministry of Defence, the Personal Staff Officer of a Director in the Defence Intelligence Service.

My introduction to Whitehall in general and the secret world of intelligence was a blizzard of briefings and indoctrinations all conducted during the office Christmas Party season at the Ministry in Whitehall. To say that I was surprised at some of the insights and revelations would be an understatement. The Aubrey, Berry and Campbell trial, the “ABC Trial,” had ended but the aftermath was febrile. I remember, as we broke for Christmas, that my head was spinning with who’s who and who did what.  Box this or Box that, our friends across the river or similar relatives in the West Country and who was that chap who said he had an office on the 6^th floor with a MOD telephone extension?

It was a steep learning curve in an exceptionally busy office environment. We staff officers to the Directors, all off similar seniority but very different backgrounds and specialisations, nevertheless bonded in an informal social group, the MADSODS, which included the American Defense Intelligence Agency Liaison, DIAL.  We all got along very well personally which helped smooth the passage of day-to-day business. One day, during my first couple of weeks in post, The MA to the Director General of Defence Intelligence (DGI) who controlled the Defence Intelligence Staff (DIS), called by to appraise me of a delicate issue which I needed to solve. Apparently my boss, a Royal Air Force Officer, had taken to writing minutes and signing his name with green ink.  The MA informed me, laconically, that, “there are only two individuals in the intelligence community who sign their name in green and neither is your boss.”  It was now up to me to raise the delicate issue. My boss did not take the observation well and, feigning outrage, demanded to know who was complaining. Learning fast, I replied that the issue had been brought to my attention unofficially and in confidence but I felt I should mention it now in case any embarrassment should arise downstream. My boss grunted angrily but, as I withdrew, I think I detected a crack of a smile on his face.  I few minutes later, the office intercom buzzed and my boss asked for a selection of coloured pens.  Sheila, the stalwart secretary rushed to the stationary cupboard and immediately provided a rainbow of felt tips from which I removed the green. “He chose brown, of all things,” said Sheila as she resumed her seat at the typewriter in the outer office.

Proof that the delicate issue had been resolved was provided a few days later. Directors had been requested to comment on some proposal or other, and, as was the procedure, each had replied on the minute sheet of the classified file. Acknowledging the minuted discussion, DGI had written, “Greville (not his real name) has commented, in his now familiar dried blood!”

So I had learned that “C” signed his name in green ink but, in those days, the name of the post holder was secret and there was certainly no website with a smiling photograph to aid recognition.  This was a disadvantage because, sometime later, having arranged a lunch at a club in Piccadilly for some foreign defence attaches I was waiting in the foyer, to direct guests to the correct venue. “C,” also happened to be a guest but how should I recognise him? I wondered whether, using some sort of racial profiling, I could pick the most likely candidate and introduce myself: “excuse me Sir, do you happen to be head of the secret intelligence service?”  My dilemma was short-lived because moments later someone touched my arm and said, “are you waiting for me?”

Excitement at Church Fenton

 

A bit of excitement at Church Fenton today with a couple of Spitfires visiting.  The 2-seater appeared to be operating joy rides.  This passenger must have paid for a good 45 minutes!  Deep pockets? Whilst waiting for the Spitfire to return, I marvelled at the huge circuits the flying instructors seemed to be allowing their student pilots to plough. In my day, we tried to keep the down wind leg within North Yorkshire.

The Game's Not Straight Boris

 

For as long as I can remember, Conservatives, particularly in opposition, have characterised an increase in National Insurance contributions as tax on jobs. Nothing has changed except now, as a gale of public disquiet about the NHS treatment backlog threatens to further undermine perceptions of Conservative competence, something must be done, say the pointy-headed focus groups. So, in a breach of an explicit manifesto commitment and disguised as a hard-choice Covid recovery strategy, it has become a question of don’t read my lips. The leaked proposal to shift the risk of long- term social care provision from individual to state will be greeted by thigh slapping hoorays in the affluent heartlands of Conservative support. Whatever levelling up means, this isn’t it. According to Fraser Nelson, as many as 1 in 6 pensioners have assets in excess of £1m. Offspring of this fortunate slice of society will be salivating at the thought that their inheritance will be safe from the demands of long-term care provision for Mum and Dad. Trebles all round? In a double whammy to hard working families, or whatever the current political euphemism for this section of the electorate might be, most working people will see their take home pay decreased whilst their affluent neighbours are laughing all the way to the probate office. The press says Boris’ proposals are a political gamble.  Well, they might be but in this event the game’s not straight.

