They Blog For You

WHAT most people forget about MPs’ expenses was the year between the scandal and the general election.

During that year the House of Commons fees office processed all claims and published them online. Every penny was accounted for. There was no fiddling, it was completely transparent and the whole thing was undertaken for about two million quid.

Oh, happy days… I remember them well. I often regale newbie MPs with stories about the old expenses system and they listen, wide-eyed and incredulous. “So they would actually pay you money that you’d claimed?” they gasp over the tea, awestruck, eyes glistening as their minds try to comprehend such a blessed utopia.

“And the would, like, believe you if you said you had children? I mean, they didn’t insist that you provide their birth certificates to prove that you hadn’t invented them in order to buy children’s rail tickets on the public purse and then sell them on the black market?”

The look of shock is tinged with grudging admiration and I smile gently as I stir my tea. “Nope,” I reply. “Hard to believe now, but in them days, we didn’t have to prove we had families. If we had just made them up, some snooping reporter would probably have exposed us anyway.”

“I heard a rumour that back in the Olden Days, the Fees Office would pay bills direct to the supplier!” says one excited young MP from somewhere Oop North. “Is that true? Tell us, Tom, do tell us!”

I nod sagely and pretend to light up a pipe, but I look stupid so quickly place the imaginary pipe back in my pocket. “Indeed, young Andrew…”

“Mike.” he corrects me.

“Indeed, young Mike, there was a time when we would receive bills and we would simply authorise them with a signature and pass them on to the Fees Office, which would take care of them for us.”

“But what on earth did you do with all your time, then? If it only took you a few minutes a month to claim expenses? Didn’t you get bored without the need to spend all day on a computer yelling and crying?”

“Well, in those days we would actually use our time to help constituents!”

There is an audible collective gasp, and silence falls. I use the temporary gap to play my trump card: “And do you know how many forms we had to fill in?” There is some confusion on the young faces as they anxiously start counting fingers. One woman starts using the calculator on her mobile phone. “Three!” I declare, and the silence this time is deafening…

It’s true, that bit about the forms. There was a green one for mileage, a yellow one for your second home allowances and a blue one for office costs. No wonder it was an efficient system. You’d list however many items on each form, sign it, attach the necessary receipts, shove it in the nearest post box and hey presto – a few days later you’d have it paid into your account (or paid direct to suppliers) and you’d get a separate notification through the post listing the details of everythig you’d claimed and everything that had been paid out.

Now, to Ipsa…

This is the list of forms you get to choose from when you log on:

Then, once you’ve chosen a category, you’re presented with a drop-down menu of all the different options again. Then, on top of that, you have to write in your own description of whatever your claim is.

“Tell us the colours again, Tom. Please. They sound so pretty…” But I’ve indulged my audience for long enough. It’s nearly six o’clock and the House rises at ten, so I don’t have long to submit my own claims. I depart, leaving the young parliamentarians staring into space, dreaming of blue skies and green trees and fields of yellow corn as far as the eye can see…