Bernard felt that this would be no problem. He believes that this is probably what Hacker was planning to do anyway.
[Hackers diary continues Ed.]
January 2nd
There was a drinks do at the FCO [Foreign and Commonwealth Office] this evening. It was for our European friends. With friends like them
I met an EEC official who seemed awfully Teutonic, and I asked him where he was from.
From Brussels I have just arrived, he told me.
I was surprised. Youre from Belgium?
Brussels is in Belgium. That is correct. The Teutonic mind!
Bernard came to the rescue. I think the Minister is asking if you are Belgian?
The official nodded and smiled. No, I am German.
And what are you at the EEC? I asked pleasantly.
I am still German.
I reminded myself that patience is a virtue. I know that, I said, and looked to Bernard to rescue me again.
I think the Minister means, said Bernard carefully, what is your job?
Ah, said the Kraut. I am a Chef du Division.
Its a sort of Assistant Secretary, Bernard whispered to me.
I wondered, to Bernard, if our German friends (as I have to call him) can help us with our sausage problem. Bernard nodded, and asked him exactly what his job is.
He was only too happy to explain. My job is concerned with the Common Agricultural Policy. I have to see that the farmers are paid enough money to produce more food.
This came as a considerable surprise to me. I thought we were producing too much food in the EEC -- hence the surpluses. I said as much.
The German nodded significantly. Too much food to eat, yes!
I was baffled. What else is food for? I asked him. His eyes lit up with pleasure.
We do not produce food for eating. Food is a weapon!
I couldnt exactly see what he meant. A weapon? I said. You mean I searched for the right response, but answer came there none. You mean what do you mean, exactly?
It was obvious to him. Food is power. Green power.
I asked if he meant that we fight the Russians with food. He became impatient, and explained that we dont fight the Russians. They are our friends, our customers. We fight the Americans!
I asked him to expand on this theme. He was delighted. His eyes gleamed as he discussed his nations favourite pastime. It is a war, he began. A trade war. Using food we can increase our spheres of influence over Third World countries. You should have seen Dr. Kissingers face when we threatened to sell wheat to Egypt. He chuckled merrily. He wanted Egypt to himself. You see, if the Third World switches from American to European wheat, the US President loses millions of votes in the vest.
It took me a moment to realise that he was speaking geographically, not sartorially.
The Mid-vest, he explained. So. The Common Agricultural policy gives us great influence over America, you see? Last war, guns. This war, butter.
Its better, butter, I remarked facetiously and laughed a little. He did not get the joke. [Such as it was Ed.] So I asked what, precisely, he did in the food war.
I ensure that our farmers are subsidised to produce all the food that they can. We have underground silos bursting with agricultural missiles. We were standing by the buffet, and he started to set up a dinner-table battlefield as an illustration. We move a division of butter to Bangladesh, we threaten Egypt with three brigades of wheat. But it is a decoy, you see, he cried triumphantly. We have six airborne divisions of beef waiting to fly into China. Then
He suddenly paused, and then burst out laughing. Bernard and I stared at him, bemused. Finally I asked him what the joke was.
Its better, butter, he chortled. Very funny. Very funny.
Bernard took me by the hand and led me quietly away to another part of the reception, where he presented me to a Monsieur Jean Penglet, who is also a Chef du Division in Brussels.
I speak no German, but I tried out a little French on Monsieur P. Vous parlez anglais, Monsieur Penglet? I enquired poetically.
I do, he replied with cool politeness.
And what do you do? I asked.
My job, he said with a patient smile, is to deal with food surpluses.
You mean, export them or store them?
He was confused. Non -- I pay farmers to see that all surplus food is destroyed.
Now I was confused. Destroyed? I repeated.
But of course, he said with a patronising gallic shrug. Dont you know the Community produces too much food?
I kept my temper.
But look, sorry, I dont want to appear dense but that chap there -- I pointed to our humorous friendly German -- "pays farmers to produce surplus food. Green power, he says.
I know, he nodded. He does a good job. Food is a weapon.
This was making less and less sense. Then why, I demanded, do you pay people to destroy it?
There was no contradiction as far as our French friend was concerned. All weapons must be made obsolete. Then you can pay people to produce more. Simple.
Cant you just go on storing it?
He thought that was a silly idea. Non, it is cheaper to destroy the food than to store, liquefy or dehydrate.
Or send it across the world? asked Bernard.
Exactly.
The whole Through-The-Looking-Glass approach was becoming clear to me. And, I said, I suppose you cant sell it at the market price because then the price would fall and the farmers would not make enough money.
The Frenchman was delighted that I understood. Exactly.
I decided to sum up. So, he pays French farmers to grow too much food -- you pay the same French farmers to destroy it!
He was grinning now. Exactly.
There was just one thing left that I didnt understand. Why, I asked, dont we just pay the farmers to sit there and not bother to grow the food at all?
The Frenchman was offended. Monsieur Hacker, he replied snootily, French farmers do not want to be paid for nothing. We do not want charity.
[Hackers xenophobia is clear from the above passage. This unattractive ability to see Germans and Frenchmen only in national stereotypes was both a personal weakness and a political strength. We shall see how it became his trump card at a crucial moment in his climb up the greasy pole Ed.]
January 3rd
I didnt get to the office till late afternoon today. And, although I had lots to do, somehow I just couldnt concentrate. I felt overwhelmed by the complete futility of it all, of everything we do, in the face of an EEC bureaucracy even more pointless than our own home-grown variety.
I sat behind the desk, musing, lost in my thoughts. Then I realised that Bernard was standing in front of me, trying to attract my attention in his characteristic way.
Um, he was saying hopefully.
I stared at him gloomily. Whats it all for, Bernard? I asked. What are we all doing? Whats the point of it all?
He looked momentarily nonplussed. I didnt read theology, Minister.
I tried to explain my concerns to him. What I mean is, Bernard, the waste of it all. Paying a lot of people to produce masses of food. Paying another lot to destroy it. And paying thousands of bureaucrats to push paper about to make it all happen. Doesnt the futility of it all depress you?
Not really, he replied, slightly puzzled. Im a Civil Servant.
But when its all so pointless? I entered politics to make peoples lives happier.
Oh but they are, Minister. He was concerned about me now, trying to cheer me up. Busy people are much happier than bored people.
Even if the works futile? I asked despairingly.
Oh, yes, he replied encouragingly. Look at your private office. Theyre all much happier when youre here and theyre busy.
I couldnt see what he meant. I pointed out that the work in my private office has a purpose.
Bernard sort of disagreed. Well, most of it is drafts for statements you dont make, speeches you dont deliver, press releases nobody prints, papers nobody reads, and answers to questions nobody asks you.