George and Boris are falling over themselves to ingratiate Britain to the Chinese. Actually, they’re also falling over each other, for the Chancellor cunningly scheduled his China trip for the same time as the Mayor.
Can’t let that overambitious chap steal the whole show, can we now? So George stole Boris’s thunder by declaring that visas for rich Chinese will henceforth be fast-tracked.
Boris was furious. His show can have only one star! Crikey! Gosh! Bloody nerve! Who the bloody hell does he think he is, God bloody almighty?
But Boris is no pushover. He wasn’t going to bend over and take it like a man. George’s generosity, he complained, doesn’t go far enough. As far as he’s concerned, anybody with a fat wallet is welcome, regardless of how the wallet got lined.
“We will have to see how this scheme actually works,” Boris hissed, gnashing his teeth. “The detail is a little bit unclear to us at the moment.”
That may be, but the underlying principle is clear enough. In fact, it was first enunciated with soldierly directness by the Roman emperor Vespasian. “Pecunia non olet” (money doesn’t stink), he quipped when questioned about charging tax on the urine sold to tanners by public lavatories.
It’s disconcerting that after two millennia of subsequent civilisation we still haven’t outlived this rather crass philosophy. Utility reigns, okay? The greatest good of the greatest number of spivs. What’s there not to like?
If our olfactory sense were sharper, we’d detect the stench of slavery emanating from Chinese money. But we don’t want our noses to be sensitive. We pinch our nostrils and ask Chinese visitors to sign on the bottom line.
The bottom line is all that matters. Never mind the scruples, feel the wealth.
In fact, China’s population is consigned to what only Protagorian sophistry would prevent one from calling slave labour. But in the good, if relatively recent, tradition of materialistic amorality, we choose not to ponder the ethical implications.
When paying £1 for a pair of cotton underpants made in China, where the average labour cost is one-thirtieth that in America, we refrain from doing simple mental arithmetic. Most of us would be incapable of such mental exertions anyway, after a couple of generations of comprehensively equal education for all.
Yet if we were to add up the cost of the cotton, utility prices, depreciation of the factory plant, manufacturer’s mark-up, cuts taken off the top by various middlemen and retailers, cost of transportation and storage, customs duties and many other things I’ve undoubtedly left out, we’d realise that the poor devils who stitch those underpants together probably still subsist on a small bowl of rice a day.
Without splitting legal hairs, they are slaves – to exactly the same regime that has unapologetically murdered 60 million of its citizens and brutalised the rest. But hey, show us piles of money and we’ll overlook piles of corpses. They don’t smell either.
In the past, before Jesus Christ became a superstar, England took a dim view of slavery. A report of a case as far back as 1569 states that: “… one Cartwright brought a slave from Russia and would scourge him; for which he was questioned; and it was resolved, that England was too pure an air for a slave to breathe, and so everyone who breathes it becomes free. Everyone who comes to this island is entitled to the protection of English law, whatever oppression he may have suffered and whatever may be the colour of his skin.”
Chinese slaves don’t travel to Britain these days – they can’t afford to. It’s their masters, the Chinese answer to the Cartwrights of yesteryear, who are welcomed with open arms by the spivs who govern us.
Rather than barring entry to anyone whose fortune has been made by criminal means, be that slavery or racketeering, our ‘leaders’ want to spare them the inconvenience of waiting for a visa. Moral considerations need not apply when a few bob are on the line.
So fine, pecunia non olet. Money doesn’t stink. It’s only our political class that does.