Saturday, 12 November 2016

Athens 2016 #7 - poem

I'm tired of all this unproductive bile;
I'd rather we could just shake hands and smile.
Why don't we sit and natter for a while?

I see that you're suspecting me of guile
- I have, it's true, described your views as vile - 
but someone has to go the extra mile

before we're all completely fucked

Friday, 11 November 2016

Athens 2016 #5 - Embassies

(A few days ago, I went for a stroll and found myself in the Embassy quarter of Athens.  I drafted this blog immediately afterwards.  Since then (a) somebody yesterday threw a hand grenade at the French Embassy, (b) I learned that someone called Barack Obama is visiting Athens next week, (c) someone called Real Donald Trump was elected President of the United States of America and (d) Chancellor Angela Merkel responded to said election with the most important statement of Enlightenment values for decades.  All of which throws new and interesting light on what follows...)

It had not been my intention to be photographed by the security system surrounding the US Embassy in Athens, but given the vaguely circular route of my walk it was probably inevitable.  I didn’t know it was the Embassy at first: it looked more like a prison, or a fort.

I was disguised as a heavily tanned middle-aged white man wearing only a t-shirt and jeans.  I was carrying a black rucksack slung over one shoulder.  I stopped provocatively in front of some gates and took photos.  Of course they were going to react.

The US Embassy occupies an entire city block.  I was able to walk around it.  By the time I reached the third and, especially, the fourth sides, they knew I was coming.  Burly uniformed men on walkie-talkies watched me.  I couldn’t decide whether to try to look more threatening or less.

I stood on the opposite side of the road, here:

and took another photo:

Ha! I am protected from the mightiest nation on earth by several lanes of Athenian traffic!  (As anyone familiar with Athenian driving habits will know, this is actually more reassuring than it sounds.)

I wandered off, satisfied with the pebble I had thrown, through the rest of what I now realised was the ‘Embassy quarter’ – Portuguese, French, Argentinean…  A goodly chunk of the north eastern district of central Athens is maintained, it would seem, entirely by ambassadorial largesse.

Ah.  The British Embassy.

Actually, that’s a little unfair.  There’s also this:

and, er, by way of security, monogrammed and movable 'No parking' signs:

So, suddenly we can see how the history and present of global power is manifest: on the one side, a monstrous projection of defensive and aggressive posturing, an entire city block laid waste and replaced by a brutal excrescence of Uncle Sam’s commitment to making sure that whoever the fuck you are you don’t forget who’s boss; over here, a decaying remnant of former grandeur, still clinging to a belief of relevance, still hoping that a formidable ‘No parking’ sign will not only deter the would-be aggressor (have they seen how people park in Athens?) but will also signal some ineffable set of ‘British’ values to inspire both visitors and passers-by.

Rather than make them laugh or cringe.

Then – the Germans.  Of course.  They, like every other member of the European Union, fly not only their own national flag but also the flag of the union.  (Well, I say ‘every other member’; but there is of course one that does not…) They choose not to fortify themselves like either the Americans (behind immense barricades of steel) or the British (behind immensely powerful No Parking signs.)  In fact, the German Embassy is simply present on the street:

So there we go: the entire character of three great nations effortlessly and beautifully expressed through the metaphor of their respective Embassies: the Americans – wealthy, over-bearing, paranoid; the British – polite, bemused, declining; the Germans - modern, understated, straightforward.

Let’s hope the Germans don’t panic.

Thursday, 10 November 2016

Five reasons why Trump is Thatcher

It occurs to me that Trump is America's Thatcher:

  • both have backgrounds as tradesfolk - Trump is a 'businessman' and Thatcher was the daughter of a grocer

  • both (partly as a result) are not merely anti-Establishment, they are outsiders in their own parties (Thatcher was loathed by the patrician class of old-school Tories)

  • both arrive as vigorous reformers against a background of (real or perceived) ossification (in Thatcher's case the background was post-World War II corporatism, the 'sick man of Europe' label, the winter of discontent etc; in Trump's case, the failure of the US Establishment to distribute the benefits of globalisation, the failure to control its debt etc)

  • both evoke extreme reactions among both the general public and the commentariat - there is no middle ground with either of them, people either love them or hate them

  • both have a weird thing with hair

Make of it what you will.  

