Back when I read The Economist more regularly and thoroughly, it seemed that every month or two some disingenuous, condescending Fauntleroy would show up to lecture the Commonwealth about causes for diminished lifetime earning potential afflicting the poors and what could be done about it. The solution was never an outcome-oriented reckoning that since current outcomes were so shitty the state ought to intervene with robust social services and jobs guarantees for the unemployed. That would be too straightforward a way of leveling the playing fields of Eton. The poors might even forget that they’re on a playing field in the first place, tell Admiral Nelson and the Duke of Wellington to get fucked with their meddlesome military intervention on the Continent, that kind of thing.
They’d certainly be at risk of forgetting their humiliatingly subordinate relationship to their more successful betters. And what fun would the friendly competition that is British life be if the perennially losing team didn’t show up for the match so graciously rigged against them? In a robust, efficient welfare state, they might figure, aight, Mrs. Bucket, bugger off with your lectures about the work ethic, I’ma put in two days a week at Tesco and use Her Majesty’s Recourse to Public Funds to spend the other five watching telly in me council flat.
This narcotized dystopia isn’t as fun as it sounds. I’ve been closer to it than I like to contemplate. For many of its adherents, this lifestyle seems to thinly paper over a number of chronic spiritual and existential crises that are presumed less painful if left unexamined. But when pedigreed drunkards from the public schools complain about the chav horde and blame the unemployed for graduating into a wrecked labor market without the scrupulous sobriety of their ideal Pakistani teetotaler immigrant, they aren’t actually concerned about the failure of the poor to lead prosperous, satisfying, well-examined lives. They’re butthurt that their inferiors are shirking the workhouses, but they’re too cunning and also too chickenshit to go full Magdalene Laundry on a Cockney’s ass. They don’t want to blow their own shabby cover. Frankly admitting that they resent and despise those beneath their own station for resisting constant labor arbitrage from above would be discrediting and crass, so they concern-troll those beneath them instead. You know, nice STEM training program we have in the Midlands here; shame if you died poor and miserable as a consequence of not enrolling in it.
The Economist has a running beef with the Midlands and the North for needing ongoing subsidies from London, apparently on the premise that the Southeast is morally superior for being wealthier on paper in a country whose central government forces it to share a measly portion of its wealth with the otherwise forgotten provincial shitholes under its jurisdiction. This complaint is largely bogus: London’s productive economy is pathetic for a city of its size, and the bulk of its livelihood comes from parasitic rent extraction. The City exists by skimming a commission off every penny of wealth it can divert from the domestic and international periphery, and Greater London’s workaday residents have been priced into shabby little corners of their own metropolis so that the better parts might cater to a rogue’s gallery of international strongmen, robber barons, cronies, and dissipated, hotdogging Eurotrash wealthspawn with much respect for bitchin’ rides and none for traffic laws. In this respect, The Economist is basically complaining that Dan Bilzerian and Jamie Dimon are taxed to pay for food stamps in Altoona.
In clubbable newspaper circles, this is considered a coherent and respectable stance.
The way I ended up reading The Economist regularly was that my dad got me a subscription when I was in high school because it was generally agreed to be the Anglosphere’s premier glossy newspaper, since we don’t call The New Yorker such a thing. I’m now more woke to the anonymous house voice bullshit than my parents are, so they probably read more of me newspapah than I do. I don’t mind; they’re still the ones paying for it. When I’m picking berries for two or three dollars an hour or scavenging deposit bottles, it’s absurd to read some useless eater without a byline lecture me for somehow not having enough drive or grit or determination or work ethic or some shit.
That’s in addition to frequent instances in which the house voice is obviously taking direction from Anglo-American intelligence services. (At least it isn’t the NPR House Voice. Let us give thanks for small mercies.) An impartial, transparent international investigation has proven that MH-17 was shot down by a Russian surface-to-air missile? Oh, and Russian intelligence is responsible for the hacking of all computer servers associated with US government agencies and high officials, but not for the FSB advising the FBI that Tamerlan Tsarnaev was returning stateside from an in-service training conference with known beards in the Caucasus? Well, I’ll be General Stroganoff. Please, to the table, for beef.
