From JERSEY LIFE, March 1967, this curiosity.
Although very rambling, it is a wry, satirical essay arguing that Jersey’s booming millionaire class thrives through tax advantages, financial manoeuvring and relentless ambition, shaping the island’s economy and society while quietly supporting local causes. Beneath a pop lyric lies a critique of wealth, aspiration and Jersey life.
Millionaires, the essay concludes, quietly sustain Jersey’s economy and social institutions, making their presence ultimately beneficial to the island.
This was, of course, the 1980s, when Bergerac had been portraying for almost a decade, the notion of Jersey as an island of millionaires!
A Shot of LSD
By JAMES WEBSTER
Ain't got no gold,
No use for money;
Ain't got no girl,
Don't need no Honey;
I'm satisfied
For all the world's my own . .
Sitting in the Bay one Saturday evening watching life gyrate around walls awash with loud music and soft, soft darkness, crossing platitude with platitude and downing drinks quickly before they evaporated with the heat, a face as long as this sentence and I heard my favourite lyric from the Top Twenty.
Beautifully sung, I may say.
Immediately I felt better. My kind of music has the same effect on me as a large shot of LSD. Or so it would seem from the television programmes I have watched I hasten to add for my Centenier's benefit. And I sensed that here was the Truth. The first verse of this lyric contained, if one was prepared to bear with the somewhat idiomatic grammar, a bond with Plato and Comenius and Wordsworth. A philosophy of life worth examining.
To the naive, the literally minded, the honest sons of the soil as I would be if my doctor would allow it, the general idea seemed to be to stroll through life hand in hand with one's guitar, without a care in the pretty little head. A crust of bread (by kind permission of Amys). A tetrapack of florinated water is all that is needed to establish a complete and lasting rapport with Mother Nature. Satisfaction with one's little lot, complete disregard for worldly goods and concern for birds in the ornithological sense only.
Admirable yet bitterly, cunningly false, I concluded the next morning, eyeing the inevitable Sunday downpour from a warm and unsleepingbag like bed. Despite unaccountable attempts on the part of my stomach to thump sense into my head I got the message. The real one. In fact, the simplicity of this lyric, now recorded, apparently on a tape powered by perpetual motion somewhere in the back of my brain, concealed the secret Freudian rooted ambitions of the knave, the literary minded and honestly, the sons of the soil as well. And probably the rest of Jersey to boot. Getting hooked on LSD once and for all. To become an ordinary, solid, bourgeois run-of-the-mill millionaire. Like the rest of one's friends. Or so it seems.
`Ain't got no gold', at the present moment, is a prerequisite of any self-respecting millionaire. Gold shares have all but halved in value during the past few months as Britain staggered away from the quagmire of devaluation. Doubtless those clairvoyants amongst professional men, the stockbrokers and portfolio consultants (same thing but they charge for losing you money), advised those approaching the million pound barrier to unload gold at the top. Such transactions are not clouded by capital gains tax in an Island sympathetic to the aspiring millionaire's precarious position.
Yet for every seller there must be a buyer. Who is it that so gratefully acknowledges the nods and winks of the Boys That Know and plunges in to the three figure limit of their wretched resources ? Why, you and I and the fellow from St. Clement's.
But it is something of a consolation to realise that in manfully taking our losses as we sell back again on more nods and winks from the Great Men who will even call us 'Sir' and `madam' from time to time, each of us, in our pitifully small way are actually helping to create a millionaire. And this warm glow in the pit of the stomach as we give, collectively of course, a million pounds worth of stock to the neo-millionaire who originally paid half and sold it to us for twice what he now pays is not to be construed as anger.
And still the millionaire ain't got no gold. He has divided earning, script—and rights bordered bits of paper. Gold nuggets may be all right on television, but they do not earn interest. Definitely non-M.
`No use for money'. Why, then, enquired the uninitiated, are banks bursting at the seams, rebuilding, enlarging, opening new branches ? Why are finance houses and merchant banks springing up like mushrooms all over the Island? Why is such a high proportion of the Evening Post given over to enormously discreet advertisements referring to the extra 3/19th per cent to be gained as a result of investing with Arhodbard & Co. instead of White, Ben & Son?
