This is a story about wearing a straightjacket...

Life is better in flip flops. Life is best of all barefoot and with lush green grass underfoot, in some nice warm sunny climate. Why is it that we get so little of what our soul is screaming out for sometimes?

I decided to wear a grey suit and chase the dollars, as a technologist/engineer working in banking. That's a double whammy. Not only are you already working in a dry technical field, but you're also entering the bleak world of bean counting, which is daily corporate drudgery. There's no room for creativity or colourful characters in banking's IT departments.

My game plan has always been to earn enough to not have to worry about money. It's kind of worked. At times, I have been able to go for long stretches of my life without ever having to check my bank balance or do any budgeting. I've been able to have everything I wanted, when I wanted it, without thinking twice. However, there's another price to be paid: freedom.

In order to fit in a neat little box, and slot in and play nice with the other drones in the hive, you have to sacrifice any individual freedom of expression. There's no room for free spirits in the great grand pyramid scheme of corporate finance, capitalism and wage slavery. You need to appear to be a regular guy who is playing by the same rules as everybody else. You can't buck the trend. You can't beat the street.

Whether it's working 5 days a week, when you could easily afford to drop your hours to 3 days a week, or taking only 5 weeks of holiday when you could afford to only work 6 months of the year... you have to still put in the hours, weeks and months, to appear to be corporate enough to be allowed into the grand palaces of glass & steel.

Learning when to keep your mouth shut. Knowing who you're allowed to escalate issues to. Whose head are you allowed to go above. Learning which arses to kiss, who to brown nose. Learning when to come in early and when to leave late. Learning exactly which shade of grey is culturally in fashion at any given moment, and curtailing any longings you might have for a bright and gaudy tie or other flamboyant display of individuality.

You might have seen a scene in American Psycho, or perhaps read the chapter in the book, where the main protagonist and a colleague are comparing their business cards. The style details that they notice would escape the gaze of most people who are not immersed in the bland corporate world, but something as subtle as the serif on a font is a blaring foghorn to those who spend their days in a desert, devoid of all creativity.

This blog might appear to be intellectual masturbation, but really all this stuff had to come out. I've spent the best part of 20 years with no creative outlet. Sure, I got to design a few logos during my forays into startup land, and I got to do the graphics and sound for my iPhone games, but that was the briefest of respite from an unrelenting demand for my time to be spent pushing paper around a desk in a dreary office.

Ok, so I can't really complain. I've had a lifestyle and opportunities that many could only dream of. However, there is a feeling that everything that has come from that world is somehow dirty, and it's only by burning everything to the ground, and starting again, that I will find any peace and comfort. Everything that I've built using money from the corporate realm has felt just as fake as that entire make-work world.

Do you have to become destitute to appreciate things? What trigger is necessary in your life, to tell you to stop and smell the roses? What point do you reach, where you are prepared to watch your entire life fall into ruins, with some element of glee, with some sense of liberation? How is it that you can be happier as a person, when your whole world is collapsing?

Maybe I'll never own my own home and garden again. However I've lived in Royal Kensington Park Gardens. I didn't own the gardens, but when the park wardens have finished their sweep for any remaining interlopers (like me) after they have closed the park gates, and you have managed to evade discovery, then you pretty much have the place to yourself until the next morning.

The bulk of the homeless people in the park clustered unwisely and lazily around each other and the park entrances. They frequently robbed each other and got into fights. The park wardens and the police knew where to find them, and would go and antagonise them whenever park life was becoming a bit to cushy.

Being the lone wolf that I am, I found myself a thorny bush, with thick ground cover such that me and my tent were obscured from view, within its thorn-free centre. My bush was located a long way from any of the park entrances or paths through the park. It was in a part of the park that far fewer people would visit, as there's no monuments, statues, lake or other attraction. There was quite an extensive preparatory scouting operation and a lot of thought went into choosing my spot.

If you have chosen a more conventional lifestyle, you are probably in fear of eviction. You are probably afraid to default on your mortgage payments or get into rent arrears. You are probably fearful of losing your home and being turfed out onto the streets. Actually, it was pretty exciting and fun at times.

I really don't recommend that you become homeless if you have a family. It's more of a leisure activity for a single man in reasonable physical health, who has no fear of public ridicule or being ostracised.

Actually, this whole downward spiral has been immensely liberating. Who would honestly quit their job in order to write the equivalent of two novels, all of which would make them completely unemployable, and none of which would be commercial. There is no content here in this blog which is monetizable. I write because I have to... this stuff's been bottled up for too long. It has to go down on paper, before I lose my mind.

Who gets to be an artist? Who is allowed to have art as a career aspiration? Who has the talent? Or is it only the spoilt brat children of the moneyed elite who get to spend their days penning poetry and painting? How do artists pay the rent? How do artists eat?

Sorry, that sounds like I'm giving myself the title "artist" which is clearly undeserved, unearned. But what on earth is this monstrosity of a creation going to turn out to be? Calling the curious ramblings of an idiot in the process of losing his mind, an artwork, is surely preposterously pompous and delusional. Let's just keep calling it a blog for now. It will surely descend into an account of what I had for breakfast and other such banality anyway.

Surely words have to be printed on paper and bound into a book, before there can be any credibility for somebody's writing. Surely, unless there is a willing publisher, then the words are worthless. Without a publisher's mark, why should anybody care what somebody has taken the time to write?

There's a proper book from a proper author. I could quote from the book, and of course the words would have much greater gravitas, authority, because they're coming from a work of physical publishing. Ink had to soak into paper, and glue had to dry on a binding, for me to be able to hold this object in my hand, so therefore it exists, unlike this blog which is just made of ones and zeros and squirted down a fibre optic cable across thousands of miles.

A friend charmingly refers to my blog as a "blag" and naturally he doesn't read it. I'm not sure I'm blagging. I'm pretty much an expert in blagging and this feels like the complete opposite. I'm laying my soul bare here. I'm pouring my heart out. I'm giving you all the ammunition you need to destroy me.

There's a considerable leap of faith here, to lay yourself wide open to ridicule and shame. My actions are wide open to be criticised and cut to pieces. Every bit of my life can be dissected, like some lab animal. You'd be second to the carcass though. I already thoroughly dismantled my own mind and picked over the bones of my past.

I like to think that there might be something here after extensive editing, that could prove interesting to those going through the complete self-destruction of their life. Certainly there is inspiration that I have taken from other people's narratives of their descent into madness, addiction and destitution. I'm trying to emulate their writing, but also add to that body of literature, as I have struggled to find enough to read to satisfy my own demand.

