Britain has always had a particular flair for the theatricality of its own decline, but the latest directive from the global financial priesthood is particularly rich: "Cheer up." It is the kind of advice a vulture might give a dying zebra—not because the vulture wants the zebra to recover, but because the meat tastes better when it isn’t quite so stringy with the adrenaline of stress. The news that British assets are performing "surprisingly well" while the populace drowns in a cocktail of stagflation, damp rot, and general existential dread is the ultimate punchline to a joke that started in 2016 and shows no sign of reaching its conclusion.

Let’s be clear about what "British assets" actually means in the current climate. It does not mean the average person in Hull can suddenly afford cheese that doesn’t require a security tag. It means that for the men in bespoke suits who move numbers across glowing screens in Zurich and New York, the United Kingdom has become the world’s most prestigious charity shop. Everything is on sale. The pound is battered, the infrastructure is crumbling like a Victorian biscuit, and the political class is a rotating gallery of the incompetent and the invisible. To an investor, this isn't a national tragedy; it’s a "compelling valuation."

The Left will tell you this is a symptom of "late-stage capitalism," a phrase they use to sound intelligent while they wait for their artisan sourdough to be delivered by an exploited gig worker. They want more taxes, more regulation, more performative hand-wringing over the "cost of living crisis," as if the misery can be solved by a slightly more compassionate bureaucrat with a degree in gender studies. They fail to see that the markets don't care about their placards. The markets only care about the yield. To the progressive, Britain is a victim; to the market, it is simply an undervalued asset with a legacy brand name.

The Right, meanwhile, is still huffing the glue of "Global Britain," a fantasy where the ghost of Winston Churchill rises to lead a trade delegation to Mars. They broke the country’s link to its closest neighbors in a fit of xenophobic pique and now act surprised that the economy looks like a dropped cake. They spent years telling the public that "sovereignty" would pay the gas bills, only to find out that you cannot eat a flag. Now, they stand amidst the rubble, telling everyone that things are "turning a corner," ignoring the fact that the corner leads directly into a brick wall. They are the managers of a collapsing mall who think a new coat of paint on the entrance will hide the fact that the roof is on fire.

The investors’ demand for Britain to "cheer up" is the most honest thing to happen to the country in a decade. It is a cold admission that the sentiment of the actual human beings living there is a nuisance—a friction point in the smooth flow of capital. If the British would just stop being so "gloomy"—read: noticing that their quality of life is plummeting—the markets could get on with the business of extracting whatever value is left in the privatized water companies that leak sewage into the rivers and the energy firms that charge for the privilege of freezing in the winter. Optimism is the lubricant of extraction.

The FTSE 100 is hitting records because it is barely British. It is a collection of multi-national conglomerates that happen to list their headquarters in a city where the tube is too hot and the coffee is too expensive. Its success is not a reflection of national health; it is a reflection of how well the world can ignore Britain’s internal rot. The "assets" are doing well precisely because they are untethered from the reality of the British experience. The country is a theme park where the rides are broken, the staff are on strike, but the gift shop is doing a roaring trade in "Mind the Gap" t-shirts.

We are witnessing the final triumph of the spreadsheet over the soul. The economic indicators are "green" because the bar has been lowered into the Mariana Trench. When your currency is a joke and your labor is cheap, of course people want to buy your stuff. It’s like being the smartest person in a Victorian workhouse—it’s a distinction, certainly, but the surroundings are still depressing. The investors aren't praising British ingenuity; they are praising British desperation. They like the UK for the same reason people like outlet malls: you can find high-end labels at basement prices if you don't mind the fluorescent lighting and the smell of sadness.

The irony of the "cheer up" directive is that it comes at a time when the British identity is entirely built on a foundation of polite, passive-aggressive complaining. To ask a Briton to be optimistic is to ask a fish to walk; it is an evolutionary impossibility. The gloom is the only thing they have left that hasn't been sold to a sovereign wealth fund. It is their birthright. And yet, the ghouls of finance persist. They need the "vibe" to improve so they can flip their investments to the next round of suckers. Ultimately, the "surprise" performance of British assets tells us everything we need to know about the modern world. Value is no longer linked to utility, or happiness, or even stability. It is linked to the speed at which a carcass can be processed. Britain is being told to smile because a smiling corpse makes for a much better brochure. So, by all means, Albion, cheer up. Your liquidation is going swimmingly.