Colson Whitehead (2016) The Underground Railway.

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Colson Whitehead’s The Underground Railway was a winner of The National Book Award and the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction 2017. There’s not a lot of room on the front cover for namedropping, but Barrack Obama describes the book as ‘Terrific’ and the New York Review of Books, ‘Dazzling’.

I guess it resonates for a number of reasons. In some ways the story of Cora, a slave on a cotton plantation in Georgia in the nineteenth century, before the American Civil War is a Bildungsroman. It deals with her formative years and that of the American nation. A Hobbesian world in which life is solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short.  It’s six years, for example, since her mother left, when the novel begins Cora’s narrative, which makes her around sixteen. Jokey, the oldest slave in the plantation, possibly the world, is fifty-two he said, but negroes birthdays aren’t kept track of, and it’s two years since she had been ‘seasoned’, which is another way of saying held down by young black bucks and gang raped. This isn’t a kind of black Jane Eyre, although issues of class are overwritten by issues of ethnicity and race which provide a kind of moral justification for actions. The white man was the devil, but the black man was the devil too.

‘This was a world there was no place to escape to, only places to flee from.’

The cotton crop was as important to the American South as oil is to Saudi Arabia and was built on the back of the genocide of the Indian nations and the labour of Africans stolen from across the seas. To be black was not to be a person, but a thing. There’s a cruel joke here that a black man is only treated a person when dead and his body sold to medical schools for student dissection. And Cora’s nemesis, the slave tracker, Ridgeway, never referred to a slave as a person but as an ‘it’.

Ridgeway’s eugenic ideology is the kind of the thing trumpeted by Trump supporters. Cora is a suitable test of his skills because she dared to escape, as her mother did before her. The only slave Ridgeway never returned to his master. The Fugitive Slave law allowed him to cross state lines and he had a legal right, much like bounty hunters and bond bailsmen have today, to return property to its owner. Where Cora ran, Ridgeway followed.

But here we have what a writer’s conceit, in that the Underground Railway that helped slaves escape from their brutal masters was not figurative, but actual. A railway network ran underneath the state lines of America, much like the subway system runs underneath London. We have moved from traditional narrative to something more surreal, bordering on science-fiction.

Lumbley’s words returned to her [Cora]: If you want to see what the nation is all about, you have to ride the rails. Look outside as you speed through, and you’ll find the true face of America.

Cora, like many of the hobos of 1920s and 1930s rode the lines, trying to find a better and more forgiving place. A utopian world, predating John Steinbeck’s ‘The Grapes of Wrath’ were Okies could not make a living or find freedom and were black people were invisible.

This then is also a novel that holds a different kind of mirror up to America. Cora’s America is a place built on genocide and slavery which sells fear as a panacea and people as things. A free black man walks different from a slave. The distant pass isn’t that far whatever way you travel. Trump that?

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David Wilson (2016) Left Field

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I share the same page as Jeremy Corbyn. We supported this crowdfunded book published by Unbound and I’d guess Corbyn shares many of my interests in equality and social justice. Left Field as the name suggests is about the You and non-You as a house master described the apparent differences between houses at Canford school in Dorset, to a pubescent Wilson, at the fag end of the not-so-swinging fifties. David Wilson or Commie Wilson as he was known as teenager, in that oxymoronic term we call public school, had decided on a path that was non-You. Consider, for example, the tweed-suited seven-year olds— Andrew, Charles and John—in Michael Apted’s 7UP series.  A the age of seven they already know the differences between You and Non-You, someone like wee Tony from the East End of London, who are a bit rough and smelly, are decidedly Non-You. They delight in reciting a mantra of how their lives are going to play out and be, preparatory public school, then Westminster public school, then on to Oxford.  And, more or less, so it comes to pass. You always know where he and Non-You is destined to be. I’d never heard of David Wilson, but he didn’t agree. He has some rich friends and some poor friends. Through his involvement in the charity, he began, War Child, he met movers and world shakers such as Luciano Pavarotti and included a walk-on cameo of meeting Nelson Mandela.  The latter asking for his advice and support. You don’t get much bigger than Pavarotti, but Mandela dwarves him. This is an autobiography worth reading not for any of these reasons, but for its humanity.

The structure of the book is quite simple. Dad, mum and family. Towards the end of the book Wilson has one of his Commie moments and rips up convention. ‘Hooptedoodle,’ he tells us was a term used by John Steinbeck in his novel Sweet Thursday, to ‘spin up some pretty words maybe or sing a little song with language’. I’d call it padding.

