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Posts Tagged ‘rejection’

….Now, what is going to happen in the future? In future those landlords will have to contribute to the taxation of the country on the basis of the real value – only one halfpenny in the pound! Only a halfpenny! And that is what all the howling is about. But there is another little tax called the increment tax. For the future what will happen? We mean to value all the land in the kingdom. And here you can draw no distinction between agricultural land and other land, for the simple reason that East and West Ham was agricultural land a few years ago! And if land goes up in the future by hundreds and thousands an acre through the efforts of the community, the community will get 20 per cent. of that increment. Ah! What a misfortune it is that there was not a Chancellor of the Exchequer who did this thirty years ago. Only thirty years ago, and we should now be enjoying an abundant revenue from this source.

Now I have given you West Ham. Let me give you a few more cases. Take cases like Golders Green and other cases of similar kind where the value of land has gone up in the course, perhaps, of a couple of years through a new tramway or a new railway being opened. Golders Green is a case in point. A few years ago there was a plot of land there which was sold at £160. Last year I went and opened a Tube railway there.

What was the result? This year that very piece of land has been sold for £2,100 – £160 before the railway was opened – before I was there – £2,100 now. I am entitled to 20 per cent. Now there are many cases where landlords take advantage of the exigencies of commerce and of industry – take advantage of the needs of municipalities and even of national needs and of the monopoly which they have got in land in a particular neighbourhood in order to demand extortionate prices. Take the very well known case of the Duke of Northumberland when a County Council wanted to buy a small plot of land as a site for a school to train the children, who in due course would become the men labouring on his property. The rent was quite an insignificant thing.
His contribution to the rates – I forget – I think it was on the basis of 30s. an acre. What did he demand for it for a school? £900 an acre. All we say is this – Mr Buxton and I say – if it is worth £900, let him pay taxes on £900…’
Rothschild was incensed and resisted the move to tax but in the end had to accept the inevitable.
The Sun Sets over the Peers
Finally, the whole controversy over the budget and the Parliament Act contributed powerfully to the steady decline of the House of Lords and the peerage in the British system of government. In 1911 the Conservatives claimed that Asquith had virtually created one-chamber government and they therefore promised a complete reform of the composition as well as the powers of the upper chamber which would have involved some modification of the hereditary principle. Indeed, as the preamble to the Act indicated, even the Liberals regarded their reform as an interim measure not a final solution. Yet, significantly the Tory leaders failed to redeem their promise despite rank and file pressure to do so even during the inter-war period. Tacitly they accepted the marginalisation of the House of Lords and, thus, of peers in general. This was underlined in 1923 when, following the resignation of the Conservative prime minister, Andrew Bonar Law, the obvious successor, Lord Curzon, was turned down because of his membership of the upper house. Never again would a peer become prime minister, though in 1963 Lord Home achieved the impossible by renouncing his peerage and returning to the House of Commons.
Financial and Social Consequences of the Budget
Finally, it remains to assess the long-term significance of the budget for British national finance. This can best be done by looking back into the Victorian period and forward into the twentieth century. It is sobering to think that since its introduction to cope with the costs of the French Revolutionary wars the income tax had been regarded as a temporary expedient. As late as the 1870s Gladstone had proposed to abolish it. He never quite succeeded, and in the 1880s and 1890s the rate rose to eight (old) pence in the pound. By 1914 Lloyd George had pushed the standard rate up to one shilling and four pence. By the end of the First World War it stood at six shillings. During the 1920s and 1930s despite enormous political pressure, income tax was only modestly reduced to four shillings. In short, all governments came to rely heavily on income tax as the central element in national finance. Even the government of Mrs Thatcher managed totrim income tax only to 25 (new) pence, equivalent to five shillings, which was historically a high rate.
The only aspect of the 1909 budget which failed to survive was Lloyd George’s famous land taxes. The laborious process of land valuation went ahead up to 1914. But during the war his involvement in the coalition government put the whole enterprise in jeopardy. Although Lloyd George remained prime minister until 1922 he was too dependent on his Conservative colleagues to resurrect the land taxes; by 1920 they had been abandoned.
In spite of this setback, the social consequences of the Edwardian reforms were enduring. The effect of a graduated system of taxation combined with social welfare measures was to begin the process of redistributing national income from the rich to the poor, albeit slightly. This process continued in each succeeding decade regardless of changing circumstances and political parties. Not until after 1979 was the trend finally checked by reductions in taxation for very high earners and a shift to taxes on consumption paid by the poor and those on average incomes. (www.users.globalnet.co.uk/~semp/budget.htm)
benny

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Rites Of Passage ©

Daddy Q- liked stirring up things. Obviously. The man was huge, nattily dressed as he stepped out of his limousine. The town with a name as Walachoola (pop: 300) just didn’t have in it to roll a red carpet. So the man stood for a moment on that dirt road and in the sun right in my line of vision. His milk white suit shone with iridescent aura and his clean-shaven pate gleamed. He was a big shot, and his face the color of burnt tobacco and the whites of his eyes merely spelt rspect.

