Why can’t we talk about money?
I haven’t known where to look. All this money talk is so showy, so flashy, so declassé
What have we learnt this week? I think we can all agree that we have finally discovered the thing that we, as a nation, are really, truly terrible at. The thing, to use an Americanism, that we suck at the most.
For a long time, it had been assumed that this thing was football, or negotiating an exit from the EU, but, as the BBC revealed the wages of its presenters and executives, it has become clear that, actually, the thing we Brits are most awful at is talking about money.
Confronted with the reality that, yes, people who pretend to be doctors and nurses are paid way more than actual doctors and nurses, we have fallen apart. We – and by we I mean the media who are not publicly funded – are up in arms. We
– and by we I mean the people who never step off Twitter to take a look at the real world – are shocked by the gender pay gap. We – and by we I mean everyone – are horrified by pictures of Gary Lineker relaxing next to the pool at his £1,000-a-night hotel in Beverly Hills, presumably lying on a bed of dollar bills kindly provided to him by us, the licence fee-payers.
Just £600,000 here, £2.2million there, a casual £850,000 just dropped in the corner... honestly, I haven’t known where to look. It’s all so showy, so flashy, so déclassé. Can’t the BBC just put it away?
And then, in an attempt to defend this grotesque display of what really can only be described as willy-waving, people in the know start banging on about how Chris Evans et al are great value when compared with, say, Ant and Dec, who are paid £30million a year by ITV. Stop it! I can’t stand it! I don’t want to know that my favourite biscuit-eating cheeky chappies from the North East are actually as rich as a Tetra Pak heir!
Do you remember the Harry Enfield character who went around announcing that he was considerably richer than everyone else? It was painfully funny because we find people talking about money absolutely excruciating. Wave a restaurant bill at us and watch as we all turn away, as if being presented with the results of a biopsy: who is going to be the brave one to take a peek and do the sums and bring everyone’s agony to an end? Neglect to include service and stop and listen as the cogs start to whirr in the brains of your diners as they try to work out how much to tip. Is it 10 per cent? 15 per cent? Nothing at all because, don’t you know, it’s rude to talk about money? Oh gawwwd, let’s just chuck down a bit of shrapnel and get the hell out of here without looking anyone in the eye.
I found myself in Los Angeles last weekend, for work. True story: I was actually introduced to Gary Lineker while having breakfast with a friend. He had the look of a man whose wage was about to be revealed to the world. I’d seen that look before – I believe in a painting by Edvard Munch. And I can’t say I blame the former footballer. I think I would rather my employers published details of my medical history than how much they paid me.
It’s not that I’m a squillionaire – recently, I was forced to borrow a tenner off my husband – more that I have been brought up to believe that it is poor form to talk about cash. I will give you all the details of my one trip to a “clap clinic” gratis. My annual take-home salary? Three chocolate buttons and a tangerine, thank you very much. Now please can we change the subject?
Anyway, in America, they talk about money all the time. You can’t even order a coffee without them brazenly asking for it – here, we have created contactless payments so we never have to actually discuss or think about the amounts changing hands. They have a president who basically got into office by saying: “I’M RICH! I’M REALLY, REALLY RICH!” over and over again. Show me the money! Here, if someone wants to be successful, they have to pretend that they don’t have any money, that they are decent, normal folk, and that country estate over there? “Oh, that’s not mine!” “What’s that you say about Eton? Nope, never heard of it. We are all in this together.” TO-GETH-ER.
Yes, it bothers me how many hundreds of thousands have been spent on Alan Shearer, but not half as much as it would bother a football fan if Match of the Day were presented by an actual wooden spoon, which is about all the Beeb could realistically afford if challenged to employ people parsimoniously.
Anyway, money may make the world go round, but seething resentment and jealousy will almost certainly destroy it. Be it £150,000 or £1.5million, let us never speak of this again.