The answer is obvious enough to be overlooked. Millionaires can be slight, worried-looking little men or fine, well-built figures as substantial as their assets. Even money is out for these. But they are simply not equal to the physical problem implicit in carrying about the pounds and pounds avoirdupois of the pounds and pounds sterling that they fritter away from minute to minute. Instead, they slip half a dozen cheque books into one pocket and a quarter of assorted Parkers into another.
To the really rich, then, 'pocket money' is a contradiction in terms. But in any case, the soil, as it were of their financial farmland is something they do not care to have clinging to their fingers.
Watch a couple of millionaires strolling back to the clubhouse from the eighteenth at Grouville, and you may witness the splendid sight of each turning spontaneously but simultaneously to the other and exclaiming piously: 'I say, old boy; wouldn't happen to have a couple of bob handy by any chance . . .' The reply in any case being lost in the polite, appreciative laughter conveying that of course no gentleman millionaire would bother with money. And so they disappear like a couple of Falstaffs through the club doors, waving their thanks to a glum faced caddie who has seen it all before, chanting, 'Chalk it up to me, laddie—no Charles, I insist . .
`Ain’t' got no girl' is at first sight a little more difficult to explain. But there are a number of acceptable possibilities. The cook/housekeeper/nannie/maid/au pair/cleaner/secretary/secretary’s/assistant/secretary's assistant's help/general help/general woman/treasure has left suddenly. This then would be a cry of defiance. 'I can manage, with the aid of the E.P.'s tele-ad service, which should bring a veritable army of female labour to my door by luncheon time. And all willing to work for the honour of being associated with my household rather than on the sacrificial terms of the union'. Dailies can be worse than dockers over working to rule. And they don't need cranes to break things of value, either. Besides, they have this absolutely terrifying superhuman strength which if not sublimated by scrubbing and dusting could come out in anti-social behaviour like throwing the deep freeze into the swimming pool.
I'm satisfied,
For all the world's my own .. .
Here again is the double entendre, since it is only through being thoroughly and continually dissatisfied, no matter how much he has or how well he is doing that the millionaire becomes a millionaire. Notwithstanding this, control of the Clore empire, or even taking over the common market, (which in passing would let everyone in Jersey breathe freely again), is, to the man with tycoon's blood in his veins, a strictly limited objective. Inside his fat-flanked bosom ticks a time-bomb of ambition. To be chairman, managing director and majority shareholder of a worldwide financial organisation in a quite literal sense. The individual countries would become giant supermarkets for this one all-powerful firm.
What really intrigues the impartial if impoverished observer is that millionaires seem to be settling in Jersey faster than flies on rotting meat. Is it possible that this rather unhappy comparison applies equally to the reasons concerned ? Nest eggs deposited here, to judge from the attractive terms offered by such firms as Whyte Gasc, Hill Samuel, Lombard, Hodge and Arbuthnut Latham, should grow very steadily indeed. And no matter how they do grow they will remain hidden in layers of Jersey legislation safe from the ravenous scavengers of the English Inland Revenue.
Income tax at a maximum rate of four shillings in the pound is attractive enough to the wealthy resident, especially when this is literally the top rate and there is no question of super tax or surtax. But to the millionaire, what must matter most of all is the preservation of the capital he has fought so hard to win from his less astute fellows. It is the threat of death duties that lies behind the flight of the millionaire from the U.K.
He could, of course, choose to live elsewhere. The Bahamas, possibly Spain, Gibraltar, South Africa. But the millionaire is potently a man of some intelligence. He has considered these possibilities from the day he first opened a second bank account. He has weighed the cost of living, housing and travel. He has looked at variations in climate and the taxes which are on the way to being introduced. He has calculated how long it would take him to get to London or Paris, and he has found out how many of his friends are already in the area—or coming back. He has assessed scenery, atmosphere, currency, restrictions, political risk, helicopter parking facilities, golf courses and the chances of making a further million in situ.
Jersey may not top the poll on every single question, but on average this sunny little lump of agricultural land paddling its feet in the approaches to the Channel is a millionaire's paradise. And the more money you have, the truer this becomes, because it is when buying Bentleys and green chartreuse, pantellas and private planes that tax is most conspicuously absent.
The result of all this is that Jersey can boast roughly one millionaire to the square mile, give or take the odd hundred thousand pounds or vergee of foreshore. Some of them do have other bases as well, but they are almost embarrassing in their patriotic insistence that they are resident chez nous, sending Christmas and Mother's Day Cards to the Commissioners of Inland Revenue to this effect.