Not a moment he wasted on the dirt road. There was he as though he didn’t mind the rusty gate that kind of wilted on their hinges. He had come along the pathway trimmed in deference to some historical curiosity: the only big pile of rubble that survived General Sherman’s guns and still breathed. It must have seen long passage of time, with each beat less and less of a world that skipped small potatoes. The man didn’t mind.

He casually glanced at the name board: Corn Blue

A Group home for the Disabled. A safe haven

We were at that moment at breakfast table, and we were awkward. Awaiting him. He wore a silk tie, which was stuck with a tiepin as a big as a goose egg. His name was scratched lovingly and it bawled,’Daddy Q’

“Daddy Warbucks!” Tom squeaked.

“It is diamond!” said our master while we sat there frozen and food still on our plates; I knew he was coming to take me. Daddy Q waved his hand not caring a whit for the cook and housekeeper who doubled as hounds besides their regular chores. They ran the home with their iron fists. He wouldn’t be stopped in his tracks after he had set his mind on something. Obviously.

The master half rising remonstrated that it was highly irregular and all that. He stood there in his path. The stranger put out his hands and just pushed him aside. He said with a smile to cut out the crap. Forks and knives somewhere dropped and stacked plates of yester night slid with a loud clank. There fell silence. As awful and deathly as I could imagine.

I thought he had just opened the seventh seal. “ Did anyone think of Apocalypse?” He asked so softly and we all craned our necks to catch his drift. Then we looked around. I put out a finger, my doubt snowballing into a fright. Daddy Q with the tiepin swiveled towards me. There was a twinkle in his eyes. He came to my side. Bending closer he asked: “Be specific. What about Apocalypse?”

“ Seventh seal! It is opened!” I blurted out overcome with the awful feeling of silence. Quickly he pulled me out of the chair and said, “ I am sorry. This waiting. Wasn’t it 18 years or was it 19?”

Marianne the cook found her voice. She croaked,” Mental age is far less. You could count in fingers.”

“ Are you my father?” Marianne would have answered to it. She looked to him with unconcealed yearning and pursed her lips but Jemima the housekeeper pulled her and said in commiseration, “ We are all that he has. Poor soul. He wets his bed you know?” The master found his voice: ‘voices in his head; worse at nights.’ The man frowned at the sight of them. Ignoring them he said affably,“ Does it really matter? I am here for you. This is all that matters.” Daddy Q was obviously luxuriating in the years that he lost while I thought of the crap that ladled out at meal times; the way Jemima scared the shit out of me for soiling the bed. Marianne upset me with her cooking and the master what did he care? Who treated me as an imbecile? Every minute I was stuck in that crummy group home it never occurred I had a father. Least of all the one who stood there in a well-tailored suit. He could wear a tiepin as big as that. It was a monstrosity. It cost a fortune. And he seemed not care a pin for it.

What the hell! Only he could be so overdressed for the occasion and yet not make me wince. He didn’t have to open his wallet I knew he was loaded. I liked the idea of having a father. Before the master could say he hustled me out and said.” We will go for a spin. In my limo.” I knew Daddy Q was real as real as the tremor in my roots. Oh shit I messed myself. In terror I put my hands to ward off Jemima’s flying hand. I caught the eye of the big man who flexed his little finger in a secret code. I felt in control. Strangely I felt some 10 pounds lighter as though a searing scalpel sliced part of me neatly. The thrill of the limo of course was a shot of morphine.

Next instant I was settled in the cool interior of the limo with Daddy Q-next to me. The plush seat with burgundy red tapestry was new. I thought I was born to be driven around. A gut feeling, – even while nights purred outside and stars looked thousand eyes stalking me. I saw visions of course and wetting my bed was only a symptom. The limo was commodious. I said so. He gurgled,” This model is OK. If you have a yen for playing Frisbee you must wait till fall.”

The man in velvet cap and gold tassels kept his eye on the road. “ Turn at the next turnpike.” The phantom at the wheel kept going till the next crossing. “ Seventh Seal uh?” Daddy Q laughed low at the thought, He called out,” say Michael, that was neat.” “ It was his idea.” He said turning to me, “ We had to have a plan. Don’t you think?” I could only nod overwhelmed at this sudden change. “ We searched high; and we searched low.” Mopping his dark brow he chuckled: “ I thought some one would lead me to you. I had this diamond for him. But none cared.” “People have become less friendly, I suppose.” Thereafter he retreated into his shell.

I recollected the pinup I had from The Seventh Seal. The knight playing chess with Death, under a brooding sky. I vaguely knew what the movie referred to. Last book of the Bible. Jemima had seen to that the book was out of reach for the imbeciles. Tommy and I included. I knew I had to play along. Suddenly Daddy Q turned to me and with a mysterious smile said,” You must be a man if you must have a pinup by your bunk?” I flushed and couldn’t answer. It was the Birth of Venus by Botticelli. Minus the angels. That was Tommy’s doing. He disliked me and he said I had pretensions to art.

