Wanker Bankers

James had a particularly bad day at the RBS office. As he pulled into his tree-lined driveway, he almost forgot to hit the remote for the walnut garage doors - a ding in his Daimler would have been the icing on an exceptionally unsavoury cake.

Martha, as usual, was at the front door to greet him. She sensed something was wrong. No smile on James’ face, no “Hello Pippin,” no humming “I did it my way” slightly out of tune.

He threw down his crocodile skin briefcase, narrowly missing one of the slender legs of the Chippendale side table.

After he poured himself a stiff G & T and slumped into the Chesterfield, Martha sat beside him. "What's wrong Jamie-Jim?"
"Those pinko lefties have capped our bonuses!"
Martha tried to be consoling, "Oh dear. I know how you love counting all the zeros on your bank statements."

James was getting more riled, "What's more, we're getting share options instead of cash!"
A little confused his wife asked, "What are share options?"
"As buggered as Oscar Wilde if I know. I'm a banker, not some doctor of economics! I take a lot of money from rich people, take a share for the bank, then pass it on to another bunch of rich people and I get a bonus. That's how its always been, until those Labour louts got in on the act."

There was a short respite in the conversation - Martha knew that her husband needed time to calm down when the topic of the Labour Party came up.

"Erm...should we go ahead with the dinner party in two weeks time dear?"
James thought for a bit..."Yes, but try and keep the numbers down to around thirty. Oh...and you'd better cancel the string quartet. Sorry Pippin, but we'll have tighten our belts a tad."

"I know dear. I've an idea. Why don't I get out some of your old bank statements and we can count all the zeros together."

"Capital idea Pippin!"

3 Reasons Why You Should Buy the Daily Mail

1. The crossword

2. Toilet roll emergency

3. tHe BAlanCEd anD ReaSoneD polITicAl stANce
Eh? Did I just Write that? NURSE! NURSE! Bring me my medication quick! I'm getting delusional!

The Clash Protocol

The Clash Protocol is bestowed to a select few of the band’s most ardent followers. We’re not a secret society - although I haven’t a clue who else is in possession of the document or even how it came into being. Nonetheless, it’s a document that’s as important any country’s constitution.

Article 1 of the Protocol is clear and explicit…”You may listen to the Clash anywhere, anytime and as LOUD as you desire.”It is this particular protocol I was following the other morning at about 1:30 am. I had “London Calling” playing loud enough to make my ears bleed. There was a hammering on the door and when I answered it, this huge guy with a head like a giant turnip, cauliflower ears and a nose like a squat parsnip was standing there clearly unhappy about something…”Turn that fucking noise down!” Noise??? I guess he meant The Clash. I tried to reason with him, “But it’s the Clash…” Nothing registered…”London Calling by the Clash?” Still nothing. “Haven’t you heard of The Clash Protocol?” The cauliflower ears pricked up a little…”What’s a Robert Ludlum book got to do with that fucking din?”

I was getting nowhere. “Sorry, but I’m duty-bound not to turn down the volume.” Mr Turnip head was now becoming Mr Beetroot head. This guy was getting angry and frustrated (if only he’d read the Protocol he’d be less incensed).

“Turn that shite down or I’ll stick your hi-fi up your arse!” Normally an impossible act, but with this guy I wasn’t so sure. Nonetheless he’d breached Article 2...”You will uphold your respect for The Clash and will not tolerate any scorn, disparagement, denigration or abuse of the band.” It is quite specific too, “…should any such insults be forthcoming you will inflict bodily harm on the errant critic (e.g. head butt or punch) - be it your grandmother or your little sister.”

Looking this vegetable monster up and down I was beginning to think that John Denver may have been a safer choice of music - regardless of the permanent damage to my psyche.

Anyway, I mustered up all my courage (a little bagful) and strength (a smaller bagful) and head-butted him. The net result was bugger-all pain for him and I bounced back about two feet away from where I originally stood. His reaction was quicker than I’d expected. He picked me up by my tee-shirt and delivered a punch to my stomach that threatened to expel all my internal organs through my mouth and arse.

“Okay, I’ll turn it down. Sorry for the inconvenience…sir” I added the ‘sir’ part to avoid possible death.

Fuck him…I went back in, kept the volume way up (and put my headphones on). Had I bothered to read Article 14 of The Protocol, I would have realised that headphones are acceptable…

A Couple More Vids
LONDON CALLING - FEATURING BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN, DAVE GROHL & ELVIS COSTELLO (I think)



A PERSONAL FAVOURITE