Tag: news from the stupid

I’m no financial expert. I scarcely know what a coin is. Ask me to explain what a credit default swap is and I’ll emit an unbroken 10-minute “um” through the clueless face of a broken puppet. You might as well ask a pantomime horse. But even an idiot such as me can see that money, as a whole, doesn’t really seem to be working any more.

Money is broken, and until we admit that, any attempts to fix the economy seem doomed to fail. We’re like passengers on a nosediving plane thinking if we all fart hard enough, we can lift it back into the sky. So should we be storming the cockpit or hunting for parachutes instead? I don’t know: I ran out of metaphor after the fart gag. You’re on your own from hereon in.

Banknotes aren’t worth the paper they’re printed on. If they were, they’d all have identical value. Money’s only worth what the City thinks it’s worth. Or, perhaps more accurately, hopes it’s worth. Coins should really be called “wish-discs” instead. That name alone would give a truer sense of their value than the speculative number embossed on them.

The entire economy relies on the suspension of disbelief. So does a fairy story, or an animated cartoon. This means that no matter how soberly the financial experts dress, no matter how dry their language, the economy they worship can only ever be as plausible as an episode of SpongeBob SquarePants. It’s certainly nowhere near as well thought-out and executed.

No one really understands how it all works: if they did, we wouldn’t be in this mess. Banking, as far as I can tell, seems to be almost as precise a science as using a slot machine. You either blindly hope for the best, delude yourself into thinking you’ve worked out a system, or open it up when no one’s looking and rig the settings so it’ll pay out illegally.

The chief difference is that slot machines are more familiar and graspable to most of us. When you hear a jackpot being paid out to a gambler, the robotic clunk-clunk-clunk of coin-on-tray, you’re aware that he had to go to some kind of effort to get his reward. You know he stood there pushing buttons for hours. You can picture that.

The recent outrage over City bonuses stems from a combination of two factors: the sheer size of the numbers involved coupled with a lack of respect for the work involved in earning them. Like bankers, top footballers are massively overpaid, but at least you comprehend what they’re doing for the money. If Wayne Rooney was paid millions to play lacrosse in a closed room in pitch darkness, people would begrudge him his millions far more than they already do. Instead there he is, on live television: he’s skilled, no doubt about it.

Similarly, it may be tasteless when a rapper pops up on MTV wearing so much bling he might as well have dipped himself in glue and jumped into a treasure chest full of vajazzling crystals, but at least you understand how he earned it.

RBS boss Stephen Hester, meanwhile, earns more than a million pounds for performing enigmatic actions behind the scenes at a publicly owned bank. And on top of his huge wage, he was in line for a massive bonus. To most people, that’s downright cheeky: like a man getting a blowjob from your spouse while asking you to make him a cup of tea.

But Hester earned his wage, we’re told, because he does an incredibly difficult job. And maybe he does. Trouble is, no one outside the City understands what his job actually consists of. I find it almost impossible to picture a day in Hester’s life, and I once wrote a short story about a pint-sized toy Womble that ran around killing dogs with its dick, so I know I don’t lack imagination. Class, yes: imagination, no. If I strain my mind’s eye, I can just about picture Hester arriving at work, picture him thanking his driver, picture the receptionist saying “Hello, Mr Hester”, and picture him striding confidently into his office – but the moment the door shuts, my feed breaks up and goes fuzzy. What does he do in there? Pull levers? Chase numbers round the room with a broom? God knows.

Maybe if all bankers were forced to work in public, on the pavement, it would help us understand what they actually do. Of course, you’d have to encase them in a Perspex box so they wouldn’t be attacked. In fact, if the experience of David Blaine is anything to go by, you’d have to quickly move that Perspex box to somewhere impossibly high up, where people can’t pelt it with golf balls and tangerines. On top of the Gherkin, say. If Hester did his job inside a Perspex box on top of the Gherkin for a year, this entire argument might never have happened.

The row over bonuses has led some to mutter darkly about mob rule and the rise of anti-business sentiment. Complain about mobs all you like, but you can’t control gut reactions, and you can’t dictate the mood. And when you try to fart a crashing plane back into the sky, you only succeed in making the atmosphere unpleasant for everyone. And spoiling the in-flight movie. And making the stewardess cry. Looks like I’m all out of metaphor again. Time to end the article. Article ends.

