In a development that has sent shockwaves through the nation's break rooms and Wetherspoons, the Treasury has been gravely informed that fully 75% of working Britons are not on track for what any sane person might call a 'moderate' pension. This means, in layman's terms, that three out of four of us are currently watching our golden years crumble into a damp, flat-sharing, cat-food-eating nightmare. The response from the Treasury? A carefully worded letter suggesting that perhaps we try 'working until we die' or 'investing in beanie babies'.
The report, published by some well-meaning think-tank with a name like 'Pensions for the People' or 'Future of Not Begging', has landed on the desks of Westminster's finest with all the grace of a hippopotamus in a china shop. It reveals that the average worker is currently saving approximately 17p a week, which, compounded over 40 years, should provide enough for a hearty postcode lottery ticket every Tuesday. The Treasury has been 'urged to act', which is bureaucratic code for 'please do your job or we will set fire to your bowler hats'.
I rang a Treasury spokesperson, a man named Giles who sounded like he was gargling champagne and gravel, to get his take. 'We are aware of the report,' he sniffed, 'and we are exploring options. These include a national mindfulness programme to help workers come to terms with their inevitable penury, and a new initiative to replace pension pots with commemorative mugs.' When I pressed him on whether this was satire, he hung up.
The tragedy here is not just that we are all going to be eating tinned beans in 2050, but that the government's solution to every crisis appears to be a focus group. They will form a 'Pensions Task Force' staffed entirely by people who have never worked a day in their lives, headed by a retired hedge fund manager who wants to know why we can't just 'cut back on avocado toast'. The report suggests auto-enrolment is not enough, that we need to be auto-forced, auto-locked into accounts, and possibly auto-cloned into productivity.
Meanwhile, the nation's young people, who are already paying for their parents' mortgages through a mystical system known as 'delayed adulthood', have responded with a collective shrug so powerful it caused a minor earthquake in Shoreditch. I interviewed a young man called Jonty, who was busy constructing a flat-pack coffin. 'I've accepted that my retirement will consist of a carrier bag in a doorway,' he said, adjusting his artisanal beard. 'Pensions are a myth, like happiness or a properly poured pint.'
The Treasury's official response, released at 5pm on a Friday to ensure no one reads it, was three pages of densely worded nothingness. It mentioned 'looking into the matter', 'considering all options', and 'urging the public to remain calm'. It concluded with a helpful graph showing that if you simply never buy anything, you can save 100% of your income. Genius.
So here we stand, on the precipice of a pensions crisis, staring into an abyss that stares back and asks for a tenner. The only sensible advice I can offer is this: buy a sturdy pair of shoes, be nice to your children, and invest heavily in gin futures. Because if we're all going to be poor, we might as well be drunk.