This is a crowd that doesn’t care for uppity and recalcitrant servants. We, the mere people, should take our instruction meekly from a proper newspaper run by proper old boys educated at proper public schools governed by the proper amount of intramural teen rape. #WEARE! Distaff elements have been admitted to this racket in recent decades, too, so #LeanIn for some MI-6 propaganda from the sort of women who, if they were Americans, would be walking arguments for the dissolution of Greek Life. The answer to why formerly productive parts of England are so troubled and adrift isn’t Oxbridge as a vector of English class tyranny. Remember, these are cultured assholes. They’re well-bred, like Labrador Retrievers with early-onset hip dysplasia. Okay, maybe not that well-bred, but they run with High Limeys who are. That huntin’ pooch on Downton Abbey can’t have had any more hybrid vigor than the Granthams back before m’lord started boning the American chick for her money and m’lady miscegenated with the Irishman. Suitably condescending relations with Mrs. Patmore from a position of suitable privilege and taste will stop being financially viable, as will stock in the East India Company and HM Best Exotic Marigold Donbass Raj, if the mob starts demanding living wages and respect as equals for doing low-class work like raking cobnuts and shirks its duty to be butchered in the latest bankers’ war. These fine flowers of the English need cut-rate STEM trainees for their factories and state patriotic cannon fodder on standby for whenever the shadow elements either finally goad the Russkies into war with smack talk or go full Napoleon in the Gulf of Tonkin. As a classmate’s family friend asked him, in late June, “Oh, you’re in Russia! How’s winter?” It might be a pertinent question even today. It’s less pertinent in Yemen, the republic whose joint US-Saudi pulverization is already being justified with a Tonkin-style false flag.
England and the Anglosphere would be much improved if the English more reliably had the ticker to tell their overlords to take their public assistance money and bugger back off to Balmoral, you miserable Hun. If the Germans Within actually found this suggestion agreeable and acted on it, of course, they might provoke the Scots to expedite their own threatened Meta Brexit, so maybe a prolonged royal retreat to Wales would be more advisable. God knows why the Welsh so graciously humor that shit. Maybe they don’t really care for it but air their grievances in their impenetrable local gibberish, like trees falling in a forest that eye has not seen. Regardless, they seem awfully patient with this horseshit, coming as it does from interloping, generationally parasitic second-order foreigners.
Going east from Greater Llanfairgofochmeinmearsscholoch, support for monarchical wankery tends to drop off as one goes north, sometimes hard. Midlanders, Northerners, and Scotsmen–the ultimate Northerners–are serious peoples who ask serious questions, including why the fuck they’re still forced to pay for that useless wankery on account of their default national allegiance to a government that can hardly be bothered to give them a hand. Heirs to the throne have to be suspected of active fifth-column sympathies with the enemy in wartime to be hounded into abdication, and even then they’re given government sinecures in the Caribbean. The citizens of prosperous parts of Great Britain may not mind this so much, since their government is delivering THEM the goods, but the citizens of the chronically neglected parts are forced to be grown-up enough to ask what the fuck they can expect to get out of this rubbish. The Scots, for example, who live in some of the more prosperous shit-upon counties, can hardly even get Westminster to give them the latitude to set up and fund their own regional social welfare state because there’s always some posh or socially climbing asshole from the South of England (another country, let’s remember) who just has to make a point about compulsory self-reliance at their expense.
That is, self-reliance for those who haven’t been given lifetime leave by the British government to be useless rich white trash. I was pleasantly surprised to discover that the hooker I’ve been seeing hadn’t heard of Downton Abbey. Too many people in my life and my country have. I guess it’s a SWPL thing. Po’ Whitey would probably watch five minutes of it and wonder, Jesus Christ, what the fuck is wrong with these assholes. *Very George Orwell voice* Salvation, Winston thought, would come from the proles. *Resume regular programming* There are some perfectly serious and perfectly reasonable questions that might be asked of the High Limeys, such as, all right, we get it that your whole lot needs public assistance because you’re all useless, but explain again why in all hell we should honor any of you for your dependency. John “Bye Bye” McLaughlin mentioned five or six years ago that republican sentiment in Great Britain had been polled as high as 25% nationally, so they haven’t all been brainwashed to hell.
The point is that, as the citizens of sovereign governments, or as the subjects of sovereigns, we’re all forced to pay taxes to fund a variety of government expenditures, some of them objectionable, because we live under a social contract and shit, but this doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t ridicule those who have been given the hereditary privilege to lavishly waste public funds on their own opulent upkeep when they serially beclown themselves and are of no tangible talent or use to anyone. As a corollary, we absolutely should ridicule anyone who tries to shame a dole bugger for sitting around a council flat in Brixton all day with a thumb up his ass in a country that also disburses public funds for some old lady to pretend that she enjoys tikka masala and make awkward small talk with visiting German footballers, on the premise that this embarrassing bollocks is “majesty.” Like, you guys have a problem with entitled losers not working, and you still appropriate public funds to pay for THAT?
