Ok, let's check out history tomorrow again..
There's a £100 per year fee or tax or whatever ******* thing they call it in the higher echelons of our masters whose minions make a very nasty track all the way through The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. The minions were still at it when the juggler was trying to pick his balls up.
There's a chap comes in our pub who drinks 20, or so, pints of beer a day and he works on the road mending. I told you it was a class pub. He's a aged hippie type and always wear a baseball cap. Always on time the morning after. Works weekends too.
Roads never cease wearing out and travellers wear them out more than most. And if the travellers are sparing with their drinking and smoking they are getting their roads mended for free. My fellow boozer, who I don't coverse with much because I only go to the pub for the last hour of the day by which time his diction is incomprehensible to my tired out ears.
I am using scientific methods here. I'm looking at these things in isolation and ignoring the irreducibly complex swirling snowstorm of which they are a mere component but for which they are a symbol. Jon, which is what we call him, is an Weberian ideal type as the somebodies are also but in the plural.
Like a quack might shine a light in your eye and get his assistant to take dictation as if the rest of you doesn't exist. Or focus on any other organ which a specialist is perforce constrained to practice his expertise upon.
Now beer costs about 10 pence a pint to produce and it's £2.50. So somebody is getting their roads mended for free. No wonder road menders are looked down upon and hardly noticed by the somebodies who drive past them on the smooth surface of the restricted carriage way the other two lanes of which Jon and his colleagues have dolled off with cones and easy to read signs designed to funnel three lanes into one so they can get their brew cabin set up and their caravans for night security and the number to ring for complainers. With 2 on 4 off in operation the 2/3rds need somewhere warm and comfortable to rest while the other 1/3 satisfy the frustrated somebodies that work is proceeding and it won't be long before the road is mended and the three lanes can flow in an orderly fashion again.
I'm not that enamoured of American stocks in the normal course of events and I'm not about to start paying any extortionate fees for the privilege of investing in a system which I see as something of a macrocosm in which my story is a microcosmic and typical example. I'm a Bear really I suppose. I'm pretty astounded that it hasn't blown earlier.
You can go from one end of Gibbon to the other and the minions of the masters never changed their spots. Emperors came and went, often with alarming rapidity. It was quite a dangerous job. But the minions just acted like maggots from start to finish.
But thanks anyway. I have found I can bet on it. So I'll have a flutter. No fees, no certificates. Just phone up. Buy at this. Wait. Sell at that. And if your advice is good--collect the winnings. No tax.
What do you think about the French and British governments failing to bail out the world record holders in road mending. Eurotunnel. That intrepid bunch of brave entrepreneurs have not had their debts cancelled and they are tiny by the side of other figures I have seen for other industries than the one Jon is in.