This is a story, not about the big man in red,
No, it’s actually a story about his big brother instead.
So, not the one guided by reindeers eight
But the man who helps put Christmas dinner on your Christmas dinner plate.
His transport more John Deere, than magical beast
Yes, I talk of Farmer Christmas, the brother of which you know the least.
So we pick up this particular tale in a farmhouse kitchen,
Where Farmer Christmas, to his brother, Father Christmas, is bitchin’
His bitchin’ regales the tale of All Hallow’s eve,
And the early arrival of Christmas Grinch, the Rt Honourable Rachel Reeves.
With the just one stroke of her brand new Mont Blanc pen,
She smited family farms and businesses from Wales to the fens.
Only 500 farms would be affected, she told us with redistributive glee
“And let’s face it, most of those will be like Jeremy C”
But the figures are claptrap said Richard Teather of ASI
Indeed, as fabricated as Mrs Reeves very own curriculum vitae.
This is because ‘500’ a year is really 15,000 a generation;
If one also considers BPR, its more like 35,000 – what a revelation!
Further, ongoing farm consolidation, make HMRC’s statistics out of date,
So, you could add, say, 20% to that, meaning 42,000 on the taxing plate.
And lets add to those who plan and make gifts,
63,000 affected say Adam Smith, and so the Government’s credibility drifts.
So when the statistics tree is well and truly shook
What falls from the tree is closer to 70,000 farmers on the hook.
“Yes, yes, yes,” said old Santa Claus
“But what’s this got to do with me?” he says after a short, awkward pause
“Well, excuse me”, said his Farmer bro, aghast
Do I need to arrange a visit from the ghost of Christmas past?
Well, said Father C, with a glint in his eye,
As I remember, as Christmas ghosts go, he’s a real party guy.
“In any event, I view myself as a public service, you see,
It’s not all about turnover, cashflow and profitability.”
He pulled up his belt and stroked his beard,
As if this was the final word, with no others to be heard.
“Yes, that’s fine”, said Farmer C with biliousness
“But who pays for you to spread your Yuletide largesse?”
“Who works 365 days a year to fund your annual trip,
I’ll tell you, a tax base of one, me, the drip!”
“Well, err, there’s no need to go there, as his ruddy faced became ruddier
We don’t need to further drag our family affairs, make them even muddier”
“Well, I think we do”, said Farmer C, a spring starting to spring in his step,
He took a swig of egg-nog for a little extra pep.
“You see, it is my toil on this farm throughout the year,
Which allows you to fill your sled, and spread your Christmas cheer”
“It may be your face on cards, books, films and the like,
But who pays for it? Who greases the wheels of this, well, festive bike.”
He immediately regretted his appalling metaphor (or was it a simile?)
But he wasn’t going to let this elephant in the room rest easily.
“You see dear brother, whilst you’ve lived offshore,
Paying my taxes and eeking out a living, has become a chore.”
Father said “Don’t worry bro, it won’t matter much,
We’ll get through this, in Starmer we trust!”
“No, I implore you dear bro, let there be no confusion
My financial straits are not merely an illusion.”
“Can’t pay the gas or leccy, let alone your ELF 100 Reactor
It’s not as if I can go out and simply sell the tractor.”
“Dear Santa, why can’t you see this is serious?
The Labour Party has pretty much ended Christmas!”
“Don’t fret, don’t worry, it’ll be all right my bro
I’ve made a pile of cash from buying and selling crypto!”
“Bitcoin, ether, DeFI and memes!
I think that crypoassets are in the family’s genes”
“Whilst you’ve been working so hard on the land
I’ve been working smart, making moon money, gettin’ diamond hands”
“Let me get this straight”, said Farmer in despair,
“You’ve been trading crypto? No wonder I’ve lost my hair”.
“Well”, said, Father, hardly making his brother calmer,
We’re both farmers now, it’s just I’m a Yield Farmer!”
Suddenly, at long last, Santa began to read the room
“Well, my tax adviser did call the other day, which lifted the gloom”
He bellowed “Brother, FIGs, FIGs FIGs is exactly what he told me”
The tone in his voice was absolutely bursting with glee.
“You and your figgy pudding predeliction
I’m getting concerned, brother, is this becoming an addiction?”
“No ho ho”, said Father C with a rioutous shout
“It’s the new foreign income and gains tax regime I’m talking about.”
“You see, I’ve been in Lapland so long my dear
And I might have frostbite where you’d rather not hear.”
“But this new announcement is really da bomb
I’ll no longer even have to pretend to be non-dom”
“So”, said Farmer C, with little festive cheer
“Let me get this straight, you’re moving back HERE…”
“Yes, maybe, I can bring my foreign income and gains, isn’t it great,
Without the taxman taking anything from my plate!”
“I can help you on the farm. Callooh! Callay!
I’ll bring the elves and reindeers to help pay our way.”
“But, but, but” sighed Farmer with his head in his hands,
“Have you not seen Rachel Reeves other confiscatory plans”
“If we do this, we’ll now get rinsed for N.I.C,
And, with Angela Rayner’s Employments Rights Bill, things will be really iffy.”
“Ok, dear brother, we can park that for now,
But I want to help, please tell me how?”
“Well, do you still keep the naughty list for a start?”
“Oh yes, upgraded it to a naughty contract using Ethereum… now it’s smart.”
“Perhaps then, on it Rachel Reeves’ name you can pop”
“Sure, my bro, I’ll make sure she’s there, right at the top”
“Did I say”, said Santa, “I’m getting stung for IHT don’t you know?”
“On my Santa Invested Personal Pension, which has just started to grow.”
“You have a SIPP?” said Farmer, surprise etched on his face
“Yes,” responded Father, “I set it up with St Nick’s Place”
“But don’t you need to have some actual earnings to fill up the pot?
I know my funding is pretty all that you’ve got”
“Ah”, said Father C, tapping his nose
“Tips! Mince pies, whisky etc I get plenty of those”.
“But mince pies and glasses of scotch?
How do you turn those into cash? Is this a YouTube I gotta watch.”
“Well, I scoop up the bounty in my magic sack,
And I put it in my sleigh and to Lapland I take back”
“On the trip the mince pies are boxed and the whisky casked,
How it happens? Well, that, dear brother, I’ve never asked”
“But then we go online and we sell it all on E-Bay
The E stands for Elf, (despite what they might say)”
“So its magically bottled and boxed in your sack,
And you sell it on the market, a market that’s black?”
“Not black, no, no, no, it’s more like Elfish Green
I’ll tell you, you have to believe it, for it to be seen”
“Well, I’d don’t want to spoil your pecuniary ruse,
But I’m pretty sure that’s getting close to tax abuse”
“Well, funny you say that, I’ve I had an enquiry, but I’m fine,
A lovely inspector opened it under COP9”
“He wanted to check the source of my funds
Broadly, was tax due on these ex-gratia festive bungs?”
“But he decided they weren’t subject to a levy,
Though he was interested in the profits from selling the pies and bevvies”
“I persuaded him to that there was no truth (not even a grist)
And if he didn’t accept that, he’d be straight on the naughty list
And with that, the Christmas brothers, were reunited as a pair,
Proving nought thicker than blood and, well, mutual taxation despair.
They drank and they laughed adding Reeves and Starmer to the naughty list
They drank and laughed some more until they were totally p….
And so comes to an end this story rhyming, long and tall
All’s that’s left for Tax Dog to say is…
… “Merry Christmas one and all”.
By Tax Dog