But, let's just call this writing practice. I know that everything I've written to date is far too jumbled up and mixing topics to follow any kind of thread that somebody could just sit down and follow with any interest. It's too hard to find the nuggets that tickle your individual fancy.

Things would probably be a lot harder and flow a lot less verbosely if I was to set myself the strict constraints of a plot to follow and having to keep things in chronological order. This jumble of thoughts would struggle to make it out of my brain and onto a page if they had to be ordered, structured, constrained.

I hope you don't think I'm arrogant for considering the possibility that other people might read what I write. Perhaps it's naïve to even think that I could offer an interesting tale to another lost soul, wandering aimlessly or feeling alone.

Anyway, I'm going to go and eat my tea now.

Tags: #career

This is a story about dangerous combinations...

When people started dying of AIDS, everybody thought it was a disease limited to homosexual men. Everybody knows that hetros get HIV too, but what about high levels of promiscuity and apps like Grindr? Well, hetros have Tinder now etc.

Silendafil (Viagra) started to be commercialised globally during the 90's, and this also changed the public consciousness, to make the use of drugs during romantic interludes, more widely accepted.

Performance enhancing drugs get everywhere. EPO & Anabolic Steroids in sport. Modafinil and Methylphendiate in academia. Cocaine on the banks' trading floors. Dexedrine for the fighter pilots and soldiers.

Sex now has Cabergoline, which allows men to have multiple orgasms, as well as the erectile dysfunction medications. Also, stimulants like Crystal Meth give people unhuman sexual appetites and stamina.

The problem with combining an addictive drug with a compulsive behaviour, is that you are linking hardwired survival circuitry into the learning & reward mechanisms, which creates a feedback loop. Every time you get horny, you're going to want drugs. You can't stop getting horny... it's evolved into your DNA. You've misprogrammed your mesolimbic pathway.

I ordered some alloy wheel cleaner from BASF in Germany, which a few drops of used to accidentally fall into a gulp of orange juice for my ex-wife and me. "Should we do some more?" she used to say, and can you believe that I used to have to be the sensible one and say "no, we'd better stop there. Know our limits. Keep a handle on this thing".

So, my divorce was more than the loss of a life partner. It was the loss of a shared drug & sex addiction too. It wasn't healthy. It was co-dependent. It needed to end. It's just that whoever was weaker at the time was going to get destroyed. That was me.

If you feel like a freak, don't worry, in London you'll blend right in. You can get a f**k on Craigslist in about 30 minutes, on on Tinder in about an hour. I once met a chap in the park who asked me to be his eyes to get him to hospital because he had gone literally cross-eyed after eating 16 Viagra.

Too Much Information (TMI)? Well, actually, if you read more carefully there's no actual confession there. I'm just giving you the scope and the scale of the problem. The parameters that I'm working with.

Thankfully, you can't just walk to a stall on Camden Market, or a sex shop in Soho and buy Legal Highs now. You can't do it on a whim. You can't just happen to be passing by.

You can't even sell Legal Highs now. You have to call them Research Chemicals, and mark them as toxic. Not for human consumption. That's right. Accidents happen though.

None of this stuff is in my life, but it's 24 hours waiting for the postman away.

I've been dreaming about having a meal, having something to eat, but every time I wake up I feel too overwhelmed. I've lost my appetite. It can't possibly be a lack of blood in my drugstream, because there isn't anything alien in my system. I'm as clean as a whistle.

There's a mountain of things I need to deal with, including drinking & eating enough. Most of it is very mundane and practical. I know we've all shoved post in a drawer and tried not to think about it at some stage in our life. Imagine doing that with everything you need to do, including the consumption of enough calories to sustain life.

I'm sorry it all sounds a bit pathetic and needy. I'm sorry it's all so sordid and grubby. I'm sorry it's all so personal and embarrassing and shameful and private. You know, it's exhausting, hiding an alter ego that you're terrified of anybody discovering.

Oh well, f**k it. Cat's out of the bag now. I'm so exhausted. I'm going back to sleep. Maybe I'll have a lovely dream about Greggs the Baker again.

Tags: #addiction #alcohol #drugs #sex #divorce

This is a story about the battle of the sexes...

Why would you punch that face? What would it achieve? What would the effect be? I can tell you about the final point.

If you punch me multiple times in the face, without provokation, I will react. Here's how my reactions will go...

If I'm lonely and isolated, because I've been forced to leave my home and rent a flat for you miles away from all my friends, then I will be sad and depressed. Especially if I'm home alone in that flat all week while you're working away and out drinking with all your friends. That isn't very nice, is it?

Perhaps you don't like me seeing my friends. When I had all my friends to visit for our engagement party you threw a massive tantrum. When I went out kitesurfing with my friends, you went through my internet browsing history and rummaged through all my personal belongings. When I got home, you put me on trial, even though what you found was entirely innocent.

Why would you boast about hitting men in the past? Hitting people is not good. There's never an excuse for it. It's never the answer. I feel bad about the times when I have swung my fists. I can't defend my actions. Why do you think you have an excuse?

So, I was afraid. I was very afraid, because domestic abuse was literally killing me. I had become suicidal.

Men don't really talk about domestic abuse. We're not really allowed to be abused. The system isn't set up in that way. Domestic abuse is when a man hits a woman, not vice versa.

So, I was given every reason to believe that when she got angry, I was going to get my face smashed in. It had happened three times. Three strikes. She had boasted about doing it in the past. She had no remorse. She was unapologietic. She didn't think she had done anything wrong. I didn't even defend myself. Why would I? It was her who was angry and aggressive and violent. I was passive, unguarded, open, loving and caring.

My reaction wasn't great. First I sliced my wrist open with a breadknife. She got even more angry about this. Apparently the fact that I had been driven to self mutilation was a provocative act? Apparently, somebody crying, in pain and bleeding is a target for violence and abuse.

My next reaction wasn't great. I rigged up one of my climbing ropes so I could hang myself. This resulted in the police being called. She thought that was the end of it. The police had 'dealt' with it, so to speak. Her actions were in no way linked to anything. You ring the police, and everything is fixed. That's how society works, isn't it?

My next reaction wasn't great. I smashed up my own laptop. I saw her getting into one of her rages, and instead of letting her start throwing punches, I smashed up my laptop. It stopped me from getting hit. She was quite fond of my £1,000 laptop. She liked watching movies on it with me. I smashed it up and she didn't hit me that time.

You can't keep smashing up £1,000 laptops though. It gets expensive.

