The Cult of the Succulent Lamb

After deciding to create an investigative blog, the next thing I had to do was find a subject to investigate. I sat around for a while scratching my arse, drinking too much coffee. For inspiration I studied the Long List for this year’s Orwell Prize. I needed something topical, edgy, controversial, political, dangerous and/or sexy. I chose tax.

If someone told me last year that tax would be this year’s sexy topic I’d have thought they were either a tax accountant heading for a breakdown – of the nervous type, not a full company accounts audit – or under the influence of some new designer drug that had the strangest side effects since Pfizer fluked Viagra helping erectile dysfunction.

Now, before you all start heading for the exits huffing and hawing at the lunacy of that statement, allow me to furnish your as yet vacant minds with some facts about the world of tax.

When I say facts, what I really mean of course is conjecture, guesswork, a hint of creativity, a dollop of realism and plenty cloak and dagger. You see, even attempting to enlighten the outside world to some of the intricacies of one particular tax case can be extremely hazardous to one’s short and long-term health. In other words, tax is dangerous…and when has danger never been sexy.

Of course, sex can be dangerous, too, but that is a very large field and far beyond the scope of this humble blog. And for those smaning at the back, no, it’s not beyond the scope of this humble blogger because he’s a virgin. However, your presence and constant jibing reinforces my point. Mainly, that anyone attempting to shine a light, however small, on the darkness that clouds this case finds themselves being slandered, mocked in concerted attempts to discredit and fearful of homemade packages through the post.

For example, one of the UK’s most respected news correspondents (for the benefit of abbreviation, and not to compromise his safety, we’ll call him AT from C4) recently thought the story worthy enough for the national news. Everyone in the north was so excited. A story about Scottish football…on the national news…tape it. So, AT did what any old school journalist would do. He started asking questions, enriching himself with as many facts of the case as possible. Nothing suspicious about that. Did he hack phones or emails for information? No. Did he break any laws to get information? No. Did he put himself in danger by entering let’s say, for example, a war zone? Eh, no, not exactly, not on this occasion, although that’s not to say he wouldn’t if necessary. He has previous for doing so. Was he threatened with physical violence in this non-war zone? Well, yes, he was, but not by some armed militia or insurgents. He was threatened by a fellow journalist.

‘So why is this case so dangerous then?’ I hear some of you whisper.

The answer is, of course, AT was investigating an organisation that, up until now, had been protected from any probing questions from the mainstream Scottish media.

‘But thought we had a free press in this country?’ I hear you mumble.

Of course we do. Our press are free to write whatever they choose to write. The problem has been in how they got around to deciding what they chose to write.

And this is where the case takes a somewhat sinister, but not unsurprising, turn. Scottish sports journalists formed a flock: a flock of sheep. This flock was flown by private jet to an offshore tax haven for lunch with who they believed to be The Good Shepherd. The so-called Good Shepherd hypnotized the sheep and held them under his spell for many years. Derren Brown would’ve been proud of The Shepherd’s level of success, though may have been somewhat surprised at his methods.

Did The Shepherd use an old pocket watch swinging like a pendulum from side to side, saying look into my eyes, you feel sleepy?

No.

Did he use flashing lights, trance music and mind-altering drugs?

No.

Did he sit them by an open fire so they could feel the heat while watching naked flames dance?

No.

Did he…? Oh let’s just get on with it. The Shepherd fed the sheep lamb. Yes, lamb. Not just any lamb, though; succulent lamb…with extra special Minty sauce. Apparently, this was the most succulent lamb ever tasted by anyone in the field of journalism. Well, Scottish journalists anyway, who’d only ever had a lamb bhuna at the local Indian buffet.

When this story first broke many Scots thought this lamb story was something about a sexual encounter. Rumours swept the streets of Aberdeen suggesting The Shepherd, unable to shaft the sheep in that time-honoured teuchter tradition, paid them off with a lamb shank. Unfortunately, they’d only heard the phrase lamb shank used to describe something got from the ewe during her bad week. It’s easy to laugh at this initial misunderstanding, but, in a way, they were right all along. However, it wasn’t the sheep that were being shafted.

To be fair to the sheep, just this once, it wasn’t just lamb on the menu. There was also much pie, albeit of the ‘in the sky’ variety. The Shepherd regaled the sheep with tales of spending tenners, floating pitches, casinos, Ronaldos, European successes and world domination.

Now, I know what some of you are thinking, but no, The Shepherd wasn’t Osama Bin Laden, and the journalists hadn’t been threatened with martyrdom if they didn’t ‘follow follow’ instructions to the letter. We aren’t talking about world domination in the religious sense. No, wait a moment, perhaps we are. But, and I’m sure you know what’s coming, the religious element is a different story and far beyond the scope of this humble blog.

So, what does all this talk of sheep have to do with making tax sexy? Well, it seems, according to those in the know; The Shepherd’s succulent lamb was paid for by the taxpayer.

‘Shock! Gasp! Horror!’ is what the political classes said when they found out.

‘Jings! Crivens! Help ma Boab!’ is what the teuchters said.

‘Dirty cheating bastards!’ was the overwhelming cry from the footballing world.

I know. I can hear you all moaning out there. Where is our choice cut of lamb, especially if we paid for it? Well, no-one is sure where our cut is, but rumour has it characters with names like John Bain, Martin Grieg and many others who frequented the Big Pen (known in other circles as The Big Hoose) all shared what was rightfully ours among themselves. Yes, I know what you’re thinking. They are indeed very greedy.

So how is this all coming to the fore now?