Emphasis mine, I like the quote.

Source: Charlie Brooker – guardian.co.uk, Sunday 12 February 2012 21.00 GMT

Current Mood: Amused

‘Top Totty’ beer removed from MPs’ bar after complaint

A beer named Top Totty and advertised with a picture of a scantily-clad woman has been withdrawn from a Westminster bar after a Labour MP complained. Shadow equalities minister Kate Green said she was “disturbed” to hear it was on sale in The Strangers’ Bar, which is where politicians can bring guests.

The beer, brewed in Stafford by Slater’s Ales, was introduced to The Strangers’ Bar in 2007. During business questions on Thursday, Ms Green, Stretford and Urmston MP, said she had only just learned of it, but felt it should be removed because it had “a picture of a nearly naked woman on the tap”. She also called for a debate in the Commons on “dignity at work in Parliament”.

In reply, Sir George said he would raise the matter with the appropriate officials, adding: “I would very much regret it if any offensive pictures were on display in any part of the House.” A short time later a member of staff in The Strangers’ Bar told the Press Association: “I can confirm it was withdrawn from sale at 1.30pm.”

Top Totty is described in one review on the Slater’s website as “a stunning blonde beer full bodied with a voluptuous hop aroma”.

Conservative MP Jeremy Lefroy, who organised for Top Totty to be sold in the bar, said: “These guest ale slots offer a very welcome opportunity for small independent breweries, like Slater’s, to reach a wider audience with their products, some of which have cheeky names.

UK Independence Party MEP for Stafford Mike Nattrass branded Ms Green “a humourless sort”. “This sort of knee-jerk Puritanism does more to damage the cause of equality than a thousand beer labels,” he said. “It suggests that to be in favour of equality you must be a dour-faced, insult-searching misery.”

Current Mood: Amused

I saw this article online today and it made me want to punch a hole in my monitor. The gall of the woman, complaining about lost luxuries. I’m sure it sucks, but you’re still better off than a large chunk of the population. I know I have it good, and I’m thankful for it.

Merry Christmas? Along with millions of other middle class mothers, I can’t afford one

Less than five years ago, Christmas for me meant leisurely afternoons in Harrods ­buying a pretty embroidered cushion, some bath oil and a toy or two here, some smoked salmon and a box of chocolates there. And the best thing was that you could send your plethora of luxury gifts down to the front door and then collect them later. No hulking heavy bags round the other shops as I stocked up on yet more presents. Shopping in a global superstore among the well-heeled is a relaxed pleasure — or should I say, it was. For today it is merely a gold-tinted memory, as remote and exotic as going to Timbuktu. This year, the arrival of the festive period has sent shivers down my spine. And not because of the cold.

Like many thousands of families across Britain, I have experienced a dramatic downturn in my ­fortunes in the past year or two. To put it simply: I may be middle class, but I’m poverty-stricken. Five years ago, I earned £1,200 a week from my work as a TV and film producer and would have thought nothing of spending £45 on a pot of gold-lidded lusciously scented body cream as a Christmas present for a distant cousin. Now, I live in a two-bedroom rented flat in West London and my cousins will have to make do with little ­trinkets for their children only.

So how did this happen? Put simply, my partner and I started a new ­business four years ago, and we ­borrowed and borrowed and bought a country house alongside the two we owned between us in London. We practically rebuilt it while I fussed over the kitchen, oohing and aahing over Farrow & Ball paint and butler sinks. We moved to the Cotswolds and I even bought another cottage as an ‘investment’. When the recession hit, we realised the value of our properties had slumped and we were largely in ­negative equity. We had to rearrange our lives totally. These days, I am lucky if I earn £500 a week as a writer.

When I first wrote about becoming one of the Nouveau Pauvre — the newly poor — in the summer, many readers reacted angrily, feeling that because there were times when I’d been more fortunate, to complain about losing luxuries was repugnantly selfish. That’s as maybe — it doesn’t alter the fact that my life has changed ­radically through having far less money. And I’m certainly not the only one struggling to provide a happy Christmas for one and all.