So we both suffered a little for the laptop. She didn't get to watch movies with me, but I was the one who mainly suffered, because I didn't have a laptop anymore. It also cost me a load of money to replace all the broken parts. It also took me a load of time to repair it. It was me who learnt more of a lesson than her.

My next reaction wasn't great. I smashed up our bed. I saw her getting into one of her rages, and instead of letting her start throwing punches, I smashed up the bed. It stopped me from getting hit. She was quite fond of our £300 bed. She liked sleeping in it with me, occasionally. I smashed up our bed and she didn't hit me that time. 

You can't keep smashing up £300 beds though. It gets expensive.

So we both suffered a little for the bed. She had to sleep on the mattress on the floor with me, but she was away a lot of the time, so I suffered more. I paid for the bed, so it was me who suffered financially too. I was glad not to have my face being punched though.

My next reaction wasn't great. I smashed up her car. I saw her getting into one of her rages, and instead of letting her start throwing punches, I smashed up her car. It stopped me from getting hit, although she did try. She ended up tearing my favourite clothes, in her attempt to physically hurt me. She was quite fond of her car. She wanted to hit me, and it made her want to hit me even more because I had damaged her car.

So that didn't work at all. It made her even more violent and aggressive. That was a total failure, as well as being expensive. I had to get her a new bonnet and have a dent in the door filled, as well as having the panels resprayed.

Anyway, you get the idea about the way the relationship went. Because I had good reason to expect my face to get smashed in, when she would get angry, I would get scared, and she would be aggressive and threatening, and I would smash something up in order to not be punched. I don't like being punched. I don't like having black eyes and a broken nose.

Seems rational enough? Well it was completely insane. What seemed logical to me, was for her to stop being violent, threatening and aggressive towards me. I had this crazy dream of a perfect relationship, where I wouldn't get punched in the face. I had these wild fantasies of dating somebody who didn't swing their fists into my head. I had the crazy notion that she might admit she was in the wrong and stop being so aggressive.

Anyway, we should have broken up, but my parents taught me to always persevere with a completely fucked up relationship. They taught me to never give up on somebody, no matter how abusive the relationship. I tried to fix things. I tried a kindness offensive. I bought her flowers, I cooked her lavish meals, I took her on luxury holidays, I showered her with gifts, I made her heart-shaped chocolate eggs, I painted her pictures, I made her music... I tried to sooth her rages.

I remember throwing her ski boots into a snow drift because she was having a tantrum about something. The icy air seemed to chill her out a little, and I avoided being hit.

If I'm totally honest - and I tend to be - a lot of her rage seemed to be linked to sex. She seemed to quite like it, and she didn't like that I knew that. She didn't like that I knew she liked having sex with me. She wanted to have sex as a weapon to use against me, but she was frustrated that it hurt her too. She knew that she would weaken before I did. She wanted me to beg and crawl over broken glass, but her libido was too high to permit such power games.

It's strange what men and women will do to each other. I work on a very simple relationship principle: I've got a surplus of love that I want to give away. I want to make my partner feel loved, adored, cared for, secure and happy. Strange, right? I should just be out to get my dick wet, but I don't really work like that.

Sure, I had nowhere near as much sex as would have been good for my adult psyche, as a teenager. I was highly undersexed. Nowhere near enough sex in my teens. Perhaps it's common for many kids, but I only had a couple of girlfriends, and not nearly enough sex.

To say I was a late starter is not entirely accurate. I had a dab of speed paste (amphetamine) at a nightclub, when I was 15, and ended up losing my virginity that night with chemically enhanced confidence, despite having 'speed dick' (stimulants - like speed - shrink your dick due to blood pressure changes... honest, love).

Because I started my career 3 or 4 years early, I always had a nice car and plenty of money. Insofar as I can tell, girls are looking for confidence, not for money or material things, but having a nice car can make you feel confident as a guy. It's a penis extension. It's a confidence booster. It's a social crutch.

My confidence and self-esteem were rock bottom, on account of having my school life ruined by being forced to wear unfashionable clothes, uniform worn in the wrong style, and ride past over 1,000 children at the bus stop in the morning, riding a stolen girls bike. That's not helpful to a teenaged child.

But anyway, between Devon, Dorset and Somerset, there were opportunities for the occasional tryst with a girl from another school, who you perhaps met at a festival, on the beach, at a disco or a club, or later in life when I got a car. It wasn't feast and famine. It was famine with the few occasional crumbs from the table.

I'm jealous of friends who hooked up with childhood sweethearts. I would have loved to have had a childhood sweetheart, but you just can't damage a kid's image that badly without there being terrible repercussions on their social standing.

The net result is that I was grateful to have a girlfriend when I had one. I never took them for granted. I worked hard to please them, and to make the relationship work. Even to the point where I was taking a beating, but not complaining or telling anybody. I took it personally. I took it to heart. It hurt, and I blamed myself.

My ex probably thought she could do better. Yes, when you have a partner who makes you feel adored, when you're put on a pedestal and you have the ground you walk on worshipped, you can get a little arrogant. You can get totally complacent about receiving love and care and attention. Well, I've matured a little now. If you'd rather be with somebody who's unfaithful and treats you with contempt, you know where the door is.

Yes, I'm pretty stubborn. I will act with kindness, and more kindness, and play nice, and be nice and do nice things. I don't play games. I don't try and manipulate. I don't try and frustrate. I don't play hard to get. I'm a bit of an oddball like that.

I'm not perfect, and I did once end up in a relationship because I thought I was worthless and had to settle for somebody I didn't fancy. I ended up feeling resentful though. I didn't know how to get out of that relationship, and I wasn't very nice to that poor girl at times. I didn't hit her though. I do regret some things I said and did though. I did feel remorse for not handling that situation better. However, we saw each other again about 10 years ago, and we still got along just fine.

I guess when two stubborn people meet though, sparks are going to fly. I'm a bit of a weirdo in that I feel sorry when I hurt people. I feel responsible for my actions. I'm a bit strange like that. I really don't like the way I acted with my ex, even though it was clearly a reaction to being victimised. I can't justify my actions. I should have found a way to walk away. I should have ignored my parents example and done things my own way.

My way normally works. Living to try and be somebody's abstract idea of what they want doesn't really work. You can't twist and contort yourself into an imaginary being that they want. You can't be somebody else's fantasy, no matter how hard you try.

I don't like disappointing people. I've always been a disappointment to my parents. They are always looking to pick holes in everything I do, and destroy me in order to blame their shortcomings on me. I selfishly decided to conceive myself and pop out of my mother's uterus and get in the way of the drug taking party. How selfish and inconsiderate of me. Oops.

