Two Missed Meals from Revolution ....

It is 2030. Simon Cowell is Prime Minister, elected via the red button on everyone’s remote .... Ant and Dec stay in No11 and manage the nation’s finances in an amusing, laddish way .... most importantly, Scotland have just won the Rugby World Cup .... again (its getting embarrassing now).  I am still writing this blog and have now managed to attract 12 followers ... though of these, two have fallen into deep comas due to reading too much dull and weird internet content.      

The price of land has reached £100,000 per acre.  The UK sheep flock has reduced from 15,000,000 to 650 (and they are all mine .... still on seasonal lets).  Land is owned primarily by merchant bankers, horsey folk and businessmen, not of UK domicile. As a result of the land price, agricultural rents need to be £3,000 per acre but profits on that acre are still only around £100.  In most sectors we have to import 95% of what our population consumes (but most worryingly, 100% of all Kebabs).  All fertiliser and oil are China’s by international law and we have to make do with used chip fat ... luckily everyone is force-fed chips now to ensure their early demise, so that pension costs are kept low.

Liquid farm subsidy has been invented so land “users” / subsidy junkies can just administer it directly through intramuscular injection and thus save bank charges.  The last farm tenancy awarded was in 2015 and people refer to it with the same deference as the last person to be hanged.  There are a few people trying their best to produce food but mostly land has become a great way of 1) retaining wealth - with the help of fiscal policy (Ant and Dec are quite happy with this as they own most of Northumberland) - and 2) having REALLY big gardens.

But all is not well.  For it was foretold by the Great Sayer in the year of our Lord, 2009 that there would be a Perfect Storm in 2030. Formerly know as John Beddington, the Great Sayer was taken as an idol by a ragged band of agrarian militants. He foretold what has now happened: that the increasing world population  - now standing at 10 billion - would mean a whole series of other events would come together: water shortages; energy shortages and .... food shortages.  The smelly, ragged militants argued that land should be accessible to those who want to farm, innovate and drive efficient production ... they weren’t the same people as the merchant bankers, horsey folk and businessmen, not of UK domicile .... daaa!  No one listened. Agriculture stagnated and declined. The Great Sayer was last seen, wearing placards predicting the end of the world, drinking meths and shouting a lot, at Kings Cross Station.  

In 2012 the crack band of agrarian militants were sent to prison by a military court for a crime they didn't commit (and for words, they couldn’t spell properly or put in the right order). These men promptly escaped from a maximum security stockade to the rural underground. Today, still wanted by the government, they survive as shepherds of fortune. [OK I plagiarised this bit].

But the foretelling has come to pass.  Due to a comprehensive transport strike by the damned French there is no food ... at all ... not even the nut based chocolates in the Quality Street tins.  No one had any breakfast today (apart from those that had once bought a packet of All Bran and then thought better of it) and everyone has had to miss lunch too.  Shops are being looted, cars set alight and we march toward Holyrood and Westminster with revolution in our hearts and just a little All Bran in our bellies (the latter does necessitate longer “rest” stops than normal).

I’ve sent this message via my new time machine, Blogspot application - I wish I had it before.  You need to contact the militants, you need to tell them to try harder this time, they shouldn’t get self-conscious about boring people.  It may seem dull and unimportant all this, merit based progression and the importance of land accessibility, waffle ... but one day .... this day, in 2030 ... when revolution looms and Simon Cowell’s life is in danger ... it will be the most important thing in the world. 

Good luck .... you’ll need it.  Lots of love and hugs

Michael (3 year old trapped in a 61 year old body) xoxo

The Michael O'Clock News ...

22nd of September. I’ve had better days.  Occasionally you get a 16 hour period where you stumble upon whatever the collective noun is for .... lots of crap news:

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Imaginary blog video of a newscast from 22.9.2010

Announcer 

(patronising, slightly cynical, mid atlantic tone)

“And now on Channel Blanche its the Michael O’Clock News where events of little consequence are reported over-dramatically”:... 

[Cue dramatic, drum-based music combined with cool visual graphics of sheep] ... 

DONG (this represents a bell chime and not a rude word)....   

[cut to serious man with a serious hairstyle, and an even more serious voice] .... 

Newsreader with the Hair

(impressively theatrical)

“Michael ... [coughs whilst blurting the word Plonker] ... said to be devastated after been given notice on his grazing” ... [cut to picture of Michael making a funny face] .... 