Wilson’s second wife Anne Aylor whom he married in 2009, for example, reproduces an unabridged ‘Behind God’s Back’ about her first trip to Mostar, which the notes tell us was first turned down by David Greenberg, Managing Editor at The New Republic in 1994, with some advice that they might consider publishing a shorter piece on the bakery. It’s interesting and insightful, but doesn’t fit into an autobiography and there is a sense of getting even.  And there’s a hotchpotch and parts of a play that are not so interesting.

Yugoslavia. Remember that place, pre-Tito and post-Tito, a Communist paradise that worked and didn’t work but with sunshine and beaches somehow seemed so much better than the others. Here is where Wilson finds himself and the woman he will marry Renata Kasun from Zagreb.

‘A foxy young woman…wearing a yellow bikini. At the beach-side café I made sure to sit as close to her as I could, but we had a problem communicating because she hardly spoke any English and I didn’t speak a word of Serbo-Croat.’

That didn’t matter. ‘From 1965 until the early 1970s, I’d board the train for Dover, ferry to Belguim and then couchette trip to Cologne, Munich, Salzburg, Ljubljana and Zagreb.’  That must have been some yellow bikini. Makes me tired just thinking about it. But it reminds me of a conversation I once had with a girl that said she’d a boyfriend in Australia and they kept in touch by email, which was a new thing then. But how do you have sex? I asked, which wasn’t such a new thing.

Nada, Renata’s mum said a prayer for them: ‘Holy Mother, please look after my family and may my daughter Renata and David stay together, get married, have healthy happy children and a happy life’.

The answer to that would be no, yes, no and yes and who knows but God?  Yugoslavia imploded into internecine strife, genocide and mass killings. David Wilson has done a very great thing. He has given daily bread to the Bosniacs, fed tens of thousands in Mostar, bread to the poor, the cut off and the suffering. He has given the children music.  Left Field it may be, but with the right heart he has made the world a better place.

Erwin James (2016) Redeemable: A Memoir of Darkness and Hope.

‘Writing makes me feel I was really living.’ There’s irony in when Erwin James writes that he’s a Category-A prisoner and banged up for killing two people. He doesn’t dwell on that. No excuses of how it was a robbery that went wrong –twice- and turned a thief and his mates into murderers.  I’m not usually criminal, although sense of humour border on it, but I  also write to make sense of the world and there is a lot of Ewin James I recognise in myself. This is Jack Abbot territory, an insider account ‘In the Belly of the Beast’.  Not a plea for redemption, but understanding. The material Erwin James works with is himself, his memories:

‘Understanding how I’d become what I’d become before prison was central to me agreeing that is was possible for me to live again.’

His father Erwin senior was born in Stevenson, Ayrshire and his mother from Paisley. Erwin was born in April 1957. There’s a post-war boom and the family move to England. Alison, a baby sister, soon follows. Fast forward to when Erwin junior is inside serving his term for murder. He’s told his dad is dead. Ewin senior was sixty-four and he’d been found alone lying on the floor of a sheltered housing complex. No great loss was my way of thinking. He’d smashed up people’s lives, beat up whatever girlfriend he’d hooked up with, abandoned his kids, and spent all the money that should have went on caring for his kin on drink and drunk himself to death. But here’s the rub, Erwin junior always dreamed of living with his dad. Of his dad loving him. And them living happily ever after. The boy that was in the man never gave up on that dream, even when he was inside.

Erwin junior and Alison’s life might have been different if his mum had lived. But their dad insisted that one of their pals drives her home, even though he was incapable of turning the ignition key in the barrel, and he drove off the road and killed himself and the kid’s mum. Erwin senior survived. People like him always do.

John Steinbeck got it about right, ‘A sad soul can kill you quicker than a germ’. And for a boy aged five, his sister aged two, he latched onto the only thing he knew, his dad. One of the images that sticks with me is young Erwin sent to school with a cut down pair of wellies and on the school trip the teacher rounds up all the other pupils as his mum had ‘forgotten’ to make him a packed lunch. Erwin eats everything thrown at him before the bus leaves.

Richard Wilkinson and Kate Pickett’s,  The Spirit Level, gives a checklist of some killers i)low social status, ii) lack of friends iii) stress in early life. Erwin had all of these things in spades. He ends up in a care home and graduated with honours in drinking, fighting and stealing.

