Pub analogy
Posted: 09 Sep 2005, 00:47
Imagine the following scenario:
You're running a country pub, and the regulars are hooked on Guiness. They have drunk it all their lives. They expect it to be served to them whenever they want it. There are fields of wheat and barley around the pub, but although the pub could brew it to keep their regulars pissed, it just doesn't work anything like as well as good old Guiness.
Then one day, the sea level rises and Dublin gets engulfed. The Guiness factory is ruined, and no more is ever going to be made. Ever. The publican learns about this news and faces a dilemma. He realises that the supply is going to run out and knows his regulars are going to go f**king ape if he suddenly stops serving their favourite tipple to them. So he cranks up the price, hoping that they'll decide to change to the beer that they can brew in-house. Unfortunately, the idea just doesn't enter their heads - they just keep on guzzling the Guiness, and stump up the price rises. They grumble a little, but nothing is going to get in the way of their habit. They cannot imagine life without Guiness.
"ARSE!", thinks the landlord, so he rises the price a bit more. Then a bit more. After some time, Guiness gets more expensive to buy - the stocks are running out. The addicts learn that there's another pub 20 miles away that still serves cheap Guiness; alas the landlord there is completely oblivious to Guiness depletion. But 20 miles is too far to go. They could buy the lager, they could even brew their own. They just don't want to, they love their precious Guiness far too much.
Some bald-headed bloke with glasses tries to tell them that the global supply of the Black Stuff is running out, but they just don't want to hear that. "RUBBISH!" they exclaim, "there is plenty of it left. The landlord knows we're addicted and is just deliberately ripping us off". "Even if it does run out one day, market forces will come to the rescue and provide us with something to feed our addiction".
The landlord hears about the student's conversation, but keeps quiet. He remembers too well the story of a previous publican, Jimmy Carter, who told his addicts that they will have to give up their Guiness. The addicts revolted and brought in an old actor to run their pub when the lease was over.
The squabbling goes on. The addicts become increasingly militant. The intellectuals look on in disbelief. Enthusiasts try brewing their own beer. The landlord, however, continues shitting his pants. Damn! The "market forces" are not working! But he doesn't have the balls to tell it like it is, and brew his own beer that the addicts would be reluctant to drink.
You're running a country pub, and the regulars are hooked on Guiness. They have drunk it all their lives. They expect it to be served to them whenever they want it. There are fields of wheat and barley around the pub, but although the pub could brew it to keep their regulars pissed, it just doesn't work anything like as well as good old Guiness.
Then one day, the sea level rises and Dublin gets engulfed. The Guiness factory is ruined, and no more is ever going to be made. Ever. The publican learns about this news and faces a dilemma. He realises that the supply is going to run out and knows his regulars are going to go f**king ape if he suddenly stops serving their favourite tipple to them. So he cranks up the price, hoping that they'll decide to change to the beer that they can brew in-house. Unfortunately, the idea just doesn't enter their heads - they just keep on guzzling the Guiness, and stump up the price rises. They grumble a little, but nothing is going to get in the way of their habit. They cannot imagine life without Guiness.
"ARSE!", thinks the landlord, so he rises the price a bit more. Then a bit more. After some time, Guiness gets more expensive to buy - the stocks are running out. The addicts learn that there's another pub 20 miles away that still serves cheap Guiness; alas the landlord there is completely oblivious to Guiness depletion. But 20 miles is too far to go. They could buy the lager, they could even brew their own. They just don't want to, they love their precious Guiness far too much.
Some bald-headed bloke with glasses tries to tell them that the global supply of the Black Stuff is running out, but they just don't want to hear that. "RUBBISH!" they exclaim, "there is plenty of it left. The landlord knows we're addicted and is just deliberately ripping us off". "Even if it does run out one day, market forces will come to the rescue and provide us with something to feed our addiction".
The landlord hears about the student's conversation, but keeps quiet. He remembers too well the story of a previous publican, Jimmy Carter, who told his addicts that they will have to give up their Guiness. The addicts revolted and brought in an old actor to run their pub when the lease was over.
The squabbling goes on. The addicts become increasingly militant. The intellectuals look on in disbelief. Enthusiasts try brewing their own beer. The landlord, however, continues shitting his pants. Damn! The "market forces" are not working! But he doesn't have the balls to tell it like it is, and brew his own beer that the addicts would be reluctant to drink.
