Clive of India was a vicious asset-stripper. His statue has no place on Whitehall

Honouring the man once known as Lord Vulture is a testament to British ignorance of our imperial past writes William Dalrymple in The Guardian 

 

The statue of Robert Clive stands outside the Foreign Office. Photograph: Dan Kitwood/Getty Images


When Robert Clive, who established British rule in India, died by his own hand in 1774, he was widely reviled as one of the most hated men in England.

His body was buried in a secret night-time ceremony, in an unmarked grave, without a plaque. Clive left no suicide note, but Samuel Johnson reflected the widespread view as to his motives: Clive “had acquired his fortune by such crimes that his consciousness of them impelled him to cut his own throat”.

Clive’s death followed soon after two whistleblowers had revealed the scale of the devastation and asset-stripping of Bengal under his rule. “We have murdered, deposed, plundered and usurped,” wrote Horace Walpole. “Say what think you of the famine in Bengal, in which three millions perished, being caused by a monopoly of the provisions by the East India Company?” That summer, a satire was published in London lampooning Clive as Lord Vulture, an unstable imperial harpy, “utterly deaf to every sentiment of justice and humanity… whose avarice knows no bounds”.

Clive was hauled before parliament with calls to strip him of both his peerage and his wealth. The select committee found, in addition to lucrative insider dealing, that “presents” worth over £2m had been distributed in Bengal, and recommended that the “very great sums of money … appropriated” by Clive and his henchmen be reimbursed. Despite escaping formal censure, Clive came to be seen as the monstrous embodiment of the East India Company’s violence and corruption.

But just as statues of defeated Confederate generals rose in the southern United States, long after their deaths, as totems to a white supremacy that was felt to be under threat during the civil rights movement, so, in due course, Clive was subject to an equally remarkable metamorphosis: in the early 20th century, as resistance was beginning to threaten the foundations of the Raj, Lord Vulture was miraculously transformed into the heroic Clive of India. Like the erection of the Confederate statues, even at the time it was a deeply controversial matter. 

In 1907 the former viceroy, Lord Curzon, recently returned from India, threw his weight behind a campaign to erect a memorial to “the Victor of [the battle of] Plassey”. His successor, Lord Minto, already dealing with the serious unrest caused by Curzon’s partition of Bengal, was horrified at the proposal, and called it “needlessly provocative”. The secretary of state for India, outside whose office the statue was to be raised, wearily agreed with Minto and wrote that he was beginning to wish that Clive had been defeated at Plassey.

Today Clive’s statue stands outside the Foreign Office at the very centre of British government, just behind Downing Street. Yet clearly this is not a man we should be honouring today. If at the time many thought the statue should never have been erected, now, as we stand at this crucial crossroads after the toppling of Edward Colston, the moment has definitely come for it to be sent to a museum. There it can be used to instruct future generations about the darkest chapters of the British past.

It is not just that this statue stands as a daily challenge to every British person whose grandparents came from the former colonies. Perhaps more damagingly still, its presence outside the Foreign Office encourages dangerous neo-imperial fantasies among the descendants of the colonisers.

In Britain, study of the empire is still largely absent from the history curriculum. This still tends to go from the Tudors to the Nazis, Henry to Hitler, with a brief visit to William Wilberforce and Florence Nightingale along the way. We are thus given the impression that the British were always on the side of the angels. We remain almost entirely ignorant about the long history of atrocities and exploitation that accompanied the building of our colonial system. Now, more than ever, we badly need to understand what is common knowledge elsewhere: that for much of history we were an aggressively racist and expansionist force responsible for violence, injustice and war crimes on every continent.

We also need to know how far the British, every bit as much as the Germans, helped codify a system of scientific racism, creating a hierarchy of race that put white Caucasians at the top and blacks, “wandering Jews” and Indian Muslims at the bottom. Yet while the Germans have faced up to the darkest periods of their past, and are taught about it unvarnished in their schools, we have not even made a start to this process. Instead, while we understand that the Belgian and German empires were deeply sinister, the Raj, we like to believe, was like some enormous rose-tinted Merchant Ivory film writ large over the plains of Hindustan, all parasols and Simla tea parties, friendly elephants and handsome, croquet-playing maharajahs. 

