This is a story of caution. A story of naivety, intense highs and bad judgement. Try to find value in it, if you can.

2am, Wednesday morning. Insomniac me, wakes up; I am hungry. Needless to say, a quick venture into the kitchen yields no results: the fridge is void. Void like my mental state as I find myself cruising through life aimlessly, trying to make some sense of it. All to no avail.

Ordering a take away would be too depressing, too cliché. Suppose it arrives – do I cry myself to sleep watching yet another episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm (great show by the way)? Perhaps there is hope in the breathtaking nightlife that London offers? Of course not, thank you licensing laws and you council f****. Everything has to shut down. This ain’t no disco, this aint no Berlin.

But there are islands of serenity. One of them is a superb establishment called VQ on Fulham Road. Classy diner that’s open 24⁄7 serving simple food but of high standard. They are indeed humbled by the local produce and it shows, Heston. Let me pre-empt you: their Egg’s Benedict are the best in London. Sure, the restaurant caters to the classic Sloane Rangers in their post-lash reincarnation for who, a greasy kebab with a side of Tango is simply too proletariat. Despite of this, they play beautiful music (from B-52’s through OMD to Blawan). For me, it seemed like the place to be, minus the clientele.

Brief stroll and I’m there. 3 courses ordered – chilli con carne on a bed of hydroponically sourced brown rice from the Sub-Saharan sand dunes, followed by a vacuum boiled deconstructed Bubble ‘n’ Squeak, topped off by the basking of a bronze beauty that is a banoffee pie (thanks Higella, you alliteration absorbed Adonis). Reading one of their magazines. I believe it was something about Mergers & Acquisitions. At this point the story gets interesting and educational. Listen up people, I am the Preacher Man.

Out of the blue, with the nonchalance of a liquored up French male on a pull, a bald suited man turns to me and says, with a speech so slurred, so devoid of reason: ‘Hey buddy, why don’t you join me? Where I’m from, it’s bad to eat on your own’. Interesting point. I am stuck: if I deny the request, I will have a very awkward meal. If I say yes, what bad can happen?

So I joined. The man was in his thirties, slick suit, slick demeanour but ever so slightly inebriated. Throughout the ensuing conversation, I try my best to decode what he is saying, why does he take 10 second breaks between sentences, why does he go off to the bathroom with a frequency of a pregnant woman, why does he call me ‘buddy’ every f***ing sentence (at least he refrains from ‘mate’) and why, oh why are his pupils so dilated?

Then, it falls together. Turns out, he is a banker, worked for Goldman Sachs, now in a hedge fund and had a client ‘dinner’. The bs convo continues. As I finish my meal, and set to part ways, he slips me a folded piece of newspaper underneath the table. Ok, that’s definitely cocaine. What should I do – the hunger of unknown, the spirit of adventure, the call of risk-taking overwhelms me and I proceed to do the deed in the bathroom downstairs. Wow, whatta kick! I’m beginning to see everything through rose-tinted glasses.

We proceed to sip a couple of brewskis, and decided that the course of action is to ride over to his office behind Harrods for some shrooms. After all, he has a private driver waiting outside. I get the check. He gets his check. And here is where the story gets ever so interesting. His card bounces; he tries a couple of times. Nothing. Then he asks me whether I can lend him the money: what is this malarkey? Reluctantly, I agree and pay.

A short while later, I find myself doing shrooms in some swanky hedge fund office. The shenanigans are crumbling to an end as the clock strikes 7am. We exchange business cards, I give him bank details and he promises to wire the money tomorrow. He has the cheek to ask for another 20 quid for a taxi home. In my state, I succumb and am, all in all, ‘wealthier’ by 70 quid worth of IOUs. Yay me – I manage to make it to the lectures.

Days go past and no money wired. What the f***? The man’s a menace. Oh well, what can I do – after sobering up, I realise this is a great life lesson for me: don’t trust some drugged up bankers, they will do you out of whatever measly amount of money. To quote Gordon Gekko (Wall Street, great 80s movie): ‘It’s not a question of enough, pal. It’s a zero sum game, somebody wins, somebody loses.

Now, sure there are bad people in any profession. But why bankers have such disrepute? Well, I believe it’s down to: a) the risks in the financial industry are largely socialised, with taxpayers carrying the burden b) fractional reserve banking is enabled through a central bank, lender of the last resort and central government, increasingly becoming the borrower of the last resort c) the monetary system being a state sanctioned elastic paper fiduciary media d) financial industry being the entry point for money injections e) powerful regulation that keeps the status quo and f) usually the financial industry employees being the beneficiaries of price and resource distortions/misallocations of their own making. In one word: it’s a racket that is so perverse and so alien to the ideas of a free market economy, it attracts con artists of broad persuasion.

Having said that, back to the story. A month later, as I am coming back with a friend from a gig in Shoreditch, luck will have it, at 4am we encounter the said banker – he is being kicked out of a taxi. Now I get it: he likes to engage in small time cons – not paying cab drivers, getting free lunches etc.

We have a short conversation, with him cheekily drugged out of his mind, I ask about the money receiving yet another empty promise. He said to come to his office if he does not pay – I may actually do that, it would be a hoot!

Use this story as a warning of trusting people too much, engaging in illicit activities and getting into financial industry for a career thanks to an illusion of high earnings. Do what you love and do it honestly in free market environment. Conning people out of money leave to politicians and government-backed financiers.

Disclaimer: This story may be true or a work of fiction. It was relayed to me by ‘my best friend’s sister’s boyfriend’s brother’s girlfriend who heard from this guy who knows this kid who’s going with the girl’ who is the protagonist of this story.