The Party

I was watching a documentary about the origins of the financial crisis the other day, and it reminded me of something I wrote in 1989 when the Berlin Wall came down. Back then, there weren't such things as blogs to put such musings and ramblings on. So since today is the 20th anniversary of that day, here it is:

THE PARTY

Once upon a time there was a party. It was a big party, and went on for a long, long time - longer than any party ever had. A great many people were invited, and there were more who just turned up anyway. There were so many people at the party that no-one ever got to meet all of them.

People ate, and drank, and danced at the party. It went on for so long that people got drunk, became sober and started drinking again. It wasn't just one of those parties where people sneak upstairs to make love: there were people actually born there.

In time there were people who had grown up at this party not knowing anything else. They had heard of the life their parents or grandparents lived before the party; they saw pictures of people in other places, and even went to visit them occasionally. But the party, to them, was the only reality. Many of them hoped that, eventually, everyone would be able to come.

As with most parties, very few people could actually remember what they were celebrating. There had been a fight earlier between some of the people there, and it seemed a good idea to have a big binge and forget everything. Many people had borrowed from their neighbours to be there, but this, too was soon forgotten.



Of course not everyone was invited to the party, and not everyone could come. To the East, a wicked witch cast a spell over all her lands to stop people going. When this didn't work she built a wall, and caused a great hedge to grow all around. Many risked their lives to climb across the wall and go to the party.

The people at the party said this was a terrible thing, of course, but secretly they were quite relieved. They were afraid in case the people from the East came over and forced them to share everything. Before long, they forgot all about the people behind the wall, the names of their lands, or the things they had done together in the past. They simply saw them as a vague threat, and blamed their own ignorance on the Wicked Witch.

Then there were those who were not invited at all. Occasionally one of them would turn up at the doorstep, in working clothes or in rags, and would quickly be turned away before he could spoil the fun.

One day, the Wicked Witch of the East died. Her spell was broken. The great gate which had been sealed up in the wall for many years was thrown open, so people could come and go as they pleased. Many of them wanted to join the party.

The party meanwhile had got to the stage most parties get to at about two or three in the morning: most of the beer cans contained cigarette ash. Soggy crisps were floating around in a pool of wine. A few people were still trying to dance, while someone fiddled drunkenly with the stereo system. Most people were content to sit groping in dark corners, or doze loudly in armchairs. There were no clean cups left.

There was also very little left to eat or drink. Everyone said that this was just a temporary lull while someone went to the shops to get some more drinks. It happened every so often, they said, but things always went back to normal. However, the hosts of the party were all still there, and while they were confidently insisting that there was still plenty more, no-one actually knew who had gone to the shops, or when they would be back.

And so, eventually, the party ended. This caused a lot of annoyance to the people from the East, who were just getting into it. There was also a lot of ill-feeling and resentment from those who couldn't make it, as well as from those who weren't invited.

As to what happens next, we do not know. The Brandenburg Gate, so long sealed up in the Berlin Wall, has indeed been flung open. Romanian gypsies there go up to western tourists and ask for money; hovering on the threshold of our world. By a pedestrian crossing in West Berlin a small boy with one leg stands on home-made crutches and holds out his hat to passers-by. As the neon lights of the Kurfuerstendamm flash behind him, he looks exactly like a Victorian engraving. For him, the twentieth century simply hasn't happened.

In Western cities, meanwhile, we frantically try to build our vision of the future before it's gone. As buildings reach the end of their allotted twenty or thirty years, they are replaced by cheaper ones with a thinner layer of marble, as we try to create a veneer of opulence in a world which no longer has it so good. We do not know if there will be much oil or gas left in twenty years from now, so we drive around as quickly as we can, in the hope that we might arrive before the petrol runs out.

One thing we will know, though, is that there will be a lot of resentment when people finally realise that they have missed out. To make matters worse, they will generally assume that it was a lot better than it was. At the moment we have Albanians and Romanians crowding the streets and railway stations of western cities; soon Russians and Ukrianians will be wanting to know why their economies can't give them the lifestyle that we enjoyed for so long. No-one will have an answer.

It will be hard to explain that we did not know we were at a party, or that we somehow thought that there would always be more, simply because there always had been.

Meanwhile, whoever it was that went for more drinks will still be out looking, for we have drunk the planet dry.


Mike Bennett
November 1989