Wednesday, 9 November 2016

In the event of a scary future, run to the past

So I had intended that this missive would be a light-hearted piece on the Athenian's fondness for shoes – but then I woke up and remembered it’s 2016, so Donald Trump has been elected President of the USA.

Somehow this doesn’t feel as shocking as the Brexit result; but that’s probably because I’m still numb from June.

Either that or I actually believe my own analysis, which is that very large numbers of ordinary people across the western world are angry and confused at how things are panning out for them and they will vote for anyone – literally, anyone – who appears to recognise their pain.  Millions and millions of ordinary people in the US and the UK do not pay attention to current affairs, do not involve themselves in the complexities of globalisation, do not think too often about climate change, do not wonder too much about the relationships between economic growth, debt, tax avoidance, productivity, automation, media ownership, employment, finite natural resources and so forth.  They just want a steady job, a decent house, healthy kids and something to look forward to.

But what is there to look forward to?  More jobs going to other countries?  More people coming here to compete for the remaining jobs?  More expensive housing? Fewer holidays?

Once upon a time I wrote a piece (god knows which hard drive it’s on) suggesting that one of the side-effects of the Cold War was that it provided an underpinning purpose to headline economic activity – by which I meant, the reason to keep on spending and growing and running around as fast as possible was to be as strong as possible in order to counter the obvious threat.  It was a ‘deep frame’, a pervasive myth, a macro-political narrative that justified a whole host of economic policies and actions.  It was tantamount to a duty to be a good consumer, because that was how to maintain the economic strength upon which you and your country’s safety depended.

With the end of the Cold War, that narrative has progressively ebbed away – and behind, there is nothing.  A great existential hole.  What is the point of all this?  Where are we going?  Why?

No one will or can say.

Add in twenty or so years of 'post-person' globalisation, then the crash of 2008 (and its still unfolding aftermath) and – hey presto - we start to go backwards: in the UK, through Brexit, to a time of Empire and ‘sovereignty’, to those re-imagined sepia-tinted ‘good old days’; in the US, through Trump, to a time when America was ‘great’, when all right thinking white folk had good jobs working for great companies, when women and blacks knew their place.  We go backwards to those re-imagined certainties because the future is so frightening: the Chinese in charge? Climate change flooding us out?  Robots doing all the work?

Perhaps the greatest failure of the liberals, the political establishment, the experts, the ‘Front Row Kids’ et al has not been so much in not hearing, or listening to, or comprehending or even empathising with all that bewilderment, but in not developing and then proposing a Good Future.


Deep down, I am optimistic that such a project is possible; and it is, self-evidently, more urgent now that it has ever been.

But now is not the time to begin to sketch what I think might be involved in such a project; nor is it a time for optimism.  (I note my own optimism, and store it in the cellar.)  Now is a time for pain and disbelief, for tears and grieving, for that sensation of shock whereby all the news, all the work, all the ordinary everyday stuff suddenly seems pointless.  Now is a time to allow the numbness to approach and to take hold, knowing that it will pass.  Then, and only then, will it be feasible to act.

Tuesday, 8 November 2016

Athens 2016 #4 - poem


A crack opens, suddenly, unexpectedly
and I tumble back two decades
into a giant lake of love and play
where my children’s smiles radiate like gold
where the smell of ironing their shirts fills my chest
where everything is a game, or will be soon, even the washing up
where the living room is a great plain, covered with creatures 
     and figurines and imagination
where excitement at a forthcoming journey is physical
where I always finish work on time to collect the boys
     from school
where fights and tears are vapours
where cooking a family meal is an endless experiment in fun
where each morning brings a new and wondrous achievement
where the past is overwritten every day
where the future is a realm of pure potential
where the present is all there is

So fully present were we in that present
it leaves no trace
no memory
just shapes, and hues, and
invisible fissures

A small price to pay
for all that joy

(Ironically the crack was opened by Kate Bush's 'Bertie'; both my sons really dislike her music...)

Monday, 7 November 2016

Athens 2016 #3 - poem

[This a thank you to Stephen Mitchell, translator of The Iliad and The Odyssey, both of which I've taken the opportunity to read whilst in Athens.]

