Watch your back when swanning around the party scene at the World Economic Forum
We were somewhere outside Davos at the edge of the plutocracy when the drugs began to take hold. I let my investment adviser drive while I fought off invisible bondholders and we headed into the heart of darkness.
The World Economic Forum in Davos was started in 1971 by Klaus Schwab as a way of meeting chicks. It’s since become a talking shop for world leaders, famous people and anyone who can afford the €40,000 ticket price – people who know how to party.
On arriving in Davos we followed the sound of honking until we found ourselves at the convention centre. The honking was, in fact, Nassim Taleb’s black swan. The swan, some politicians and stockbrokers were listening to Klaus Schwab discussing the challenges facing the global economy. He was espousing something complicated called “resilient dynamism”.
“Klaus be trippin’!” whispered my investment adviser a little too loudly, upsetting the swan (a vicious brute), which went for his throat. A kerfuffle ensued until Dmitry Medvedev knocked the aquatic menace unconscious with one punch.
“I learned that from Putin,” he boasted, before recounting again the story of how he’d plucked a thorn from the Russian autocrat’s paw.
Ejected from the building, we proceeded to former trade-envoy Prince Andrew’s tea party. There we found George Soros and the novelist Paulo Coelho half-heartedly dancing to Gangnam Style while David Cameron said some admittedly hilarious stuff about ending tax avoidance. We surveyed the scene.
“Too many d***s on the dancefloor,” complained my investment adviser. “Where the ladies be at?”
“Dude!” said Soros appreciatively, reaching in for a high five. “It’s a total sausage festival. Let’s ditch Cameron and amscray!”
End Poverty Pool Party
We commandeered Peter Sutherland’s Goldman Sachs-monographed dune-buggy (sorry Peter, we should have asked permission) and headed for Mick Jagger’s End Poverty Pool Party. Soros nattered about the war on drugs as Medvedev drove.
“Here’s my drug policy,” said my investment adviser presenting him with a specially rolled cigarette the size of a baby’s arm. “Go short on this.”
The party really was great fun. “Cannonball!” shouted Henry Kissinger as he dived into the heated pool. “Mario!” called some blindfolded investment bankers wading around. “Monti!” responded the hiding investors.
Everyone giggled when Jagger brought Mary Robinson the wrong drink. “I’ll f***ing cut you,” growled Robinson, while Jagger apologised and stared at her home-made prison tattoos (she’s nothing like her public persona).
“Sing us a song!” Christine Lagarde was saying to a hassled businessman. “21st Century Boy maybe?”
“I’m not a singer,” said Marc Bolland. “I’m the chief executive of Marks and Spencers.” “What about Get It On?” said Lagarde.
“Yeah, sing Get It On,” ordered Mary Robinson, a pint of snakebite now nestled comfortably in her h.a.t.e. hand. “Or I’ll glass you.”
Enda Kenny was crying in the corner because some bigger boys had bullied him about the tiny size of his corporate tax rate. This evoked sympathy in Soros, who can’t bear to see political leaders in tears if he hasn’t personally devalued their currency.
“Quantitatively ease this down your gullet,” he said kindly, handing Enda a drink.
“It’s important to remember why we’re here,” piped up someone from an NGO. “We’re here to save the world.”
“Yes, save the world, the way it is,” said someone from JP Morgan, washing down a mouthful of panda meat with a golden goblet of dolphin tears.
“Get it on, bang a gong, get it on,” sang Marc Bolland sadly. Everybody high-fived.
