THE GUARANTEE

The following is a transcript of what I told the banking inquiry about the part Fugger played in the events leading to the blanket guarantee.

'Why did we guarantee the banks? Well that's quite a question. A fierce question altogether it must be said. Absolutely fierce hard to answer, but I'll give it a go and I'm not going to lie to you. I'm not going to make up some guff and pepper it with all the lingo like liquidity and all that. No. I'll be straight with you. I'll tell you the truth. The truth of it is that it's a mystery. A pure mystery. It's like a strange event. Life is full of strange and mysterious events isn't it? It is. And this is one of those events. Very much so. Very strange and mysterious. Fortean in nature, I'd even say. Truth is, we're not sure why we did it. It just kind of happened and to be honest we barely talk about it anymore. It upsets us. It was an extraordinary experience y'see and not in a good way. Not in a good way at all. It's like this, imagine if you and a few of your pals were on the way home from the pub one night, a night like any other night, or so you'd be thinking, but then a spaceship kind of thing appears and you get zapped up into it and there's aliens in there and they start sticking things up your hole for a bit and then they drop you back. Well, the whole guarantee thing was a bit like that. If aliens grabbed you off the road and started sticking mad science fiction objects up your arse you wouldn't talk about it would you? I mean, you'd be upset about it. You'd be kind of ashamed of it maybe and you might even wonder if it even happened. Well, that's what it was like for us, y'know. When I look back on that time, I usually can't really remember what happened at all. All that comes to mind is a beady eyed little monster fella sticking a mad yoke up my hole and that's my answer for you. That's what I have to say. We guaranteed the banks because it was like an alien putting something up your arse and it was very confusing and distressing and I don't want to talk about it anymore. So, we'll leave it there if that's alright with youse.

Now, tell me, can a fella charge for expenses showing up at this thing?'

The End (of Irelend).

SELL THE LOT!!!

According to almost everyone that wears a sensible suit and tie, the only way out of monetary difficulty is to sell everything you own and lease it back from the new owners . . .or something like that. I thought this seemed like a good idea and decided to apply it to my own cash-strapped life.

I set about selling off all my non-strategic assets. I considered the roof of my flat strategic but everything under it up for grabs, so I sold off all my furniture to an investor and made a tidy sum. Then I used the money I made from the sale to pay for the use of the furniture, kind of like a rent. So, every time I sat down for dinner I bunged 20 cent into a ‘Furniture Jar’ and, at regular intervals, I would bring the ‘Furniture Jar’ down to the bank, empty it out onto the counter and tell the cranky looking teller to put it all in the investor’s account.

I thought this would work out great because I would no longer have to worry about the upkeep of the furniture as that would be the responsibility of the investor. ‘I’m quids in,’ I told baffled and concerned looking friends.

Things seemed to be working out great until the cash I made from the sale of the furniture began to dwindle. I fell behind on my payments and realised I needed to generate more revenue if I was to continue sitting down. I needed a job so I applied to the investor for one and, luckily, I got it. My new job was Debt Collector and I soon found myself posting legal threats to myself, which was odd.

Dear me,

It has come to my attention that your/my furniture payments have fallen into arrears. If this continues, I will be forced to reclaim said furniture from you/myself or set legal proceedings in motion against me (a.k.a. you). You/I have a month from this letter’s date of issue to. . .

. . .you get the idea. Anyway, I was quite alarmed to receive this letter from myself and immediately checked my bank balance. It turned out that I had not yet earned enough to pay off my furniture debt so I wrote back to myself requesting that an alternative method of repayment be devised so that I could pay the debt back over time. Well, I wasn’t having any of it. I had a good job now and was not about to let my employer down by showing favouritism to a client, even if that client was myself.

I denied my request and, after a four week period of grace, I arrived at my home with the bailiffs and an inventory of items that belonged to the investor. I started loading the furniture into the back of a van as I begged myself to show leniency but sternly refused to do so. I thought I looked kind of pathetic, begging me like that. I mean, if I really wanted to keep sitting on seats and leaning off tables etc. you'd think I wouldn’t have allowed myself to fall behind on my payments.

Anyway, I now find myself sitting on the floor and eating my dinner out of my hands (I sold my plates, cups, saucers, forks and knives to the investor too). I don’t mind though because, as I look around my empty home, I can at least take pride in a job well done. My boss, the investor, smiled at me for my fiscal rectitude and due diligence (whatever that is) and each morning, after a night sleeping under my coat on the ground, I get up, look myself in the mirror and say ‘there is a man who pays his debts’. Well, I would do that if I still owned a mirror. Going forward, yet again.