Big Watch - Pay by Cheque

 

“Big watch - pay by cheque,” was often what the, probably long-suffering, local population might have ascribed to the young Royal Air Force pilots undergoing flying training at the several flying training schools in England in the 1960s.  Less than 20 years after the end of WWII, there were plenty of pilots about.  Lots of new ones, like me, and lots of veterans with lots of stories to tell.  Like larger-than-life John Buckland who frequented the Woolpack on Tuesday Market Place.  With his MCC tie and an inexhaustible fund of ripping yarns, the Lancaster pilot and decorated Pathfinder, became an interesting attraction for the Saturday lunchtime customers.  More so, even, than the landlord’s voluptuous wife Pam who knew full well what she was expected to display when asked for a bottle of White Label Worthington from the bottom shelf.  John Buckland always paid by cheque, cash being somewhat vulgar. John knew just the chap to supply me with a little beauty of a second-hand car – “just the ticket,” he assured me.  Paying for the car by cheque was not an option but cash would secure the best price.  Fortunately, for me, my account with Lloyds Bank Limited, Coxs & Kings Branch of 6 Pall Mall SW1, was in the same state as it had been since being opened upon enlistment in HM service – somewhat overdrawn.  So, for me, cash payment was out of the question and there was no deal resulting, thank goodness.  Others were not so lucky before John Buckland, exposed as a ruthless trickster, slunk away.  Almost, that is, because a year or so later he was spotted in London by Mac Hart, the landlord of Foldgate Inn at Stradsett.  Unfortunately, in the ensuing chase John Buckland gave Mac Hart the slip and that was that – Mac never got his money back.  These days I almost never pay by cheque.  I bank online and make all my transactions online.  With the expansion of contactless payments, I have installed a payment facility on my phone so now, at check out, I can just wave my phone at the reader and get on my way.  Confirmation of the transaction is almost instantaneous so there is no need for a receipt.  John Buckland would have had a hard time today.  Neither are there many big watches about – letters to the Telegraph report a spate of thefts from the wrist in broad daylight. At least they don’t seem to be cutting off the arm with a machete which, apparently, happened to hapless car passengers leaving their limbs draped out of the window in downtown Angeles City next to Clark Air Force base in the Philippines. I’ll probably start wearing my old aircrew watch and leave the Rolex in the safe.

Having just volunteered for a PCR test with the Zoe app I was horrified to learn I tested positive and am now isolating for 10 days.  Never volunteer for anything, particularly, “research into the common cold at Porton Down,” was good advice to us as recruits but I have ignored it in retirement.  To relieve the impending boredom of isolation perhaps I shall invest in a smart watch – just the ticket?  Modern technology will monitor my blood oxygen level, heart rate, and blood pressure and alert me to any deterioration to my current good health – almost too good to be true?  And, when I am allowed out again, through the wonders of near field communications, I shall be able to install my payment app on my watch and simply wave my wrist at the card reader as I pass by.  Big check, pay by watch – how about that?

Driving Licence Anxiety

 This looks like useful information:

SIR – John D Frew (Letters, August 23) seeks to prove the status of his driving licence. This can be done on the DVLA website under “View or share your driving licence information”.

This only requires the licence number (which he would have if he is renewing) and his National Insurance number. The status of his licence will promptly be revealed and can be shared with anyone else who needs to know, such as car hire companies.

Martin Hodson
Loughborough, Leicestershire