|Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear|
“Well, what a stroke of luck that I discovered this before the Bank of England takes over responsibility for regulating the industry,” he sighed in an exclusive interview with the Daily Telegraph. “And there I was thinking that all I’d have to do would be to occasionally remind the banks’ big-hearted directors to keep a little back for their daughters’ weddings. Oh, my oh my.”
“I do rather feel I should warn any chap who has an account with a bank and takes the Telegraph that he might want to consider taking all his money out and stuffing it into a mattress,” mused Mr King, removing his splendid stovepipe hat to mop his fevered brow with a silk kerchief. “All I can say is, thank heavens that this only affects the very small number of gentlemen who can afford to have bank accounts.”
When the news was gently broken to Mr King that all sorts of lowly clerks, tinkers, ruffians of the lowest sort and even ladies are now in the habit of using banks, his grey hairs turned pure white and he fainted dead away.
When he was brought to his senses with a dose of smelling salts, however, the Bank of England’s governor declared that all was not yet lost.
“How fortunate, then, that the traditional manufacturing industries of Albion have a more moral way of operating,” he stammered as he supped a fortifying draught of brandy from his hip-flask. “God be praised, they at least care deeply about their workforce, about their customers and, above all, are proud of their products. With doughty self-made industrialists of the stern calibre and humility of Milord Sugar and the 1st Baronet Branson stiffening the social backbone of the nation’s economy, I can have no doubt but that the Empire shall yet prevail.”