Why am I still going over all this stuff? Well, I found a way to numb the pain. I found a way to stop the arguments. I found a solution to all our problems. I found a way for us to peacefully co-exist. I found a way to protect myself that kept me safe from violence and aggression. I hid in my shell for 4 years. I used tricks I learned from my parents. Luckily there were no children involved. I'm not that irresponsible and reckless, for fuck's sake!

It's a hard life, dating a rich guy who treats you like a princess and takes you on lovely holidays. You should beat some manners into him (July 2006)

Tags: #divorce #childhood

This is a story about chronic fatigue...

Smart bosses have figured out that happy employees are more productive. If you don't have the right culture in your organisation, you will make people very sick. You will be burning people out in order to achieve your unrealistic targets.

Forward thinking organisations are letting people have dogs at work. They are promoting more flexible working arrangements. They are seeing their employees as people and not just numbers in a spreadsheet.

I wrote an IT Roadmap for a company which had just been spun off by its parent company, and sold. I took one look around the little company, and I knew immediately that they had got the culture spot on. I wrote my roadmap with this culture as the guiding principle.

I urged the new CEO of the spin-off company to preserve the culture, in order to maintain the high productivity and excellent morale of the staff. I tried my best to pursuade him of the benefits of investing in technology that would support the staff, that would preserve the brilliant working environment. He ignored my advice.

I quit that job, because my opinion wasn't valued. You can't pay me enough to rubberstamp the wrong decisions. If you're looking for a "yes" man, a sycophant, then you've got the wrong guy.

So, after I left, the culture was destroyed, money was burnt on stupid vanity projects, all the good people left. The profits dropped 90% and naturally, the CEO was fired. I take no pride, only sadness, in saying "I told you so".

But one cool thing happened. At a conference a little over a year later, the CEO of the parent company presented my ideas. They had implemented them. Ideas are worthless, and the implementation must have been very hard - although I had done a proof of concept with my team - so I can take no credit. But it was so nice to be vindicated that I had to pinch myself to see if I was dreaming.

I've been bumping along like this for quite a few years now. The problem is, that I'm exhausted. I've got enough energy to do the job, but not enough energy to endure the idiots. I tend to get the important stuff done, and then I have to bow out and allow the sacking of the egotistical dead wood to happen.

Fundamentally, I burnt out in 2008, working on JPMorgan's #1 project. Instead of going off work sick, I decided that I needed to change jobs and as soon as I did the wall of exhaustion that I had been holding back hit me like a steamroller.

I was so flattened by it, that my doctors thought I might have AIDS. We tried every test under the sun, but fundamentally, I now believe that I was simply overworked. I had worked hard and played hard for far too long. My body & brain just couldn't cope anymore.

I was a bit of 'swan'... looked very serene and calm on the surface, but my legs were going like crazy beneath the surface of the water. During some 'time out' I remember playing golf, trying to putt with my phone jammed to my ear while I attempted to resolve some issue a team member was having.

I am so passionate about my work that I tend to dream about it. I even have 'eureka' moments sometimes and wake up and start writing code or an email. There is no switching off when I'm in the 'on' position.

My commute to the office (September 2007)

It's not very healthy, but my parents, school, partners, lazy friends, bosses, society and the surrounding culture has driven me to this unsustainable level. People say 'take it easy, slow down' but as soon as I do back off the gas, they soon start complaining. People get used to a certain level of contribution. They start taking you for granted.

What am I living for, if it's not for work? Nothing is ever good enough for my parents. I haven't had a nice caring kind girlfriend for far too long. I haven't got any kids. What's the point of life if it's not to make some kind of epic contribution?

It's not about heroics, and I really don't expect anybody to get the violins out and say "ooh, poor you". It's literally that work fills an otherwise empty void in my existence. Without work to dedicate myself to, do I really exist? My day to experiences would suggest not.

Yes, I know that work is a dangerous addiction that is damaging my health, but it's the only place that I ever hear "well done" or "thank you". My parents and ex-girlfriend/ex-wife would never sink so low as to actually show me any respect. It's expensive, apparently, to show somebody some appreciation.

During seemingly interminable periods of fatigue, depression, you can obviously reflect and see that you are repeating the same vicious cycle. It doesn't mean that you can beat it though. Nobody stops the world so that you can get off the rollercoaster.

So, everybody will be very relieved when I'm 'recovered' from a crash, but the fact of the matter is that recovery actually only starts when the exhaustion and depression have passed. All that time in bed is not recovery... it's staying alive. It's surviving, not thriving.

Yes, I'm surviving, but I'm not thriving. Nobody will let me get that far. When I have an opportunity to thrive, everybody says "Oh, you're fine now. We don't need to help you, we can go back to taking from you" not that I really receive help anyway.

My friend Klaus brought me a bag of stuff in hospital. That was one of the kindest things that anybody has ever done for me in a couple of years. Does that mean I owe him a favour? Well, he was already living rent free on my couch so I guess we can call it quits!

I do keep a very careful eye on my karma balance. I have paid it forward big time, and I always want to run a net karma surplus. If you do your accounting with some surpluses, with contingency, then you don't have to sweat the small stuff.

There are some people who feel hard done by at my hands. My friend John who thought it was OK to use me for free rent, spending money and as a personal life coach to help him over his gambling addiction and general idleness, for example. When life became unmanageable, I chucked him off my back to save myself. Am I supposed to be sorry about that? Why was I carrying him in the first place?

I don't really understand why I attract klingons. I guess it's because I'm a kind and generous person who gives off an aura of success and I make what I do look quite easy, so other people think there's not much effort required to achieve the same things. That's the thing about being good at what you do. You make it look easy.

I certainly have suffered from the "I could do your job" mistake. When CxOs and managers have been fired because they didn't listen to my expert advice, I certainly wouldn't want to take their place. I'm not trying to steal anybody's job. When I was younger, for sure I thought I could do my manager's job, and do it better. The fact that I have proved it, does not actually mean anything... I hated doing those managerial jobs!

Yes, management really is not for me. Somebody else can have the pressure and stress and responsibility. I think it's a vocation, not a job title. I think it's a demotion not a promotion. Those who can, do. Those who can't, must depend on others to do for them, and must be more organised themselves to compensate for the fact that they can't both be both organised and productive.

So, I'm exhausted by having to design, build, lead, argue with idiots who don't know what they're talking about and make dead wood losers look good.

I'm laid low with depression, fatigue.

Sorry about that, klingons.