Here’s another way to look at it: a famished rough sleeper could get into legal trouble for butchering and eating a swan for sustenance, but if Prince Harry gets royally trashed and does the same thing at three in the morning just kind of because, that’s probably no worse than a family discipline problem. Grandmother might be displeased.
The Economist is staffed by assholes who not only humor this regime as bystanders but actively defend it, then turn around and complain about how the parasitic poor are being lavished with moral hazard by indulgent elements in their own governments. It’s problematic that they vote for such indulgence, even at the expense of upstanding Londoners with no skill set but white-collar crime and alcoholism. They might use their franchise to onerously tax the international failsons of Mayfair. Perhaps that is too much democracy. The wrong sorts abuse such processes. The internet runs over with the wisdom of Alexander Tytler (sic) warning that this rabble is shown inevitably to vote itself the treasury and thereby sell itself back into bondage, in a cycle of inexorable suck. Having to pay taxes to a functioning government in exchange for government services is, of course, a convenient form of bondage for those who would like to distract the public from the literal, and, under international law, illegal bondage of Global Southerners in service to the Gulf Arab royal families that send their legion failspawn to nice parts of London for extended dirtbag rumspringa. A rabble might vote to start taxing this scum, and that would be most unfortunate.
It gets even worse. The Economist has apparently been running articles and editorials (if I may repeat myself) excusing the poor banks and their poor white collar criminals for their systemic criminality, because they’re all victims of crooked corporate cultures. John Stumpf just got mixed up with the wrong crowd, that’s all. I have reasons for no longer joyously seeking out unread issues of me newspapah. It’s unfuckingbelievable. Up next: motion to acquit Celeste Guap’s rapists because they were employees of systemically dirty police departments that encouraged rape under color of authority and harbored cops they suspected of using their commissions to facilitate rape. Have her come back when she’s been raped by Anthony Rollins. Put her in a time warp to Anchorage and 2006, and then we’ll talk.
This is how venally retarded they are. We dasn’t prosecute these criminals because they were all hanging out with a bunch of criminals at work and everyone had just kind of fallen into a life of crime, but it is great righteousness to lecture the poor about how lazy they are for honestly receiving public assistance and badger their elected officials about the moral necessity of reforming policy to use a combination of Pavolvian incentives and threats of destitution to compel the poor to become hotep on demand. But lol no, we can’t provide jobs on demand for poors who are trying to be hotep, because that would be socialism. Also, never mind the goal of full employment that the Clinton machine purged from the Democratic Party platform in the course of thrusting Rahm Emanuel’s steak knife into the Great Compression.
The BBC ran an item the other night about how highbrow Britons can’t function in diplomatic negotiations with Germans (EU stuff, so maybe important) because they’ve all been trained by their finishing schools and their governesses to demur when offered a biscuit and wait for the biscuit tray to come around again, and this is now problematic because German diplomats figure you didn’t want the biscuit. Funny thing: so would Onslow. You wanna biscuit, Dickie? What kind of biscuit is it, Onslow? Oy dunno, give it a try, Dickie. *NOW RICHAAHHHD!*
Is there anything that these fuckers won’t ruin with their mere touch? These assholes train their young to be Japanese in their inscrutability, and now their country’s entire diplomatic service can’t function in talks with counterparts from the Continental neighbor that calved off their own royal family in modern times. This is absolutely batshit fucking insane.
This is no natural aristocracy. It’s a bunch of stuck-up asswipes who condescend to honest, decent people for not having been drilled in their own class’s systematic training to code-switch when Maggie Smith walks into the parlor with a tray of ginger snaps and act like the fucking Sphinx, as one does. Any country that leaves its foreign policy in the hands of people who have been conditioned to act like this will be on the skids in short order. No, Britain already is, and it isn’t hard to see why. Put that deplorable into your hand basket and let it float down into hell, Lord Grantham.
I can’t speak on behalf of all poors, but I can speak behalf of many:
If you offer us jobs, we can get jobs.
I have a job offer, pending a background check, because I interviewed today with sane people who were actually looking to hire, not data-mining assholes looking for dog-and-pony tricks from the reserve army of the unemployed.
If you give us money, we’ll have more money. Let me know of any Ephesians 3:20 bottle deposits (heh) in places that haven’t occurred to me.
I, for one, welcome the money and the cash. So does the entire Economist staff and its entire target audience. It’s just that I’d rather not be a passive-aggressive, insincere piece of shit about it, because I have a sense of self-respect to dignify. Even at rock bottom, each one of us can cling bitterly to as much as that.
It depends on what kind of biscuit you’re offering me, Onslow, but I’m all ears.
Coffee: Gobias some already.