I guess some of you folk traipsing up and down the Old Ink Line t’day might be suffering the repercussions of the International City-type shenanigans that have so rocked our ‘culture’. Y’might be reeling from the seismic shifts of the financial institutions that purport to uphold our every aspiration, might be rocking from blows to your employment, finances or family. If y’are, my condolences and sympathies are with ya. If y’re travelling the Old Ink Line chances are that y’re not one of them Fat Cats that scalped a tidy bonus for daring speculation with other people’s money in a game that it now turns out no-one really had the requisite skill or knowledge to play.

      Seems that some squirrels got all the nuts while the Buzzards were looking the other way. The gloves came off and the referees colluded with the dirtiest fighters for a share of the spoils. And now they want volounteers to patch them up after a particularly bloody bout with their own shadows and ghosts. Volounteers from a sector of the populace that have oft been derided for being hopelessly out-of-date and pathetically weak in their selflessness, by the erstwhile victims. Seems now that these Volounteers weren’t so weak after all; that the strength needed to continue under that barrage of insult and scorn was far more durable and efficacious than the ‘Power’ exhibited by the speculative, self-titled ‘Masters of The Universe’. That latter so divorced from anything that could be reasonably described as ‘normal’.

      There is a temptation to gloat that they only received that which was-a-coming and that any aid should be refused. That these ‘M’s otU’ lived by that monetary sword, let them beat it into a shovel and dig themselves out of the gigantic void they’ve carved for themselves. That they who suffer, through no fault of their own, should not shoulder the burden of filling the hole to level off a playing field that no-one can play on anymore. It is a temptation I think we would do well to refuse. They bragged and they boasted, paraded their spoils for all to see and enjoyed our growing jealousies. And now they quiver and shake, not knowing how much time they have nor what they are going to have to return from their ill-gotten hoard. That’s a kinda fear I hope that you never have to experience, the chips’re down and all your guilt and shame is about to be made public and the first, and last, thing you want is a helping hand.

      However it seems to me that the refusal of that hand would be rather akin to the fans at a fight, having bet on their man to win, refusing access to the St John’s Ambulance Men when he’s down and bloody, in order to witness a particularly punishing and brutal vengeance. Whilst such a denouement might just sate some of our more savage desires, it would definitely do little for our Humanity and even less for the pulverised heap in the middle of the ring. Part of the reason that that bloody lump was so cocky and arrogant in the first place was that he knew he had our full support, that we had invested in him and wanted him to win at a game which we didn’t even understand.

      You and I don’t play that virtual game of guessing the price of a widget in 2053, the exponential vaguaries of the coffee bean over time, we don’t lend money to NINJA’s (No Income, No Job, No Assets), probably can’t get our head around the concept of debt being an asset nor shake the old wisdom that says a Savings Account is a good thing, yet we have not refused the rewards of these activities and their perceived wisdoms; be it a loan we shouldn’t’ve been allowed; a holiday we couldn’t afford; a motor we bought too early or at all. Or a bloody cappuccino. It ill behoves us to call for the evisceration or imprisonment of those who have imperilled us, if we find that we have benefited from their activities in the slightest. And let’s face it we have.

      The financial restrictions on everything from houses and businesses, to credit cards and overdrafts have so been eased, supposedly in our favour, that we are able to live way beyond any realistic means without repercussion. Until the shit hits the fan in some long-distant, dim future when the Tooth Fairy will come and protect us. I should know better. I am the Tooth Fairy to my three kids. I am Father Christmas, the Easter Bunny and the Tickle Monster all in one and I know that when the shit hits I will be powerless to defend myself from any accusations of chicanery and double-dealing; that the disillusionment will be huge and life’ll never be the same again, for any of us.

      And if you happen to be one of those who have steadfastly refused the blandishments of a ‘World Gone Wrong’ (as the Singer say) then you are probably also of that generous disposition that would not only allow the ambulance but you’d probably be driving the bloody thing too. I wish I had had the strength of character and generosity of spirit to volounteer for the post of stretcher-bearer. Sadly I find myself doing the washing up in my safe (?) European home, throwing stones at Fat Cats and errant squirrels, keeping one eye open for the Buzzards and pondering a decent into the arms trade, the better to repel the blighted, flighted-vermin, the city-pidge. Time to board the carriage with my first-aid kit methinx. Join me?