That is all.

Frankie loves being tucked up warm in bed. We all do during winter. Fatigue and depression are much more serious. I'm suicidal and I can barely get out of bed (November 2007)

Tags: #career #banking #depression #suicide #mentalhealth #frankie

This is a story about human nature...

What kind of pose does one pull at the birthplace of Silicon Valley? Imitating the undead seemed somehow fitting. There is an incredibly powerful global brain drain at the moment.

Money does not trickle down, it concentrates in pools. If you want me to show you how to make a million dollars, give me 100 million and a year. I must be some sort of financial genius, right?

I'm alarmed by just how hard all the engineers are working, and how little of the reward they share. In fact, they are getting burnt out by an industry, which seems to care very little about the lives it's destroying. Get rich or die trying seems to be the order of the day. Very much more of the latter going on than the former.

Anybody who tells you that Americans don't understand irony is completely wrong. They not only understand it, but they play with it, and it's hilarious. The tongue-in-cheek humour I have had the pleasure of experiencing is delightful.

The entire world, including America, has been misled about the American Dream. Hollywood tells us we can all been rich and beautiful: take taxis, fly in jets, stay in 5-star hotels, have swimming pools, helicopters, speedboats and sports cars. We can't. There are far more people watching those movies and buying into that dream than the space available for helipads on the planet. It's a con.

Some of my super super smart engineer friends have even been taken in by the simplest con of all: getting somebody to do a load of hard work for you, while you pocket all the profits. It breaks my heart to find out just how diluted their shares are by the time they've built a valuable company for a bunch of Venture Capitalists.

However, my friends have gotten to scratch that "engineer's itch" and work with great people doing intersting stuff. I guess my remuneration is based on boredom and danger money for working in a tall building on an airport approach path, in a rather hated industry.

We used to talk about the 'golden handcuffs' at JPMorgan Chase & Co. We knew that what we were doing was completely insane, but we had big houses, kids in private schools and pretty wives with spending habits that were proportional to their good looks. We were locked into the system. We were prostitues and junkies.

However - as is always the case with human nature - people got greedy. They started getting young, idealistic and hard-working people to do more of the work for less of the pay. They even started getting massively underpaid Indians, straight out of University to to all the work for a tiny fraction of the pay. That doesn't work.

If you undervalue a person, they become a zombie. Zoned out.

If you wave a ridiculous cash reward under someone's nose, but chronically underpay them until they 'win' the prize that they can never seem to quite reach, they become burnt out.

Or they get really cheesed off with it all, and come back and kick your ass. The fact is, they've worked a lot harder than you, so they'll fight a lot harder too. They're probably smarter than you too, because they've had to be resourceful. Getting fattened by the labour of other people makes you lazy and soft.

Why people think that they deserve a big salary for forwarding emails is completely beyond any sensible comprehension. The laziness in middle management is incredible. Nobody can be bothered to do any typing. Nobody can be bothered to collate any figures, let alone do any math. Nobody seems to have any relevant knowledge or experience. They are just blundering fools.

So, I need to go back to London. The company that I'm officially contracted to at the moment desperately wants to terminate my contract but hasn't found an excuse to do it yet. I really wish they had the backbone to just do it so I could spend some more time with friends out here in California. I really could do with the money from the contract, and I really don't have any money to spend staying here, but I'm not being allowed to do anything approaching useful to help HSBC deliver the #1 project on time, on budget and to a decent quality.

"I told you so" is so completely useless. I just want to do a good job. My normal approach is to do the right thing, get in trouble for it, but then at least the problems are solved, things are delivered and the client is begrudgingly accepting of receiving exactly what was needed.

I can't be arsed with that anymore. Time for some honesty.

I'm actually completely exhausted by the relentless crappy compromises that are demanded by ass hats that result in death by a thousand cuts. Why do idiots feel they have to 'add value' by undermining the experts? Why do little hitlers feel that they are adding value by encroaching into people's lives? What I wear to work and when I turn up is none of your business if the work is getting done. Certainly my private life is completely off limits if you're not going to be sympathetic when I get sick.

I'm aware that people from work might read this, and I actually hope they really do. It's interesting to me to see how social media sourced data might be unethically used against me. Again, it's about a complete spinelessness in corporate culture. Why not just call me out... I've given so much to my job to try and get a late project back on time, and then when I needed a week out, I got accused of being "unreliable" and was told I was acting "cloak and dagger"... that's such utter horse sh1t.

Was I unreliable when I was amongst a handful of people who always got phoned every weekend? Was it cloak and dagger when I was working 7 days a week and clearly not sleeping because I was answering email around-the-clock? I couldn't possibly have concealed anything as I was forever in the eye of my team, and the client. No cloak, no dagger.

Frankly, you picked a fight with the wrong guy. I'm coming back to the UK, and I'm mighty p1ssed off... and you don't want to see me p1ssed off.

Here is an unrelated picture of Frankie the cat. I like the feel of grass under my feet. It calms me down (July 2012)

Tags: #banking #career #computing #frankie #mentalhealth

This is a story about the rise and rise of mental illness...

I used to be a Sea Scout. The motto of the Scouts is "Be Prepared".

When I suspected that I was becoming mentally unwell, I read every book, website, academic paper and journal that I could find that I felt related to my mental health and its potential treatment. I educated myself.

I'm an educated patient. Because I'm an educated patient, I avoided being medicated with a Selective Serotonin Re-uptake Inhibitor (SSRI) which would have caused greater mood instability than I was already suffering with.

SSRIs are also linked to emotional blunting and the destruction of the sex lives and relationships of many couples. My relationship was already on the rocks, hence going to the doctor to see if there were some magic beans or a silver bullet, that could cure my ills.

Fundamentally, I believe that some mental health issues are risk not destiny. There don't seem to be any genes that are clearly faulty in individuals who suffer from Unipolar Depression and Bipolar Disorder. They are complex spectrum disorders. Some people are really dysfunctional when they are unwell, and others find ways of coping, sometimes to the point that people around them don't even know they are suffering.

However, out of desperation, I have tried the following medications, prescribed to me:

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Mirtazepine

This was well tolerated (no nasty side effects that made me want to stop taking it). It certainly seemed to reduce my stress levels and get some sleep. I think I might have rebounded though and started to go hypomanic fairly quickly.

Quetiapine

Unless you like weight gain, constipation, dry mouth and feeling like a drugged zombie for the few hours that you are awake, before your next dose knocks you out and you start the whole miserable 24 hour cycle all over again... I can't say this medication gives much quality of life beyond dribbling at daytime TV.

