New forecast: the pound will rally to level with the paperclip
Philip Hammond’s Budget seems to have been largely well received. One bone of contention, however, has been the dire set of economic forecasts from the Office for Budget Responsibility. “This is the first time in modern history,” reported Ed Conway of Sky News, “that the official UK GDP growth forecasts are below two per cent every single year over the forecast horizon.” Tory MP Jacob Reesmogg, however, dismissed the forecasts as “too gloomy”.
Should we be worried? Or is the OBR being unduly pessimistic?
To help you judge for yourself, here are its forecasts in full.
2018
Economic growth of 1.4 per cent (downgraded from 1.6 per cent).
2019
Economic growth of 1.3 per cent (downgraded from 1.7 per cent).
2020
Economic growth of 1.3 per cent (downgraded from 1.9 per cent).
2021
All public sector staff now paid in shells and pretty buttons.
2022
Pension age raised to 104.
2023
School leaving age reduced to six.
2024
Masterchef is won by a contestant serving a menu of squirrel tartare, pan-fried rat and tennis shoe brûlée.
2025
Manchester City make Harry Kane the highest-paid player in the Premier League, signing him on a deal rumoured to be worth as much as £4 a week.
2026
Chancellor John Mcdonnell welcomes signs of a revival in the property market, as the average house price in London breaches double figures.
2027
The pound rallies, ending the year level with the paperclip, although it falls slightly against the cough sweet.
2028
On Grand Designs, Kevin Mccloud helps a couple from Derbyshire build their dream home out of sticks, chicken wire and an old tarpaulin.
2029
Cats become legal tender.
Perhaps the defining characteristic of a three-yearold is single-mindedness. It’s certainly true of my son – and it’s making Christmas shopping somewhat tricky. He’s decided that, for Christmas this year, he wants a green watch… and absolutely nothing else. Why he should want a watch, green or otherwise, I have no idea, because he can’t tell the time. Nonetheless, he’s adamant that he must have it. So adamant, in fact, that it’s all he’s asking for. He refuses to make any other suggestions. “Yes, darling, we know you want a green watch. But perhaps Santa Claus would like to get you some other presents, too. And your grandparents, and your cousins and aunts and uncles. What could they get you?”
“Green watch.”
“They can’t all get you a green watch. You can’t wear dozens of green watches at once. Your arms are too little. What else would you like?” “Green watch.”
“Some Duplo? A Transformer? A nice train set?”
“Green watch.”
I’ve said before that my son would make the perfect addition to our Brexit negotiating team, and the past couple of weeks have only reinforced this conviction. When it comes to the crunch, his iron-willed resistance to compromise could prove crucial.
His one weakness as a negotiator, however, is his belief in Santa Claus. Any time he misbehaves, it’s all too easily used against him.
“Hello, is that Santa Claus?” says my wife loudly into her phone. “Yes, it’s Mummy. I’m afraid our little boy’s being very naughty today. What’s that? You’re not going to give him the green watch after all?”
Our son stares, his eyes round as saucers.
“Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that,” continues my wife into the phone. “Oh, you’re going to give him one last chance? He can still have the green watch if he stops being naughty right now, and behaves like a very good boy? Oh, that’s very kind of you, Santa Claus. I’ll let him know.”
People knock the commercialisation of Christmas, but for parents it’s a tremendous help.
Middle age is upon me: I’ve started collecting vinyl. To men of my generation, this is as sure a sign of ageing as sprouting ear hair.
I’m not buying records to play them, though. I don’t have a record player, and I’m not planning to get one. I’m buying records purely for their artwork. I stick their sleeves up on the wall of my study, instead of photos or paintings. I love to just sit and look at them.
In the days of vinyl, the sleeve of an album or single could be a thing of beauty. It really seemed to matter. Once the public switched to CDS, the quality of artwork seemed to decline. Inevitable, I suppose: CDS were smaller, so there was less space for the artist to work with, and the horrible plastic cases made even the best covers look cheap. Then music went digital, and artwork was reduced to an unnoticed thumbnail on itunes.
Directly above my desk I’ve stuck a vinyl copy of Everyday is Like Sunday, a single by Morrissey from 1988. I love the cover. It’s just so him. It’s a simple but perfectly composed close-up of the man himself turning away from the camera, while shielding his face with a weary hand.
He looks as if he’s just heard some deeply dispiriting news, possibly about the future of the music business.