Many of my friends are in quiet despair. One girlfriend told me that she’d planned to spend only £50 on her 15-year-old daughter and yet the same daughter is now asking for an iPad, which can cost more than eight times that. Another mum, with three grown-up children, told me that five years ago she would go to H&M as a matter of course for cheap and quirky clothes, but now she finds herself baulking at the prices. Even Boden, that reliable stand-by of well-to-do mums in the Home Counties, is now looking too expensive.

One friend has not stopped thanking me since I told her about a local ­charity shop that sells quite good children’s clothes. And another tried to save money by buying her son cheap trainers, only to be advised by her daughter that he would not be seen dead in anything other than the latest Nikes. It’s certainly not confined to my group of friends.

According to a recent survey, more than half (53 per cent) of mums are planning to cut back on the cost of Christmas presents this year, looking for better-value options and discounted items, while 42 per cent just plan to buy fewer presents. And shoppers are set to spend just £195 on festive gifts for loved ones, down £37 on last year’s figure. Personally, if it were just me and my partner, we’d tighten our belts and be done with it. But I have a six-year-old daughter and a 12-year-old step-daughter — not to mention six godchildren and about a dozen other children, ranging from teenagers to toddlers — who I need to buy presents for.

Just as I used to do as a ­little girl, my daughter has written a wish list to Santa and is confidently expecting him to wiggle down the chimney with a sack bulging with goodies ranging from a violin to Silly Bandz, the ubiquitous rubber bracelets all the rage among young girls. She has been aglow with anticipation and her face lights up every time she hears the word ‘present’. And the idea of having to disappoint her makes me feel sick to my stomach. In an attempt to soften the blow, I tried to lower her expectations the other day.

We were singing along to carols in the car and when it came to the last verse of In The Bleak Mid­winter I made her listen to the bit that involves the poor man with nothing to give other than his heart. My six-year-old smiled at me from the back seat, agreed that love was a very nice present and then asked with considerable shrewdness for her age: ‘But Santa’s still coming, isn’t he?’

Incapable of treading on her dreams, I decided I might be able to afford stockings if I filled them with lots of little, cheap things that would give the illusion of bulk and plenty. So, far from perusing the aisles of Harrods, I found myself checking out the bargains at Poundland. I discovered excellent deals like giant Toblerones for under £1 — but still, it was not the place to fill an entire stocking. Yet even the most reasonable of places, like Asda, no longer seem that cheap. I have made it a golden rule not to spend more than £5 on a stocking present, and am horrified by how many items like window stickers, sets of crayons, colouring books, little plastic puppies and so on cost well over that. Even Silly Bandz just squeak in at £4.99, depending on where you buy them. I tried the internet, but quickly filled a virtual basket that came to over £320 so, feeling queasy, I abandoned the website.

And when I went back to the shops, all I could think was: ‘I can’t afford this. Why am I here?’ And it’s not just presents I can’t afford. There are the time-honoured rituals, like the annual visit to the local pantomime or to a London show, that are now out of the question. Tickets for the musical Wicked were £90 when I last looked. Then there are the decorations that suddenly seem oh-so-­expensive. My mother always had a glossy, fat-berried holly wreath on our front door, but today something similar can cost well over £40, even if you try to track one down cheaply in a local market.

What my mother did save on was tree decorations — we had a few red and green baubles and some lengths of lank tinsel that were wrapped in tissue and carefully put away each year. I still own a few surviving baubles and some tiny birds made out of pipe-cleaner that will make it on to our tree this year.

And don’t even get me started on food. Ever since Nigella first exhorted us to be domestic goddesses, even my most laid-back friends have become control freaks in their Christmas kitchens, feeling pressured to make their own stuffing and cranberry sauce — all organic, of course. Long gone are the days when you just bought a supermarket turkey and shoved it in the oven. Now, we are made to feel like lousy cooks if we haven’t soaked it in a spicy brine full of expensive Maldon sea salt, ­cinnamon sticks and maple syrup for days beforehand. My mother was lucky because my grandmother provided us with tin upon tin of home-made mince pies and a Christmas cake. I would love to bake, but I don’t have time.