Again, for every millionaire by definition there are possibly fifty or so people in Jersey who are more than half way there. And a further two or three hundred who have the kind of money that makes working for a living an academic proposition. Plus, of course, the honourable company of Jersey Farmers whose agonised complaints of disastrous seasons and mounting debts conceal the kind of financial success that many a millionaire elect might do well to study.
Farming apart, the success stories in the community are as varied and fascinating as the personalities themselves. Lord Louth was once a young A.A. patrolman. Deputy Maldwyn-Thomas who built up an airline that he is said to have sold for his million began, as he is happy to acknowledge in his gentle, unassuming manner, as an A.C.2 in the Royal Air Force. Mr. Haynes, now a millionaire as the result of seeing the potential of TV. rental, returned from a Japanese P.O.W. camp and became a fireman. Garage magnate Ken Jackson started off as a Guernsey butcher. Bill Knight who with Arthur Owen founded Lynwood Ltd. which made their millions, was selling second hand cars in the 'fifties. Even, then, I remember, his personal charm and lean, honest locks lured buyers like moths to the candle, and marked him as a man who would go far. As far as Quennevais, where his foresight led him to provide properties and the Bahamas where unhappily he is forced to spend some of his time on further developments.
Walking through the Royal Square down Kings Street and Queens Street, round Bath Street and then on to the older part of the town with its treasure trove of junk shops I think it would be best to forget about this verse. The shop windows of Hettich & Sons, Maines, Assinders, and the like reflect in addition to the envious faces of those unable to afford their gorgeous contents that good jewellery is a fine investment. Most millionaires' wives confirm this every time they appear at a cocktail party. Again, Oh Joy! Oh Bliss! Oh, Felicity! (though I confess I do not know a girl called Bliss)—no purchase tax. And let's face it, second-hand jewellery is acceptable currency in pretty well any part of the world.
Fine homes, antiques and valuable pictures I tend to connect with those whose background, possibly, gave them something of a natural lead in the world of wealth. Jersey's telephone directory is reminiscent of Debrett in some parts, yet I suppose it is true to say that there are more scrap iron barons and condiment kings amongst our millionaires than archetypal aristocracy.
The tiny Island of Jersey cannot but acknowledge the presence of her affluent society. Houses change hands at astronomical figures, reflecting not so much, perhaps, their intrinsic worth so much as the fact that they are sitting on death-duty-free soil. Since Labour came to power in England there has been mounting competition for top class properties as more and more people realised that, once domiciled in the Island, they could live like millionaires even if they weren't. This miniature invasion is partly responsible for the quite vicious competition at auction sales for antiques and quality furniture. Firms like Le Gallais of Bath Street and Langlois of Don Street, providing auction sales which attract dealers from London and Paris as well as local millionaires.
These firms have showrooms which no millionaire would be ashamed to use as his club. Some do. They negotiate property sales, purchases and rentals. They keep stocks of superb furniture, curtains, materials, garden equipment and what have you. And because they know their clients and themselves probably belong to the treble double-0 club, they give discount for cash.
Are our millionaires, I asked my reflection as it wavered back at me in the bathroom mirror, a bad thing?
Silly question, really. From the financial point of view Jersey might rise four inches if they took their wealth out of the Island, but she would risk foundering as the result of losing the tax, trade and traditional kudos of these people. Boat-builders, house-painters, store-keepers, stock-brokers, private school teachers, car-insurers, every double-barrelled occupation in the book would suffer.
From the social viewpoint the loss, though less obvious, is infinitely greater. Quietly, unobtrusively but nevertheless effectively, every millionaire or man of moment is doing something for this Island. I would not embarrass them further by bringing their good deeds into the open, but for the doubting Thomas let me quote just one example. The Jersey Association for Youth and Friendship, responsible for the flourishing hostels in St. Marks and Clarendon Road has on its committee names which everyone in the Island will readily recognise.
And work of this nature is not just a matter of writing an occasional cheque to ensure sound sleep at night. It can only be undertaken by those who are concerned personally with the social injustices and problems contained in our Island. It may even be disconcertingly true that the well-to-do give proportionately far more in every way to the well being of society. To the furtherance of the Arts, as the local society would gratefully acknowledge, thinking this time of a lady. To the mentally handicapped. Or to a helicopter hospital service.
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