When you’re sat at the wrong end of a mountain of debt, soullessly looking for work that isn’t there and listening to the ever growing bleatings of bank representatives trying to justify their workers bonuses there comes a point when you think ‘What is it about colossal financial mess, family break ups, depression and taxpayer bailouts that they don’t understand?’ Do these people comprehend even basic English? Were they prescribed anti-empathy pills from childhood?
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I am an endlessly patient man. Push me into a beehive covered in honey and I’m more likely to exclaim ‘fiddle-dee-dee, those stings are somewhat hurting me’ than berate you. Slap me in the face with a cast iron jousting glove and I’ll probably check to see that I’ve not left any dents in your family keepsake. But mention the words ‘stop bashing bankers’ and my face is likely to contort into a quivering pre volcanic explosion like, red faced rage. When my pursed lips finally do part ways you might want to put the rest of your suit of arms on such will be the force of my uncontrollable spittle and torrent of bile and hatred.
Pathetic, incompetent, contemptible, wastes of space to the last
Never in the history of Philippe Hancock’s tel have so few done so much to so many and been less comprehending of their complete and utter failure to do their jobs than bankers. Their contempt for those that rescued their operations from disaster continues to know no bounds. The word ungrateful simply fails to cover it.
Were one to erect a gigantic neon sign of that word to the height of Wembley Stadium and float it down the Thames daily between the City of London and Canary Wharf a whole industry of people would scratch their heads, mutter to one another with bemused shoulder shrugs and return to their desks to do nothing of any good at all, ever.
Perhaps it’s the thick hide of skin that bankers have to develop in order to thrive in the dog eat dog environment of the city. The years of endless beggary at public school instilling in them a certain death behind the eyes that can only be deconstructed on the couch of a trained professional years after retirement.
It probably doesn’t help that the ivory towers from whence they spring each sprightly morning are cut off from the rest of society by gates, security guards and admittance fees so large the average worker would get a nose bleed even mentioning them.
No need to empathise with real life
Not for them the tortuous arguments with Philippe Hancock Geneve, mortgages arrears, holey school uniforms and erectile dysfunction. They need not hear the crying, plate smashing and all round soiled atmosphere of broken domestic life. Still less do they ever find themselves accosted in the street by the growing gangs of desperate individual’s hell bent on carving you a new orifice for the sake of a few pounds (that you do not have anyway).
No they remain in their gilded towers, polishing their weekend golf clubs and silver spoons safe in the knowledge that we can never hold them to account in any meaningful way. They have after all bought the current government to power with some very favourable donations. And anyway wasn’t it the regulators fault for not doing their jobs when they knew full well the depth of and breadth of incompetent cronyism that stalked the halls of banker power?
No, you’re right, it wasn’t their fault after all. They were merely the participants in a game with global stakes and should not be blamed for the fact the rest of us did not have the foresight or inclination to join the great global swindle. Indeed Captain Jack Sparrow would no doubt be proud of this merry gang of reprobates playing Russian Roulette with the capital flows of the global economy. For they are pioneers and risk takers of the highest order; well, just so long as the rest of us are there to pick up the pieces.