[Needless to say, both the dactylic hexameter of Homer's original and the 'minimally iambic five-beat line' of Mitchell's translations are beyond me, so I stuck to a good-old-fashioned sonnet for safety's sake.]

And with confidence in his judgment…

I sat in sand-swept Pylos like a king
and asked that I might find the words to sing
my thanks to he that journeyed back in time
to bring the matchless gifts of Homer’s rhyme.

As when the juices from the finest peach
elide the tongue and memory to teach
the lesson – while the flesh will feed us now
the stone inside begets tomorrow’s bough –

so too the master offers to his guest
the treasures that will live within his breast,
not merely to fulfil each given role
but truly to refresh the weary soul.

One day, of course, the story will be gone;
for now – thank Zeus! – the odyssey goes on.

Sunday, 6 November 2016

Athens 2016 #2 - poem

[On meeting someone who was unable to recall the name Georges Perec, author of 'La Disparition', a novel written without using the letter 'e']

L'usiv (Looking for Prc)

our familiar companion is lost
as on many occasions past

No historical insight
    assists us
No logical inquiry
    supports our loss
No divination
    can catch this ghost

You and I know
that to hunt for him
is folly
You and I know simply
to wait

His arrival is invariably swift
His stay is always joyous
His vanishing is instant

Saturday, 5 November 2016

Athens 2016 #1 - poem

My older brother
was in trouble.
He had spent all his money,
borrowed heavily,
cheated his creditors
and lied to his friends.
He had become so desperate
he had been selling some of his cherished possessions
he had become so distressed
he was no longer able to earn money
with his hard-earned skills and experience.

He asked for my help.

I am in a fortunate position:
my businesses have prospered and
I am wealthy.

I could easily have given him the money
that he needed.
I could easily have directed some of my businesses
to give him work.
I could easily have offered him
an open hand.

But I did not.

Perhaps I had misunderstood his condition.
Perhaps I had become selfish and narrow.
Perhaps I had fallen under the sway
of arguments from people
whose view of the world is
and short.

I decided it would be best
to lend him more money
but only under the strictest of conditions.
I obliged him
to list all his remaining belongings
and to make provision for selling them.
I obliged him
to start earning money again
however he could
and to repay me in instalments
on a regular basis.
I obliged him
to submit to frequent and detailed inspections
of every aspect of his life
so that I could be sure
I would get my money back.

I humiliated him.

At first he was angry
and he shouted and protested
and accused me of trying to crush him.
For a while
he refused my offers
and his situation worsened.
he called me
and agreed to my terms.

Now he is laid low.
Now he is crawling on the ground,
peddling trinkets and
collecting loose change.
He is able to pay me the interest I demanded
but no more.
Now his home is crumbling
and his visitors leave only the smallest of gifts
in return for his hospitality.
the crazed and magnificent sparkle in my brother's eye
is hidden
perhaps gone.

Now, I am ashamed.
At his time of need
I thought only of myself.
Now, even if I forgive him his debts -
as I surely must -
and restore his house -
as I surely must -
and honour his name -
as I surely must -
he may never forgive me

and he may never return.

Monday, 25 July 2016

21st Century Leadership

Digging through some old papers recently I found a 1997 review of 'Leading People' by Amin Rajan. Turns out that it's no longer in print, but back in the late 90s it caught the attention of the Royal Society of Arts, Manufacture & Commerce [disclosure: I'm a Fellow of the RSA] as they grappled with the idea of 'tomorrow's leaders'.

Well, tomorrow has arrived, so it's interesting to note the five key skills identified in that yesterday as being the kind of thing we by now need:

  1. ability to inspire trust and motivation
  2. visioning
  3. ability and willingness to listen
  4. strategic thinking
  5. interpersonal skills

Hmm.  Looks like a persuasive list.  How does your (preferred) leader match up?

Friday, 8 July 2016

To the tune of Eleanor Rigby

Oliver Letwin

Ah, look at all the lonely voters
Ah, look at all the lonely voters

Oliver Letwin sits in the chair in room where a meeting has been
Lives in a dream
Waits for an answer, wearing the face that he stole from a child by the door
Who is it for?

All the lonely voters
Where do they all come from?
All the lonely voters
Where do they all belong?

Andrea Leadsom promising sunshine and God and a life without fear
No one comes near
Look at her flirting, teasing the Tories at home as they blue rinse their hair
What does she care?

