Three solutions to the financial crisis: the love of Christ, the body of Eri-chan or the small-cap tracker fund of Nomura Securities.

So with the usual anaemic apologies for absence of service, Urban Dirt returns with the curious parable of the terrible Sunday hangover, the morning missionary visits of the three great "isms", and the Holy Trinity of  "magic" cures for the global financial crisis: god, sex and cash.

Picture the scene. To crown a week in which dozens of Tokyo chums were made redundant (and dozens more have a similar threat hanging over their heads like the winnet of Damocles) the survivors naturally found themselves in Roppongi toasting the safe homeward journey of a dejected pal from RBS. Things dragged on a bit with a liquidity now sadly absent from credit markets: the last remaining bull in town (works for Instinet) was buying drinks all round for the crowd at Geronimos; the beer was flowing freely on the shooting range at Point Blank; the trans-sexuals of Motown House were being plied with gin by the out-of-town Lotharios who still don't know an Adam's apple when they see one one.

The party finished, as usual, at around 5am with everyone well deserving of a gentle snooze. Impossible. Nobody, be they religious hawkers, flesh-club shills or side-parted stockbrokers, was prepared to allow that luxury.

PING PONG! PING PONG! The entryphone rings early - a squealing intrusion into Urban Dirt's  dehydrated dozing. Mrs Urban Dirt is not amused.

"Are you worried about the global economic crisis?" asks the disembodied voice in the lobby. A grunt.

"Do you know people whose lives have been ruined by the downturn?" it continues. A growl.

"Is the financial crisis making you depressed?" it persists. Another grunt. (We are still some hours from normal conversational service levels, but Urban Dirt likes where the entryphone voice is going).

"Can we offer you some solutions? We believe the answer lies in the bible."

Ah. Got it. Fair enough. Certainly better salesmanship than some of the cretins at Japanese securities houses. However, I'm a little tied up at the moment, could you leave your literature in our mailbox, please? Thanks. Bye. Snore.

PING PONG! PING PONG! The entryphone again, about 30 minutes later.

"Are you worried about the global economic crisis?" says a newer, fresher disembodied voice.

"Er. Didn't we just have this conversation?" wonders Urban Dirt out loud.

"Don't think so. Anyway, I'm your neighbourhood broker from the local branch of Nomura. We have lots of  opportunities that you may be interested in for your future investment needs. Perhaps we can talk a little about some funds that offer good yields. I'm going to leave my literature and my contact details in your mailbox. Hope to speak to you again soon."

Curious. Bye. Snore. 

Some hours later, Urban Dirt is downstairs in the area behind the mailboxes, extracting the morning's offerings. They are: a copy of The Watchtower - the magazine of the Jehova's Witnesses, and a thicker set of recommendations from Nomura for stocks I might be interested in if the market weren't tanking so bloodily.

Suddenly a rustling can be heard from the public area on the other side of the mailbox. More literature of salvation is fed through into my hands, once again offering a refreshing range of magical solutions to the Global Economic Crisis. Only this time with pictures of a provocatively dressed lady and offers of a "relaxation course" which threatens to simultaneously relieve the buyer of Y23,000 and any residual stress he may be feeling about the financial meltdown. With lubricants, and the promise of "specialist"  costumes.The salesman does not hang around to disgorge any further patter. He can spot an easy mark a mile off.

But hold on a moment. This was big. It was a signal moment in the global rampage of the worldwide recessionary monster. For there, in my trembling hands, I held physical manifestations of all three of the leading theories on how the world should go about dealing with this crisis. A trio of answers in the form of spiritualism, capitalism or hedonism.

Over to you. What will it be? Faith, finance or flesh?

Comments

[aragoto]

It may be my jaded eyes, but the cover of the Watchtower seems to fall firmly into hedonist territory. It's more overtly erotic than Club Peach's flyer, in fact.

[Martin F]

Hilarious. What IS that image trying to tell us? I guess there is no hope for me since I have no clue.