“I just couldn’t do it any more” explains a rather rakish maroon, black and white, striped number. “It’s always the same f**king bullsh*t routine. These guys are so freaking boring. They think they’re so special shouting their boll*cky trades across the floor and walking around like they f**king saved an orphan from drowning or something.”
“In the early days it was fun. They would cruise in early, early having slept very little; they would banter hard between trades and exchange filthy jokes. The lunches were monumental, and after it all we would go out and get completely boolaxed.” picks up a repeating squash racket motive tie “I can’t tell you the number of times I ended up tied around his head while he was spraying champagne across the crowd from up on the bar. It was fun, we were wild.”
“In time it all changed. He became serious at work, started talking about promotions and stuff and it became all about the trades – christ he even started pulling out calculators and spreadsheets before going to in to take a position. I started hearing sh*t like ‘yield curves’ and ‘blah-blah-blahs’. There was a moment when I thought we were going to get together with the old gang and hit the town, but when we arrived and met the others he said he was ‘only staying for one’ and ordered a f**king shandy ’cause he has to drive home from the station – its a f**King Volvo, it doesn’t matter!”
The ties have been picketing the building since thursday, demanding that at least one thing interesting happens in the day and that they will never again be loosened, pulled over the head and left hanging, still tied, on a peg ready for the next day of mind-numbingly tedious number shuffling w*nk-craft.