DONG .... 

[you don’t want to know the rest - its irrelevant, slightly dull and caravan related]

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I think that had potential but didn’t fulfill (or even half-fill) it.  Anyway, bottom line is I have to be off all the grass I have ... every last blade ... by next Spring. Not because I am a cad or a bounder (... this time, at least) but just because the landlord wants to farm it himself now.  His consultant has been nagging him that he needs to concentrate more on his farming operation .... his consultant is some “plonker” called Michael Blanche! He’s been really good to me, he’s given me five years and I have proceeded to build a flock of an ok size and feather my warm and cozy comfort zone with super-soft downy material.

So now I need to go round Land Agent’s ... buy a cap and make sure I doff it ... and try to understand that my sheep flock isn’t of any concern or importance to anyone else other than me.  I need to make some phone calls, introduce myself, try and find persuasive chat from somewhere and charm pants off people.  Its uncomfortable though.  I’ve been on places where I was a couple of pounds lighter in the flesh department between arriving and leaving.  I’ve been on places where the feudal system is stronger now than it was in the days of William of Orange.  I’ve been on places where my tongue was bitten every day and I spoke with a lisp for months afterwards.  Renting land is just business; my sheep are just passion.  Its not a good mix - when practicality meets passion there is usually only one winner.   

Being given notice may be the best or the worst thing to happen.  I could get more ground, more control, more security. Yet there is the very credible possibility of not finding grass at all; finding grass but not at a price I can make a worthwhile profit; or finding too little grass. I might get a 6 month let and have to go through the process all over again and bi-annually thereafter thus maintaining a constant state of desparation.  I may have to sell all the sheep or a large proportion of them .... and thus sell the dream to the highest bidder in a market place full of wide awake people.  

This position represents a defining paradox in my study ... I have to take sides in my thinking at some point and support one attitude or another:  is it the system’s fault I find it really difficult to get land .... or, is it mine?  I’ve noticed that since returning from Australia and New Zealand where every success and failure was attributed to the individual (and any other reasoning is blatant whinging), that I’ve been sucked back in to this British culture of blaming the system. Land is incredibly difficult to obtain for a price that you are able to grow a business without subsidy.  Control is minimal. Length of term is pitiful. You can be dropped on a whim. It causes frustration and I understand where this culture has come from ... its not illogical.  But first generation farming is all in the struggle.  Struggle is good because it makes you better.  Getting into farming should be hard .... but it also needs to be possible.  That’s the fine line.

Obviously if I fail - its the system’s fault ... if I succeed - its all down to me!  Place your bets please, ladies and gentlemen, place your bets.

Birds - I'll never understand them ....

Day 2. Somewhere in Devon.  I’ve been adopted by a very nice family, who feel sorry for me.  They feed me organic chicken and duck confit.  They give me Jack Daniels ..... straight. They put up with my inane chat despite having a very long to-do-list.  They let me do a few easy jobs that I make difficult; which in the end would have been easier to do themselves. There are a lot of birds, making a lot of incoherent noises.

I’m at Higher Fingle Farm, home of the Amiss family .... all seven of them.  They are so nice I get kind of emotional just thinking about them and their kindness.  Rona Amiss is a Nuffield Scholar too, one of the brethren that knows the secret handshake and the code words (OK the last bit is just an attempt to make it sound mysterious).  Both her and her husband, Nevil, are the kind of humble people that I warm to.  Before I visited - Rona’s portrayal of their business was modest and self-deprecating. This made me feel comfortable as I have a great deal to be modest and self-deprecating about.

As a team, however, Nevil and Rona have built an incredibly impressive business from very little.  They are Country Living/Waitrose Gold Medal winners; suppliers to Duchy Originals and thus best mates with Prince Chaz; their daughter, Elsa, has been on Blue Peter and the Alan Titchmarsh Show for the Duck Egg business she set up.  They have more awards than anyone I have ever known.

Their farm is only 57 acres yet they are both full time and progressing. They employ two men full time, more part time. The keys to having this kind farm business on just 57 acres are 1) intensive enterprises - ducks and duck eggs; 2) added value - the ducks are branded, organic, killed and butchered on the premises, some sold retail; 3) marketing; 4) profiting from their expertise (they have another business that contracts out organic broiler chicken production); 5) more marketing and 6) even more marketing with sugar on top.

