It’s no joke, these sanctions are magic

Date: 19/11/1998

Geoff Meade takes a light-hearted look at life in the European Union HIRAM J Wormgruber III stubbed out his cigar and stopped pacing the room. He pushed his nose against the glass wall of his skyscraper office in Washington's stratosphere. Far, far below on Lexington Avenue, ant-sized people scurried here and there in ant-sized cars, unaware that Hiram held the key to their consumer future.

Wormgruber, Deputy Trade Director (Sanctions and Interdicts, European Section), tossed a sheaf of papers on to his desk and slumped into the swivel chair behind it.

“Okay,” he drawled, looking up at Aaron T Shuttlecock 1V, “Jokes it is. We go with the practical jokes.”

Shuttlecock, Operations Manager (Sanctions and Interdicts, European Section) nodded enthusiastically. “And the magic tricks, sir?” he asked.

“Yeah, yeah, the whole damn box of magic tricks, why doncha! In fact,” added Wormgruber, leaning back in his chair and putting his feet up on the table, “make that all festive and entertainment articles including darned Christmas trees and tinsel too. Now are you happy?” Shuttlecock scribbled busily on his inventory. “Absolutely sir. Although I didn't know you could darn Christmas trees!”

Wormgruber looked up. “If that was meant to be a joke, Shuttlecock, you'd better add it to the list of proscribed items.” Shuttlecock shook his head.

“I can't sir, it isn't a practical joke.”

Wormgruber grimaced. “It isn't practically a joke either. Now are you sure we're hitting the right targets with these sanctions?”

Shuttlecock nodded enthusiastically. “Absolutely. I know we're on the right track, boss. I've checked the figures. You wouldn't believe the stuff them Europeans are selling us. They're making a fortune. This banana dispute is as good a reason as any to shift the transatlantic trade balance in our favour.”

Wormgruber shuffled through his papers again. “You ain't wrong there, Shuttlecock. D'ya know, those damn Brits sell us 14-million- ecu worth of trunks, suitcases, vanity cases, attaché cases, briefcases, school satchels, spectacle cases, binocular cases, camera cases, musical instrument cases, gun cases, cutlery cases, cigarette cases, map cases, holsters and similar containers, travelling bags, toiletry bags, shopping bags, tool bags, sports bags, knapsacks, backpacks, wallets, purses, tobacco pouches, jewellery boxes and handbags, whether or not with shoulder strap, including those without handle, every damned year?”

Shuttlecock looked up. “Amazing sir. I mean, did our great American entrepreneurs forget to invent American cases to carry other inventions in or what?”

Wormgruber shook his head. “Beats me. Now run through the list again.”

Shuttlecock scanned his notes. “Okay, so let's see, in addition to all them cases and things, we've got pre-shave, shaving and after-shave preparations, personal deodorants, bath preparations, depilatories and other perfumery, cosmetic or toilet preparations, prepared room deodorisers, bath salts and other bath preparations.

“Then we've got bed linen, table linen, toilet linen and kitchen linen. Plus sewing machines, electric storage batteries, sweaters, pullovers, sweatshirts, waistcoats and similar articles, knitted or crocheted. And then there's the practical jokes, festive, carnival or other entertainment articles, tinsel and Christmas trees.”

“Is that the lot?” asked Wormgruber. Shuttlecock shook his head.

“Certainly not, sir. We've had input from other industrial sectors and many of our indigenous producers would be happy to see swingeing, not to say devastating, levies imposed on European imports to America of electric instantaneous or storage water heaters and immersion heaters, soil heating apparatus, hair dryers, haircurlers, electric irons, ovens, grills, roasters, coffee-makers, tea-makers, lamps and light fittings including searchlights and spotlights and parts thereof, illuminated signs, chandeliers and other ceiling or wall lighting and fittings, excluding, of course, those of a kind used for lighting public open spaces or thoroughfares.”

Wormgruber reached for another cigar. “Windshield wipers” he said. “Add windshield wipers”.

“Surely we don't get windshield wipers from Europe, boss? That's ridiculous,” said Shuttlecock.

“We surely do and it surely is, Shuttlecock. Ten million-ecu worth of the things. Next time you're belting along the Beltway in pouring rain, Shuttlecock, says a thank-you prayer to our country cousins.”

“That's nothing sir. The damned Italians are off-loading on us nearly 100 million ecu worth of cheese and curd, including whey cheese, and bread, pastry, biscuits and other bakers' wares, whether or not containing cocoa, communion wafers, empty capsules of a kind suitable for pharmaceutical use, sealing wafers, rice paper and similar products.”

Wormgruber rocked his chair back on its four legs and and stood up. He stabbed his non-European cigar in the air. “It's got to stop, Shuttlecock. Look at the French! They're dumping barrel-loads of cheap wine, not to mention grape must with fermentation arrested by the addition of alcohol! Then those godforsaken Finns and Germans are off-loading wood of a thickness of six centimetres, sawn or chipped lengthwise, sliced or peeled.”

Shuttlecock was scribbling furiously. “So I'll add all those to the sanctions list then shall I, sir?” Wormgruber nodded. “Too damned right you will. And you can add dolls representing only human beings and parts and accessories thereof, because the things are flooding in from Germany.”

Shuttlecock looked up. “The Germans are bombarding us with other toys too, sir. For instance scale models and similar recreational models, working or not, puzzles of all kinds, and electric trains. Not to mention toys representing non-human creatures, for example robots and monsters.”

Wormgruber shook his head. “You know, Shuttlecock, it's a wonder the United States has any indigenous retail sector at all.” He peered closer at Shuttlecock. “That pen you're writing with, is it American?” Shuttlecock hesitated. “I think so sir, I mean, I hope so sir ...”

Wormgruber wagged a finger. “So do I, boy. Because those scheming, cunning Europeans are exporting to us 21 million ecu worth of ball-point pens, felt-tipped and other pens and markers, not to mention fountain pens, stylograph pens, pen holders, pencil holders and parts, including caps and clips, of the foregoing articles, and that might be one of them you are holding in your hand!”

Shuttlecock looked horrified. “Maybe someone planted a European pen on me as a practical joke,” he exclaimed. Wormgruber glowered. “Well Shuttlecock,” he growled. “You'd better be might damn sure it's an American practical joke.”