Aripiprazole

This is useful to see if your head is held straight. If your head is leaning to the left, then you will dribble out of the left side of your mouth. If your head is leaning to the right, then you will dribble out of the right side of your mouth. If you are holding your head perfectly straight, then you will dribble out of both sides of your mouth.

Lithium

This is hardcore. You need to have regular blood tests. It will shorten your life. Avoid if you can tolerate other meds or manage without.

Sodium Valproate & Depakote

Do you plan on working again? In an office? 9 to 5? Not really compatible with going back to work full time. If you're not completely manic (psychotic) then best avoided.

Lamotrogine

Just takes so damn long to get up to a therapeutic dose, you go through another hypomanic episode, decide that you're fine, and then stop taking your medication anyway. It's pretty subtle. Apparently it improves REM sleep. I dream a lot anyway. My sleep quality is more a function of good sleep hygiene.

Olanzapine

Fast acting. Good to calm you down if you're having an unmanageable moment. Makes you sleepy though... couldn't really work 9 to 5 on it.

Bupropion

Fast acting. Incredible antidepressant. It did give me a panic attack once though. Also stokes my hypomania pretty bad. Although it's a nicotinergic agonist, it actually shares many characteristics of stimulants like caffeine and amphetamine. Makes you pretty horny. Helps you quit smoking too (I don't smoke though).

Diazepam

Mother's little helpers (Valium). This powerful long-acting GABA agonist is an amazing anxiolytic. You could literally stand in the middle of a highway and not give a sh1t about the cars whizzing past you at 70mph. Super addictive. Horrible to taper off.

-----

Fundamentally, do any of these medications work? Well, I can vouch for Bupropion, Olanzapine, Mirtazepine and Diazepam for their short term efficacy. However, the body soon gets used to the effects and builds tolerance, which means you forever need to increase the dose to get the same therapeutic effect... welcome to homestasis, b1tches!

In my anecdotal experience, it's better to tough out the storm and not mess with the ridiculously complex organ that is a brain. When the psychopharmacologists imagined how Prozac (Fluoxetine) was having its antidepressant effect they expected to see higher serotonin levels in spinal fluids. They told the world that depressed people had "low serotonin". They just guessed and they guessed wrong.

Type I Bi-Polar Disorder was also known as Manic Depression. This is a serious illness that requires serious treatment. It's not my place to comment on whether medication plays a part in that. I'm no expert on Type I BPD.

Type II Bipolar means that you have hypomanic episodes, not fully blown mania. That means risk taking, spending money, hypersexuality, racing thoughts and pressured speech... amongst other symptoms, such as reduced need for sleep & food, and intolerance of slow-witted fools.

I'm Type II. I think it's a very important distinction. If I can control my mood disorder with good diet, good routine, good sleep and abstinence from alcohol & drugs (including prescribed drugs) then my brain has the best possible chance of finding homeostasis.

If I can remove unnecessary stress in my life, caused by complete ass-hats, and I'm empowered to just get the f**k on with my life, then my symptoms will abate. It's as simple as that.

This was the first time that Frankie had ever seen snow. His brain adapted to the change in environment (December 2010)

Tags: #bipolar #mentalhealth #depression #suicide #sex #drugs #frankie

This is a story of a seemingly simple equation...

1 + 1 ≠ 1. I have been trying to make a single 'perfect' life by finding 'the one' but this has not led me or anybody to nirvana.

I was once so desperate for 'love' that I tried to make a relationship work with a girl I didn't fancy and a male boss, who was gay. You can't say I haven't tried everything!

I've had some lovely girlfriends, but it's been rather hard for them. I think I started 'clingy' and then progressed to 'intense' and then didn't really develop much from there. Not sure why it's taking me so long to realise that these things can't be rushed.

So, I got married, and we had our first test of in sickness and in health almost immediately, but we got married in Hawaii, so I'm not even sure if that was part of the vows. I certainly feel like it's a pretty crucial part of a loving committed relationship, but I don't know what the correct formula is.

When I had to go into hospital, soon after getting married, my wife said I would have to choose between her and treatment. I was pretty sure I was going to die if I didn't get treatment, and it was the reccomendation of my doctor, so I was kind of caught between a rock and a hard place.

I had pretty much offered my wife my head on a platter, as some kind of crazy symbolic gesture of how much I loved her, but that I felt I needed to demonstrate my love in this way was most confusing and distressing to me. I can see that this was my problem, not hers.

I left London to live the dream of having a place near the beach and kitesurfing every day. While I was down at the beach one day, my then girlfriend went through my stuff and when I returned to my car to warm up, I saw that I had a message demanding that I return home immediately... I was being summoned to court. Not a real court, but I had been summarily judged to be various things. I had to scamper back as quickly as I could to face my charges.

I don't blame my ex. She had added up 2 + 2 and made 5. She only cared about me, and about our relationship. She was worried I was a drug addict, because she had been through my internet search history, and found that I had Google'd "Nutmeg" after our friend had said that it had psychoactive effects comparable with strong narcotics. Frankly and truthfully, I merely wanted to find evidence to repudiate these unlikely claims.

My ex had good reason to feel insecure though... our friend had kinda gotten my attention. Not to do with the drugs, but she was and still is a larger than life character who defies being ignored by any and all male attention. That does not mean I wanted to cheat on my ex. It means I can still look at a cheeseburger when I am eating a steak.

The company that my ex was working for at the time sent her away from my beach dream life quite often, and I was lonely in the flat that she had insisted that I rent to be close to the office that she never spent any time at, in Poole. I had offered to move to Oxford, where she was working most of the time, but she had promised me that her contract would not be extended. Having worked for the same client and received several extensions myself, I could see that this was unlikely.

So, my friends looked after me, when I was all lonely in our huge apartment that was nowhere near any of my friends. We went out and sang Karaoke. We got drunk together. My certain female friend in question even offered to try and help me with my lifelong dislike of blowjobs... I declined, because I was in love with my ex. It was a thoughtful gesture though.

My ex could see that there was a certain chemistry though, and I guess she grew insecure. She tried to break up with me, without an explaination, and I was confused as hell. I stuck with it and she could see that I cared about her very much and so she gave it another go, but I never really understood what that was all about, until I just wrote these words right now.

The thing that she never seemed to realise is that I only had eyes for her. She lit up a room when she was happy. I remember walking with friends down at Ringstead Bay, near Weymouth, and the girls were walking along together in a line, when I turned back and shot my ex a smouldering look, completely by accident. I was so in love with her, it was so visible to everyone else that the girls either side all went "aaahhhhh" simultanously.

