Photo by Fabian Blank on Unsplash
When no one is looking, when silence falls like a heavy blanket, while dust particles float in the shaft of sunlight in the dimness, slim bony fingers move over the keyboard. Nods are given and winks flashed in order to transfer big numbers via noughts and ones from a shady hidden one to a darker other. Old school ties are metaphorically straightened, thoughts turn to the Club when the day’s work is done. Dreams of avarice beckon one on like an old fashioned Soho whore in the doorway. Lust will put its boots on after Greed has paved the way and to make it acceptable to one’s addled moral conscience, cliché upon banality upon lies will tell the story to oneself, to provide the silken pure white sheets that cover the blood and sweated faecal stains of the night’s endeavours.
Capital accumulates in strange ways. Some are open and honest, save for the overlooking of the true nature of the transaction which always involves taking more candy from the baby than is actually given to it. This is a sleight of hand worthy of cardsharps and magicians of the most celebrated of seaside ‘end of pier’ shows. Now you see the surplus…. Capital used to just kill people openly by pitting spears and wishful thinking against flag, cannon and musket. Gold, nutmeg and people were exchanged for religion and germs backed up by guns and steel. This imperial and colonial routine followed the removing, at home, of peasants’ access to the commons through telling them the story of Divine Right of Kings, backed up visions of hell for the non believer. ‘Divine Right’ has been replaced by threats of ‘Venezuelan Marxism’ as the stick with which to beat the peasants.
Shoving a rifle in someone’s face while you steal their land, is of course a bit passé, a bit too obvious and unnecessary in the digital networked age. Instead, join the Club, the one that Capital keeps hidden in the murk of misinformation, disinformation, ideology and obfuscation. We are told, or we pretend to believe, the Club does not exist. Yet, some of us aspire to joining the Club, dreaming of the day the invitation flops onto the doormat accompanied by the sound of crying and dying babies being droned bombed in far away places to the soundtrack of the tuneless drivel of ‘Star Spangled Banner’ or ‘Gosudárstvennyj gimn Rossíjskoj Federácii’.
Its membership is exclusive of course, and the hoi polloi have as much a chance of joining, as it has of finding itself showered with gold plated rose petals in a one star, pissed stained, public lavatory run by Kensington and Chelsea Borough Council on fire. Instead the Club works behind the scenes while the hoi polloi get fingered and fucked like a Hollywood starlet in a Producer’s hotel bedroom. Our collective prostate is being massaged by the big, fat, hairy knuckled finger of corporate banking and will go onto until we realise our screams for mercy are caused not by the pain of seeing the ‘skiving disabled sick shirking their responsibilities for looking after their mums and dads while sponging off the state’. Rather we might see that the origins of our screams lead back to the invitation to the hotel room, that it was a promise to be bent over and humped by the fickle phallus of finance lightly lubricated by the emollient of ideological cover. Yet in that room, we have chosen, or been forced, to swallow the salted seminal poison of the misdirection and legerdemain of finance capital.
Not all banks are bad of course. But when we read of certain activities linking South Africa, fraud, money laundering, and the buying of influence, which has ruined a UK public relations company and damaged auditors KPMG, we might like to consider that given the heroic role of finance in the US and the UK that this might be a tip of the iceberg? We might want to open the hotel door little wider just as the skirts are being lifted for another go at the naif?