This has become a real problem. Our vast ignorance of everything that is most uncomfortable about our imperial past is damaging, every day, our relations with the rest of the world. In particular our misplaced nostalgia for our imperial past is encouraging us to overplay our Brexit hand. Contrary to fantasies of Brexiters, our former colonies are not about to warmly embrace us. Nor can we kickstart the empire, as if it were some sort of old motorbike that has been left in a garage for 70 years. The strategy of trying to strike trade deals with Commonwealth countries - dubbed Empire 2.0 by some in the Civil Service – has been a total failure.

Indians, in particular, have bitter memories of British rule. In their eyes we came as looters, and subjected them to centuries of humiliation. The economic figures speak for themselves. In 1600, when the East India Company was founded, Britain was generating 1.8% of the world’s GDP, while India was producing 22.5%. By the peak of the Raj, those figures had more or less been reversed: India was reduced from the world’s leading manufacturing nation to a symbol of famine and deprivation.

Removing the statue of Clive from the back of Downing Street would give us an opportunity finally to begin the long overdue process of education and atonement. In 1947, at the end of the Raj, Indians removed all their imperial statues to suburban parks where explanatory texts gave them proper historical context. We could do the same. Alternately, by placing Clive and others of his ilk in a museum, perhaps one modelled on the brilliantly nuanced and hugely moving National Museum of African American History & Culture in Washington DC, we can finally begin to face up to what we have done and so begin the process of apologising for the many things we need to apologise for. Only then will we properly be able to move on, free from the heavy baggage of our imperial past.

GKN will be stripped and sold for parts by ghouls who have no interest in making things

Will Hutton in The Guardian

 

A GKN engineer at work. The £8bn battle for control of Britain’s third largest engineering group has been won by Melrose. Photograph: GKN


The past is never dead. When the wheeling, dealing, asset-stripping Hanson Trust finally collapsed in 2007, having played a major part in the deindustrialisation of Britain – but having greatly enriched its Thatcherite founder Lord Hanson – I thought a stake had finally being driven through the heart of a particular ghoul.

Never again would our Westminster, Whitehall and City establishments indulge a glorified super-accountant who knew the price of everything but the value of nothing. And, in the name of “culture change” and rigorous “management”, had laid waste to industrial Britain. I was wrong.

The ghoul lives on, reincarnated as Chris Miller, the executive chair of Melrose, a company self-consciously cast in Hanson Trust’s image, and now the victor in the £8bn battle for control of Britain’s third largest engineering group, GKN. Miller is in fact a Hanson protege and, like his former boss James Hanson, he trained as an accountant – the perfect professional background for asset stripping.

For what glory days were those! The young Miller will have been part of the finance team working to Hanson and his chief accomplice, Gordon White, at their headquarters overlooking Buckingham Palace. It was a company wholly controlled by the two men, insisting on approving every expenditure above £500 by the companies they acquired – even while they pioneered stowing profits in tax havens and raiding pension funds of the companies they took over.

Crucially, Miller will have seen firsthand how Hanson and White stalked their takeover targets, set about winning the battles and then made a fortune from breaking up the victim company while running its core businesses to incredibly stringent financial targets. I have no doubt that, like Hanson and White, both ennobled by Margaret Thatcher who admired them uncritically, he believes in the virtue of what he does. Since founding Melrose, the financial returns have been stratospheric. Miller has yet to be named capitalist of the year by the Times as Hanson was in 1986 – but he is on his way.

But, like Hanson’s, Miller’s is a capitalism organised entirely around extracting rather than creating value. Hanson’s model was brutally simple, exemplified by the 1982 takeover of Berec, the manufacturer of Eveready batteries, and its subsequent breakup – Miller will have had a ringside seat.

Like GKN, it was a proud Midlands-based British engineering company setting about the hazardous business of becoming the international brand leader in batteries, based on high investment in research and development. Who knows? In a different business culture, Berec might now be the world’s leading battery manufacturer, set to exploit the electrification of cars. Instead, it does not exist.

