In a development that has sent tremors through the nation’s gin distilleries and caused a minor spike in the sale of cyanide capsules among backbench MPs, the City of London has reportedly opened a metaphorical book on who will next sit in the Chancellor’s chair. Yes, that gilded hot seat currently occupied by a man whose economic policy appears to have been scrawled on the back of a beermat during a particularly spirited game of darts with a werewolf. The betting, I am told, is fierce.
Odds are being slashed faster than a civil servant’s patience during a budget meeting. Names are being whispered in the hallowed halls of Threadneedle Street, names that would make even the most hardened political correspondent choke on his Pimm’s. But who are these shadowy figures?
And more importantly, who can we blame for the inevitable collapse of the pound sterling? I put on my best cynical tie and a pair of trousers that have seen better decades, and set out to investigate the vagaries of fiscal fortune. The absurdity of the situation is, of course, breathtaking.
Here is a government that has lurched from crisis to crisis like a drunken sailor on a sinking ship, and yet the denizens of the Square Mile believe they can predict the next man at the helm with the same accuracy as a weather forecaster predicting rain in Manchester. Which is to say, not at all. But they proceed anyway, because that is what the City does: it turns everything into a gamble, from the price of pork bellies to the survival of Western democracy.
One source, a man who introduced himself as ‘Crispin’ and smelled faintly of old money and newer regret, told me that the front-runner is a figure known only as ‘The Accountant’, a man so fiscally conservative he once audited his own wedding. Another potential candidate, a woman who reportedly balances her ledger with a slide rule and a copy of Ayn Rand, is apparently favoured by the hedge fund managers who have never met a tax they didn’t want to avoid. But the real wild card, according to Crispin, is a backbench MP who once proposed a budget based on the principles of competitive hopscotch.
“He’s a bit mad,” Crispin said, adjusting his monocle, “but the markets like a bit of madness. It keeps things interesting.” And there you have it.
The fate of the nation’s economy, the stability of our currency, the very future of capitalism itself, hangs on the whim of a few dozen champagne-soaked speculators who couldn’t tell you the difference between a budget deficit and a small hole in the ground. But fear not, dear readers. Your faithful correspondent will be watching this saga unfold with the same gravity and solemnity it deserves: namely, from the bar of the nearest reputable establishment, gin in hand, ready to document the glorious descent into chaos.
Because if there is one thing this country can rely on, it is that the only thing less predictable than the British weather is the British government’s ability to make a hash of everything it touches.
