It’s that quadrennial time again when our football supporters and top players, with their WAGS in tow, leave our shores for foreign climes.

Far from leaving us in peace, they get at us by dominating TV and radio airwaves with their inane chanting and drunken rowdiness.

Definition of the World Cup: People getting excited by people getting excited.

William Hague and David Cameron have a chance to exploit the bitter split between Germany’s Chancellor, Angela Merkel, and France’s President, Nicolas Sarkozy.

Sarko wants to set up an economic government for the European Union — a council of the eurozone — to regulate the EU’s “economy”. Merkel is set against such a move, which would be heavily resisted in Germany.

Note the intrusion of eurozone affairs into the EU. Britain, Sweden and Denmark, along with newer members of the EU, are not in the eurozone at all, although some have applied. It has to be said, it’s very unlikely that any of these applicants will be granted access to the top table. Hungary’s woes, made public last week, have certainly put the kibosh on its future membership.

Britain should not be hesitant in all this. It’s in the UK’s interests to break up the big, cumbersome bloc of Western European nations and its “European Model” that is likely to retard growth worldwide for decades to come.

As suggested here before, Britain should aim to drive a wedge between the eurozone proper and the wider European Union.

A new loose bloc, without a common currency, involving some northern European states: UK, Germany, Netherlands, Poland, Czech Republic and Ireland, would challenge the spendthrift power of the rest of the eurozone.

Is the Coalition up to such bold politics? Will Nick Clegg abandon his europhilia in the face of its slow-motion collapse?

These are questions that will tell us much about the sustainability of our new Government.

Dick Cheney, the former US Vice President, was reported by Francis Fukuyama to have told President George W. Bush that “deficits don’t matter”. At the time, even large deficits were easily handled by selling American bonds to China and by incoming investments in dollar assets.

It’s not so easy today, even though China has partly reversed its retreat from the dollar. It has nowhere else to go now that the eurozone is in its death throes.

Even so, the idea that deficits don’t matter means that governments’ stock of public debt grows year by year and has to be paid for through increasing interest payments. The danger point is breached when a debt compound spiral adds costs that can’t be met out of income or yet more borrowing.

Venice has been selling off its Palaces (palazzos) to all-comers just to service its spiralling debts. Britain may approach that point within this Parliament as national debt hits 100% of GDP.

But back to Dick Cheney. He was also the prime encourager of US involvement in Middle Eastern wars. Trillions of American treasure has been spent in Afghanistan and Iraq, making the United States one of the world’s deficit basket cases.

Now we hear that the company Cheney ran, Halliburton, was the supplier of the faulty cement for the BP oil well and is deeply implicated in the current Gulf of Mexico catastrophe.

Is Dick Cheney the worst disaster to happen to the United States in recent history?

Annoyment of the Week

Two or three months ago, I wrote a tongue-in-cheek diary piece about a building near where I live named Casting House. I imagined Cheryl Cole popping in and out of a back door and a queue of would-be starlets.

Last week, behind that rear entrance, a store of road-making materials blew up. A enormous plume of black smoke caused by burning bitumen soon hung over the adjoining residential area, including Syntagma Towers. The cloud could be seen from as far away as Dawlish.

Fifteen fire engines and 84 firefighters burst upon our tranquil scene. Many of us were evacuated by the police because of toxic fumes and the danger of a “massive explosion” of gas cylinders stored on-site.

Was Casting House getting its own back on me for casting aspersions against its industrial honour?

I wouldn’t be at all surprised.

Met Office woes are reprised. Despite the rash of criticism over its performance, after forecasting the direct opposite of what our weather actually turns out to be, the Met Office Wet Office has just got worse.

Hoteliers on the English Riviera are complaining again that the bad weather forecasts for two recent sunny Bank holiday weekends, have cost them a fortune in lost revenues.

During the recent ash cloud disaster for the airline industry, guess which institution was gathering and number-crunching the data for Europe and beyond. Yes, our old chums at the Met Office.

As far as anyone can remember, when they operated off the Air Ministry roof with a few thermometers and a rain gauge, they were a national treasure. They even got the weather spot on for the D-Day landings.

