Bertie Wooster & Jeeves Discuss Trump’s Tariffs

Grok says: Setting: Bertie Wooster’s flat, London. Bertie is lounging in an armchair, flipping through The Times with a look of mild panic. Jeeves, as ever, glides in with a tray of tea, radiating calm omniscience.
Bertie: I say, Jeeves, have you seen this bally nonsense in the paper? This Trump chap across the pond is slapping tariffs on all sorts of things—steel, cars, even whisky! It’s an outrage! How’s a fellow to get a decent dram without paying through the nose?
Jeeves: Indeed, sir. Mr. Trump’s economic policies have stirred considerable debate. The tariffs, designed to bolster American industry, may inadvertently elevate the cost of imported goods, including, as you note, certain libations.
Bertie: Libations? Dash it, Jeeves, you make it sound like I’m running a speakeasy. I’m talking about my evening scotch! Aunt Agatha’s already got me on a leash—now I’ll have to smuggle my own tipple like some sort of rum-runner. What’s the world coming to?
Jeeves: A lamentable state of affairs, sir. However, might I suggest exploring domestic alternatives? A fine British whisky, perhaps, or even a gin of local provenance?
Bertie: Gin? Jeeves, you’re pulling my leg! Gin’s for chaps who wear loud waistcoats and lose at baccarat. No, no, this tariff business is a disaster. Why, I read they’re even taxing tweed! My tailor’s going to have a fit, and I’ll be wandering Mayfair looking like a scarecrow.
Jeeves: I believe the tariff on textiles is less severe than reported, sir. Nevertheless, I could arrange for your tailor to source materials from within the Empire, thereby circumventing the additional costs.
Bertie: Circumventing, eh? You’re talking like a bloomin’ pirate now, Jeeves. Next you’ll have me sailing to Canada with a hold full of contraband Harris Tweed. Yo ho ho and a bottle of Glenfiddich!
Jeeves: Perish the thought, sir. My intention is merely to ensure your sartorial and liquid requirements are met with minimal disruption. Perhaps a discreet word with certain merchants could secure your preferred scotch at a pre-tariff rate.
Bertie: Discreet word? You mean bribe someone, don’t you? I say, Jeeves, you’re a dark horse. One minute you’re polishing my shoes, the next you’re masterminding a smuggling ring. I like it! But what’s this Trump fellow’s game, anyway? Why’s he making life so dashed expensive?
Jeeves: Mr. Trump’s stated aim, sir, is to protect American workers by incentivizing domestic production. Critics argue, however, that such measures may provoke retaliatory tariffs, thus complicating global trade. The ripple effects are felt even here, as you’ve astutely observed.
Bertie: Astutely? Oh, I’m sharp as a tack, Jeeves, don’t you worry. But this ripple business sounds like a lot of rot. If I want my whisky, I don’t care if it’s distilled in Glasgow or Timbuktu. Why can’t everyone just get along and let a chap have his drink in peace?
Jeeves: A noble sentiment, sir. Alas, international commerce is a complex tapestry, woven with competing interests. Might I propose a temporary solution? I have taken the liberty of securing a modest stockpile of your preferred single malt, acquired prior to the tariff’s implementation.
Bertie: Stockpile? Jeeves, you absolute marvel! You’ve been hoarding whisky behind my back? I’m torn between calling you a genius and worrying you’re about to open a black-market saloon. How much have you got stashed away?
Jeeves: Sufficient to tide you over until the geopolitical climate stabilizes, sir. I would not dream of allowing your evenings to be marred by a shortage of suitable refreshment.
Bertie: You’re a brick, Jeeves. An absolute brick. But mark my words, if this tariff nonsense goes on, I’ll have to start distilling my own grog in the bathtub. Picture me as Bertie the Bootlegger! Ha!
Jeeves: A vivid image, sir, though I trust it will not come to that. Shall I pour you a small measure of the aforementioned single malt to steady your nerves?
Bertie: Steady my nerves? Jeeves, you’re practically a doctor. Make it a large one, and let’s drink to the downfall of tariffs and the triumph of good taste!
Jeeves: Very good, sir. He glides off to fetch the whisky, a faint smirk betraying his amusement at Bertie’s theatrics.