I hope my ex is happy now. I hope she has moved on. I hope that I made enough space and gave her enough closure that she has been able to pick up the pieces of her life and carry on. I'm really sorry that things didn't work out, but I hope the breakup can somehow be for the best in the long run.

So, one of my best friends reminded me last night of the rule of thumb for getting over someone. Seeing as me and my ex were off-and-on from 2005 to 2013, I guess that means there will be a situation vacant in 2017, but until then women should steer clear of this particular emotional juggernaught.

Show me the way to Mordor (October 2013)

Tags: #love #divorce #LGBT #friends

This is a story of a culture that lives in the hearts and minds of people, not a place...

Look how happy this burger flipper is! Look at him! He's so happy! There isn't even any ham in his hamburgers! He flips his burgers to D. I. S. C. O. music, and he is HAPPY!

What a lovely lovely thing the American Dream is. I totally buy into it. I've had the very best of it. I've flown in Boeing jets, driven Ford Mustangs, eaten McDonalds drive-thru, spelled words like "color" and "center" deliberately when in an American English context. I love the way that American culture has enriched every part of my dull beige British life.

I like British culture too. Some of it is cheap and tacky, like Spice Girls and the St. George's flag, but some of it is edgy and just downright edge-of-your-seat unmissable. Who can tear their eyes away from the tormented souls, the mumbling, bumbling, sexually repressed and oh so terribly polite British demeanour, where we start and end every sentence with a "Sorry".

You can't beat the brash snarl and roar of an overdriven electric guitar. However it's the British homage to American stadium rock that somehow lasts, beyond the brilliance and inspiration of Hendrix and a rock-and-roll 60s generation, who burnt out in a blaze of glory.

Let's see how many clichés we can pack into a single sentence about The Americans, who are the candle that burns twice as bright but burns half as long. Like a moth, we are attracted to their bright flame, but like Icarus, we need to be careful that our wax wings are not melted. You can't stare at the sun for too long. There's a little black spot on the sun today, it's in the same old spot as yesterday... yes The Police, and their illegal alien in New York are pretty clear about where they would really like to be Citizens.

I would love a precious Green Card, but I fear rejection by the prettiest girl on the planet... by which I mean the United States of AM-ER-IC-AH, F**k Yeah! I'm not even kidding. When I'm there, I feel like I just stepped onto a movie set. I find myself just gawping at road signs, or pinching myself when I'm driving down the freeway.

So, it's true. If you make great music, great movies, and you are contributing volumes and volumes of literature, art, music and amazing companies, technology, and thought leaders... how is it surprising that everybody wants to live there, and have a slice of the American Dream

That's the true "trickle down" effect, in my not-so-humble opinion.

Please let me in. I'm a refugee of the humdrum boring life that is not at all what I was brought up to expect from Hollywood and the adverts that told me I need to consume consume consume. I'm not even joking. Or maybe it's my dry British sense of humour. Dare I say... irony?

America, I love you x (I really do)

Tags: #america, #NHS #culture

This is a story of exploitation...

Bipolar II is risk, not destiny, but I have unwittingly utilised my diagnosed illness in order to achieve things which many can only dream of. There has been a price to pay, which might aptly be summed up as Nick in blue.

For the uninitiated, a chronic illness is something that you will suffer from your whole life, with little hope of a cure or doing anything beyond masking the symptoms. An acute illness is one that presents itself - an episode of an acute illness - but can go away, for days, weeks, months, years or even the rest of your life.

As the Bipolar propaganda proudly purports, many famous 'sufferers' are not really suffering at all in their hypomanic phases, if we consider the following: very few would give up those highs in favour of a normal range of moods, despite the savage depressive episodes which inevitably follow the hugely productive and energy-sapping explosion of activity, which tends to punctuate the cycle.

Why should anyone who is so applauded and revered by bosses, parents, society, for their 'achievements' - measured only on abstract scales such as school and University grades, income and other work-related nonsense such as promotions and job titles - think that they are unwell and seek treatment?

It's very hard to spot a person with Bipolar II in your organisation, your team. When they are hypomanic, they are also productive, but they are disruptive and argumentative. Essentially, they are totally unmanageable and unable to play nicely with plodders. Companies like plodders. Managers like plodders. They make up the numbers nicely and don't give you any surprises.

When your Bipolar II team member becomes depressed, their productivity drops to zero and so do their hours. They will arrive late at work, leave early and generally do very little. However, as a manager, you will be flooded with relief that your team member is now no longer being so disruptive and argumentative, and you will finally see that a hell of a lot of work has been achieved, and happily let the burnt-out wreck turn up and be miserable at their desk.

As a plodder however, you are only waiting for the sleeping beast to re-awaken. It keeps you awake at night. It stresses you out. You only know how to do the thing that you're totally mediocre at, and you absolutely hate change and are unable to deal with it, so the idea of getting away from the source of this stress is unthinkable. You stay and accept round after round of unintended abuse.

Organisations like productivity, and stressed plodders are even less productive than normal plodders, so when they speak up and say that they are tired (from all the lost sleep) and stressed and they can't plod as averagely as they had been plodding before, the management don't tend to be very sympathetic. Often times, it's the poor plodder who gets the shove rather than the primadonna Bipolar II golden boy or girl.

Now, if this sounds Sociopathic, Narcissistic and arrogant, you are mistaken. Our entire pyramid-scheme structure is rather adversarial, and when we set targets for our employees in these fake hierarchies, we do so in the full knowledge that there are more people competing for the next rung on the ladder than there are fake job titles at the next tranche in the pyramid. We are deliberately asking people to squabble with each other over those precious promotions.

The Narcissist believes he or she is special, and deserves special treatment, deserves the status that they have (or better normally!). I personally, always wonder why people are listening to me, why I am the one who seems to be making the decisions or getting the promotion, because I don't do the work that's asked of me, play politics or jump through the hoops and clap like a trained sea lion in a circus, which is what we are told will get us to the top of the tottering tree.

Believe me, I try to fit in as best as I can. I have literally been crying every morning for weeks and months on end, when I am nearly dead with depression, but yet I have to try and comply with somebody else's idea of ideal office hours. Likewise, I try and do what is asked of me by my bosses, but unless you know how to do it at plod pace, you have normally finished your work by lunchtime on Tuesday, and your boss is rather annoyed that he or she now has to give you some more... so you have actually failed to please your boss.