Those of us who live in the West Country suspect it was their move to Exeter that broke the back of this once fine body of cloud watchers. Some believe that many of the boffins are lounging around on the beaches rather than compiling their charts.

Actually, it seems to be their involvement with international affairs and global problems that has destroyed Met Office credibility.

The United Nations and NASA relied heavily on Met Office-sponsored research at the University of East Anglia for the climate change outrage, just as the European Union trusted them with Icelandic volcanic eruptions.

Megalomania probably comes near to the truth.

Quote of the Week

“Quiet effectiveness is what I aspire to. There has not been some frenetic round of the media. This is one of the first interviews I have done.”
David Cameron, speaking to The Sunday Times

Have a good week.

John Evans

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As it’s a blessedly quiet time in politics, I thought I’d do something completely different this week.

Some readers might remember a short story, called The Minister I published here the Easter before last. It received favourable comments so, time for another.

Most TV detectives have deep-seated character flaws. They are often hopeless alcoholics, depressive, and usually totally disorganized.

Why not a detective who is perfect in every way? A Holmes without the drug habit, a Watson with an incisive intelligence, a Rebus who is not endlessly shambolic?

You are about to meet him: Lama Gampopa.

Lama Gampopa looked around calmly, sniffing the air, finding it warm, despite the January chill. His expression was one of benign repose, and he moved with a grace that belied his middle years.

The lama checked in at a modest hotel in Sussex Gardens aware that he was the object of much curiosity. Gampopa was always aware. That was his training, to be conscious of all that was going on around him down to the smallest detail.

He had been sent to London to trace and recover some of the lost treasures that had been looted from the monasteries of Tibet and were now appearing on the art markets of the world. He possessed modest funds to buy back whatever he could, but even the Council knew that the haul would be limited.

One particular artefact was the reason for his present visit. It was a codex — an early form of book — called The Treasure of the Dharma Eye. Hand-printed from wooden blocks onto thick, leathery parchment, the manuscript was said to contain the ultimate secret of Enlightenment from one of the Buddha’s closest disciples.

His contact was Jeremy Richardson, a member of one of the many Tibetan support groups that flourish now in the West. Richardson was a former police inspector with CID and knew his way around the London art scene. He was still relatively young and possessed an affable manner, which pleased Gampopa.

“I’m told you have trained as a detective, Lama?”
“Indeed, that is why I am here.”
“With the Indian police force, no doubt?”
“Oh no, it was less formal than that.”

Richardson’s eyebrows lifted.

“Sherlock Holmes, Inspector.”

The ex-policeman’s eyes widened further.

“I have studied the works of that great detective in meticulous detail,” said the lama earnestly. “I have analyzed his distinctive principles and assimilated them thoroughly.”

Richardson held back a smile, but Gampopa spotted it at once.

“You think I am a little naive, perhaps, learning from books of fiction?”
“Oh, no, Lama. It’s just that we’re not taught that at Hendon.”
“Hendon?”
“Our training college for the Metropolitan police in England.”

“Ah!” Gampopa inclined his head in that peculiar way of his, signifying that he understood. “You will realize by now that our ways are different. We do not distinguish between genres, merely between different degrees of usefulness.”

“Yes, of course … admirable.” said Richardson, only half convinced.
“Holmes has now become part of my method.”
“Your method?”
“I follow the grain of things. Everything has a grain, Inspector: life, history, human nature. Try tearing a piece of newspaper. In one direction you can tear a straight line. In the other, you have no control. I follow the grain. I look for the flaws in the thoughts of others … and all things become apparent.”

A trawl around the auction houses produced little enlightenment. There were few Tibetan items for sale in any of them. Moreover, a threat of European taxes had frightened off many potential sellers who had decamped to New York. Some were holding fire until the financial climate was clearer. It seemed a lost cause.

Over coffee in the Strand, Richardson sounded bleak. “I hope this hasn’t been a wild goose chase for you, Lama?”

“If a goose is not wild, there is no need to chase it, Inspector.” And he sat back in his chair as if all the time ever created was at his disposal.

