Here in the west, finding themselves in desperate straits, governments are trying to tempt their citizens and subjects out of their nuclear bunkers and back into department stores. Unfortunately, it is often difficult to tell the difference, and many of us thought we were already queuing for the fitting rooms to try on our new radiation suits. Alive to these pleas from treasuries, reserves, and rag-and-bone men to consume or else, my mind has been turned to an area of global economics that I hadnt considered since I last dared look at a copy of my bank statement. In short, much has been revealed to us brazen comforteers about the state of our economies: what makes them boom and bust, swell and sag, overheat and freeze, fry-up and muesli.
Au courant a man as I assume to be, for years I had thought that economics was the section I most readily avoided in my bookstore. Now, I am aware that economics is the bookstore, with me in it, buying books. Well, thank heavens! For one reason or another, I had long been labouring under the impression that I was nothing more than a number, a statistic on a civil servants chart, a fly on blotting paper, of no more economic value than soda water in a whisky.
But now my eyes have been opened: I have the potential to wreck the economies of the collective world. You cant imagine what this has done for my sense of self-esteem. I no longer fear the bank manager, he fears me. I no longer feel embarrassed trying on jackets in front of store mirrors, swelling my chest with pride. And I no longer quiver when I hear the sound of approaching bailiffs, sipping Martinis as they tear my door down with their gold teeth.
Of course, to many of you this may be nothing new. Perhaps you have been aware all along that our economies are founded on our shopping power. Maybe you have even known about the international coalition that has been holding for years, playing on our inadequacies, just to keep our payments balanced, our ports ex, and our flation in.
As it happens, I recently stole a collection of minutes from a meeting of this Comité Rapprochement (the hours were kept locked in a safe). I want to share some of these with you.
Those present: Alan Greenspan (Chairman), President Bush, Prime Minister Blair, Chancellor Schröder, President Chirac, Prime Minister Berlusconi, President Prodi, Osama Bin Laden, Edna the tea-lady.
Chairman (banging his wifes pipe on the table): Gentlemen. I have called this meeting in the strictest confidence. That is, confidence is stricken. Our economies are suffering from what we in the business call yellow fever. People are too chicken to buy anything even chicken. We have to encourage them to get out and spend.
President Chirac: Then Im your man!
President Bush (bemused): Whats wrong with the folks now?
Prime Minister Blair (encouragingly): Dont worry. Its nothing to bother yourself with. Just a little trouble on the farm thats all.
President Bush (devastated): My farm? Oh jeez. What is it, the chickens?
Chairman (ignoring them all): The fact is, theres been another down-turn in consumer activity. And there is nothing that gets on my wick quite like the inaction of consumers. This time they wont get away with it! They will shop til they drop, spend til they mend. Buy! Buy!
President Bush (rising and shaking the chairmans hand): Well, farewell then. (Turning to Prime Minister Blair) I thought wed never get rid of the heel.
Prime Minister Blair: Er, I think
Prime Minister Berlusconi: Listen, can we get down to business, only Ive got a clash to get to.
Chancellor Schröeder: I think you mean a class.
Prime Minister Berlusconi: A what?
Chairman (still thumping the table with his fist): Weve got to think of new ways to get people shopping. If not, I warn you, we all face meltdown. And there is nothing that gets on my wick more than down melting.
President Bush: Cant we do something to encourage them? Like, say, double the amount of bible salesman knocking on doors?
Prime Minister Blair: Great idea, Ill make a note of it. (He does, and then slips the note into the waste paper basket.)
President Chirac (disconsolate): Weve exhausted all our good ideas. Im at a loss.
Chancellor Schröeder: You are? Then perhaps we can set up a new fund for you. Its our turn isnt it?
Prime Minister Berlusconi: Ive got a great idea. Cant we launch some sort of covert, but civilised, advertising campaign? All we need to do is play on peoples fears and they will come flocking to the cause. Believe me, I should know.
Edna: Oh yeah? Like what then? Does this involve the Vatican again?
Prime Minister Berlusconi (aggravated): Well, there are many dirt-tracks to glory. Couldnt we slip some cash to the fashion magazines? You know, get them to thin the waists on the models or something. Get women feeling inadequate some more. Get them shopping.
(They all laugh)
Chairman: What do you think weve been doing for the last fifty years? Sitting on our *****? (asses)
Prime Minister Berlusconi: Well, I had heard whispers
Chairman: Look, new boy, this committee has been devoting massive resources to the fashion industry since the end of World War II. Weve tucked more tummies and cleansed more pores than youve had hot arrabbiatas. How else do you think our economies have survived?
(They all tut at the Italian Prime Minister, who begins to sulk.)
President Prodi: Silvi, dont get upset. The whole fashion industry its designers, models, magazines, lab rats and ageing celebrities have been a product of the most careful Keynesian planning. You think people are so easily mobilised to buy endless skirts, shoes and make-up?
