Ambrose
is on a roll now. Delving ever deeper into the Prussian psyche to tease out the
reality of the relationships zwischen der Kanzlerin, Herr Stäuble, Jens
Weidmann, the Grundgesetz, the Bundestag, the federated Länder in the
Bundesrat, the redcoats of Karlsruhe, dem Gebrüder Grimm and the Pied Piper of
Hamelin. Looks like President Gauch has a more than ceremonial role to play to
keep the government out of Spandau. Such constitutional niceties - the terms of
treaties, the charter of the ECB and national laws are all foreign to the
philosophy of arbitrary rule by self-electing, self-perpetuating élites that
informs Club Med practice. Separation of powers - zut alors, ma derrière. (See also little Nicky Cleggy, the Deppity PM
below). So they have a very hard time even paying lip service to such Anglo-Saxon
peccadilloes. They have a pressing and desperate need, what they so lack is in
the gift of Germany, ergo Germany should pay - pronto, subito, NOW! Can’t they
feel our pain? It’s only our due under the secret codicils of the Treaty of
Lisbon (Prop. Valéry Giscard d’Estaing), - or was it Nice? Whatever. Which
simply say the French call the shots, the Germans carry water and chop wood
(and hew coal if they feel inclined) and the Brits can pay but go to hell. Ask von Ribbentrop and Molotov.
“S’not
fair!” cries Diamond Bob. “I wasn’t lying. In fact I cannot have been lying to,
nor even misleading, the Commons. I’m a banker – we can no longer tell LIBOR
from lying. I wasn’t even “less than candid” and you guys are now besmirching
my reputation for probity, self-denial, modesty, honesty, integrity,
my-word-is-my-bond, right down to my last pair of gold cuff links. It was Agius
wot was lyin’; he’s a Brit so he’s hangin’ me out to dry. S’not fair at all. I
demand a recount”.
I
wonder who’s advising Bob in his PR campaign to win the hearts and minds of
John Bull six-pack. Were I to proffer counsel, it would involve getting into
his G-V at dead of night for destinations unknown and taking the rest of the
summer on the beach. Say in Saint Trop, where no one will recognize him nor
care who he is. Very hard for a consummate Master of the Universe to keep a low
profile. So he’ll go down fighting. As an alternative, I’d advise taking a
charabanc load of inner city kids from Bow to Sarfend-on-Sea for whelks and
ice-cream. Show a bit o’ class, Guv.
When
bankers’ reputations plunge below even that of MP’s, we are at a pretty pass.
It
will seem like I’m picking on poor François Hollande before even his little
legs are under the Élysée desk. Bad enough his name is Dutch, he’s also 2” taller than the late unlamented
Snarkozy but that doesn’t graduate him out of the vertically challenged
category. So the Coldstreamers gave him all the deference he deserved while
being reviewed in London. When a guardsman is 6’ 2” and then he wears two feet
of busby on top of that, a Président of 5’ 7” is going to have a very hard time
looking Presidential. The Brigade of Guards surely cannot have set him up
intentionally? That would be unbecoming for the head of State of a close and
much loved if not trusted ally. We won’t even mention the vertically challenged
Corse and his days at Waterloo preparing for his long vac in St Helena. The
story doesn’t advise if M. Hollande had arrived at La Gare de Waterloo via
Eurostar. Maybe he can revive his spirits when returning to Paris via la Gare
d’Austerlitz and Les Invalides.
I
guess it had to happen – someone finally had to ask the question. Is the
Deppity PM a bit of a dim bulb. Bright enough to catch Dodgy Dave in his
headlights, I guess, but way too low a wattage to figure out the Tory
back-benchers, back-woodsmen, lobby fodder, and little Englanders from the
Shires fomenting subordination if not treason in the Commons watering holes. Fresh from his clinical
castration on the subject of PR, he went for the prerogatives of the Lords
spiritual and temporal and was quickly trapped with no way out, by the Tory
pack in full cry. Just as well the Master of the Hounds was there to call them
off before Cleggy was despatched in the traditional way (which of course is now
proscribed by the warm and fuzzy Control of Foxhunting Act. The legal method
involves the Master carrying a rifle to put the quarry out of its misery –
which really would have represented a quandary for Dodgy Dave).
The
Greeks must be feeling very grateful to Spain. The Euro-limelight has been
usurped by a much more prolific sinner. Rajoy has nowhere to turn. He must
choose the rock (not Gibraltar – he’s played that card already) or the hard
place. It is in Madrid that most likely something will crack with a loud report
any day now. A run on Bankia perhaps with the ECB standing aside and letting
the chips fall (on account of all Bankia collateral on offer smelling like old
sardines). At that point, Rajoy will confront his only other option. Shut the
banks and start printing nuevas Pesetas. When that happens, Super Mario 1
better be ready with a boat load of neo-Lira. It won’t be pretty.
Or
the Germans could see the light and the Karlsruhe gang opine that “mein Euro-Haus
ist dein Euro-Haus". We may not have to wait long to find out
Simon
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