To
quote (narcissistically – Ed?) from my July 19th, Pincher &
Spanker ramblings “Or
perhaps the dog days of August will arrive first and we can all decamp to our
hammocks in the sun; there to recharge our depleted batteries and return in
September for - more of the same.”
It’s
September the 10th no less, and more of the same seems to dominate the menu.
The main course of “Whatever it takes – and it will be adequate”, by
master-pasta-chef Mario Draghi is starting to look a little curled up at the
edges and fly-blown (memories of Mr. Ratner’s half-life of a prawn sandwich
metaphor). Far from appetizing victuals and the worthies in pepto-bismol robes
and silly hats in Karlsruhe are suffering such serious indigestion if not food
poisoning that they may ask for a sabbatical and wait to see if Mr. Rutte is
the next Dutch PM. Everyone is pretending they are marching forward in
coordinated lock-step, when of course they are all just marking time and hoping
that something big blows up off-stage to let them off the hook of having to
make very unpopular decisions. There is only one game in Europe and it is the
avoid-the-blame game. Pass the poisoned chalice and pretend to take a sip. The
off-stage bomb awaiting detonation remains as ever in Syntagma square. The
Greek government (or what passes for one) cannot agree on the next round of
hair-shirt handouts and the Troika cannot agree that what the coalition cannot
agree meets Die Kanzlerin’s unstated conditions precedent – let alone keeps
Jens Weidmann at his Bu-Bank desk for a few more weeks. Nonetheless, the lovely
Christine is cheering them on from DC and promising IMF support for the Draghi
bazooka firing – aka shoveling cart-loads of Uncle Sam’s (broke) paper dollars
into buying Spanish Rioja bonds. The Greeks falling out with the Troika may be
the bomb they are all hoping for – but the Greek fudge option will still
probably be the bookies’ favourite (despite that all three Troika bureaucrats having
Teutonic names). Your move, Frau Angela.
Mario
and Mario have played their Machiavellian games for the summer silly season,
when the house has had few live or sentient punters, and the bond vigilantes
have cut them some slack. Not so the Spanish, Portuguese and Greek holders of
Euro’s, for whom moving their capital north has continued apace. Whatever
witches brew they attempt to sell next, and however the Karlsruhe Gang of
pinko-coats may opine, and notwithstanding a new government in Den Haag, the Spanish
Inquisition will in due course reconvene in the Star Chamber and naked Emperors
and Master-Chefs will be exposed for all to see. Full frontal nudity at
Bayreuth will have been a merely titillating curtain-raiser.
"Sink me the ship, Master Gunner—sink her, split her in twain! ... Fall into the hands of God, not into the hands of Spain!"
Or
perhaps – all will be as well as well can be in Euro-land and the Mario’s can
relax in the anticipation of Nobel’s to come. Or may be an Oscar or a Tony.
Methinks this farce is set to run and run.
Plus
ça change.
Simon