Prime Minister Blair: Why, only recently weve set up a whole series of mens health magazines. You know, got them worried about their beer bellies. I mean, we even got them using make-up, thank God. When I think about how close we were to a global recession after that Asian crisis (he wipes his brow, blusher staining his shirt-sleeve).
Chancellor Schröeder: Its easy really. The editorial boards are filled with ex-members of the Stasi.
Prime Minister Berlusconi (looking around suspiciously): Couldnt Kissinger make it today?
President Bush: No, hes got a hair appointment, bless him.
Chairman (still gnawing the table): Enough of the lessons. We must act now! My wifes getting impatient. Why havent you done something about the world economy? she snaps. Im trying, I say. Trying? she says, Trying? What is this trying? You must do, or not do, there is no try, Alan, there is no try. (He breaks down in tears, and they all follow suit.)
President Chirac (sniveling): What are we going to do?
President Prodi (wiping the tears from his face): Im doomed.
Prime Minister Berlusconi (suddenly encouraged): I got a proposal. How about we attack artists?
Chancellor Schröeder (rising): What?!
Prime Minister Berlusconi (cowering in the corner): No Gertie, hear me out, please. I mean, why dont we get some writers to pen some books and films to make people feel inadequate? You know, get them conscious of the size of their posteriori. Get them having sleep-overs with lots of chocolat. Get them gagging to hire-purchase a Ferrari!
(Silence)
Chairman: Whereve you been? Mars?
Prime Minister Berlusconi: You what?
Chairman: Where do you think chick-lit comes from? Movies with all these muscle-men? Those terrible adverts for car insurance?
Prime Minister Berlusconi: Thats you?
Chairman: You bet.
President Bush: Wait a minute. You mean theres nothing we can do? Whats wrong, are folks feeling too inadequate or too not-inadequate?
Prime Minister Blair: I dont know, they just, you know, dont want to shop anymore.
President Chirac: Maybe we could release a record. All proceeds go to staving off global recession.
Chancellor Schröeder (shaking his head): But still they wouldnt buy it.
President Bush (saluting): Come on folks, well smoke em out, youll see. Were just gonna have to fess up, thats all. Ill rally the troops into the malls. (A bugle sounds somewhere in the distance.)
Prime Minister Blair (bowing): Ill request they consider visiting the high street more often!
President Chirac (licking his lips): Ill charm them into Gallerie Lafayette and then treat them to some parfum.
Prime Minister Berlusconi (jutting his jaw and pulling a facial muscle): Ill have them dressed in Armani before you can say al-Qaeda.
President Prodi (looking sheepish): And Ill keep out of sight.
Osama Bin Laden: Me too.
President Bush: Whos he?
Chairman: I have no idea, some guy. (Waking the security guard) Get him out of here would you?
Osama Bin Laden (being escorted out): Can I get a cab on expenses?
Chairman: Yes, yes, just go, weve got urgent business here.
And here the minutes ended, leaving me thirsty for more, and, ingeniously, for a Diet CokeTM. Anyway, after watching President Bush call on the patriotic duty of every American citizen to go consume, admiring the photograph of President Clinton ringing up the till with a set of dignified ties from Bloomingdales, and staying awake throughout the encouragement from my very own Chancellor of the Exchequer, I decided to throw in my lot to the cause of Western civilisation.
Mustering as much savoir faire as I could extract from the cash machine, I strode into the respected outfitters widely known as www.theabyss.com. After half an hour of being frisked, I entered the store and went straight to the section marked Denim, Combats and Riding Saddles and got my inside leg measurement, which, give or take a few yards, was as I had expected.
The tailor procured me a pair of knickerbockers fit for a king, who unfortunately was holidaying in Tenerife, and I was left with an oversize pair of short pants that I was promised would allow me some hard-core rad boarding in the bowls, something I had not experienced since a disastrous oyster and champagne party a few years before. I thanked the gentleman by handing him my credit card which he snatched with glee, and, whimsically howling, sold me the garment for the knock-down price of £79.99, which I was assured would go straight to the cause of saving the global economy.
I strode from the store a happier man, knowing I had done my bit for the cause, but eager to do more when I glanced at my watch and noticed it had stopped. As luck would have it, as I was hurling the spent item under the rear wheel of a passing bus, I chanced upon a jewelers, which, due to the current international crisis, was offering a rather fine Patek Phillipe encrusted with diamonds and laced in sugar for the irresistible price of £24,999 (reduced by £2.99). The moment the exquisite timepiece was resting on my wrist, an invisible hand swiped the acrylic rectangle from my outstretched mitt and gave my bank manager a coronary. I, on the other hand, had helped save western civilisation from a fate worse than love-handles.
