Opinionomics | 29 March 2012

Must read analysis and comment. Featuring Tim Worstall, Ezra Klein, and – yes – pasties.

1. Britain struggles to kick its addiction to consumption (Telegraph)

Jeremy Warner seems confused, arguing that reducing Britain's addiction to consumption is much needed, but that doing so is directly and substantially harming growth. He is unclear whether we should be applauding Osborne for making his decisions with an eye on the long-term, or condemning him for not putting off the "rebalancing" until the more important matter of the ongoing depression is sorted.

2. Not a tax on pasties, but a right-wing tax on heat* (LabourList)

*Not really. Conor Pope argues – perhaps tongue-in-cheek – that liberal atomic motion within cheap savoury snacks will lead directly to the eventual disintegration of the traditional nuclear family

3. Papers I need to read: Do tax cuts really help growth? (Washington Post WonkBlog)

Ezra Klein links to a paper that fairly demolishes George Osborne's argument that tax cuts lead to growth.

4. Spiked on rare earths (Tim Worstall)

Worstall applies his day-job expertise to look at the global market for rare earth metals – not as rare as their nam implies.

5. Scotland’s economy running on empty after Osborne’s Great Stagnation Budget (Left Foot Forward)

Willie Bain MP presents a (partisan, obviously, but) well-researched account of the budget's impact on Scotland

Pasties are left to cool in a shameless tax avoidance scheme. Credit: Getty

Alex Hern is a technology reporter for the Guardian. He was formerly staff writer at the New Statesman. You should follow Alex on Twitter.

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Why do the words “soup, swoop, loop de loop” come to mind every time I lift a spoon to my lips?

It’s all thanks to Barry and Anita.

A while ago I was lending a friend the keys to our house. We keep spare keys in a ceramic pot I was given years ago by someone who made it while on an art-school pottery course. “That’s er . . . quite challenging,” the friend said of the pot.

“Is it?” I replied. “I’d stopped noticing how ugly it is.”

“Then it’s a grunty,” she said.

“A what?” I asked.

“A grunty. It’s something you have in your house that’s hideous and useless but you’ve stopped noticing it completely, so it’s effectively invisible.”

I was much taken with this idea and realised that as well as “grunties” there are also “gruntyisms”: things you say or do, though the reason why you say or do them has long since been forgotten. For example, every time we drink soup my wife and I say the same thing, uttered in a strange monotone: we say, “Soup, swoop, loop de loop.” How we came to say “soup, swoop, loop de loop” came about like this.

For a married couple, the years between your mid-thirties and your late forties might be seen as the decade of the bad dinner party. You’re no longer looking for a partner, so the hormonal urge to visit crowded bars has receded, but you are still full of energy so you don’t want to stay in at night, either. Instead, you go to dinner parties attended by other couples you don’t necessarily like that much.

One such couple were called Barry and Anita. Every time we ate at their house Barry would make soup, and when serving it he would invariably say, “There we are: soup, swoop, loop de loop.” After the dinner party, as soon as we were in the minicab going home, me and Linda would start drunkenly talking about what an arse Barry was, saying to each other, in a high-pitched, mocking imitation of his voice: “Please do have some more of this delicious soup, swoop, loop de loop.” Then we’d collapse against each other laughing, convincing the Algerian or Bengali taxi driver once again of the impenetrability and corruption of Western society.

Pretty soon whenever we had soup at home, Linda and I would say to each other, “Soup, swoop, loop de loop,” at first still ridiculing Barry, but eventually we forgot why we were saying it and it became part of the private language every couple develop, employed long after we’d gratefully ceased having soupy dinners with Barry and Anita.

In the early Nineties we had an exchange student staying with us for a year, a Maori girl from the Cook Islands in the southern Pacific. When she returned home she took the expression “soup, swoop, loop de loop” with her and spread it among her extended family, until finally the phrase appeared in an anthropological dissertation: “ ‘Soup swoop, loop de loop.’ Shamanistic Incantations in Rarotongan Food Preparation Rituals” – University of Topeka, 2001. 

This article first appeared in the 21 July 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The English Revolt