IMF? Harrumpf!

George Osborne perkily presented himself to the BBC’s Today programme, though to be interviewed by Sarah Montague rather than the resident rottweiler. One could happily anticipate that the IMF report on the British economy, due later in the morning, was a A-OK.

And so it came to pass:

The International Monetary Fund (IMF) has concluded that no changes are needed to UK economic policy.

It said weak economic growth and rising inflation had been “unexpected”, but that they were “largely temporary”.

Lest we forget …

There was a celebrated precedent for Gids Osborne and the IMF to be in total agreement.

Woopie-do!

That would be the same IMF which:

commended Ireland’s continued impressive economic performance, characterized by one of the highest growth rates of GNP per capita among advanced countries and one of the lowest unemployment rates. This performance has been underpinned by outward-oriented policies, prudent fiscal policy, low taxes, and labor market flexibility.

As was published in September 2007. Northern Rock had gone to the wall about two weeks earlier, having pursued policies — writ small — which were about — writ large — to implode the Irish economy.

The cosily-corrupt, over-leveraged, over-borrowed, over-lent Irish banks were hailed by the all-seeing, all-knowing IMF as well-capitalized, profitable, and liquid.

It wasn’t that the IMF couldn’t see the problem:

Ireland has experienced very rapid credit growth in recent years. Household debt as a percentage of GNP increased from about 35 percent in 1995 to about 90 percent in 2006, while bank credit to the corporate sector has shown similar increase during the period, rising from under 30 percent of GNP to about 90 percent of GNP. In level terms, Ireland’s private-sector indebtedness is among the highest in advanced economies.

Thereupon the IMF report rapidly segued into an account of the channels through which finance benefits the economy.

Ah! the benefits of ghost estates and zombie hotels!

Previously the IMF got it wrong:

•  in Indonesia,
• with the Asian “tiger economies” in 1999

and

• Argentina in 2001.

It takes the IMF around a decade to admit to such gross errors.

So, there was Malcolm’s ultimate insanity of the morning.

Enjoy the rest of the day.

Not quite the end

As the second mug of coffee helped the toast-and-marmalade on its digestive way, Malcolm resolved to give up this pointless blogging lark, and do something constructive. Write the Great Muswell Hill novel? Weed the bottom of the garden? Prune his book-shelves? The alternatives seemed limitless, but more profitable.

Then the idiocies of the world crowded in; and here he is, back at the keyboard.

A mystery of consumerism

Now here’s one that needs some kind of explanation.

This early in the week, the supermarket booze shelves are heavy with discounts and offers. It will not be so come Friday. At Malcolm’s local Sainsbury, Albali Grand Reserva (actually, a none-too-exceptional Valdepeñas, but quite potable) is £10.19 a bottle on the shelf. Or £10 for two.

Indeed.

The wit and wisdom of a consort

That visit to the supermarket gave opportunity to possess the two dailies that Malcolm reads in dead-tree format.

His usual habit is first to scan the Doonesbury strip, then the political cartoons, before serious dissection of the newsprint. In doing so, he found that the Guardian‘s regular “funny”, the Pass notes column was doing over he who appeared in one student’s essay as “Chewky Edinru”, a.k.a. spouse to Her Majesty.

The Q and A format conventionally ends with a Do Say/ Don’t Say exchange. Today it is varied by no fewer than four of Phil-the-Greek’s memorable utterances. No, not the one about slanty eyes: that would be too predictable. But this one is a gem:

Don’t say: “Do you know they have eating dogs for the anorexic now?” (To a woman with a guide dog, 2002.)

Bet that went down like a double-cheeseburger with extra fries, if repeated to his deceased, bulimic daughter-in-law.

Trash-napping

That chortle was abbreviated when Malcolm noticed the adjacent five paragraphs by Pete Cashmore, titled Dog-eat-dog recycling with a side-heading of Crime. This item seems not (yet) to be on-line:

The day started like any other when, just before seven, a loud noise came from outside my flat, the sound of wheelie-bins being shunted aside. Living as I do in one of the less salubrious parts of south London, where bin foraging for things such as bank statements is commonplace, I went to investigate, and was surprised to see someone scuttling down the road with a clinking bag of my recycling by his side. I gave chase — mainly out of bewilderment.

The chap — whom I vaguely recognised as a neighbour — explained that he had that week received a warning from Lambeth council saying they were of the opinion that he was not producing enough compulsory recycling and that he was in line for a fine, and so he was “borrowing” my recycling to give the impression that they were mistake. As I halved my bag with him (to be honest, I was happy to reduce the embarrassment of empties), I thought: has it really come to this?

Twice Malcolm has suffered a not dissimilar fate.

After two decades, the Lady in his Life finally banished the green flowery bedroom carpet and underfelt that had come with the house purchase. How does one readily dispose of a 21-foot by 10, foul, dog-eared, well-worn sage-green horror? With great physical exertion Malcolm dragged it downstairs, and dumped it by the side of the house.

The intention was to load it into the car and deliver it to the Council tip, but only after a well-deserved cup-of-tea.

The door-bell buzzed. There was a very well-spoken, respectable lady begging the carpet for her son’s student flat. Incredible.

Then the Lady-in-his-Life and Malcolm cleared the attic, stacking a whole detritus on the front garden, preparatory to ordering a skip (US: “dumpster”). Within hours the pile began to reduce. Rusty white vans and trucks appeared and objects were picked over and removed. An old wc-bowl and cistern was abstracted into a vehicle with Bulgarian plates. The Lady-in-his-Life and Malcolm observed from the front bedroom with mixed amazement and shock.

After the rusty vans there was a lull. Then an ancient pram. Then a shopping trolley. By then there was barely enough to fill the wheelie-bin. No skip required. But who wants or needs an antique spirit-duplicating machine?

There is still the greatest inantity and  idiocy to come.

And that one on a macro-insanity scale.

So, to a later post.