Students of Thatcher-era popular culture will know better than most what happens when the going gets tough. And thus it was that Lord Leahy of Bootle (for it is surely only a matter of time, gentle readers) got going to address the nation from the turret of his virtual Challenger Mk II outside the Bank of England on Tuesday.
Teltsin’s scouse drawl cut across the cries of panic as the City bankers flung themselves from the parapets of Bishopsgate, steadied the frayed nerves of the nation and reassured us all that the best way out of this crisis by far was to cross our fingers and carry on shopping at Tesco. Well, it was certainly better entertainment than the lunatic farce on Capitol Hill as my dear American colleagues in the House of Representatives laid aside party allegiances and common sense in favour of traditional good ol’ time self-interest and cast their votes for financial and economic Armageddon as preferential to the notion of them losing their seats in the forthcoming elections.
And it was a lot more edifying that the excruciating spectacle of George Osborne pathetically trying to lay the entire blame for the financial meltdown on the increasingly zombified Gordo, then saying it might not quite be all Labour’s fault, then declaring his party’s unqualified support for the Government when it became clear that no-one was listening to the blue-rinse brigade in any case.
It’s at times like this that you count your blessings, such as a gilt-edged sinecure at DRIP. This week I have mostly been taking advantage of the smokescreen caused by the End of the World to prepare a briefing with the wretched scribblers of Wapping, at which I will claim sole credit for the reversal in food price inflation alluded to by El Tel in this esteemed rag.
This welcome development has sadly gone unremarked by the well of unpleasantness that is the British voting public, probably because they are all too busy investing their grubby tenners in Euromillions while simultaneously whining on about City speculators trying to make a fast buck. But my time will come, mark my words. And keep smiling!
Teltsin’s scouse drawl cut across the cries of panic as the City bankers flung themselves from the parapets of Bishopsgate, steadied the frayed nerves of the nation and reassured us all that the best way out of this crisis by far was to cross our fingers and carry on shopping at Tesco. Well, it was certainly better entertainment than the lunatic farce on Capitol Hill as my dear American colleagues in the House of Representatives laid aside party allegiances and common sense in favour of traditional good ol’ time self-interest and cast their votes for financial and economic Armageddon as preferential to the notion of them losing their seats in the forthcoming elections.
And it was a lot more edifying that the excruciating spectacle of George Osborne pathetically trying to lay the entire blame for the financial meltdown on the increasingly zombified Gordo, then saying it might not quite be all Labour’s fault, then declaring his party’s unqualified support for the Government when it became clear that no-one was listening to the blue-rinse brigade in any case.
It’s at times like this that you count your blessings, such as a gilt-edged sinecure at DRIP. This week I have mostly been taking advantage of the smokescreen caused by the End of the World to prepare a briefing with the wretched scribblers of Wapping, at which I will claim sole credit for the reversal in food price inflation alluded to by El Tel in this esteemed rag.
This welcome development has sadly gone unremarked by the well of unpleasantness that is the British voting public, probably because they are all too busy investing their grubby tenners in Euromillions while simultaneously whining on about City speculators trying to make a fast buck. But my time will come, mark my words. And keep smiling!
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