Disgruntled

 First published in Column 8 on 30^th October, 1991

I know I haven’t any statistics to prove it, but my gut feeling is that we’re the most overtaxed nation on the face of the earth – and still the tax-man longs for more.

Some while ago the Infernal Revenue Department wrote to columnists round the country hoping we’d say some nice things about this year’s tax forms.

I didn’t, first because I was putting off the awful day of filling in the tax return (even though it was helped into its more readable state by a couple of local ghost writers). Secondly, when I did fill out the form, I found I was loaded with paying back a phenomenal sum of money, due to the chopping, changing Family Support system.

That didn’t endear the tax department to me, or encourage me to give them the benefit of some free PR.

Nor do I feel so inclined today.

A week ago I went up to the dreaded fourth floor to pay another in the endless series of tax-takes our shop owes in the course of a year, and discovered, quite by accident, a little pamphlet outlining another piece of taxation.

You’d have thought there was already enough money flowing into the bottomless coffers of the Treasury.

Not so. At least, someone in the higher echelons of bureaucracy believes there isn’t.

This new tax, which will sneak into many people’s lives unnoticed, affects the interest you gain on any money you may have been able to stash away in the bank. ‘So what’s new?,’ you say. ‘We’ve been paying tax on interest in the bank for more than a year – have you only just noticed?’

There’s a new twist. Any interest on money I might have managed to save is presently being taxed at 24c in the dollar. (Let’s ignore the fact that I’m being taxed twice over for the privilege of earning money in the first place.)

From April next year, if I don’t inform the bank what my IRD number is, the bank will have to take 33c in the dollar off my interest.

No doubt the tax dept will tell everyone about this, but you can bet your boots any number of people will miss the news.

There’s more to come. My children, some of whom earn next to nothing per year for a variety of tiddly pom jobs, are already being taxed on the pittance of interest they gain. And because their earnings are so minuscule, Infernal Revenue keeps all that tax. How many parents bother to put in a return on their children’s behalf, in order to gain back the little difference? Very few, I’d guess.

Once it was thought criminal to tax children. Now, so that they won’t be taxed further, I have to apply for an IRD number for each of my children so they won’t lose another 9c in the dollar.

Have you ever heard of anything so pathetic?

Yes, I know it all seems small scale stuff. But why would the tax department be going ahead with such an increase unless they thought they were going to make some money out of it? perhaps this tax is to keep each of the Cabinet Ministers’ offices in flowers for a year.

Gloomy with tax thoughts, I noticed a book in a shop entitled Living on the Smell of an Oily Rag. Just what I need to cope with Ms Richardson’s heavy hand, I thought, even though it would set me back $9.95 to discover how to do it.

I skimmed through the pages to get the gist of the message, and soon found that the writer (as seems to be the case with all these books about making money), doesn’t actually in the same real world as me.

After checking out his/her ideas on a variety of cost-cutting methods, I realised we practiced most of them anyway. Unfortunately, the oily rag in our family is emaciated from overuse.

The ‘fourth floor’ referred to was where the public met the public face of the Internal Revenue Dept. It was literally around the corner from the shop I managed at the time. My uncle worked there for forty years, and retired young – no doubt due to all the large salaries tax workers received...(unlikely!)

The ghost writers I referred to were a couple of women who ran a business where they translated poorly produced Government documents into readable English – amongst other things. I applied to them for contract work at one stage, but there didn’t seem to be enough work to go round…

The book I mention, which was actually called Living Off the Smell of an Oily Rag, was written by Frank and Muriel Newman. Their website - https://www.oilyrag.co.nz/ - is still live, though doesn’t appear to have been added to since around 2019. The book itself (which had a sequel, I think) is now out of print, but you can see some information about it here.