All the lonely voters
Where do they all come from?
All the lonely voters
Where do they all belong?

Ah, look at all the lonely voters
Ah, look at all the lonely voters

Our referendum gave us the chance to decide and to allocate blame
Nobody came
All of the experts wiping the dirt from their hands as they walk from the grave
No one was saved

All the lonely voters (Ah, look at all the lonely voters)
Where do they all come from?
All the lonely voters (Ah, look at all the lonely voters)
Where do they all belong?

Tuesday, 14 June 2016

An open letter about the EU referendum

I have watched with growing alarm and disbelief as the EU referendum campaign has unfolded these past months.  As a parent, citizen and professional economist I am filled with dread at the prospect the UK will vote to leave the EU.

It seems to me that the general population’s distrust of ‘the Establishment’ is now so complete that there are no institutions or individuals whose arguments to remain will be believed.  How else to explain the latest polls?  It seems that a hundred or so MPs, fronted by a handful of high-rhetoric, low-fact politicians, are proving more persuasive than the IMF, the IFS, the Bank of England, the President of the United States, the UK government, the leaders of all major UK parties…

I am determined that, should the worst occur, I shall not look back and say: I did nothing.  I am therefore writing to ask every reader to remember that the EU referendum is not about Boris or immigration or short-term economic discomfort.  It is a profound geo-political choice between being alone or being with friends.  Once, perhaps, this was a sufficiently mighty nation to countenance such isolation; now, confronting the challenges of climate change, globalisation, terrorism and ceaselessly disruptive technological change, it is only by working closely with others that we can realistically hope to prosper in the long run.

So, I ask: please do not allow your distrust of ‘them’ to justify a vote to leave the EU.  Instead, reflect on how much better it always is, when trying to get difficult things done, to work with friends and colleagues; and vote Remain.

Friday, 11 March 2016

Tackling obesity - big fish and small fry

It is in the spirit of the age to believe that any fact, no matter how suspect, is superior to any imaginative exercise, no matter how true.
Gore Vidal

The McKinsey Global Institute produced a terrific report in November 2014 called “How the world could better fight obesity”.

The report sets out the scale of the obesity crisis, and its costs.  Obesity is up there with smoking and war as a global killer.  It costs billions and billions, both directly and indirectly.

The McKinsey report identifies 74 interventions to tackle obesity that have been discussed or piloted somewhere in the world; and presents analysis for 44 of these where there is “sufficient evidence to estimate what might be the potential costs and impact”.

The report’s first and headline conclusion is that:

“Based on existing evidence, any single intervention is likely to have only a small overall impact on its own. A systemic, sustained portfolio of initiatives, delivered at scale, is needed to address the health burden.”

I think the key phrase here is “based on existing evidence”.  It is supposed to make us think that the conclusions drawn are credible and correct.  Who, after all, can refute the ‘evidence’?

The problem, however, is that all the evidence comes from inside a system-wide failure.  Each individual intervention may, as the report points out, be ‘cost effective for society’, but there is no reason to suppose that adding up a small hill of beans will make anything other than a hill of beans.  Their conclusion misunderstands the nature of complex systems. 

Sometimes, as I once heard Michael Grade put it, you have to slap them in the face with a fish.

Bad Habits, Hard Choices proposes negative VAT on healthy foods and high VAT on unhealthy foods.  There is no ‘pilot’ for this; and McKinsey are not in a position to assess the ‘evidence’.  But it is a system-level intervention, designed in light of what we know about how real people behave in the real world, requiring only the courage to pick the thing up by the tail and swing it hard.

If it fails – we’ll have wasted a few million pounds, maybe a few tens of millions of pounds, on a deliberative exercise and some administration.  Given the scale of the current crisis, this may be no more than a couple of weeks’ worth of current annual health spending on obesity.

If it works – we might just jolt the whole system onto a new trajectory, one in which virtuous cycles of health replace the vicious cycles of obesity in which we have become trapped.

Thursday, 3 March 2016

New Poem - Soul worm

the towpath grew too dense.
Thick scallops hewn from summer light
were scattered like forgotten charms
across the gravelled lane
befuddling the eye and
hobbling the feet.

