My blog post of yesterday, predicting that we are now living through the Eighties again, seems all the more relevant today as I woke to the news that the pound has not fallen this low since about 1985. This was the year that the miner’s strike reached its peak, Enoch Powell climbed out of his box to spread more hatred, this time about the Wandsworth Riots, and Arthur Negus died.
The Antiques Roadshow has never been the same since. I have to watch it on catch up now, due to my perpetual irritation with Fiona Bruce’s dreadful taste in suits.
When they come to collate the events of 2016 on Wikipedia, they’re going to need more than a page. At the moment we’re on about a page an hour and rising. Eventually they will have to invent an entirely new Internet just for Brexit. Currently, boffins at CERN are working out how to use the Hadron Collider to do this:
‘Geoff, just push the big green button.’
‘Nothing’s happening, Steve.’
‘Turn it off and then turn it back on again.’
‘Right you are.’
‘And if that doesn’t work, hit it with a hammer.’
Essentially, this dialogue also sums up the singularly poor efforts being made by absolutely nobody in particular at fixing anything that has been broken over the last two weeks.
In the meantime, more things keep breaking. My Twitter feed is like watching a toddler running amok in John Lewis china department, fuelled by Haribo and Coca Cola.
Today, everybody is distracted by the things being broken by the fallout of the Chilcot Report, which is at least nearer to us in time than 1985, but not any more cheering. I cannot say that I am surprised to find that Tony Blair merrily led us into a war in the full knowledge that he was lying through his teeth about the Weapons of Mass Destruction. I thought Adrian Mole was the only person who didn’t know, and he’s fictional.
Still, I suppose it gives our MPs something else to beat each other about the head and neck with, while the rest of us just wish they would get on with their fucking jobs and make some decisions.
I am now clinging to a small photograph of Mark Carney like a woman convinced that her lucky rabbit’s foot is going to cure consumption, globally.
The fact that his only solution thus far is to release £150 billion of the £250 billion he has in the sock drawer, and make it easier for common folk to get into debt, is not a great one. Nor is Osborne’s decision to give companies yet another tax break to persuade them not to throw us under the bus just yet, but at least they’re doing something, even if it is the same old shit that contributed to getting us here in the first place.
I have been told, again, by some wearisome leave voters, that I must stop panicking. Apparently it is my panicking that is causing all this. Mine, and ‘people like me’.
Firstly, I am not panicking. I am beyond panic. I am now in the realms of that quiet, calm land that lies somewhere beyond despair.
Secondly, even though I have a fairly robust ego, I do not see how it is possible for my feelings and those of people like me to cause the pound to sink to its lowest level in thirty years, no matter how fucking annoyed I might be about it.
I have already pointed out that I am no financial expert, but I have always believed the stock exchange to run along some kind of buying and selling lines, rather than being fuelled by the emotions of middle aged housewives, but you know, please feel free to prove me wrong on this. The feeling of power would be immense for a woman who forgot her son’s packed lunch once this week already and is feeling increasingly disenfranchised by the day.
I would also like to know if it is my feelings that are responsible for the Financial Times, usually one of the more fiscally sombre newspapers around, publishing figures today suggesting that there are 700,000 less jobs available this week, thanks to companies’ reticence at employing people in an uncertain post Brexit landscape. I read the piece. At no point did it say: ‘We can fairly and squarely put this down to the ridiculously girly behaviour of Mrs Boo, and those like her, who will insist on getting a bit emotional, when all that is required to sort us out is a stiff upper lip.’ But there may be a small paragraph somewhere that I’ve missed.
Perhaps it is also my fault that the North East and North Yorkshire will lose £665 million in funding if we leave the EU in 2020, as reported in The Northern Echo today.
I am indeed powerful. Hear me roar.
But hang on. Maybe there is something in all this?
I am wondering if there was a plan all along, and it was just David Cameron and the cabinet locked in a darkened room, watching an endlessly repeating gif of Lance Corporal Jones from Dad’s Army, shouting: ‘Don’t panic, Mr. Mainwaring!’ whilst leaping about with his outmoded bayonet replaced by a photoshopped picture of a Trident missile.
Yep. That’s it.
That is the plan.