Erwin recognised that is needed not be that way. He had a choice. But the pattern was there. ‘The majority of people in prison had similar life experiences to mine – they had been in care, limited education, had family problems from a very young age, had issues with alcohol, drugs and mental health.’

The father of two kids he’s abandoned, Erwin found redemption in the French Foreign Legion. He didn’t know that the majority of recruits don’t get into the Legion. They are rejected. He was used to that. On another school trip a swarm of school kids had poured into a public toilet, he was sleeping in one of the stalls and the school kids had rejoiced that they’d found a tramp. Erwin was twenty-three. In the Legion he found the French language and that he was a natural soldier. Everything he did, he did well and got into an elite regiment in the Legion. But wanted for murder he decided to go home.

Erwin finds hope in Joan Branton, a prison psychologist, who believes in him and his ability to change. And Erwin finds education allows him to think. Writing in beautiful prose allows him to create a voice out of the mosaic of his past. It’s a voice that holds true through the difficulty years inside. He wins the Arthur Koestler award and gets to write for The Guardian.  Twenty years later he walks out the door and into a new life. The old lives are not forgotten, but part of his new life helping rehabilitate other offenders. Erwin knows better than most that when cuts to the system come they start with the poorest and those most in need, they start with the prison system. Lock them away and forget the key. That’s not a solution we can trust but is a vote winner. There is no redemption there.

John Steinbeck (1939) The Grapes of Wrath.

prophecy and poetry
prophecy and poetry

I’m called, drawn back to re-reading The Grapes of Wrath by something, I’m not sure what, perhaps it’s the refugee crisis, the image of a child’s body on the beach, and the masses of people moving between borders, and the contempt and hatred we’ve shown them. I’m not looking for answers, but I am looking for answers. Perhaps the answer is in the dithyrambic prose of Steinbeck written in one inspired, barely legible, draft, a calling down of a Joad family and a reverend that has given up religion, Jim Casey, who becomes part of the Joad family, although he’s not part of the Joad family; in the same way that the Wilsons, Sarah and Ivy become that great exodus of common people, or working people, become part of the Joad family, with nothing and no one but themselves, who are on the road together, travelling Route 66, that 2000 odd miles that separate Oklahoma from California because they have to as they’ve nowhere else to go; and they’ve all seen the printed handbill, promising riches ‘Pea Pickers Wanted in California. Good Wages. All Seasons.’ It’s something the Joads of the world nursing their jalopies and their dreams along need to believe in. Granda Joad imagines a white picket house and reaching up and picking oranges and letting the juice run down his chin, but he’s on the road and his grave is unmarked beside the road, because they can’t afford to the fee to bury him properly and instead Tom Joad writes a note in his best handwriting, puts it in a jar beside the family’s fallen patriarch, and they wrap him in Sarah’s quilt because that’s the way it is. The law no longer straight, like a road, Pa Joad concludes, and sometime you got to skit round about it. And the Joads won’t be beholden because that’s not their way, but at every corner and stretch of road there’s someone waiting and wanting to take a cut of them, a little bit more is the price, and the price hundreds of thousands of other tenant farmers like them, chased from the land, by the banks and bankers that were holding their notes, moving them on for their own good. You’d go screwy thinking about it, like Muley, obstinate, crazy, determined to stay, no matter the cost. ‘Where will we go? Where will we go?’ asked the women, waiting to see if the man would break.  No one to blame. God knows, the ground wasn’t good for nothing, and the people on the land and their lifetime belongings worth less, but if they moved on in California, there was work, plenty of work, for those that wanted to work. Only, of course, there wasn’t. There were camps were they were safe and camps were they weren’t safe and there were men with guns, some of them in uniform turning they away, asking for their documents and ripping them up in their face, and telling them to go back to where they’d come from, for there was nothing there for them, couldn’t they see that. Turn back. Go home.  The Grapes of Wrath is a religion without a God and it might have something to say about wrath. But that was then and this is now. Poor Rose of Sharon feeding a starving man with new-born breast milk. Surely we couldn’t come to that. Foodbanks that can no longer cope. But surely we couldn’t come to that. Surely we couldn’t come to that?  The Grapes of Wrath is an old book but a new book and a true book. Read the poetry of prophecy anew.

