A Question of Taste: A Tale of Political Intrigue

By Keith Salmon

State bankruptcy is a reality!

It is far more important than trivial factors like Global Warming.

Do you want to eat? Who will pay you to do so? Not the Government: the USA will be bankrupt by 2075, UK by the same time, Japan will not last until 2050, Germany, France and the Netherlands are similar How will you eat?

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• Language: English
• Publisher: TOPLINK PUBLISHING, LLC
• Release date: Feb 8, 2019
• ISBN: 9781950256587

Keith Salmon

Keith Salmon initially trained as a Pharmacist before embarking on a career as a Creative Flavourist with Unilever. He has since become a Chief Executive in the City of London and has worked in litigation support on both sides of the Atlantic. As a freelance consultant, he has advised many Government departments and agencies on wide-ranging and difficult change-management programs. He lives near Carlisle in north west England.

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A Question of Taste

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A tale of political intrigue

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Keith Salmon

Other books by this author

Immigration!

About the Author

Keith Salmon initially trained as a Pharmacist before embarking on a career as a Creative Flavourist with Unilever.

He has since become a Chief Executive in the City of London and has worked in litigation support on both sides of the Atlantic.

As a freelance consultant, he has advised many Government departments and agencies on wide-ranging and difficult change-management programs.

He lives near Carlisle in north west England.

Copyright © 2019 by Keith Salmon.

PAPERBACK: 978-1-950256-57-0

EBOOK: 978-1-950256-58-7

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Contents

Question of Taste

A Question of Degree

A Question of Smell

A Question of Loyalty

A Question of Law

A Question of Perspective

A Question of Support

A Question of Logic

A Question of Senility

A Question of Necessity

A Question of Expediency

A Question of Timing

A Question of Choice

A Question of Conscience

A Question of Public Interest

A Question of Friendship

A Question of Access

A Question of Obedience

A Question of Economics

A Question of Respect

A Question of Revenge

Question of Taste

It’s all a question of taste, you know, said Sir Joseph Malthouse, Knight Grand Cross of the Order of the Bath, biting a small piece from his garibaldi biscuit, his eyes studying my face to see whether he had convinced me. He decided that he had, or at least gone as far as he could for the time being. He stood up, offered his hand and said to call him anytime.

Yes, he’ll do, Sir Joseph thought as he watched me close the door to his Whitehall office.

Is that the new boy? asked a tall thin man, about forty-something years of age as he entered through a panelled door to the left. Yes, that’s him said Sir Joseph. Meeting go well? enquired John taking the comfortable green leather armchair underneath the Rembrandt to the left of Sir Joseph’s desk. Yes; tolerably well; certainly worth having, I think he answered. I have a warm feel about this one. I think he’s a pragmatist, one who sees the larger picture and the needs of the nation as a whole.

Well, I hope so said John, putting down his cup and saucer on the highly polished surface of his superior’s desk. If you don’t mind, John said Sir Joseph looking over his half-moon spectacles. What? Oh yes, sorry and all that said John removing the offending article.

Sir Joseph studied his deputy and mused how things had changed in the civil service during his time. He could remember quite vividly his first day in Whitehall and the start of his distinguished career, a career hard fought for and richly deserved. Well some would say so and Sir Joseph and his friends were those who said so. But then he had always known what he wanted to do. Maybe that clarity of mind was the product of his strict Christian upbringing – his parents were Plymouth Brethren – or the expression of the beauty of his native Gloucester – ordered, dignified and delicate – like so many classical treasures.

He had always known that he would go to Balliol, get a double first, marry Isabel whom he had known since childhood and have two well-behaved and intelligent children. All this had been achieved and was a great source of satisfaction to him. It represented a tradition, a personal history and that meant knowing who and what you are no matter what you were called upon to do.

Sir Joseph had often thought that the absence of tradition was the cause of many of the world’s problems. It was all very well to have this fashionable tolerance of every crackpot faction of society, demanding the attention of the media (so easily given in the absence of real news), and the scarce resources of society. A lack of tradition manifesting itself in a personal vacuity, which those people tried to fill somehow, more often than not with a demand for approbation in respect of some obnoxious and extreme display of bodily interaction.