Even wrapping paper has become a source of irritation. My mother spent hours wrapping presents, turning even a mundane gift into an enticing, beribboned box worthy of one of the Three Kings. Following in her footsteps, I used to buy ribbons from VV Rouleaux — now their price of £50 for velvet and silk ribbons seems truly shocking. Obscene, even. So I was thrilled to spot a six-pack of gold twine at Tesco for £2, and I’m hoping that will do the trick.

Of course, to some struggling to pay even basic household bills, this may all sound like another self-pitying whinge from someone who once had it all. But I guess the point is that still — despite the recession — many of us feel under more pressure than ever before to create a perfect Christmas. How many families, I wonder, are tormented by the question: can I spend less this year without looking horribly mean? Their anxieties will only be fuelled by the pressure to spend, spend, spend our way out of recession, as retailers advertise like mad for what customers there are who do have money to spend.

Every commercial seems to be rooted in the cheery assumption that we all have oodles of cash again. ‘I want that!’ has become a familiar cry in our household as my girls are targeted by yet another advertisement for a Nintendo or an all-­singing, all-dancing plastic pet shop. There is no point trying to buy children a cut-price version of what they ask for. They are ferociously loyal to their brands and they would far rather have a cash donation towards a real pair of Uggs than be palmed off with a fake pair from Sainsbury’s. Yes, Christmas is heaven for the rich, but increasingly hellish for the less well-off. The plight of those of us living in reduced circumstances is made even worse by those lucky enough to have remained in employment, who are also enjoying vastly reduced mortgage rates.

And while I expect little sympathy, I’m not too proud to admit that it seems a particularly brutal hell when once, not so long ago, I could treat my little ones to almost everything (within reason) on their wish lists. And I suspect I am not alone. Christmas is always a peak time for family break-ups, but I can’t help feeling it will be even worse this year. Cooped up families worrying about their jobs can only be enraged by the extra ­burden of celebrating a Christmas they may not be able to afford.

Kirsty White, a counsellor at the Tavistock Centre For Couple ­Relationships, says: ‘Families ­experiencing financial difficulties are especially vulnerable at this time of year. ‘For those with children, Christmas brings an extra challenge to fulfil their expectations and possibly repair either real or perceived damage caused by financial constraints. ‘This can be divisive, with one partner seemingly turning a blind eye to difficulties by indulging expectations, leaving the other forced to play Scrooge. Both can end up feeling judged and misunderstood. In these circumstances, engaging with the reality of their financial situation seems even more unbearable.’

In Christmas’s bitter aftermath, Kirsty expects to be busy in January. I for one don’t want to spend another year bickering with my partner about what size of tree we can afford while wondering if I will be deemed mean for spending £10 less on a favourite godson. The whole thing has become one big headache. This June, I finally paid off the last of my credit card bills. I have not used one since. I know, in reality, as Christmas Day creeps up on me, I am bound to dust off one, persuading myself that my family’s and friends’ presents are paramount. I wish I were brave enough to do things differently. But the truth is I’m just too squeamish about disappointing my children in the short term — even though in the long term I would probably be doing them an enormous favour.

So with Advent upon us, I can only look to the next few weeks with a creeping sense of dread. Cry ‘Bah Humbug’ if you must. Call me spoilt if you wish. But the fact is, I wish I could ­cancel Christmas.

Some of the comments about the article:

Wow I would love to make only £500 a week. Perhaps handmade gifts would be in order, and perhaps you should just tell your children to expect less. My son knows we don’t have a lot of money, and is prepared to take a less expensive gift. Greed has brought us all to this point, so let’s teach our kids it’s not about how much money you have or what possessions you have.

You want to make a happy, shiny Christmas for your family; yet you can graciously inform everyone that Santa has so many more VERY poor children to care for this year. So this Christmas will not be as plentiful as others, yet we are all together, and that is where happiness lies.

Well it seems to me a pity you brought your children up to be so materialistic and unappreciative of the value of money. And who says a Christmas is “perfect’ because the presents are wrapped in velvet ribbon and the chocolates are from Harrods?? Seems to me you have a very very weird idea of happiness based solely on what you have in the bank and can afford to fritter away on expensive ‘trinkets’. I think you sound like a very sad and bitter woman and need a dose of reality.

Current Mood: Angry