The next chapter in Blair’s pursuit of wealth

New reports reveal that he has registered a “Mayfair bank” with the FSA.

It's not great timing for the man who was once credited with being a master of spin. After a week of speculation around Tony Blair's decision to donate the proceeds of his memoir, A Journey, to the Royal British Legion comes news that the former premier has set up a Mayfair investment advisory firm.

The company, Firerush, was apparently set up to manage the finances of his consultancy firm, Tony Blair Associates (TBA), but, as the Bloomberg report points out, Blair has hired former investment bankers -- including an ex-Lehman Brothers employee -- and has registered the firm with the Financial Services Authority (FSA). A spokesperson has denied, however, that the outfit will operate as an investment bank.

Whether it's a bank or not, it's a sign of the continuing expansion of the Blair empire (he is now said to be worth about £20m -- oddly, the Labour Party is apparently in debt by the same amount, according to John Prescott). How far the former Sedgefield MP has travelled from such petty, parochial issues. He is now able to swan between seven homes, various high-paid positions and lucrative public speaking fees.

Blair still has a few defenders, but surely their cause can't be helped by this latest twist in the tale of endless wealth accumulation. But why is it so ugly to behold? It is cynical (though understandable) to question the motivation for his charitable donation -- a consequence of his wealth. And there are no rules to say a former premier cannot go on to financial success after leaving office.

But, in Blair's case, there's that sense -- just as there was when he was in office -- of a gulf between the external presentation and the inner reality. He gives a highly publicised donation and, on the quiet, registers an investment vehicle in Mayfair. He makes occasional but well-documented appearances in the Middle East and, again, almost silently, receives cash from a South Korean oil firm.

It's the sense of duplicity that stinks.

Sophie Elmhirst is features editor of the New Statesman

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For the first time in my life I have a sworn enemy – and I don’t even know her name

The cyclist, though, was enraged. “THAT’S CLEVER, ISN’T IT?” she yelled. “WALKING IN THE ROAD!”

Last month, I made an enemy. I do not say this lightly, and I certainly don’t say it with pride, as a more aggressive male might. Throughout my life I have avoided confrontation with a scrupulousness that an unkind observer would call out-and-out cowardice. A waiter could bring the wrong order, cold and crawling with maggots, and in response to “How is everything?” I’d still manage a grin and a “lovely, thanks”.

On the Underground, I’m so wary of being a bad citizen that I often give up my seat to people who aren’t pregnant, aren’t significantly older than me, and in some cases are far better equipped to stand than I am. If there’s one thing I am not, it’s any sort of provocateur. And yet now this: a feud.

And I don’t even know my enemy’s name.

She was on a bike when I accidentally entered her life. I was pushing a buggy and I wandered – rashly, in her view – into her path. There’s little doubt that I was to blame: walking on the road while in charge of a minor is not something encouraged by the Highway Code. In my defence, it was a quiet, suburban street; the cyclist was the only vehicle of any kind; and I was half a street’s length away from physically colliding with her. It was the misjudgment of a sleep-deprived parent rather than an act of malice.

The cyclist, though, was enraged. “THAT’S CLEVER, ISN’T IT?” she yelled. “WALKING IN THE ROAD!”

I was stung by what someone on The Apprentice might refer to as her negative feedback, and walked on with a redoubled sense of the parental inadequacy that is my default state even at the best of times.

A sad little incident, but a one-off, you would think. Only a week later, though, I was walking in a different part of town, this time without the toddler and engrossed in my phone. Again, I accept my culpability in crossing the road without paying due attention; again, I have to point out that it was only a “close shave” in the sense that meteorites are sometimes reported to have “narrowly missed crashing into the Earth” by 50,000 miles. It might have merited, at worst, a reproving ting of the bell. Instead came a familiar voice. “IT’S YOU AGAIN!” she yelled, wrathfully.

This time the shock brought a retort out of me, probably the harshest thing I have ever shouted at a stranger: “WHY ARE YOU SO UNPLEASANT?”

None of this is X-rated stuff, but it adds up to what I can only call a vendetta – something I never expected to pick up on the way to Waitrose. So I am writing this, as much as anything, in the spirit of rapprochement. I really believe that our third meeting, whenever it comes, can be a much happier affair. People can change. Who knows: maybe I’ll even be walking on the pavement

Mark Watson is a stand-up comedian and novelist. His most recent book, Crap at the Environment, follows his own efforts to halve his carbon footprint over one year.

This article first appeared in the 20 October 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Brothers in blood