Only then
the craft appeared,
its curious and gawdy prow
a portent of the carnival
in tumult on the longboat's roof.

Exotic plumes of ancient smoke
sang skyward from a mighty grill
where dripping cuts of unseen meat
surrendered to their final flame;
and someone from the labyrinth,
perhaps enchanted by the light,
called clearly to the nervous bank:
Some soul food, friend?

From on the deck
we know that life
is but a dream
glimpsed fleeting and
either side of our canal.
Look! we cry
from time to time - 
it's me!
And laughter like a long-lost friend
erupts before condensing
into hazel seeds of hope.

Tuesday, 23 February 2016

Bad Habits and Commitment Devices

In my new book Bad Habits, Hard Choices, one of the key elements of my argument – an argument that says we should apply negative VAT to healthy foods and high VAT to unhealthy foods – is that we should re-cast VAT not as simply a tax, but as a ‘commitment device’.  My thinking on this has been crucially informed by two books in particular:
  • “The Challenge of Affluence: Self-Control and Well-Being in the United States and Britain Since 1950” by Professor Avner Offer of Oxford University
  • “Strategies of Commitment and Other Essays” by Professor Thomas Schelling of Harvard University

With these in mind, I found myself contemplating the idea that, to all intents and purposes, everybody already knows that it really isn’t a good idea to drink all those sugar-in-suspension fizzy drinks, to eat so much salt and red meat and doughnuts.  But they all seem so tempting!  Our fragile animal brains, still driven by all those evolutionary millennia, guiding us remorselessly to the decision: just one more chocolate…

We don’t succumb all the time, of course; virtually all of us have had the experience of ‘resisting temptation’.  To a greater or lesser extent, we assert ‘self control’ – see Offer - in the face of the marketing onslaught.  Sometimes, on an idle Tuesday, we have had enough; and we pledge to stop smoking, drinking and eating ready meals.  We pledge to stop giving in to our children’s demands for the latest ridiculous drink they’ve seen advertised; we pledge to give them apples instead of chocolates; we pledge to cook them a proper meal rather than throw some sauce-smothered, additive-riddled, fat-laden ready meal in the microwave.

And, wonderfully, sometimes we succeed.  How?

The name for what we do is a ‘commitment device’.  Coined by the aforementioned and marvellous Thomas Schelling, the phrase refers to a mechanism by which the You of Today imposes a constraint on the You of Tomorrow.  Setting your alarm for the morning is a commitment device: Today You knows that, unless something stops you, Tomorrow You will sleep blissfully until lunchtime.  By setting the alarm, Today You imposes an obligation to wake at a particular time on Tomorrow You.

Taking a shopping list to the supermarket is a commitment device.  (My first economics teacher explained that going to the supermarket without a shopping list was tantamount to ‘economic suicide’.)  The you that sits calmly at the kitchen table to write a list of things you need is sending instructions, and thus restrictions, to the you that will be ambling up and down the aisles of enticement in an hour or two.

Limiting your options for spending too much by visiting your local stores rather than Oxford Street is a commitment device.  Setting yourself a spending limit before you even leave the house is a commitment device.  Writing on your hand the words ‘Buy the low fat version’ is a commitment device.  Cutting up your credit card so that you are simply unable to indulge in some retail therapy is a commitment device.

Commitment devices come in differing strengths; and different behaviours require different devices.  Head to the supermarket with a scrappy list and you are only lightly defended against the onslaught; you will still need considerable will power to enforce the commitment.  Head to the Mall without a credit card, and it will be really quite difficult to spend much money.

Head to the supermarket without any plastic, on the other hand, and feeding yourself and your family would become difficult, which is rather the opposite of what one might be after.  Similarly, heading to the Mall with a list that says ‘Handbag. Watch’ is unlikely to protect you from all those luxury brands.

Schelling himself thought first about smoking – indeed, his own smoking – and extended initially to other compulsive behaviours that we humans seem so keen on.  Virtually everyone has some sort of ongoing battle, with smoking or chocolate or gambling or alcohol or picking their nails or [insert your own personal demon here, should it not already have been listed].  And virtually everyone will have, on one or - more probably - many occasions, invented some sort of commitment device in an attempt to restrict or abandon their ugly behaviour.  The you of yesterday tried really hard to come up with a cunning plan – but the you of today still found a way to have a crafty fag or slip in a bonus doughnut.

