The hum of low gear economic activity vibrates gently through the streets of England, despite our collective challenges. It doesn’t really look any different; the world continues on its steady course, McDonalds still offers cut price cooked chicken patties and Costa still flogs coffee by the bucket load.
Uninformed ram-raiders may occasionally smash through the dusty windows of Woollies, only to peer through their windscreens in disbelief at the empty shelves. Angered by the vacant Pic ‘N’ Mix trays, they may try driving through the front window of Zavvi too; but alas there’s nothing of worth to be found there either.
Armed only with an abandoned cardboard cut out of the Lost cast, the decanted ram raider will be hard pushed to find a buyer, despite the charms of Evangeline Lilly. No one, we’re told, has the cash.
Yet the worst economic crisis of recent times doesn’t, on the whole, seem that bad. Britain still has Talent, Big Brother is still watching, though who’s watching it is more of a mystery. In the pleasant dry heat of a June day, the worst downturn in living memory doesn’t look that memorable.
The streets still bear the fruits of the Kebab House elite, digested and not. Saturday’s oh-just-this-once frivolities are still affordable, as is the cleanup effort on Sunday morning. The British just don’t want to stop buying, at least not when it comes to lager and late night treats.
And after all, we’re following the lead from the Mother of Parliaments. If our hard working representatives can’t do without properly heated swimming pools – why should we do without our weekly visit to the depths of a Wetherspoon’s lavatory bowl?