For, like GKN, it made a mis-step – the share price dipped and Hanson launched his bid. The European division was sold off to its chief competitor, Duracell, thus recouping most of the cost of the takeover. Battery prices were increased across the board, so that Eveready quickly lost market share. All new investment could only be justified if the cash was returned in four years while making a 20% return. Ten years later, Eveready had been milked dry, and Hanson sold out to Ralston Purina. Its verdict on Eveready as it assessed its purchase: a company “a number of years behind the times… a business in decline… the whole infrastructure was pretty thin”.

Hanson had made a fortune – but Britain had lost another pivotal company. So it continued. Two years before he left Hanson to found his own Hanson-like shell company, Miller would have been in the thick of the 1986 bid for Imperial Tobacco – then dismembered like Eveready. But the Hanson business model was inherently unstable. To grow and maintain his own share price, he had to go for ever bigger targets to feed the beast. Hanson had an unsuccessful shot at ICI, which saw him off – but only at the price of ICI changing its declared business purpose from bettering society through science to maximising the share price. ICI then broke itself up – but so did Hanson, with the company ignominiously being sold to a German cement company.

We can foretell what will happen to GKN. Businesses will be sold to repay the £8bn. Prices will increase, and market share will be foregone: there is no other option given the millstone of debt around Melrose’s neck. R&D will be frozen at the current levels, already running at half to two thirds the rate of its chief competitors, rendering virtually valueless the promise to the business secretary, Greg Clark, to maintain it. Investment will only be allowed on Hanson-type terms – four-year paybacks and 20% returns. Yes, the company headquarters will remain in Britain – but in Mayfair, not in Redditch. In 10 years’ time, some company will buy the rump of GKN, only to find it in the same condition as Ralston Purina found Eveready.

Melrose’s future is also foretold. For all the hundreds of millions it is making, it will wind up like Hanson. Britain, which already has no major indigenous company in an array of sectors, will have them in even fewer – with all the implications for work, wages, careers and skills. For most of the young analysts at the asset management groups who took the decision to accept Melrose’s offer for GKN, the events I describe will seem like ancient history.

But the same mistakes keep being repeated. To prevent them, the government simply has to rule that only shareholders who own shares at the time of the bid can vote, so disenfranchising the arbitrageurs and hedge funds who swung the decision. But the City establishment lobbies ferociously against this move. For the City is wedded to the value extraction on which its fees depend.

The beautiful game embodies everything that's bad about Britain

Unlike Germany's thriving Bundesliga, the Premier League is run for the super-rich, not fans

• 
• • Will Hutton
  • The Observer, Sunday 13 January 2013

Carson Yeung (fourth from left) poses with Birmingham's board of directors after acquiring the club in 2009. Photograph: Leon Neal/AFP/Getty Images

Birmingham City FC fans are in revolt. Their once proud club has not been well managed – to put it mildly – by "businessman" Carson Yeung, currently awaiting trial in his native Hong Kong, for an alleged £59m-worth of money laundering, and the process is not over yet. It is the degeneracy of British economy and society in a football microcosm – nothing to stop Cayman Island ownership, strange "sponsorships" and lush, anonymous director fees.

In Britain, there are no legal or governance structures that put football or the fans at the centre of a club owner's concerns. Rather, in keeping with the wider culture, football is "open for business". Market forces are deified as the only value worth celebrating and a business – even a football club – is no more than its owner's private plaything. The result is a moral and economic disaster – in football as in the wider economy.

Economists call this "rent-seeking" and those who don't know what the term means need only spend a few seconds surveying the history of the club since Mr Yeung, his son and third director Peter Pannu took it over in 2009. The club is owned by a holding company based in the Cayman Islands, but burdened by vast debts used by Yeung to buy it, now facing financial problems following the problems with Yeung's business affairs.

Their sole interest is selling off assets, chiefly good footballers in the transfer market, and now the club, to get their money back into the Cayman Islands – while paying large director fees for unnamed services. What they want is economic rent: a surplus created for doing nothing of value.

