The World... Explained #2: The Economy
Now, I know what you're thinking. Snore snore, who cares? Am I right?
But that's where you're wrong. A brief understanding of the economy is vital for any responsible citizen. If nothing else, you'll get to read the Financial Times and mutter comments about the retail price index to look clever.
As the degenerate piece of human filth that you are, however, you might at least come to understand why the war in Afghanistan has forced up the price of the smack that makes your life in at least some small way tolerable.
To illustrate the workings of the economy, I would like to tell the story of one Rufus.
Rufus was a small, ragged dog made of metal. Homeless, destitute and hungry he wandered the streets of London, begging for scraps of food. One day, he found himself lucky enough to win second place in a beauty contest and he became the recipient of ten pounds sterling. On his way to the casino on the Old Kent Road to try his luck, he noticed a property for sale at auction, its previous owner bankrupt. Figuring it as good a place to stay as any, he made a bid of £10. There were no other bidders, most people finding the adjoining mural of the word "GO" in letters fifty feet tall something of an eyesore.
The proud owner of his own house, Rufus found that there were many rooms still lying empty. So, he started his own business, renting out the rooms to passers-by at cut throat prices. Making a handsome profit in this way, he continued to roam the streets and soon found property for sale a short distance away in Whitechapel Road. Investing some of the money he was given by a mysterious stranger for passing the 'GO' mural, he expanded his business. Things were starting to look up for Rufus; business was booming and he soon could afford to construct luxury hotels on both sites.
He quickly became a huge property mogul, the likes of which London had not seen since the mid eighties, when Rupert Murdoch's left boot had bought up vast swathes of Soho. Rufus dined only in the finest restaurants on the finest pet food that money could buy. He soon owned much of central London and was making a killing from it.
At this point again, Rufus got lucky. The Conservative government of the time was selling off national assets at cut throat prices, and Rufus invested wisely in utilities companies and in London's largest railway stations. The streets were truly lined with gold.
Suddenly, Rufus' world collapsed. His company became subject to investigation by the Monopolies and Mergers Commission, and share price plummeted. He immersed himself in a world of liquor and drugs. He was accused of stealing from the company's pension fund to pay spiralling loan repayments, and was convicted and sent to jail. He was sent directly to jail. He did not pass go. He did not collect £200.
While serving his time, Rufus could do nothing to prevent the total collapse of his company. He was released a washed-up addict with a modicum of infamy. He was left facing the only option available to such dregs of society; he appeared on Celebrity Big Brother.
It was here that he finally met his untimely end. He was mistaken by a drunken Anthea Turner for a Werther's Original and swallowed whole.
The moral of this story is clear; if you hope to make money from investment, you should not trust all your money to small metallic dogs. It is generally accepted that irons have a much more rigourous approach to modern analytical economics, and studies have shown them to go on 68% fewer crack binges.
But that's where you're wrong. A brief understanding of the economy is vital for any responsible citizen. If nothing else, you'll get to read the Financial Times and mutter comments about the retail price index to look clever.
As the degenerate piece of human filth that you are, however, you might at least come to understand why the war in Afghanistan has forced up the price of the smack that makes your life in at least some small way tolerable.
To illustrate the workings of the economy, I would like to tell the story of one Rufus.
Rufus was a small, ragged dog made of metal. Homeless, destitute and hungry he wandered the streets of London, begging for scraps of food. One day, he found himself lucky enough to win second place in a beauty contest and he became the recipient of ten pounds sterling. On his way to the casino on the Old Kent Road to try his luck, he noticed a property for sale at auction, its previous owner bankrupt. Figuring it as good a place to stay as any, he made a bid of £10. There were no other bidders, most people finding the adjoining mural of the word "GO" in letters fifty feet tall something of an eyesore.
The proud owner of his own house, Rufus found that there were many rooms still lying empty. So, he started his own business, renting out the rooms to passers-by at cut throat prices. Making a handsome profit in this way, he continued to roam the streets and soon found property for sale a short distance away in Whitechapel Road. Investing some of the money he was given by a mysterious stranger for passing the 'GO' mural, he expanded his business. Things were starting to look up for Rufus; business was booming and he soon could afford to construct luxury hotels on both sites.
He quickly became a huge property mogul, the likes of which London had not seen since the mid eighties, when Rupert Murdoch's left boot had bought up vast swathes of Soho. Rufus dined only in the finest restaurants on the finest pet food that money could buy. He soon owned much of central London and was making a killing from it.
At this point again, Rufus got lucky. The Conservative government of the time was selling off national assets at cut throat prices, and Rufus invested wisely in utilities companies and in London's largest railway stations. The streets were truly lined with gold.
Suddenly, Rufus' world collapsed. His company became subject to investigation by the Monopolies and Mergers Commission, and share price plummeted. He immersed himself in a world of liquor and drugs. He was accused of stealing from the company's pension fund to pay spiralling loan repayments, and was convicted and sent to jail. He was sent directly to jail. He did not pass go. He did not collect £200.
While serving his time, Rufus could do nothing to prevent the total collapse of his company. He was released a washed-up addict with a modicum of infamy. He was left facing the only option available to such dregs of society; he appeared on Celebrity Big Brother.
It was here that he finally met his untimely end. He was mistaken by a drunken Anthea Turner for a Werther's Original and swallowed whole.
The moral of this story is clear; if you hope to make money from investment, you should not trust all your money to small metallic dogs. It is generally accepted that irons have a much more rigourous approach to modern analytical economics, and studies have shown them to go on 68% fewer crack binges.