Richardson watched him closely. He was fascinated by this throw-back from a past age who yet seemed to have such effortless mastery of the modern world. He treats it, Richardson thought, as if it doesn’t exist. He passes through it, notes its variations, and passes on, with that invincible serenity as his trade-mark.

“What would you do, Jeremy, if you had a priceless artefact for sale and were here in London now?”

The ex-inspector noted the first name terms. “Well … it’s hard to say … go to New York … or Switzerland.”

“But would you? Would it not be easier to arrange a private sale? Say through agents. After all, these dealers know the people who would want to buy, and one Tibetan piece is very much like another.”

“You may be right. There are underground auctions, but they are fiendishly difficult to approach.”

The lama was thoughtful: “But as a bona fide buyer would I not be welcome at such gatherings?”

“You might. But I’m too well known; there’s no chance for me.”

Gampopa smiled. “Then you will give me the contacts, Jeremy, and I will do the rest.”

Richardson spent the afternoon with some old colleagues at the Met, making a list of those who might be able to help Lama Gampopa. But independent enquiries through the known sources proved fruitless. He met up with the lama at his hotel after supper.

“We’ve hit the wall, Lama,” he said wearily. “There’s nothing stirring in the undergrowth.”

The lama smiled slowly. “I think I have had better luck Jeremy, my friend.”
“Don’t tell me … you’ve been following the grain!”
“Think for a moment … who would have his ear to the ground? Why, the best known Tibetophile in the world. If the codex is up for sale in London, don’t you suppose he would be here?”

Richardson was intrigued. “Who are we talking about?”
“Hiram B. Wannamaker the Third.”
“You’re serious?”

“He is known to be a great collector of artefacts. But more than that, he has a genuine interest in our culture, which means more to him than mere objects. And being an American, if he were here in London, the Embassy would almost certainly know about it.”

“That follows. So we must go there first thing…”
“I have already been,” the lama twinkled. “He is staying at Claridges.”
“Then tomorrow…”
“I visited him at once. Luckily, I caught him at afternoon tea.”

Richardson cast a rueful glance at this surprisingly mercurial lama. “And the upshot?”

“The codex is being auctioned at a private house off Park Lane tomorrow morning. Hiram, naturally, is going. And, Jeremy, I am to go as his adviser on the Tibetan language.”

Richardson waited impatiently in the bar at Claridges for the return of the two men. It seemed an age, and he was beginning to feel distinctly left out of things. Eventually, he was asked to go up to Mr Wannamaker’s suite, where Hiram and the lama awaited him. On a small coffee table rested the precious codex. It was almost two feet in length and had an air of great age about it.

“Jeremy, we have it. Hiram has been successful in his bid. But you can’t imagine how much he had to pay.”

Wannamaker seemed overjoyed. “Worth every cent, Mr Richardson. If this document contains the secret of Enlightenment, what possible earthly price could you put on it.”

Lama Gampopa gingerly opened the codex leaf by leaf, examining the sometimes faded script in a gentle rocking movement of his head, like a speed reader.

“It is all here, gentlemen. Everything we expected.”

Richardson could contain himself no longer. “But Lama, doesn’t this mean you’ve lost the codex. Won’t it go to the States now and be buried forever in a private collection?”

“You underestimate me, Mr Richardson,” the American interjected. “Lama Gampopa and I have a deal. He will translate the document for me and tell me the secret of Enlightenment, and I’ll gladly present the codex to the Tibetan community as a gift.”

Richardson gasped. Gampopa had done it, and without even dipping into his funds.

“And now Lama,” said Hiram urgently, “as a down-payment, just read out in English the part which contains the treasure — the greatest secret of all.”

Gampopa drew in an audible breath. “Very well, Hiram, my friend. I have already found the passage. I should warn you it is very profound and may seem a trifle obscure. But I assure you it contains the very essence of life itself.”

“But what does it say?” Hiram could barely restrain himself.

“It says: ‘Thus have I heard: there is a grain in all actions and in all things. Know the grain and follow it. Enlightenment will walk with you every step of the way.”

Hiram blinked.

Gampopa smiled inscrutably.

Copyright © John Evans 2010.

John Evans is the author of The Eternal Quest for Immortality: Is it staring you in the face?