“ You are entered in the register as an imbecile. Fools!” Michael broke his silence, “ Psychiatric evaluation by three amount to nothing.” He added, “Master what you expect from those busybodies who run the home? He is an orphan. Refuse of the state.” Daddy Q frowned but chose to keep silent. How long I would have stared at the blurring landscape through the window was lost and I could feel the chill and I huddled into my seat. The Big Man saw the rough weave of my shorts and the knobby knees and said, ‘You aren’t dressed for the trip.Take this’ He pleasantly threw a rug on my lap and said, “ We will go to the beach there.” There. It wasn’t Cape San Blas beach. Instead the Lands End along Magellan’s straits. I didn’t have to be there but I just knew in my bones my companion didn’t know his geography. He was running the show and what the hell! I was free and rich! His tiepin with a stone as big an Easter egg was still there and it caught the chill of the blustery winds. Had I asked I knew he would give me. There was plenty of time for favors. Sons asked and Fathers gave. Period.

On one side lay the rocks thrown pell-mell by some cataclysm. On the other a raging sea, white with foam. In between a beach of shingles and not a soul walked on the beach. Except one Indian with a blanket thrown on his shoulders. What struck me was his trumpet. He went on wiping the mouthpiece. Queer. As soon as the limo stopped the man with the trumpet scurried towards us and said, “There!”

I saw a beach cabin of sorts through the mist of sea foam. “Everything is arranged.” Daddy Q merely waved him away. A cabin was all that stood there and There was a weather-beaten board: Seafood *fresh catch* Satisfaction Guaranteed! Daddy Q- led me to it. I could see Michael chose to remain with his limo and he had already lost us. A scruffy man who managed the fish food stall received us and offered seats before a crudely nailed plank. My Father asked,” Well Sandro, what have you got for us?” “Abalone! Even as Gabriel sounded, so I kept it for your boy.” “ He’ll have it inside. Bring it on a plate. My treat you know?” “I understand”, he said in a dither. What I thought as a wall with planks nailed lapped had a door.

On passing which we were in a ritzy hall with ornate glass walls and under a ceiling painted by some old master and chandelier that bathed the room in pools of light. There were dark corners and shadows as I could take in at a glance were guests who were well into their partying. Daddy Q no sooner helped me to my seat than came a discreet waiter with his waistcoat in spanking white. After having laid the abalone he withdrew as silently as he came.

Daddy Q loved stirring up things, obviously. Before I tackled the thing the waiter reappeared and prised open with the sharp side of the knife. It was now my turn. I opened the mother-of pearl and whamm! The tiepin had turned blood red and it oozed all over the shirtfront of Daddy Q- who sat erect. I could not fully grasp what came over him. I was staring instead at the abalone, the minuscule creature that stood up gingerly. It made my past and present jell! Botticelli painted as painterly as he was trained to do. ‘Not a day without Venus’. Botticelli made the Corn Blue more human with his human art. But this Venus was all natural and her flesh had a skin tone that nothing could have prepared out of a mortar and pestle. Much less squeezed out of a tube. Demure and profane. She was right there coming out of the shell and she was right there plopping on my lap. I saw her breath harder and her ivory skin glowing with heat. For the girl sat now by my side and not even a team of mules could have parted me from there. She put her slender arms around me and said,” Adonis! I found you.” Leaning across she lightly nipped my earlobe and smiled. Never shall we part again. It was a pact.

The Big Man knew what was coming and he averted his gaze while she went straight to my shorts. She yanked my shorts and my briefs. It was the moment of nightmare!

My man thing was totally cleaned up. I could guess the import of Daddy Q’s cue before I stepped in his limo. He had seen to that I didn’t mess his limo. I went white while I saw hell fire from her eyes. I reached out and tugged the sleeve of Daddy Q. I asked him in despair. “ Make her love me!” Daddy Q sat there petrified. I shrieked, “for these 19 years! You owe it to me.” Was he staring at her or me I don’t know. My Venus asked me silkily, “ Make him go!” “Shoo,” she said from my behind hesitantly. Daddy Q sat there and looked me in my eyes. The fire that simmered deep down in me was in jets and sweat beaded, died silently. I was afire and yet some one had plugged me good and proper. “ It is his trick!” My Venus said with deadly chill, “ I am the one to free you. He is no good for you.” She stood up and hissed more like a jaguar, “ You thought he was a plaything for you?” Next moment she slapped him with all the force she could muster. The tiepin popped like a bubblegum and Daddy Q just melted. Hadn’t her breath kind of shook me up I could have stared and said he dissolved in so many wavelets. Just as Botticelli painted it. Oh shit, she was panting as though she had me so within close and lost my attention, “ Aw honey, don’t make it difficult. Just try.” Time for me was a dead horse. No limo that gave me shiver down my spine. Instead just me and a girl: retching and coming up for air as though two backed beasts under a silent sky had connected . Time had broken into a sweat. Only two of us stood there on Land’s End. Or Terra del fuego.

Dusting sand from my bruised knees I looked at the girl and said, “ I hate you! I hate you!” The stars in a cerulean sky came a-twinkling. Like diamonds. I had lost Daddy Q. With his tiepin as big as a goose egg.

benny

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