Apart from their resourcefulness, I was most amazed at their marketing (as you may have guessed already). Most Thursdays I put some lambs in my trailer, drive to Stirling, drop them off (whilst trying too hard to bond with the yardsmen), get a coffee and a sausage roll, then drive back.  Sometimes I phone later to ask what they made. That’s it ... that’s my marketing.  It seems that half Rona and Nevil’s business is marketing .... and 99% of their reasons for getting to where they are.  They could have still had the brilliant products but they had to be marketed and that meant actually doing deals and selling as opposed to opening a trailer door in Stirling.

Nevil took me on a tour of Higher Fingle .... we saw ducks, sheep, cattle and the butchery. Rona took me on a tour of Devon .... we saw chickens .... more chickens ... and cute little ducklings.  I suspect I had my jaw open most of the time.  This poultry job amazes me.  We met a man that probably made close to £50k profit off 38 acres (more in the good times) and got planning permission for a beautiful house, because of his profitability.  Intensity of production means intensity though.  There is always a threat of stress because there is always a threat - broken contracts, grain price spikes, over-supply, poor end price.  Poultry is heading into difficult times and threats loom large.  

I headed back to Scotland with clucks and quacks ringing in my ears. Intensity of production ... its still the way forward but I’ll need to do more than open trailer doors. 

Devon knows I'm Miserable Now .....

It’s sobering to realise that some of the normal essentials in my life, effectively make me a terrorist suspect.  Stripped of these essentials, immediately stops me being a liability (at least in this strict context).

And so it was, after discarding my beloved pocket knife, my 200 ml can of shaving foam and, most worryingly, my 200 ml can of deodorant at Edinburgh Airport security, I was eventually allowed on the plane to Exeter.

There was a seminar on the “Missing Rung of the Farming Ladder” in Cornwall. Its a long way to go.  Seminars usually disappoint.  As a return on investment, if judged on a knowledge profit per £ spent - it was going to be a risk.  Yet I managed this risk by obtaining an assurance that my hosts, Nevil and Rona Amiss - first generation farmers and all things poultry - would teach me the ways of the bird the following day.

“The missing rung” referred to tenancies for progressing farming businesses. It was a revelation in some respects. As a Scotsman, I didn’t appreciate that the English system of Council tenancies were such a vital tool for first generation farmers.  I asked my obligatory embarrassing question by saying in my introduction that I was from Scotland and that we normally think we are better than the English at most things but that I was really impressed  with the Council farms setup.  No one laughed: if we were in a pub, they’d have switched off the juke box, stopped talking and just stared.

Their problem is the move from smaller Council tenancies to larger farms on private estates.  The Cornwall Council Land Agent’s mission was to get rid of his best tenants! In other words, to ensure they started but then progressed and finished on larger farms.  His aim was principally to facilitate new entrants up the first few rungs in farming - 50 acres up to 200 acres.  Using my calculator, I suspect that Council Farms are perhaps a light drizzle in the ocean. Yet they are at least that compared to the still waters of Scotland.

The log jam were the private estates and the lack of incentive, will and parallel philosophy to let land. Some said persuasion was the key .... I just can’t see it!  To expect business people to act on guilt or loosely held duty rather than financial incentive is asking too much of human nature. But propaganda may be our only weapon.  Changing the tax system, changing a culture, changing aspirations, changing rural housing legislation (so retiring tenants can move to somewhere as cheap) - I’m not holding my breath.

So revolution maybe the only way to go. This land is a common property for everyone to share. We need radical change.

Here I am - a small boy with a receeding hairline but without my 200 ml of deodorant.  Maybe I’ll have to terrorise the Treasury with only my natural smell as a weapon.

Soiling Myself about the Cost of the Earth ....

All through my “professional” career - which I have stumbled through like a gentleman amateur - I have had it drummed in to me not to be late for meetings.  It was reinforced at our Nuffield briefing with the accompanying inference that concerned electrodes and sensitive body parts.  I KNOW I shouldn’t be late - and I have been so good recently - but no matter how hard I try, sometimes it  just feels like its a natural talent.

And so it came to pass, I was 30 minutes late for a 60 minute meeting with an Emeritus Professor at the Macaulay Land Use Research Institute ...... CRINGE ... fire up the electrodes; I’ll start undressing!  I have plenty excuses  ... its just when they are transfered from my over active brain to the written word ... they lose a lot of their all-encompassing power.  Being late affected our conversation - I was saying sorry all the time and he was busy thinking I was a bit of a pillock.