As we also know, however, sometimes these commitment devices actually work.  And it turns out there are some relatively straightforward features that distinguish effective devices from ineffective devices.  They need to be easy to use, for example; and they need to have their effect at the right time.  By some margin the most important feature that distinguishes the effective from the ineffective, however, is the extent to which it is public rather than private.  In general, a commitment device that is devised by a group and then operates in a public fashion will be more effective than a device devised by an individual and applied in isolation.

If we think about food again, for a moment, simply consider the difference between you personally deciding to reduce the number of ready meals you eat each week and a decision by your entire household to eat fewer ready meals.  You can immediately feel that not only would you individually find it harder to continue eating so many ready meals if no-one else in the household was doing so, but the whole household would find it easier to stop eating such rubbish if they had all agreed together than if each of them decided separately.

Schelling took this line of thinking the whole way.  He re-presented ‘law’ as commitment devices.  A legal statute – let’s say something like ‘it is illegal to drive a car whilst under the influence of alcohol’ – is the people of yesterday imposing a restriction on the people of today (us).  Social institutions, too, have this character, he suggests: the way a museum presents a particular cultural view of the world, the way a parliament presents a particular way of conducting debate, the way money presents a particular way of conducting exchange – all are inventions of past peoples, and act to shape or constrain the ways that the peoples of today and tomorrow see, think and behave.

And, in the same way that your shopping list or diced credit card may or may not work, may or may not be appropriate, so too with human laws and institutions.  Sometimes the people of yesteryear got it wrong and we need to amend or replace their commitment devices; the progressive repeal in recent years of the various laws against homosexuality would be a good example.

Thinking about it from this slightly bigger and longer term perspective gets us towards the idea of a ‘commitment strategy’.  Stopping an entire country smoking, for example, is the kind of thing that you can’t really do in one go.  You are probably going to need a whole host of mechanisms or ‘interventions’ or commitment devices.  A commitment strategy is a plan for such a situation, where a range of commitment devices will be necessary and where it will be important to think about which devices get used to achieve which outcomes at which times.

Note, again, the importance of the group dynamic in all this.  The commitment device known as ‘banning smoking in public places’ would have been impossible in the UK ten or twenty years earlier because smoking was still too prevalent: it was still sufficiently widespread to have the character of an injunctive norm.  By 2007, when the ban actually came into effect, smoking rates had fallen to levels whereby a sufficiently large majority of people did not smoke, to the point where the injunctive norm had flipped.  The story had changed.

Throwing all this together, and this thing we call ‘British society’ looks like a tangle of inherited commitment devices, broadly devised and implemented in a public fashion, evolving slowly, and carried around in our heads as a more-or-less tangible story that contains the rules of how to behave.  In general, and certainly if they’re going to be successful, new rules – new commitment devices – are considered and devised by our better selves, with the specific intention of trying to restrict the weaker selves that we know we will at some point be tomorrow, or the day after.

Which gets us back to shopping and unhealthy foods.  Millions of us believe, and routinely tell the nice researchers when they ask us in surveys, that our health is our top priority.  Yet we buy and eat a simply astonishing amount of food that makes us ill.  We eat food that harms our hearts, clogs our arteries, gnaws away at several vital organs and makes us fat.  The main reason we do this is not that we’re stupid; it’s not even that there is always a gap between what we say and what we do.  It’s because we are subjected unremittingly to a sophisticated assault from all sides, a surround-sound of interwoven stories that has been saturating our mammal minds for so long that we barely even notice any more.  We inhabit an environment in which ever more aspects of our lives require us to fulfil the role of consumer, a role in which we experience an intoxicating sense of choice, but in which only choices that serve the interests of capital are presented.  The asymmetry is acute; and we have not yet put in place the strategies, devices or tools to redress the imbalance.

So what if, rather than each of us battling on our own to eat the right amount of fruit, avoid the fatty rubbish, cut back on the chocolate, stop drinking the sugar-in-suspension drinks, and so on and so forth, what if instead we decided to do it together?  What if, as citizens today, we agreed on some commitment devices to control our consumer selves tomorrow? What if we could use a reformed VAT as just such a device?

