For decades, I calculated my annual tax return using the same method; as dull and reliable as a shire horse. Over a few consecutive days, mired in files of receipts, I would transcribe all the info into a spreadsheet, which would then whizz off to my accountants (to whom I pay a vast sum for pressing SEND and passing this on to the Tax Man). Sure, this doesn’t count among my most welcome annual events. It’s not even in the top 100. But at least it only happened once a year.
Non-compliance – even anarchy – is looking a better bet than this absolute horror show
Now, Making Tax Digital has arrived, a visitor as unwelcome as a Nazgûl. Like many things, the blame for this can be squarely laid at the polished brogues of George Osborne. We ordinary folk are now bound by government fiat to file quarterly returns, plus two reconciliations a year. Six times! That’s every other month! What’s worse is that we have to use government-approved software – for which we must shell out as much as £500 per annum, or the equivalent of two decent dinners for a couple in London.
The whole process, like so many ‘digital’ (or ‘fidgital’ as I call it) upgrades, seems designed to frustrate you into dead-eyed obedience. I began willingly enough. First, there was the Government Gateway account. This required me to prove my identity, using a government app. I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to fit your passport into the shimmering green square of a government app. It is as easy as trying to catch a fish with oily hands. The app demanded a dark surface. I tried a dark surface. It did not work. I tried a darker surface. This also failed. I placed the passport on a hi-fi and hovered, anxiously, to no avail. ‘IT IS A DARK SURFACE’, I cried. ‘WHAT DO YOU WANT, COAL?’
So I had to validate myself by other means. This entailed ferreting out the precise date on which I had filed my most recent tax return. Simple, you would have thought – except that my accountant had sent it late, which I only found out on my fourth attempt when, desperately, I guessed correctly.
At last, I was in, and I had to link up to the accountancy software. My accountancy firm has provided me with access to a monstrosity with the design aesthetic of 1980s Amstrads. I’ve got used to my own, ahem, elegant method of filing, and my system of spreadsheets works perfectly well for me, thank you very much. Now, you have to link to your bank account; the information appears, and you are supposed to allocate every single line from your statement. Every. Single. Line. Had a Domino’s Pizza at midnight? Mark that as Private. Bought 3 x Pritt Sticks? Split it across your three businesses, before screaming into the void.
Linking to my bank account for the first set of figures, the system actually worked. I watched, amazed, as the software displayed the correct figures in handy bar charts. Lulled, even delighted, I attempted to add three other accounts from the same bank. Computer said no. And thus began my troubles.
I deleted the first linked account and then added all four. Suddenly rows upon rows of figures whooshed onto the screen, jumbled up together, many of them duplicated. What’s more, all of April was missing, as if I had switched from the Julian to the Gregorian calendar. ‘You have 1,300 unassigned transactions,’ the software breezily informed me. ‘Please assign them.’
After I’d had eight cups of coffee and a shot of adrenaline, I decided I simply could not scroll through 1,300 transactions, working out which were duplicates and which were necessary, because I am not a masochist.
So I decided to enter the data manually. Manual input requires reading off a spreadsheet, double-checking it against a bank statement, and adding it into the system. Without MTD, I would only have to do this once. At the same time, I had to delete all the 1,300 lines of information which had spewed in from my bank accounts, in case of inadvertent triplication. Since there was no ‘select all’ box, I had to select each one individually.
I don’t know if you’ve heard of the Danaids, who had to carry water in sieves, but theirs was a simple task compared to this. I am now a battle-hardened, world expert in deleting. I’m the Usain Bolt of data deletion. If you want anything deleted, call me. Goodbye, data! So long! Off you go! Yet simultaneously, I am terrified that I’ve confused the system even more.
By this time, it had taken me the best part of three days (during the summer holidays, what’s more) to wrestle with a single quarter’s accounts, and (at the time of writing, one day before the deadline) I still haven’t finished. The thought of having to do all this again in October fills me with mounting dread; to pass the buck to even more expensive accountants is beyond my means.
Lionel Shriver emigrated in order to avoid Making Tax Digital. I’m not sure I’ll go that far. But non-compliance – even anarchy – is so far looking a better bet than this absolute horror show. What would the Inland Revenue actually do if I just sent in a box of receipts and a ledger? Maybe it’s time to find out.
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