‘Shit’ exclaimed Dan candidly as he surveyed the pink pages of the Financial Times. Dan took immense pride in being able to predict the fortunes of blue-chip companies. It was a talent that had taken him from a Tyneside flat to a Manhattan penthouse via a succession of increasingly lofty positions at an American private equity firm. Now, sitting in the business class departure lounge at Heathrow he could scarcely believe his eyes. He re-read the cover story just to make sure the coke he had snorted last night wasn’t causing him to hallucinate. It wasn’t. One of the oldest and most widely respected banks in the world, Polmont had filed for bankruptcy!

Polmont had been founded by a Scottish aristocrat in the nineteenth century and was named after the small Scottish town near Falkirk that he had left in search of even greater riches in the colonies. It had grown into one of the biggest companies in the world. In the 1990’s it made a million dollars a day and some of its staff had remuneration packages that were enough to make premiership footballers green with envy. Dan was not in that league, at least not yet, but he was climbing the ladder fast and had a ruthless ambition to reach the summit. He measured success by his bonus cheque and his last one gave him one hell of a thrill; not bad for a black kid from Wallsend! 

What really freaked Dan out was that he had got his blue-print for success from the whizz-kids at Polmont. Until the 1980’s, banking had been a stuffy, conservative profession. That all changed with the neo-liberal monetarism of Thatcher and Reagan. ‘Greed is good’ inspired a new breed of banker where bright sparks from diverse backgrounds were encouraged to be innovative, risk-takers that bet on the stock-market to maximise returns. Freed of effective state regulation, fortune favoured the brave and Polmont led the world in developing complex products such as embedded derivatives, hedge funds and short-selling that its own Board didn’t fully understand. Now, Polmont had taken one risk too many and millions of people around the world were about to pay the price.

Dan steadied himself and decided to check the FTSE for how his latest investments were faring in the wake of Polmont’s demise.

‘Holy Shite’, he vented.

‘Sorry Father’ he added as he looked up to witness a priest sitting opposite him. Suddenly, Dan was not looking forward to the meeting with his boss back in New York. He got the feeling his next apology would not be received as graciously.

Back home in Newcastle, Dan’s elder brother Kyle was also having a bad day. Crouched apprehensively in front of a small screen he waved and goaded his steed on to no avail. The 28:1 shot was performing true to form and Dan’s fiver was becoming a distant memory.

‘Go on’, he urged timidly as he gestured the grey stallion forward with his hands. A few faces turned disapprovingly at his meek encouragement.

‘Howay, you grey bastard’ he clarified more assertively. The faces turned away re-assured.

Kyle regretted his outburst as far from staging a late rally for a place, his chosen horse faded badly and came in a distant sixth. He screwed up his betting slip in disgust and looked out of the betting shop window. The rain was beating down with a vengeance from a dark, foreboding sky. Kyle was clad in traditional Geordie attire of jeans and t-shirt with no puffy jacket or coat.

Although the station was merely 5 minutes away down Pink Lane he realized he would be soaked through if he left the bookies now.

‘So much for global warming’ an old man in the corner declared.

Kyle, a passionate environmentalist, thought momentarily about pointing out that a monsoon on Tyneside was in fact sound evidence of climate change but thought better of it.

‘Aye, its shit isn’t it?’ he affirmed.

The old man had already looked away. The screen had switched to the 4.10 at Wincanton and he obviously had an interest in the race that was unfolding. Kyle’s mind wandered philosophically. He was about to turn 42, the statistical half-way point, and he pondered where his life had gone. If anyone was describing him now, they would probably see him as a typical, middle-aged man with a nagging wife and morose teenage son who took solace in football, beer and the occasional flutter. He had a steady job as a performance analyst for the Police Authority, with responsibility for ensuring the accuracy of crime data. He lived in a 1930s semi in Wallsend, the working class suburb where he had been brought-up. When Dan teased him about his age, Kyle responded positively about 42 being

‘the answer to everything’ (a ‘Hitch-hikers Guide to the Galaxy’ reference)

and ‘twenty-one, times two’. 