That said, he gave me a really interesting perspective on land price.  I still had the “3 to 5 times farm turnover = land value” multiplier, I encountered in Oz and NZ, etched bold in my brain - I’d almost convinced myself this theory should be enforced through Act of Parliament (or failing that coup d’etat).  The Professor had never heard of the multiplier concept (1-0 to me in my strictly controlled, narrow concept, mind game where he isn’t allowed to score).

Yet he simply pointed out the obvious - that farm land is so much more than farming. There are a lot of wealthy people in the UK; that there is a large demand for investments - be they gold bars; works of art or ..... land.  Land is emotive, a dream for some, a need for others, to play out expensive hobbies. Effectively the wealth to land area ratio in the UK is fundamentally divergent from "Down Under" and as such investment and leisure buyers have a significantly larger impact.  

Also the effect of subsidy in land price is significant.  I read somewhere that Alan Greenspan reckoned subsidy was capitalised to form 40% of the land value in certain countries.  My professor looked at it differently - half of the total subsidy given out in Scotland finds its way into the capital value of all land.  Broken down to an acreage basis this might represent around £1,000 for an arable acre. 

Then there is fiscal policy ... taxation ... relief from inheritance ... relief from capital gains. How much does this add to land value?  Also, the turnover of land is low and thus supply is poor.  But the professor said turnover of land coming on to the market has always been low - sitting at pretty close to 1% of the total area every year, for 150 years.So add to pure farming productivity - investment demand; leisure demand; subsidy distortion, taxation relief and restricted supply.  

The attitude of “you’re mad paying that much for land” has been described often, by those that it has been directed at, at the time of their purchase.  Without exception it is the “mad” ones that have been proven right. Increasing their equity and going a goal up in their own mind game with the nae-sayers.

But things are different now. In three years, maybe less, land price has as good as doubled in the UK.  Surely now it’s mad, surely buying farm land for solely farming purposes should have a special neurosis named after it.  Land purchase is now effectively beyond the reach of the typical New Entrant to farming - providing an enforced protection against such mentalness.

In a weird cycle, given the inflated demand for “safe” investments following the credit crisis, maybe the land market has caught the bug that caused the global financial problems in the first place and grown its very own bubble.  At some level of value you have to be “mad” to buy land. Yet the bubble still grows - taxation, subsidy, investment needs and emotional wants will keep the bubble cosy, warm and thriving in its very own padded cell. 

Michael Blanche in Apology Shock ....

“The Blogging Standards and Weirdness Commission has upheld an imaginary complaint against this blog in connection with recent posts.  Their findings found that interminable analysis of the writer’s own navel, obscure references to song lyrics aswell as a blatant and embarrassing desperation for followers, was against the original and defining purpose of this blog.

Furthermore the Commission has ordered the author to “get a grip and stop being a big Jesse” and “that any post must now have some relevance to Nuffield travel or study topic”.  The Commission, in its concluding findings, pointed out that “you have one shot ... one opportunity, you must capture it and not let it slip ..... word!”

In response to the decision, love hunk, Michael Blanche (41) said he was sorry and would not do it again. However some eye witnesses have reported he had his fingers crossed behind his back during his statement.”

The Farming Ladder, or rather lack of it, is a cause. A Nuffield Scholarship is an opportunity.  Furthering the cause through the opportunity is a once in a lifetime shot. From now on ... its serious (well, almost - as I slowly disentangle my fingers).  On Monday, I go to Aberdeen to get my theories on the UK land market totally dismembered by a Professor Emeritus. On Thursday, its to Devon to a Seminar on Tenancies (or rather lack of them) and to see the Amazing Lady of the Ducks and New Entrant - Rona Amiss (NSch).  From this day forward - let’s try and drop some bombs. Let’s try and get some rungs on the Ladder.

Cringe 2 - The Redemption

Regular readers (.... I think that just means you Tim .... and maybe Caroline), will recall I once explained the cringe-to-the-max moment when I gave the Reserve Championship (of Any Other Breed of Sheep) to the wrong exhibitor at Perth Show. It took me a while to get over it but I now feel completely better after seeing some poor soul doing far, far worse .... live ... in front of millions ....  See Australia's Next Top Model and hang on in there until 54 seconds. Just to explain it starts with the not-as-pretty-one having just been announced as the winner ....