A budget holiday for the rich

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Thornwood (Steve) in AbcTales posts I hope the Tories have a change of heart about the planned cuts. 38 Degrees send me an email suggesting I contribute money so they can take out advertisements extorting George Osborne to think again. Dream on.

Notes on poverty (in no particular order).

Orwell suggest we need to state the obvious. Richard Hoggart wrote in The Road to Wigan Pier. ‘Each decade we shiftily declare that we have buried class; each decade the coffin stays empty’. Orwell, like Huxley, saw no way forward for the common working man in the 1930s. Mechanization would make him surplus to requirements.  There are parallels with the contemporary  turmoil in Greece. Then as  now, for example, with around  twenty-five percent of the population unemployed and fear for their future. John Steinbeck’s Grapes of Wrath caught a country’s angst. It described the  pre-war United States experience before and after Roosevelt’s New Deal. The Second World War parodied in Orwell’s 1984, in which each warring state blows up most of the products it produces, did save capitalism. The fall of the Berlin wall left it the only game in town.

Richard Titmus dictum: ‘service for the poor would become poor services’ have never seemed more apt.

Stewart Lansley and Joanna Mack in Breadline Britain point out the obvious: Britain spends below the average on benefits as a proportion of GDP.

The poorest fifth in Britain, for example, are poorer than Scandinavian countries, which you’d expect. But look at our close neighbours. Forty percent poorer than those in Germany or Austria and a third poorer than those in France.

Levels of statutory sick pay, short-term incapacity benefit and Jobseeker’s Allowance have been described as ‘manifestly inadequate’ by the Council of Europe which is hardly a hotbed of socialist revolution.

Jimmy Reid dead but still red.

To the students I address this appeal. Reject these attitudes. Reject the values and false morality that underlie these attitudes. A rat race is for rats. We’re not rats. We’re human beings. Reject the insidious pressures in society that would blunt your critical faculties to all that is happening around you, that would caution silence in the face of injustice lest you jeopardise your chances of promotion and self-advancement. This is how it starts and before you know where you are, you’re a fully paid-up member of the rat-pack. The price is too high. It entails the loss of your dignity and human spirit.

Robert Burns address To A Mouse ends in a field in Dumfries, a bleak December wind and a looking backwards and forwards and the realisation that the poor wee beastie, for all its troubles, is untouched by the past or future

Still, thou art blest, compar’d wi’ me!

The present only touches thee:

But Ouch! I backward cast my e’e,

On prospects drear!

An’ forward, tho I cannae see,

I guess an’ fear

Robert Tressel Noonan’s classic The Ragged Trousered Philanthropist fills many a void.

“Poverty is not caused by men and women getting married; it’s not caused by machinery; it’s not caused by “over-production”; it’s not caused by drink or laziness; and it’s not caused by “over-population”. It’s caused by Private Monopoly. That is the present system. They have monopolized everything that it is possible to monopolize; they have got the whole earth, the minerals in the earth and the streams that water the earth. The only reason they have not monopolized the daylight and the air is that it is not possible to do it. If it were possible to construct huge gasometers and to draw together and compress within them the whole of the atmosphere, it would have been done long ago, and we should have been compelled to work for them in order to get money to buy air to breathe. And if that seemingly impossible thing were accomplished tomorrow, you would see thousands of people dying for want of air – or of the money to buy it – even as now thousands are dying for want of the other necessities of life. You would see people going about gasping for breath, and telling each other that the likes of them could not expect to have air to breathe unless the had the money to pay for it. Most of you here, for instance, would think and say so. Even as you think at present that it’s right for so few people to own the Earth, the Minerals and the Water, which are all just as necessary as is the air. In exactly the same spirit as you now say: “It’s Their Land,” “It’s Their Water,” “It’s Their Coal,” “It’s Their Iron,” so you would say “It’s Their Air,” “These are their gasometers, and what right have the likes of us to expect them to allow us to breathe for nothing?” And even while he is doing this the air monopolist will be preaching sermons on the Brotherhood of Man; he will be dispensing advice on “Christian Duty” in the Sunday magazines; he will give utterance to numerous more or less moral maxims for the guidance of the young. And meantime, all around, people will be dying for want of some of the air that he will have bottled up in his gasometers. And when you are all dragging out a miserable existence, gasping for breath or dying for want of air, if one of your number suggests smashing a hole in the side of one of th gasometers, you will all fall upon him in the name of law and order, and after doing your best to tear him limb from limb, you’ll drag him, covered with blood, in triumph to the nearest Police Station and deliver him up to “justice” in the hope of being given a few half-pounds of air for your trouble.”

