Persius Flaccus Redux

Suppose we ran it by a friendly Martian (I’d say “by Martial”, but he wouldn’t be gentle). You crave Armani, Hugo Boss, Versacci and that Hilfiger who’s naff, naff. Are you mental? This myth of exclusivity’s juvenile (I’d offer “Juvenal”, but you’d refuse). They’re mass-produced, ubiquitous, stock-piled, your Sarah Jessica Parkas, Jimmy Shoes. The Martian, then. We wrap ourselves in rags to ward off cold, conceal the family jewels, but put a brand name on those skirts and bags, you’ll cough up ten times more. “You bloody fools!” Apartheid is an evil thing, agreed? South Africa once practised it. You struck. You staked out embassies, until the blacks were freed. Embargoes, sanctions, boycotts – oh, such pluck! But none of you’s besieging Tel Aviv. Our Martian’s wondering what the difference is. Ramallah’s raped without a by-your-leave, but you’re at Burghley, knocking back bucks fizz. Perhaps we can’t extinguish all life’s fires. Perhaps compassion tires, and needs its pauses. Or is there just a chance that it transpires, there’s such a thing we’ll call “designer causes”?