The fundamental principle of democratic government is so simple that it rarely survives first contact with a government.
The government exists to serve the people. Not the other way around.
It is not a landlord collecting rent. It is not a casino skimming the table. It is not a mysterious life-form that feeds on paperwork and produces press conferences. It is, or is supposed to be, a custodian.
A caretaker. A pair of hands temporarily placed on the steering wheel of something it does not own.
Taxation, therefore, is not a gift. It is not a donation. It is not a cheerful voluntary contribution dropped into a velvet-lined box marked “For Government Use - No Peeking.”
It is money taken from citizens for defined public purposes.
Which means, and this is where the discomfort begins, the money never actually becomes the government’s money.
It remains the people’s money.
The government merely holds it.... in trust.
Like a coat handed to an attendant. The attendant may hang it up. The attendant may guard it. The attendant may return it when required.
What the attendant may not do is sell the coat, swap it for a different coat, or wander off wearing it to a private dinner while insisting this is all part of normal coat management.
And yet, this is precisely how modern public finance operates.
Public money disappears into vast consolidated accounts - enormous administrative reservoirs where individual dollars lose their identity, their purpose, and, occasionally, their will to live. Once inside, they are stirred, siphoned, redirected, and reheated into initiatives with names like Strategic Coordination Facilitation Framework Units, which sound impressive but, when opened, contain three consultants, a logo, and a sandwich platter.
This arrangement is very convenient for the government.
It is less convenient for the people.
Because once money enters this administrative fog, ownership becomes psychologically blurred.
It begins to feel like government money. It is spoken of as government money. It is spent like government money.
But it never was.
When I ran my real estate agency, we operated a Trust Account. This was not a suggestion. It was not a guideline. It was not a laminated poster near the kettle.
It was the law.
Money held in that account did not belong to me. It did not belong to the business. It belonged to the client. Every cent sat there like a silent witness, tagged and traceable. It could not be “temporarily reassigned.” It could not be “reimagined.” It could not be “leveraged in pursuit of emerging opportunities.”
If I had helped myself to even a small portion, I would not have received a sternly worded memo and a promotion. I would have received a court date.
Because the law recognised the nature of the relationship.
I was a trustee.
The client was the beneficiary.
And between those two roles sat a very sharp and unforgiving concept called fiduciary duty.
Fiduciary duty is what prevents custody from quietly mutating into ownership.
It imposes two absolute obligations.
The duty of care, which requires competence, diligence, and prudence. You must not be reckless. You must not be lazy. You must not treat entrusted funds like loose coins found down the back of a government sofa.
And the duty of loyalty, which is even simpler and far more dangerous to those who prefer ambiguity. You must act in the interests of the beneficiary, not yourself.
Not your friends. Not your donors. Not your future employer.
Not the charming consulting firm that appears immediately after you leave office offering a non-executive directorship and a very agreeable lunch.
The beneficiary comes first.
Always.
Now imagine, just briefly, the administrative panic if this principle were applied properly to government.
Imagine every dollar of tax revenue placed into legally defined public trust accounts, each with a specific purpose. Infrastructure funds that could only fund infrastructure. Health funds that could only fund health. Education funds that could only fund education.
No quiet transfers. No creative relabelling. No late-night “temporary reallocations” performed under the watchful gaze of a flickering fluorescent light and a filing cabinet marked Miscellaneous.
Every dollar visible. Every movement recorded. Every decision accountable.
The effect would be immediate and profound. Entire species of bureaucratic wildlife would be forced into extinction. The Department of Perpetual Strategic Alignment would vanish overnight. The Inter-Agency Facilitation Secretariat would collapse into a folding table and two confused interns. Consultants would be forced to migrate to other feeding grounds, like documentary filmmaking or artisanal mayonnaise.
Because trust structures change behaviour. They remove temptation. They remove ambiguity. They remove the comforting illusion that nobody is really watching.
Most importantly, they restore the correct moral relationship.
The government is not the owner. It is the caretaker.
A government that embraces fiduciary duty acknowledges this reality. A government that resists it is revealing something else entirely.
Because when someone holding your wallet begins arguing that the wallet is, philosophically speaking, now theirs, you are no longer witnessing administration.
You are witnessing intent.
And intent, once seen clearly, is very difficult to unsee.
Monty
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