Messages don’t load, and I’m left with blank screens and a sense of urgency as the market crashes. It should, of course, have looked where it was going, round hairpin bends on mountains that had learned nothing since they were mere molehills, but it was too tangled up in its red braces and self-congratulation to concern itself with potential impact. It is, after all, a savage world of dog-eat-god, with a daily diet of minor deities, served up raw and roaring; a world in which right and wrong are simply answers on daytime quiz shows, and a moral compass turns up now and then on Bargain Hunt and loses money every time. The market crawls from the wreckage like the villain of a Saturday serial, dusts itself down and twirls its oiled moustache. Money talks, but we all know it’s lying, so we trust to mediums with milky eyes and exaggerated accents. Uncertainty is mounting, and the roaring boys are massaging the available information and cashing in blank cheques. The only thing that’s loaded is the pearl-handled revolver with the hair trigger, nestling under the driver’s seat like a fledgling god.
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Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor
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