So, there are a few things I have found, which help to give me a little more stability: to cap and floor the moods, so to speak, and not have absolutely bat sh1t crazy hypomania, and dangerously low depression:

• Breakfast : this is absolutely crucial. The stomach is a key part of our circadian rhythm. Digesting that first meal tells your body clock that "this is the time to get up tomorrow". I never used to be a morning person until I started eating breakfast, and now I spring out of bed with no "snooze" button presses at 7am.
• Lunch : I think you can probably see where this is going. Yes, lunch is important, because it breaks the tendency to just work without a break. When a person gets going in a hypomanic phase, they can work for days almost without sleep or breaks
• Dinner : saying to yourself that you need to stop work so that you can eat and digest before winding down for the day is crucial. Eating before 9pm is mandatory, and eating before 8pm is preferred. Otherwise, you find yourself gorging on whatever you can find, just before collapsing after 18 straight hours with no food at all since waking up.
• Wind-down : almost impossible if you don't start early enough, but essential preparation for the next part of being an animal.
• Sleep : not something you always feel like doing. Your intuition can be totally wrong when you are hypomanic, and usually you are way more tired than you realise, even though you don't feel like sleeping and you most definitely can keep on working. You would not even believe how many nights of sleep I have skipped in a row. Sleep is essential for energy, mood and the immune system. You get really sick if you don't have 6 or 7 hours a night, at least. More than 9 is too many... you'll get lethargic, or perhaps you are exhausted and depressed and you don't even realise!

In addition to this, there are some other rules:

• No caffeine : because it's a Dopaminergic and Noradrenalinergic stimulant in the same class of chemicals as amphetamine. It's a potent wakefulness agent in the brain, and will mess you up. "Do stupid sh1t faster and with more energy" is accurate.
  
• No alcohol : because it's a GABA agonist, like Diazepam (Valium) and you will develop a physical dependency on it, requiring it to be able to sleep, especially if you have been drinking coffee. It's the same as mixing uppers & downers as any other kind of drug addict. Did you know you're a junkie? Think about that next time you're looking down your nose at somebody. Alcohol is also hydrophilic, which means that it draws water out of the cells in your body... you are actually less full of life-giving water, when you are full of booze.
• No psychoactive medicines or drugs : the brain and body are homeostatic. That means, they are designed to stay in equilibrium. You don't need to add anything apart from glucose, water and a few vitamin, mineral and amino acid trace amounts, which you can get from proteins. Fatty proteins should give you everything you need (yes, animal fat is good for you in its natural form).

And finally:

• Exercise the brain and the body equally : when the brain is tired and the body isn't, it doesn't have a frigging clue why you are not absolutely whacked out and ready for bed. In our modern sedentary society, where we do little more than scroll through emails and web pages, our brain is a lot more tired than our muscles. This is not natural, and leads to 'brain exhaustion' despite the rest of you being physically dormant.

Of course, this recipe for mood stability is what I aspire to perfect, but it takes practice. I'm still working on keeping the routine, and resisting the temptations of a cold beer or a glass of wine. Giving up tea and coffee was one of the hardest things I have ever done, and I still have my 'methadone' in the form of mint leaves in hot water.

By the way, anyone who tells you sugar is a drug is an idiot. What's next, Oxygen is a drug?

Sex can be addictive, but it's not unhealthy. However, an unsatiated libido is most definitely unhealthy and unnatural (March 2015)

Tags: #career #mentalhealth #bipolar #sex

This is a story of a ragged trousered philanthropist...

For those who are unfamiliar with Robert Tressell's posthumously published book, it's a story about craftsmen - people with skill and dedication to their trade - who are so passionate about their work, that they virtually work for free.

Are their masters grateful, for the passion and diligence of their employees? No, they just try and exploit them further, asking them to work longer hours and never sharing the wealth that their workforce has generated.

So who is at fault? Well, I think this is a symbiotic relationship, and not master-slave as we would be led to believe by Tressell's rather bitter and overly satirical work of literature. You can't put a price on job satisfaction. As a craftsman, if you have enough money for rent and food, you are generally looking for job satisfaction before extra 000's on your paycheck.

However, what ends up happening is that while fiat currency wealth piles up in the bank accounts of the Industrialists and Capitalists, the real store of wealth is in the brains and muscle memory of the people who built the empire. For every bead of sweat, drop of blood, salty tear that is shed, there is intangible value that becomes locked into that person's experience bank.

The software engineers who built the banking system ARE the banking system, and its store of wealth, especially after Bretton Woods and the abolishment of the gold standard. Before these capital controls were relinquished, the store of wealth was the toil of miners, who had extracted an extremely rare heavy element, created in the supernovae of dying stars, from dark holes in the ground that they had dug, mostly by hand.

Now that I can create money at the stroke of a key, it is unsurprising that it has lost its intrinsic value. Douglas Adams joked about a society of estate agents, whose currency was leaves from trees. Unsurprisingly, this not-so-fictional society had terrible problems with inflation during autumn.

So, we are standing at a crossroads in global banking. We have insisted that our investment banks and insurance companies actually have sufficient collatteral to underwrite the Credit Default Swaps and other securities that they had been busy printing, which reached an aggregate notional value of nearly $60 trillion (i.e. approximately $10,000 for every man woman and child on the planet) despite this figure completely dwarfing the entire value of every company in the world, all the precious metals, all the fiat currency and all the houses and other buildings and land (plus any and all other securities - loans, bonds etc. - you might care to chuck in the bucket).

So that was clearly a ridiculous situation, and as soon as the DTCC had been built and the major counterparties were in the system, the Credit Crunch was allowed to happen so the rich could stay nice and rich. Do you see a poor banker? No.

However, investment banking is just nonsense. The purpose of our banking system should be to grease the wheels of commerce. The most enterprising businessmen, and the most rapidly expanding and profitable companies can grow faster if they are given the capital they need, rather than having to do everything organically... so goes the theory.

What we see instead, is banks lining their pockets at the expense of every man, woman and child on the planet. George Soros famously forced the UK out of the ERM by getting leverage from an investment bank, in order to place massive bets against the Treasury. He is rich, and evey citizen of the UK was commensurately poorer after Black Wednesday. In what version of reality is capitalism working for the greater good of society?

I shan't get into the stride of my tirade, talking about the American dream (which is to be crippled by medical care bills to satisfy the healthcare industry's financial interests) and other bugbears, but I would say that people have been well and truly shafted by bankers and politicians.

There is a silver lining:

If you ask a philanthropist to build you a bank, the wealth can finally flow back to the people (September 2015)

Tags: #banking #career #london #capitalism #computing #apple