Standards had certainly dropped, he thought as he glanced at his junior – Deputy Secretaries were much different in his day. It was not that John lacked intelligence – he had a double first from Balliol, as one would expect. It was not as if he was unaware of the requirements of a situation – he had proven himself very capable in that direction during the necessary removal of the previous Junior Minister. It was perhaps that he lacked a certain style; a certain sophistication; a certain breeding which manifested itself in the appreciation and practice of good taste. Yes, that’s what was lacking.

Yes indeed said Sir Joseph aloud. It really just boils down to good taste in the end.

And with that the Permanent under Secretary to Her Britannic Majesty’s Secretary of State for Home Affairs closed his diary and left for lunch at his club with his friend the Head of the Home Civil Service and Secretary to the Cabinet.

A Question of Degree

The whole question manifested itself perhaps two years before my meeting with Sir Joseph when I was left in no doubt as to its answer. Looking back it had been creeping up on us for many years before but the British public did not notice, nor did their European counterparts, for that matter. They weren’t supposed to.

BSE had been the scourge of the British Beef industry. It was the British, not the European, civil service who had said that eating British Beef was unsafe for humans; that it would give them a disease that would liquefy their brains. That disease was called Bovine Spongiform Encephalitis or BSE for short. At first, the Council of Ministers had been unable to act, impotent in their amazement that any Member State could be so stupid as to admit to an act which would inevitably lead to the destruction of one of its most lucrative export markets within the European Union. Why had Britain done such a thing? To hell with the reasons said the German contingent, our country is always ready to fill a market need. They were closely pursued by the French, Spanish and Portuguese. Each had its own statistics concerning the number of reported cases of BSE in its own, and more importantly, each other’s, country. Belgian newspapers had carried major articles concerning such instances among French herds and the Belgium government had been on the point of banning French imports until the European Commission pointed out that this would amount to a violation of Article 30 (a restriction on the free movement of goods within the European Community) one of the foundations of the Treaty of Rome. Yet Britain had admitted it and the Commission had imposed a worldwide ban on the export of British Beef.

Even more strange was the total amazement of the British contingent to Brussels. Why they argued is our beef banned for export? Because you say it is unsafe for human consumption replied the Commission. Yes, but that unsafety is surely a question of degree argued Geoffrey Mount, HM Government’s Minister of Agriculture, Fisheries and Food (MAFF).

But how can you quantify that degree of risk for us? asked Paul Souveryns, second in command to the EU Commissioner for Community agriculture. Paul sat back studying his adversary. He thought about that evening’s performance of Swan Lake to which he and his live-in lover had been invited. He hoped that Gavin would make an effort to be polite this time. Anyone looking at the Deputy Commissioner would never know that all this was happening inwardly because outwardly he was the model of attentiveness to his guest, The British do have that extra something when it comes to breeding and presentation. Perhaps it is their immaculate sense of taste. It is rather a shame that it does not extend to their sense of judgment he thought.

The Minister was saying something but Paul was deeply immersed in his own thoughts, having long since made his decision that nothing the British could say would make the slightest difference to the Commission’s decision to ban British Beef.

The Deputy Commissioner had come far. He was afterall just forty-two, having graduated with distinctions from the Sorbonne in Paris and had made short work of his studies at the Commissioners’ college in Belgium. He thought clearly – taking into account all available information, incisively – placing all useful information into correct pigeon holes and courageously – he was here to do a job and wasted no time with morals or guilt. If he were to be truthful with himself he would admit that he had no morals. He did not, for instance, believe in God – His existence had never been proved to him and faith, which he did acknowledge, was firmly placed in himself. He was a natural and classic Humanist who believed in the superhuman ability of his species and the nobility of existentialism. No dark Gods sitting in judgment over mankind – well only those of the European Court of Justice in the Haig – but they could be manipulated quite easily whenever the need arose.

So, when Her Britannic Majesty’s Government announced that BSE had been found in British Beef herds, it was just one or two isolated instances and the risk to human health is, as I say, just a question of degree. There was a pause and Paul jerked free from his thoughts quickly retrieving the gist of Geoff. Mount’s last sentence. It was a knack, which had served him well especially in those all-night meetings in Strasbourg.

But that is not what your Professor Bonnington says in his report said Paul placing his right hand on a sizeable report on the desk; perhaps, you should read it sometime? Robert Bonnington has been known to exaggerate in the past, you know, said Geoff. in a conspiratorial tone while leaning slightly forward to imply an aggressive body language. Nevertheless continued Paul, having noted the time-wearied antics of a negotiator, He is your government’s chief advisor; your government appointed him and your government published his findings. I can do nothing more. I suggest you ask Professor Bonnington to come up with some form of British meat that can be eaten safely.