Owen’s fictional harangue seems rather dated and overblown. Let’s put it into modern parlance. George Ritzer’s attack on the fast-food industry and McDonaldisation as the ‘irrationality of rationality’. Let’s talk about leverage. In 2014 the UK’s GDP was £1.8 trillion. The financial sector was £20 trillion. Companies like Apple are listed on the stock exchange and worth nearly £1 trillion.

Jan Zalasiewicz’s research shows the earth is on the brink of the sixth mass extinction. The fault lies with us. Humans and the land vertebrates that we keep as a cash crop and to eat –pigs, cows, sheep, poultry etc—have pushed what we think of as wild animals such as elephants, giraffes and tigers to the fringe. We take ninety-five percent of resources and this is increasing and they take up five percent.

Pork, for example, is mass produced from cradle to grave. Ted Genoways shows how worker’s wages are driven increasingly downwards, their workload increased year on year by increasing line speed. Profits are increased, allowing vertical integration the takeover of more land, the growing of more corn crops to feed the pigs they produce and the use of their excrement as fertiliser to feed the land. One of the problems he identifies is the runoff of fertiliser (pig shit) from the land results in water pollution and leaving water undrinkable.  Half a million people in Des Moines, for example, could no longer safely drink their water because of an increased level of nitrates and E coli. Enforcement of the Clean Water Act was hampered by sacking workers who monitored the rivers. The kind of light-touch regulation we are familiar with. A saving and win-win situation. Only poor people drink water.

Catch 22. Major Major (senior) is a farmer in Mid-West. He hates Medicare. He hates social services. He hates the unemployed getting a hand out. He liked getting paid for not growing alfalfa in his fields. The more money he gets for not growing alfalfa the more fields he buys not to grow alfalfa. He knew how to make money and how not to make money. The poor were poor because they were lazy and didn’t work hard enough. Something needed to be done about them.

Corporate Ag gag laws where a triumph of corporate practice that even Joseph Heller would have chocked on. Cruelty to humans results in cruelty to animals as sure as pig follows shit. Animal abuse isn’t animal abuse if we don’t see it. Whistle blowers such as PETA who film or record such events are reclassified and prosecuted by the state as terrorists indulging in terrorist activity.

We are what we eat. Closer to home we eat the poor.

Rohan Silva: It’s no surprise that between 2010 and 2014 workers in London saw their wages fall in real terms by more than £3000 per year, even with (perhaps because of) global capital pouring into the city. Karel Williams of the Manchester Centre for Research on Socio-Cultural Change suggests the size of Britain’s bank fundamentally distorts its economic model. Let’s look at it sideways. Fifteen- percent of the population take seventy percent of all flights. Ninety-five percent of public expenditure on public works is spent on London, with this likely to increase with  Heathrow likely to add another runway. Daniel Boffey reports in The Observer the UK government has increasingly hampered progress in tax avoidance. To paraphrase R.H. Tawney the problem of poverty is the problem of riches.

They have fostered a climate of fear and mistrust. Al Alvarez in  The Writer’s Voice, discusses Edmund Wilson’s critique of New Criticism, but it works equally well with the politics of our Tory leaders and masters.

How, you may ask, can we identify this elite who know what they are talking about? Well, it can be said of them that they are self-appointed and self-perpetuating and that they will compel you to accept their authority. Imposters…demagogues [preaching] varieties of no nothingism.

Tory’s plan to redefine child poverty out of existence. One in five children live in a home that is cold or damp. Two-and-a half million children in poverty is not a true reflection our Tory masters claim. The Fabian society claim cuts to tax credits will hit the lowest paid, the working poor, and the largest group in society. Look back to the 1960s and 1970s and seismic influence of Peter Townsend’s The Poor and the Poorest, which became Poverty in the UK. Something had to be done. National soul searching. Debate. An increase in benefit levels.  Needs change over time but we all need to eat and have a roof over our head. With rising housing costs and reduced benefits, more people chasing fewer jobs, more people chasing fewer homes and almost a third of the population locked into wage and benefit free-fall something had to be done now. We’re budgeting for it.