However, he was not looking forward to the milestone. Things had been so different when he was 21. Nobody would have described him as typical or conventional then. He shunned the normal choice of economics graduates of accountancy to fulfil his childhood dream of saving lives as a fire-fighter. He was the fire brigade’s first black fire-fighter and the women loved him when he paraded down the Quayside. He was witty and confident with a strong circle of friends and spent much of his spare time participating in extreme sports. He fell passionately in love with a feisty red-head called Helen. They married and had one child (Nathan) who was now 15. They were very happy. He loved his job, his wife, his kid and wouldn’t want to live anywhere else but Newcastle. The toon was buzzing with the return of the Messiah, Kevin Keegan, and anything seemed possible.

So, where did it all go wrong, Kyle asked himself? Well, firstly he got moved to another watch in Sunderland and he got racially harassed. The watch system is a clique, which is great when you are on the inside basking in camaraderie, but torture when you are locked out. One fascist thug of a crew manager singled him out for criticism, shouting at him and abusing him on a daily basis and harmless banter soon crossed the line into hurtful racial slurs. The watch followed like sheep and for all their fine policies on equality and diversity, management chose to turn a blind eye. 

Kyle’s confidence was shattered and when he sought sympathy at home all he got was more criticism about how he should be a man and stand up for himself. In any case, why did he have to be a fire-fighter and not choose a more lucrative career like his brother? When Helen had vowed to love honour and obey she hadn’t expected to be stuck in a depressingly mundane neighbourhood with a pile of ironing and dirty nappies. She expected more. She deserved more, because for all her insecurities she knew deep down that she was beautiful, sexy and intelligent and she could make men go weak at the knees with a fl ash of a smile and a glimpse of cleavage.

Eventually, Kyle made a formal complaint about the crew manager. The Chief Fire Officer revealed he had a zero-tolerance approach to bullying and promised swift action. Three months later, Kyle was taken off the watch and given a desk job in performance management. He kept his uniform, but he lost his pride. 

He spent the next 4 years trying to escape from the brigade that had let him down so badly and eventually he secured a similar role at the Police Authority.

The raindrops zigzagged down the window pane and a howl of wind and rain entered along with a soggy man as the door of the bookies swung open. Kyle wondered if he was going to get an earful when he finally got home. He had gone into town to take back a dress that Helen thought was too tight. He thought it looked great on her, exposing every curve of her hour-glass figure, but Helen had been distraught because it was a size 8 and she realized she needed a size 10. They didn’t have any 10’s so Kyle was returning empty handed with a refund, minus £5 on a useless nag at Chepstow.

A hen-party of giggling, scantily-clad girls with bunny head-pieces sauntered past in the rain. In any other town, in any other city the girls would have attracted a wolf-whistle or two as they passed the bookies but not in Newcastle. This was an every-day sight in Europe’s party capital. The rain seemed to have eased a little bit and Kyle opened the door to test the theory. A gust blew some torn ticket stubs through the door and a line of Shane McGowan’s entered Kyle’s mind:

‘Torn ticket stubs of a 100,000 mugs,
Washed away like dead dreams in the rain’.

‘At least the rain’s dying down’ he remarked as he stopped beside Kyle and looked up at the sky.

‘Yes. I better head for the Metro’, Kyle nodded.

‘Same here’.

The two new acquaintances walked briskly off down Pink Lane, resisting the tempting aromas from the chippy on the corner of Clayton Street. Central Station was almost in sight now, but the rain had got a second wind and they had to walk past the Forth, a cosy local hostelry that served a fine pint of Workie Ticket.

‘Fancy a swift one’ the old man enquired with admirable telepathy.

‘Go on’ said Kyle. ‘Another half hour won’t hurt’.

Dan peered through the small oval window of his transatlantic jet and watched the circuit-board of lights slowly disappear from view. He was worried about what lay ahead of him when he got back to New York and he didn’t do worry.

‘Dam’ he uttered under his breath as he felt the birthday card to Kyle that he had intended to post before setting off . It would probably get there late now, even if he posted it as soon as he touched down in JFK.

Kyle was on the metro now, hoping Helen hadn’t cooked him tea. He would not hear the last of it if she had broken with recent convention and decided to cook him and Nathan something for supper. It would be just his luck, he thought.

Official Launch and Press Release - Tuesday 19 January 2010. HALF-PRICE SALE BEGINS!