Who wants to be a millionaire? Most of us, obviously. But today it’s easier than ever.
You used to have to win the football pools, or the National Lottery, or present Match Of The Day. Of course, you could always start your own business and work all the hours God sends, but success is never guaranteed and these days young graduates would rather go straight from university on to benefits than bust a gut trying to make an honest living.
The quickest way would have been to apply for a place on the ITV quiz show of the same name, first under Chris Tarrant, now in the calloused hands of our most famous son of soil, Farmer Clarkson.
But that would involve swotting up on everything from Greek mythology to the hits of Dave Grohl, who I thought was a Dutch lager with an old Corona lemonade bottle-top. That’s always assuming you managed to survive the Fastest Finger First qualifying round and were able to phone a friend with an encyclopaedic knowledge of sub-Saharan topography.
Ex-policewoman Katrina Hibbert has just been awarded £1,168,561 for ’discrimination arising from her disability’
You could have bought a terrace house in Kentish Town for about 30 bob in the 1980s and sat back as its value soared to over £2 million today.
But you’d only be a millionaire on paper, unable to realise a penny until you sell up. And then where are you going to live, without handing over half the profit in stamp duty?
No, the fast-track to the good life in 2024 is Mental Elf. Never mind phoning a friend, just ring a spiv lawyer who advertises on daytime television, rustle up a specialist in ‘anxiety disorders’ and Bob’s your mother’s brother, especially if you work in the public sector.
A diagnosis of ‘mental health issues’ and a finding of discrimination will have money falling from the sky. You’ll never have to work again.
Take the case of ex-policewoman Katrina Hibbert, who has just been awarded £1,168,561 for ’discrimination arising from her disability‘.
Before the usual suspects start bouncing up and down, let’s get the caveats out of the way.
Miss Hibbert was a ‘safeguarding’ officer, whose job included dealing with seriously traumatised young people, many of whom suffered sexual abuse. I’ve met a few coppers who have worked on the Nonce Squad, and it takes a heavy emotional toll.
She had served in her role for a decade, doing ‘exemplary’ work until she was signed off sick in September 2015 because of ’burnout, depression and anxiety’. She returned in 2017, was promoted to sergeant but was signed off again in 2019 because of ‘PTSD issues’ when she learned a young person she had been working with had died
I get it. Arguably she should never have returned to the safeguarding squad after ten years of sterling, dedicated service.
She could have transferred to another, less stressful division, for instance not investigating burglaries or scouring the internet for ‘non-hate crimes’. Instead, though, after obtaining approval from Thames Valley Police, she had started a business supplying tents for parties.
While officially off sick, she was posting messages related to the business online. Thames Valley Police later told her to stop, but she refused. On ten occasions she was working on the business after permission was declined.
You might wonder where an officer with such a demanding front-line role, suffering from a debilitating mental illness, found time to run a business on the side.
Mind you, Bob Quick, the former head of the Met’s anti-terror squad, managed to run a wedding limo firm with his missus at a time when he was in charge of combating Islamist suicide bombers. So nothing surprises me these days when it comes to the Old Bill.
Then we learn that an occupational health nurse had advised 50-year-old Miss Hibbert that having interests outside the force would help her ‘manage the intensity’ of her police-related demons.
When threatened with disciplinary action for defying orders, she could have resigned and concentrated on her tent hire business. Nobody could have blamed her.
But no, she reached for Rumpole and launched legal action against Thames Valley Police for constructive dismissal and disability discrimination.
And, incredibly, she won. Not just £27,000 for loss of past earnings, but more than £600,000 for future lost earnings, including pension, and another 500 grand to allow her to receive a sum which broadly reflects what she would have earned after tax.
Who will be picking up the bill? Correct. The mug British taxpayer. Just as we had to fork out a staggering £4.68 million to a council chief for ‘disability discrimination’ over the trauma she suffered dealing with Grenfell Tower fire victims. Not being there, or losing a relative, or her home. Just the stress of counselling survivors.
As for the £1,168,561 awarded to ex-Sergeant Hibbert, I don’t know whether to file it under You Couldn’t Make It Up, Nice Work If You Can Get It, or Mind How You Go. I’m getting stressed just writing this.
Do you think I could sue the Daily Mail for disability discrimination? Phoning a
lawyer would be a lot easier than asking the audience, or Clarkson for that matter.
Call it a million quid for cash.
To Gerry’s Club in Soho, scene of many memorable nights with Keith Waterhouse, late of this parish. If only I could remember them.
Still fresh in the memory, because it was only on Wednesday, is the launch of Mike Batt’s fabulous new book The Closest Thing To Crazy, a fund of funny stories involving everyone from Paul McCartney to Stevie Wonder.
Mike is best known for The Wombles, but he’s a brilliant multi-talented musician, arranger and composer of hits such as Art Garfunkel’s Bright Eyes – and my own favourite, Railway Hotel. Curiously enough, the first group I ever interviewed on the wireless, back in the dim and distant, was The Wombles, live at the East Of England Agricultural Show in 1974.
But if anyone claims to have seen me dancing with Uncle Bulgaria on Wednesday night, I’m denying it. What happens in Gerry’s, stays in Gerry’s.
Mike Batt was best known for The Wombles
Keir Starmer was regaling the Labour conference with his achievements as a child prodigy flautist. The only other flautists I can think of are James Galway, Ian Anderson of Jethro Tull and The Smurfs, who were keen on a toot on the flute.
And while the Smurfs could give Starmer’s Cabinet a run for their money, unlike Tull’s Ian Anderson, bog-snorkelling freeloader Starmer hasn’t got a leg to stand on.