Available from Amazon and all good book sellers.

Updated 4.20pm

It’s almost like old times. The House of Commons is sitting through half-term — what an affront to democracy Labour’s close-down was, especially as the circumstances (children at school) only applied to a fraction of Parliamentarians.

And PMQs is at 3pm, not noon — which was a crazy time to have it, forcing members to get worked up before lunch. Mind you, I expect the occasion will be more lively at the new post-prandial time.

Better still, no Gordon Brown. What a relief, although sloppy, silly Harriet has to be sat through instead.

More later, if I can get to a TV on time.

Update: PMQs was strangely bloodless, with impeccable manners on the Government side. Questions were answered as fully as they can be on such an occasion, plus the odd “don’t know yet”, which was at least honest.

Harriet Harman stuck to her feminist brief — what a monomaniac she is. There were no third party questions, Nick Clegg sitting next to the Prime Minister.

It was all very worthy, with few jokes and much politeness from both sides. I suspect this could get tedious after a few outings.

As for a scorecard: it wasn’t really a scorecard sort of day.

John Evans

Last week I wrote a rather alarming piece about the euro currency: Is the eurozone about to collapse?. Some significant commentators are doing likewise, notably, Will Hutton, Liam Halligan, Edmund Conway and Ambrose Evans-Pritchard.

These guys don’t mess about. If they are nervous, we should be too. My antennae have been twitching for some considerable time.

And yet, and yet … Where are the front-page stories in our national press warning us of the calamity to come? Today’s Sunday Times does have a mini article, “Greece urged to give up the euro” on page 11 of the main paper, squashed into a bottom corner next to a large advert for Hyundai cars, and cut into by a promotion for “Britain’s Best Picnic Walks”.

What comes next will not be a picnic, nor a drive in a spanking new motor.

We are informed, in around 250 words, that the British Centre for Economics and Business Research (CEBR) “has warned Greek ministers they will be unable to escape their debt trap without devaluing their own currency to boost exports. The only way this can happen is if Greece returns to its own currency.”

As Greece’s debt is denominated in euros, it will increase as the local currency falls. Thus the debt must be “converted into the new currency unilaterally.” I’m sure that will go down a storm with holders of Greek euro bonds.

Doug McWilliams, chief exec of the CEBR, thinks the move is “virtually inevitable” and other members may follow. “The only question is the timing. The other issue is the extent of contagion. Spain would probably be forced to follow suit, and probably Portugal and Italy …”

He ends ominously, “Could this be the last weekend of the single currency? Quite possibly, yes.”

At least the ST lifted that out of the Business section. I suppose we should be grateful for small mercies.

David Laws is gone, having entered the annals of the Guinness Book of Records as the shortest occupier of a Cabinet seat in British history. I’m talking about time here, not stature. Someone should check that out too.

Eighteen days is not a long time in politics, whatever grumpy old Harold Wilson might have said. One thing made Laws stand out. His vanishingly small career is filled with superlatives.

Apart from the length of his stay on our political radar, he has been elevated to the status of “the star of the coalition government”, a Prime Minister-in-waiting, the best brain in Parliament, the ablest candidate for the job, and “a good and honourable man” (David Cameron).

If he can manage all that in 18 days, what might he have accomplished in 18 months?

Can we afford to lose such concentrated talent in these hard times?

If you have ever watched old British films, you will know what a charabanc is.

Charas (pronounced “sharabang”, suggesting a French connection) were old buses designed for long-distance outings to the seaside and, more often than not, pub crawls through the countryside. They were usually painted a drab green, or cream with brown highlights. Very public sector.

Charabancs were the quintessential working class form of transport right up to the 1960s. When in Malta a few years ago, I had the misfortune of travelling in one on a tourist trip to Medina in the centre of the island.

It was a very uncomfortable journey, especially when the engine caught fire, filling the bus with thick, black smoke. Alarmingly, the Maltese driver regarded this as perfectly normal.

I mention all this because while out walking in Exeter the other day, I came across a perfectly preserved example of a charabanc. By wonderful serendipity, it was parked alongside a luxuriously modern German coach with every facility and comfort known to man. Here’s my pic:

Doesn’t it just warm the cockles of your heart?

