Inside this Month: We're all wheeling and dealing like Donald Trump
The older I get, the more arguments I have about inheritance tax. It doesn’t seem to matter how unmaterialistic somebody is: when it comes to their parents’ loot, the government can keep their filthy, thieving hands to themselves.
I watched two guests on a news channel the other day become so impassioned they might as well have been reciting the ‘I have a dream’ speech.
“When somebody’s worked all their life, paid all those taxes, it all seems a bit unfair,” one of them said. What, unfair to the corpse that was once your dad?
Without inheritance tax, a huge minority (the toffs) would still own the vast majority of all property. Granted, it does entrepreneurship no favours, but now Mr Everyman stands to get rich on the back of a property boom, he’s turned into Donald Trump.
Wheeling and dealing, signing this one over and the other one underhand, you’ve got to remember that while he grew up hating the rich, this million-quid semi is rightfully his.
The special ones
It’s not abnormal. Some people know them as special, others selfish, but it’s us who are left to maintain the status quo.
Like parents taking their holidays in July. While the mugs pay through the nose, The Special One enjoys the peace and calm of a city that is like the Day of the Triffids every single day, doing hardly anything at work because nobody’s here.
He then leaves his workmates in the lurch as he disrupts his children’s schooling in May or September to go to a resort where the only screaming brats are his screaming brats – and he’s learnt to block them out.
July? Don’t ask me!
I’d like to tell you about what’s going on in July, but I’ve never normally here. Most of the events in this issue remind me of relatives my family used to tell me about when I was a kid, but who I never properly met.
Copenhagen Pride (G10) is like my godmother. I knew from an early age that I didn’t want to meet her (her presents suggested she had lousy taste), and on the one occasion we did, it was a tiny bit embarrassing – that I didn’t know who she was/that I was jogging around the Lakes in lycra.
The Copenhagen Jazz Festival (G10) is like my grandmother. I’m sure I met her once, but the memories are really, really hazy, and the background music incidental at best.
And the CPH Historic Grand Prix (G10) and Copenhagen Opera Festival (G11) are like this great bunch of great-uncles I had in Ireland. They’re loud, a bit crazy, sound like a lot of fun and invariably end up getting soaked – in the events’ case, outside the boozer.
And none of them left me anything, the bastards.