Montag or Lundi or Lunedi

Used to be rich pickings round here at this time of year. Used to be, one week in Davos, and a beggar could keep his family in cheese with holes in it all year round. Used to be, you could get yourself a new cuckoo for the clock, stock up on chocolate, and even afford to get a new springy bit for the scissors on your penknife. Not this year, mate. Not bloody likely. It’s going to be cheese without holes. Nibbling round the bits where the holes ought to be. I hate that.

And British chocolate. We’ve already eaten the cuckoo. Noon comes around, there’s just a whirr and a click. It’s not how a Swiss is meant to live. Not even nearly.

You don’t get a lot of beggars in Switzerland, true enough. Normally, that just means all the more opportunity for me. But this year? Don’t make me laugh. All those politicians and bankers just walk on by, not meeting my eye, not even glancing into my William Tell cap.

Except for this one Nordic-looking bloke. Gave me Iceland. Thanks a bunch, mate.

Dienstag or Mardi or Martedi

“Spare us a couple of billion francs, guv?” I say to this one guy, as he hurries past. You’ve got to aim high at the World Economic Forum. I’ve had it all, over the years. Dollars from George Bush and Bill Gates, euros from Angela Merkel. Last year I got a reward for saving Nicolas Sarkozy and Silvio Berlusconi from the same very small snowdrift. And I even met that Bono, from U2.

“Howyeh,” he said, squatting down next to me in the gutter. “I think we should do another Live Aid. You in?” I said I was but I never heard from him again. To be fair, people do often tell me that I look a bit like Bob Geldof.

And I’d been up all night, drinking meths.

Mittwoch or Mercredi or Mercoledi

“Spare us a four-course meal?” I shout. “Spare us a warming goblet of exceedingly fine Armagnac?” Nobody even looks at me. Everybody is upset, because Barack Obama isn’t coming.

Can’t say I’m bothered. The Americans are pretty tight this year. Times have changed. Last year they were all offering me mortgages.

I’ve caught a cold. But, on the plus side, I found a wallet. Somebody called David Cameron dropped it. And best of all, it’s stuffed full of British pounds, so at least I’ve got something I can use to start fires and blow my nose.

Donnerstag or Jeudi or Giovedi

Brrr. Well, that didn’t last long. I’ll get another one going once the sun comes up enough to get a beam going through the lens on my penknife’s tiny magnifying glass.

It’s no good hanging around outside the restaurants. There’s nobody in them. Most years they’re teeming. Most years there’s enough foie gras, oysters and caviar thrown out the back so that a beggar can live like a king. “Heidi,” I’ve often said, to the wife, “this is the life, eh?” Not this year. And I was stupid last night, and tried the Russians. “Spare us a natural gas pipeline?” I said, hopefully. “Nyet,” said Vladimir Putin.

Then one of his henchmen knocked my William Tell hat out of my hand and another one stole Iceland.

More fool them. It was all debt. Now at least I’m back up to nothing.

Freitag or Vendredi or Venerdi

Bit of a turn-up. Met this weird, gurning Scottish bloke called Gordon. To be honest, I was getting a bit desperate.

Grabbed his sleeve. Told him I didn’t have any money. He seemed astonished.

“Can’t you just print some?” he said. “Or borrow some, and worry about it later?”

I told him that begging doesn’t really work like that. Technically, you ought to get your money free and never pay it back at all. Gordon seemed fascinated.

“Budge up,” he said, and joined me in the gutter. Later he asked me if I fancied being Chancellor of the Exchequer.

Told him I was happy where I am.

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