Annoyment of the Week

One of my pet aversions of the late, unlamented Labour government, was Yvette Cooper and Ed Ball’s constant use of the phrase, “It’s the right thing to do”.

Where do I start?

The word “right” is a value judgement, so should always be prefaced with “In my opinion …”. Instead it was used as a fait accompli, an argument stopper.

The gruesome/winsome couple (you decide who gets which adjective) were claiming infallibility of decision, something even the Pope would be wary of these days.

Imagine then my surprise when our shiny new leader, David Cameron, started using this verbal tic in putting his points across.

Dave, it’s not the right thing to do to say it’s the right thing to do.

Here in East Devon we’ve had a major sporting triumph, something we’re not used to, or geared up for.

Our local rugby club, the Exeter Chiefs, won a splendid two-leg final against formidable Bristol, 38-17 to win promotion to the rugby Premiership. That is a huge event for the club, for next season it will be hosting the like of Wasps, Leicester, Bath and Northampton, giants among the rugger crowd.

Yesterday the entire city centre was filled with an enormous crowd welcoming our heroes in their open-topped bus as they were greeted by the Lord Mayor of Exeter.

My photo is a bit blurred, but it was the best I could do in the circumstances.

Hail to the Chiefs

John Evans

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Updated 7.50pm Saturday 29/05/2010: See foot of this piece.

I must admit, when I heard this story last night on the paper reviews, I was adamant David Laws must resign as Chief Secretary to the Treasury for bringing the new Government into disrepute so soon into its short life.

This morning, John Humphrys’ precision interrogation on the Today programme reinforced my opinion that the last thing the Coalition needs, a couple of weeks into its 5-year term of office, is a return to the parliamentary expenses scandal.

The counterweight is that Laws is a Gladstonian Liberal, promoting small government, low taxes, free trade — a localist born and bred. He’s undoubtedly closer to Margaret Thatcher economically than to Charlie Kennedy, Ming Campbell and Paddy Ashdown. Clearly, he’s made for the job.

So, what has he done? By his own admission, he claimed £40,000 for a second home in London, to which he was perfectly entitled under the rules prevailing at the time. Indeed he claimed much less than was available to him.

However, the person to whom he paid the rent was his long-term male lover and, when he moved to another property, so did David Laws. It was kept very quiet because neither Laws nor the “significant other” wanted their circumstances made public. The argument now turns on whether the landlord was Laws’ “partner”.

Frankly, I don’t much care what word is used, they’re all meaningless anyway. So-called human rights law has mangled the whole field of relationships under a pile of euphemisms and silly labels that make little sense to people outside the cosy metropolitan consensus of London. Not everyone is a Notting Hillbilly.

My own view of the case is this: David Laws is the dream candidate for Secretary of State for Cuts. He has a double-first in economics from Cambridge and has actually worked in some starry financial institutions, J.P. Morgan and an investment bank. His qualifications, work experience, and political orientation (if I can use that word) make him virtually irreplaceable in his post — one commentator even thought him a future Prime Minister.

In the end, the country must come before insignificant reputational matters. Although nobody is ever indispensable, for reasons of mortality, Britain needs David Laws more than he needs the rest of us.

The Prime Minister will be mortified about this, and is probably in more than two minds about what to do. He is nothing if not adaptable though, as recent extraordinary events have proved.

I believe Laws should be left in post — although the views of the Chancellor, George Osborne, should be respected. The thought of Vince Cable in the post is enough to short circuit any change, surely?

For once, we must put aside Labour’s fiddly ways and means, and take a broad decision based on the national interest. As I type this, I’m aware that Philip Hammond could be dusting off his old briefcase, or John Redwood preparing himself for a really top job in Government — which he has deserved for a very long time.

However, to err is human, and good Prime Ministers know when to stay the axe.

Update: David Laws has just resigned as Chief Secretary to the Treasury. Lib Dem Danny Alexander is to take over his role. This is not a good day for our Coalition Government.

Update: Nick Clegg hopes that Laws may rejoin the Government at some later date.

John Evans

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