Well, to fully understand, we have to venture into that murky world of high finance, tax avoidance, tax evasion and many, many abbreviations. For example, one of the main characters in this latest episode is Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs (HMRC), but for now we’ll call him Hector.

Hector discovered The Shepherd was stealing money from the nation by using Employment Benefit Trusts (EBT) to pay salaries at The Big Hoose rather than for cheap loans. Hector demanded payment from The Shepherd of quite a lot of shekels. The Shepherd offered Hector a couple of shillings. Hector told The Shepherd where to go. The Shepherd appealed Hector’s calculations of how much was due so he could buy some time to…eh…get the hell out of there. This appeal is now commonly known as the First Tier Tribunal (FTT) or The Big Tax Case (BTC).

Well, The Shepherd couldn’t believe his luck when a Whyte Knight in shining armour came riding over the hill with promises of war chests, off the radar wealth and that perennial favourite of all fly-by-nighters -‘I’ve been a lifelong fan.’

Other residents of The Big Hoose weren’t impressed with the Whyte Knight’s tales and branded him nothing more than a Chancelot. But The Shepherd, blinded by the knight’s offer of one whole pound, sold everything lock, stock and several smoking barrels, and then hurried to the nearest corner store to buy some mints before the bank asked for a share of his pound.

The Whyte Knight soon settled into The Big Hoose by banishing all those who’d questioned his wealth, integrity, business history, spelling of his name, address and species. Free from the restraints of answering to a board of directors, and free to do whatever he chose, he chose to not pay PAYE or VAT. At the time of writing it is not known what he chose to do with the money saved from paying the nation. However, reading between the lines of the sheep stories in the mainstream media, succulent lamb is off the menu at the Whyte Knight’s Big Hoose. In fact, I think he may have served them Holy Communion going by how quickly they turned on him. Obviously not the Lamb of God they were used to.

Of course, Hector wasn’t too happy with the Whyte Knight in charge of The Big Hoose not paying his dues. In fact, he was so angry he considered crushing lots of grapes with his bare feet, but didn’t want to be up to his knees in fine wine, so chose to turn his back on violence and put The Big Hoose into administration instead.

And this is when Duff and Phelps (D&P) entered the scene at the request of the Whyte Knight. Hector complained about the appointment of a company with links to the Whyte Knight as administrators, but the judge dismissed their objection on the grounds of it being late afternoon and he wanted to get home in time for Countdown.

No worries, though. D&P came in and did what all administrators do in these circumstances: they cut the workforce so costs were greatly reduced. No, wait, apparently they tried to sign a new player, thus increasing costs by seven and half thousand pounds a week. Rumour has it they’d been playing Championship Manager on their PCs for so many years they saw having their feet under the table at The Big Hoose as the perfect opportunity to show the world they could manage better than Jose Mourinho or Alex Ferguson. Costs were only eventually cut after a run of poor form in the league and several weeks of negotiations between the new Clough and Taylor, players, agents and tea ladies.

As if to complicate matters further, an army of Blue Knights rode over the horizon armed with nothing more than a pot of goodwill and a recipe for succulent lamb. Reinforced by Count Ticketus, who, up until that point had been playing for the other side, the Blue Knights soon fed the sheep with tales of future succulence. The cult of the lamb continued.

Of course, it was no use just slagging off the sheep for not doing their job right. I had to ensure I didn’t fall into the same churnalistic trap. A quest beckoned. I had to seek out the man behind the darkest revelations; a shadowy figure never seen in public, a mythical character regarded by many as a modern day superhero, an anonymous assassin fighting the good fight against the evil machinations of the succulent lamb cult. Some have described him as the Scottish Julian Assange. Some say he is The Stig. I talk, of course, about RTC.

He’s been on the case for over a year. With access to original documents, and knowledge of how to use them, he shone a light into the darkest corners of the big hoose. While trying to tell the world of what he’d seen he was dismissed by the succulent lamb eaters as nothing more than an internet bampot, and by supporters of The Big hoose as the leader of a Timmy conspiracy.

Undeterred, he stuck to the facts of the case and presented his findings in a straightforward, professional manner, which, when you consider this is tax we’re talking about, sounds like the sort of reading material one would do anything to avoid.

I contacted RTC and offered a free meal.

He said he didn’t do meals with strangers.

I offered to seek out the most succulent lamb.

He said he was allergic to lamb, especially if it was succulent.

I was glad he’d said no, I couldn’t really afford lamb of any kind, and wasn’t looking forward to either asking him to pay for it or legging it from whatever restaurant our rendezvous took place. As a last resort I offered to buy him a couple of crispy rolls and square sausage.

He said he’d think about it.

Time passed. Lots of time. I thought I’d found his price. I checked the price of square sausage on Asda’s website then discovered after emptying my piggy bank I was still a few bob short.

Eventually, he got back to me saying he’d have to pass on my offer of a free lunch for now, but if I had any questions he’d happily give me a quick quote.

I was delighted. In my short time as an investigative journalist I’d asked more questions than the Scottish mainstream media had asked in the last ten years.

There was only one question everyone wanted answered. What does the future hold for RFC (IA)?
I expected a long-winded explanation detailing EBTs, FTTs, CVAs, HMRC, HoM, SPL, SFA, UEFA, D&P, PAYE, VAT, etc., so asked him to keep it fairly succinct.

‘They’re fucked,’ he said.

I admired his brevity, but using my newly acquired investigative journalist skills I pushed him to expand on his answer.

‘They’re really fucked,’ he concluded.

And with that he was gone. I’d learned enough to put the story out there, confident my ability to hunt down the facts would stand the story in good stead and proud my integrity hadn’t been compromised by succumbing to the cult of the succulent lamb.