Britain is a rent-seeker's paradise, as many more football clubs other than Birmingham City can testify. We have created a looters' charter, with football as a playpen, within which the super-rich can do what they want. A recent flash point is the price visiting fans are charged for their tickets. (Manchester City fans protested at the £62 they were asked to pay for today's game at Arsenal.) If the price of admission, along with travel, is prohibitive, then the game is played to only one set of supporters in the stadium with one set of chants. The experience of a game shrivels.

For the rent-seeker, this is emotional sentimentality. Everybody now knows that market forces are both best and irresistible, a perfect justification for putting up ticket prices to whatever the market will bear. Christian Siefert, CEO of the German Bundesliga, told the Observer recently that football is one of the last areas where people are brought together: "We want to have our whole society as part of our football, in our stadiums", explaining why the owners of football clubs forgo the highest possible ticket prices. It is not a sentiment that Mr Yeung, or the many other foreign owners of British clubs, would share. Why worry about British society? We exist to be looted and privately mocked for our connivance in our own destruction.

Flexible and free markets, we have had drummed into us for 30 years, are the reason why Britain is now the world-beating economy that it has become and Germany and the European Union are in the doldrums. The Premier League, slavishly following these principles, is self-evidently, or so runs the line, the best football league in Europe. Pity the poor Germans and the daffy Herr Siefert, who worry about who owns their companies and football clubs, care about fan culture and invest in their young talent.

They don't welcome "wealth creators" such as Carson Yeung with no questions asked, and because German clubs reserve parts of their grounds for standing room only cheap tickets, they don't maximise the economic value of their sporting assets. Down that road lies ruin – or so a bevy of economic commentators and Eurosceptic Conservative MPs will rush to tell us.

But the German approach to football, as with their wider economy and society, is beginning to win admirers, not least among football supporters. There are three German sides in the last 16 of the Champions League this year and fuddy-duddy Dortmund played Manchester City, exemplar of British-style market forces, off the park. What's more, they care about their fans. It is a great club rather than a sheikh's passing whim. The Premier League is now considering something very German: capping the prices that clubs can charge visiting supporters. Football as a sport might just, in one tiny step, challenge the law of the market.

British football needs to go much further. German football clubs require that a majority of votes are exercised by fans. There can't be Carson Yeungs because they would be outvoted. German clubs invest in homegrown talent. Sixty per cent of Bundesliga players are homegrown compared with 39% of Premier League players.

The lessons go wider still. Eighteen years ago, I argued in The State We're In that it was obvious that Germany would outperform Britain economically, just as it is obvious that it will do the same – unless we reform ourselves wholesale – over the next 18. What is so depressing about today's economy is not just that we stand on the verge of a triple dip recession, but that, like our football clubs, so much of our economic base is organised around rent-seeking.

Nor do we seem to have learned much. There should be a vibrant debate about how to reproduce in Britain what evidently works in Germany. We need companies organised around long-term business purpose and to create a whole network of public and private institutions, law and practice that buttresses them. Yet the heart of the Eurosceptic, anti-EU case is that, instead, we need to leave to reinforce the market "flexibilities" and "freedoms" that have created such fantastic British success. Let the looting get more intense.

We are far gone. There is no majority in the Premier League for serious reform. Foreign owners are not going to vote to qualify their autonomy, allow more supporter voice or limit their capacity to compete by offering sky-high player wages. On the other hand, there is a growing argument for change – witness the possible concession on ticket prices.

It's the same with wider economic reform. The average size of a British manufacturing firm is 14 people: the majority of large firms and factories are foreign-owned. We have constructed an economy in which the rent-seekers and Carson Yeungs are the majority. It is very clear what needs to be done. The signs are confusing, but, as in football, maybe the grip of the looters is weakening as the evidence mounts of their vandalism. Here's hoping.

The billionaire Virgin boss Richard Branson is no radical, he's no entrepreneur, he's just a plain old-fashioned carpetbagger

Last week, you, me and every other taxpayer in Britain each handed £13 to the billionaire Richard Branson. Not that we were told about this national whip-round. Instead, George Osborne claimed the heavily discounted sale of Northern Rock to the Virgin boss and a few of his chums represented "value for money". That's a funny way to describe a deal where taxpayers come out at least £400m poorer, but at least we now have an answer to that perennial pre-Christmas question of what to give the man who has everything.




