Poor (?) Lord Ashcroft's in trouble again

Poor Lord Ashcroft, to employ a fantastically inappropriate adjective, seems to be in trouble with the government of Belize again.
Ashcroft – one of the most English names imaginable, reminiscent of woods and agriculture, of the great English countryside. The name could only denote a denizen of a green and pleasant land. I have never been to Belize, but with its tropical location it is surely both green and pleasant too.
It’s not easy for expats. I’m not saying that their loyalties are necessarily divided: it should be perfectly possible to give both parties their due, to be a good resident of one while remaining a good citizen of the other. (Well, unless the two nations are actually playing each other at football.) It’s taxation which presents the difficulty. However dual one’s loyalties, one is inclined to think it a bit much to be expected to pay their taxes twice over. (Some think it a bit much to be expected to pay them even once, but that’s another matter.) Hence the ubiquity of Double Taxation Agreements between countries, ensuring that such a contingency does not arise.
So perhaps the resentment of the Belizean authorities against Lord Ashcroft derives from disappointment. Perhaps the local financial authorities are smarting at having been told that they may not dip into Lord Ashcroft’s capacious coffers, because he has emptied them with a liberal hand into those of Mr Alistair Darling. It surely cannot be otherwise, as he is Vice-Chairman of the Conservative Party and is directing large chunks of cash into funding its campaigning in vital marginal seats. And he wouldn’t be doing that if he weren’t a fully paid-up UK taxpayer, would he?
We don’t know. There are, quite rightly, laws protecting confidentiality on matters of personal finance. There are also laws covering political donations. If we can’t enforce the latter without breaching the former, I suppose we just have to throw our hands in the air and leave it all to the judgment of Heaven. Jolly convenient for friend Cameron and his exciting band of Ashcroft-supported A-listers.
But somehow this example of an unanswered and unanswerable question takes me back to the Sixties, which was full of them. I hardly qualify as a flower child, but I was undeniably born in that decade’s inaugural year, and many will think that my unquenchably idealistic left-wingery is qualification enough. So indulge me as I brush the dust from the old guitar:
Where has good Lord Ashcroft gone,
Dear David Cameron?
Where has good Lord Ashcroft gone,
My dear old Dave?
Where has good Lord Ashcroft gone?
Tell me, Mr Cameron.
When will we ever learn,
When will we ever learn?

Has he fled beyond the seas,
Is he here, or in Belize?

Tell us where he pays his tax,
“We’re not telling that to hacks!”

Say where his returns are filed,
“Depends where he’s domiciled!”

He’s given lots of cash to you,
Any to the Treasury too?

“He’s a zillionaire, you see,”
(Says David Cameron)
“Just like my friend George and me.”

“Our kind don’t like paying tax,”
(Says David Cameron)
“That’s only for the little chaps.”