In, out, in, out, shake it all about

I have two dominant anxieties about the EU referendum.

The first is encapsulated in the comic strip character Mayor Johnson.  Clever, well-educated and dangerous, Johnson has grafted a public persona of bumbling haplessness onto a private personality modelled on his hero, Winston Churchill, to whom he bears a striking and steadily increasing physical resemblance.

Great though Churchill undoubtedly was – as Johnson’s own biography of the man attests – he and his myth are inextricably linked with the narrative of Empire.  To recall Churchill is to recall the War, and Potsdam, and an England that still, just, ruled the waves.  To cite Churchill as an inspiration is to imagine that a mighty nation still exists, a nation soon to rouse from its slumbers and capable of once again shaping the world.  To imagine such a nation is to deny the challenges confronting the world of the twenty first century, and to deny, too, the realities of the past fifty or sixty years.

The denial is not Johnson’s alone, of course.  Every day, and especially every Sunday, our televisions positively groan with export-oriented costume dramas, dramatic re-creations of re-factualised pasts and pastiche documentaries about long-dead kings, queens, murderers and cults.  Seemingly terrified by an uncertain and bewildering future, huge numbers of Britons appear to take refuge in the re-imagined past, a past of certainties and authenticity, of simplicity and honour, of power and glory.  Once upon a time we were Great; and, when we were, everything else was great too.  We all want a great future – so let’s get back to being Great again.

Johnson both physically and figuratively embodies this belief.  (Trump is the American version.) He is the manifestation of a myth.  The mythological term upon which he – and others – rely is ‘sovereignty’.  And my anxiety is grounded in the potential power of that myth.

In the bright light of the facts, a few densely populated islands just off the north western seaboard of the continental landmass known as Europe are about to make a decision with fifty-year consequences.  The only – the only – rational thing to do is to remain intimate with our friends and neighbours.  To cast ourselves adrift – to have sovereignty over our own little boat as the storms grow ever fiercer – would be folly of an extreme kind.

And yet, and yet, it might actually happen, through the power of myth.

My second anxiety, reinforcing the first, comes from my experience a dozen or so years ago when I facilitated a series of discussions about whether the UK should or should not join the Euro.

London First, a business-led lobbying and campaigning group, wanted to explore whether the Euro would be good or bad for London.  I suggested that there were four possibilities:

- the UK joins the Euro, and it’s bad for London
- the UK joins the Euro, and it’s good for London
- the UK doesn’t join the Euro, and it’s bad for London
- the UK doesn’t’ join the Euro, and it’s good for London

As a half-decent economist, I was able to construct an argument in support of each of these positions.  Why not, I suggested, hold four ‘business breakfasts’.  I’ll pitch one argument – one scenario – to each breakfast. Four breakfasts, four scenarios.  We'll prompt debate and discussion, which will in turn help businesses, and London First, decide on what position to adopt.

And so it came to pass.  At each breakfast, a group of a dozen or so business folk, all pretty senior, all from major London-based businesses, all with responsibility for dealing with the issues associated with the Euro.  At each breakfast, I gave an opening presentation, setting out just one of the four possibilities – in, good; in, bad; out good, out bad.

My expectation had been that debate and discussion at each breakfast would reveal the various pros and cons, would elicit insights and perspectives from the various participants and would bring into the light the facts and figures upon which a rational decision could be based.

In fact what happened was that each and every meeting ended up agreeing with my initial presentation.  Irrespective of which scenario it was.  What became clear was that the very people who one might most have supposed would have some useful insights, perspectives, facts and figures in fact had no idea at all.  What became clear was that a single persuasive argument – a single story – could fill the vacuum.  It didn’t actually matter what the story was, so long as it was a good one.

And thus my second anxiety.  Most people, I suspect, have little or no idea whether staying in the EU is better than getting out, or vice versa.  On top of that, the people who ought to have the facts and figures probably don’t know either.  In such a vacuum, what matters is – the story, the myth.  And who tells it. If a comic-book character – quite literally, a person from a story – tells an easy-to-understand story to millions of people for whom such stories are already central to how they cope with the vicissitudes of day-to-day life, then the myth really might win.

I can hardly bear to imagine it.  So much so, I’m off to consult with the goblins and the leprechauns to see if they’ve got any bright ideas.