And what do Team Branson plan to do with the Rock? Listen to Virgin Money chairman David Clementi's talk of creating "a significant banking competitor" and you'd have come away with wholesome impressions of commitment and investment. If you'd leafed through the FT this weekend, though, you'd have read about how the Virgin consortium will raid the business of its own cash to pay for the purchase – and then, as the chief investor, American financier Wilbur Ross, puts it: "We would hope to sell out a few years down the road." In other words, the business plan is to buy it cheap, strip it of assets – then flog it dear.



Hang on, you're probably thinking. Is this the same Branson who had those record shops? Who always pops up in the papers dressed as a woman or riding in a hot air balloon? Sir Richard of the Beard and the Overbite?



And the answer is: yes. Sure, Branson would like you to believe that he's the greatest iconoclast since John Calvin, leading a Reformation of established business. And if you won't buy that, he'll settle for being cast as a public-school Don Quixote for ever tilting at insiders and interest groups. Yes, the entrepreneur screws up – as with cars, cola, cosmetics and all those other discarded Virgins – but he takes risks.



The more prosaic truth is that the Virgin boss keeps himself in homes in Holland Park and Necker Island by taking taxpayer subsidies and operating heavily protected businesses. After all, you don't get much safer than a small mortgage lender that's had all its rubbish assets taken off it by the Treasury, in a market where the big banks are keeping their eyes down and their fingers crossed.



Think about the great Branson triumphs and you'll see what I mean. Virgin Rail? A monopoly on the West Coast main line, complete with initial subsidies worth hundreds of millions. Virgin Radio and Virgin Mobile? Both granted government licences to operate in a heavily restricted market. Virgin Airlines? The beneficiary of regulators' decision to strip British Airways of landing slots between London and New York and award them to the number two player. Again, a closed market where Branson has tried to keep the door shut tight against further competition.



Despite all the awards and the cosy relationships with whoever's in Downing Street, the Virgin boss neither makes anything, nor changes anything. He's no radical. The Northern Rock purchase is typical of his style: he fronts up a deal where the real money tends to come from someone else (in this case, an American and an Abu Dhabi investment firm), slaps the Virgin name everywhere and then cashes out as soon as possible. Branson isn't an entrepreneur; he's a carpetbagger.



Early in Tom Bower's splendid biography of Branson, there is a scene in which he is giving a Millennium Lecture at Oxford University in November 1999. The "lighthouse for enterprise" is asked what his great hope is for the new century, and a hush falls over the audience. What might he say? Were this Bill Gates, a picture would be painted of a software revolution. The head of Nissan might summon up a vision of Africans and Asians gaily pootling about in cheap new hatchbacks. What does the bearded visionary have in mind? "To run the national lottery."



Of course he does: a government-gifted licence to get his brand name plastered everywhere – the sort of thing Branson is always after.



But here's the thing: in his desire for sheltered money-makers, the Virgin boss differs from the rest of British business only in his desire for publicity. Look at our household names: take out retail, banks and commodities and the things you're left with bear names such as Wessex Water or Centrica or Arriva. In other words, they do things the public sector used to do – pump water or pipe gas or lay on public transport. Alternatively, they're outfits such as Serco, or Capita and they're bidding for contracts from the government; or they're engineers bidding for PFI projects. Now look at the big names in America or Germany: there are firms such as Google or Siemens.



Over here much of the private sector isn't adding anything or innovating – indeed, it's tricky to do that when you're running an administrative office or supplying water. They're simply taking contracts and cutting staffing costs.



This is a picture of lazy British business, either seeking business from the state or the protection of sheltered industries. And yet if you listen to the Conservatives, the problem with the economy is that the labour markets are too heavily regulated. No 10 lets it be known that it's taking seriously ideas to scrap laws around unfair dismissal, so that employees can be sacked without explanation.



The implication of all this is that Cameron and Osborne think the workers are to blame for the malaise of the British economy. Look at the Northern Rock deal, however, or flick through the business pages, and the opposite appears to be the case: it's business that needs to be prodded into working harder.