With that the Deputy Commissioner rose and, offering his hand, indicated that the meeting was at an end.

Please believe me, Minister, the Commission has taken everything into account concerning this matter. Goodbye. My regards to Sir Michael when you next see him.

It was not a good day for me at work. I had thought about phoning in sick but duty had got the better of me. It was shortly after lunch, if you can call civil service food, lunch, that our Minister stormed into the office.

Bloody little shit! he exclaimed. Fucking little bloody fucking foreign little shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! He was obviously annoyed. Nobody uttered a word; it was best not to at these times.

Give them a bit of power and they dictate to the world! We had it with bloody Hitler and Bonaparte before him. Shit! And now we have fucking civil servants dictating to us. Fucking foreign civil servants at that! I’ll fucking well have that little shit Sovereigns or whatever he calls himself!

Meeting went badly? I enquired.

"You bet your life it went badly. You know I bet that little shit didn’t even listen to half of what I said to him. ‘Please believe me, Minister, the Commission has taken everything into account concerning this matter!’ Shit! Fucking shit!"

He sat down on Stella’s chair. Stella was our audio typist. She was at lunch.

You know what really bothers me? Lord Angus continued, "The little shit’s right; it was the bloody British who told the world that our beef was unsafe to eat. And now we go cap in hand to try to get the export ban lifted! Do you know what he said to me?" I raised an eyebrow and said nothing. My stomach rumbled. He took it as a query.

He said ‘I suggest you ask Professor Bonnington to come up with some form of British meat that can be eaten safely!’ I ask you. Our major export is beef. It’s our most profitable food commodity. Everyone knows that, that’s why the Germans are gloating so much. We’ve played right into their hands on this fiasco. He picked up a memo and, barely glancing at it, tossed it onto the desk again.

"Everyone knows that the Germans have as many cases of BSE as us, but they’re not stupid are they? Oh no they’re not. ‘The only cases of BSE we haf in Germany result from your British beef, mein Herr!’" He stood up and goose-stepped up and down the office with his finger across his top lip and his right arm extended in a Nazi salute.

Bloody Bonnington and that fool Cunningham! And I’ve got to face the national executive of the NFU when I get back on Tuesday. Shit oh bloody shit! What a bloody mess! He went silent.

Could I possibly make a suggestion? I ventured cautiously.

You can go fuck yourself for all I care! You and all the rest of you bloody timewasting civil servants! He was being vitriolic today. Normally this poetic construction was only brought out of the cupboard annually when he was required to approve our salary increases. The yearly tirade reminded me of the ordeal suffered by Bob Crachett at Christmas time.

Well, I’ll go to lunch then! I snapped.

I thought you’d already been on lunch?

I’ll bloody well go again, bad though the food is! And with that I stomped out the door and made my way down to the riverside and a little wine bar I knew. Bang goes my promotion for a year I thought but I didn’t care. Angus was generally regarded as an incompetent fool and I had heard on the grapevine that getting the export ban on beef lifted was his final chance in government. It looked like he would fail and be posted to somewhere like Cardiff handling queries on driving licences or, better still, to one of the regional passport offices. It was at times like this that I hoped there was a God up there manipulating everything. I said a quick prayer just in case there was.

Peter! Late lunch for you?

I turned. It was Gerald Harrison from Procurement accompanied by a couple of actor types of decidedly undecided gender, a pretty girl and a middle aged chap in an ill-fitting suit with dinner stains down his tie.

Everyone listen! Guys this is Peter. He’s a good sort; deals with food. Tries to sell burgers to the Euros or something. Rachel, Janet, Anne, Gavin. As he spoke the two lesbians struck a supercilious posture which made them look even more ridiculous, the pretty girl blushed and Gavin’s nose dripped onto his suit. He wiped a nostril with his hand and gave a silent belch.

Look, why don’t you girls run along while I have a chat with my old mucker?

The two lesbians gave a shrug and drawled something about an exhibition of contemporary art. Having made some enigmatic point and having seen it fall on stony ground, they turned and minced off, arm in arm. The pretty girl kissed Gerald, looked at Gavin who was still having trouble with