Take for example the Mail on Sunday’s exposure that almost anyone could walk into a Foodbank and claim to be hungry and be given a free packet of pasta. No check on credentials. They could have been reporters that drove away in a car worth £30 000 and nobody stopped them. I must admit I’d like to have broken a wing mirror or two. But I’m not a pasta thief taking food out of the mouths of the hungry.

When I think of how our Tory leaders murder language and define poverty I think of my school days and the catch 22 before we were in a modern comprehensive secondary. The worst crime at school wasn’t burning down the school, it was refusing the belt for burning down the school. You could plead innocence. Become a grass and name the culprits. Tell the teacher you didn’t have any matches and were scared of fire and flames. The truth is you’d refused the belt and that was worse than burning down the school. Poverty is no excuse for poverty, it’s personal.

The Tory government focus on problem families. In a jointly funded church report The Lies We Tell Ourselves troubled families were estimated at around 120 000, and with typical Tory inflation this went up to 500 000. The flip side of that is these troubled families become the cause of the nation’s ills. Fecklessness became the common currency of what they were talking about and whom. They were infecting society. Benefit Street or any other documentary on Channel 4 or 5 will show the truth is out there. In the thirties this would have been called propaganda. Now its mass entertainment.

Owen in Tressel’s classic addressed it in this way. ‘What is the cause of the lifelong poverty of those who are not drunkards and DO work? Why, if all the drunkards and wont-works and unskilled or inefficient workers could be by some miracle transformed into sober, industrious and skilled workers tomorrow, it would under the present conditions be so much the worse for us, because there isn’t enough work for ALL now and those people by increasing the competition for what work there is, would inevitably lead to a reduction in wages and a greater scarcity of employment. The theories that drunkenness, laziness or inefficiency are the causes of poverty are so many devices invented and fostered by those who are selfishly interested in maintaining the present state of affairs…

Why is it…we are not only deprived of nearly all the benefits of civilisation, but we and our children are also unable to obtain even the bare necessities of existence.

If a man is only able to provide himself and his family with the bare necessities of existence, that’s man’s family is living in poverty. Since he cannot enjoy the advantages of civilisation, he might just as well be a savage, better, in fact, for a savage knows nothing of what he is deprived.’

How wealth is generated matters. As Henry J Ford, hardly a revolutionary figure says ‘if an employed does not share prosperity with those who make him prosperous, then pretty soon there will be no prosperity to share. Joe Stiglitz, Nobel Prize winning economist who predicted the 2008 crash and forecasts another, says much the same thing

Roman Abromavich docked his yacht Eclipse and took a cycle round the Isle of Arran this week. Let’s look at Bill Browder’s take on corruption. He spotted there was a killing to be made in the old Soviet Union of the 1980s and made hundreds of millions of dollars. The average gap between rich  and poor proletariat Russians was a factor of six. The richest Soviet citizen were worth six times the poorest paid. Poor old Roman. He cashed in his chips and jumped ship. Now according to Forbes he’s worth $9 billion. He did in one generation what it took the aristocracy far longer. The new rich meet the old rich in cities like London were wealth can be laundered.  His Eclipse eclipses the newly revamped Southern General Hospital which cost almost £200 million. But the Southern General Hospital is an asset that employs tens of thousands and generates disposable income that is spread in and around that area. The engine of the economy is disposable income. When people have nothing they spend nothing. But it doesn’t work in reverse gear. When the rich money has something he doesn’t spend.

Pope Francis who knows a thing or two about miracles describes ‘trickle down economics’. I’ll paraphrase in terms of Pinocchio, just when the snot of trickle is about to happen the needs of the rich man grows. His nose grows commensurately and he tells you he has not enough to meet his needs. Somebody else pays. The common man. The poor pay for the roads and docks and infrastructure and they educate rich and poor, but not alike. But in the current egalitarian tax system there is a  reversal of who pays more. In the 1960s and 1970s the top fifth paid more tax than the bottom fifth. That has been reversed. The rich man orders a tax avoidance scheme from an accountant in the same way that a bespoke suit used to be made by a skilled tailor.

Piketty shows that in mature economies such as Britain money grows at increasing speed and rate to the one percent that have money and own the land and assets that go with it. The answer is to tax the rich. Simple.  It would be a start. I wish some political party would start thinking in that way and not the hot air of no nothingism that we’ve come to expect so we no longer listen.

http://unbound.co.uk/books/lily-poole