Philip Lane

An Irish Economy Christmas Carol

Part One

Old Trichet was dead. This fact must be distinct or nothing of the wonder of what follows is to be understood. As dead as the French Franc.

Ebeneezer Draghi certainly understood it. He had helped to carry Old Trichet’s coffin, had buried him and now had his picture on the wall in his cramped office at Frankfurt Towers.

It was a bitingly savage Christmas Eve, and outside the windows the winds howled and boomed like giants at some kind of utterly destructive, savage play.

The markets, thought Draghi gloomily, they don’t like Christmas. They don’t like the idea of a day off, why any moment now –

“Snr, Draghi?”

And there it was: Shay Crachit was looking up expectantly from his desk.

“What is it Mr Crachit?”

“About tomorrow. Christmas Day.”

“What about it?”

“I was thinking perhaps I might have the morning off.”

“With pay I suppose.”

“It is customary, sir.”

“Certainly, Mr Crachit, now you mention it, you may have the whole day off.”

“Why thank you, sir.”

“And the whole week, and the whole month. I’m putting you on a zero hour contract.”

“What’s that, sir?”

“It’s what we’re giving everyone. No guarantee of work, no guarantee of pay, but you have to be available twenty four hours a day, seven days a week and no holidays. What do you say to that Mr. Crachit?”

“Sounds most fair sir, we workers must be grateful for what the bosses chose to create for us what with their creative ability to magic up wealth which we so sadly lack.”

“Less of the class politics, Shay. Besides, there’s no workers now.”

“Destroyed them all have we, sir?”

“No, we’re all taxpayers now. Except the bloodsucking idlers.”