Money talks, by Will Self
Feeling like the protagonist of Kafka's fragment Before the Law, I cycled across town on a windy February evening to the Royal Courts of Justice.
I was here almost a year ago, called upon by a charity called War Child. Having been offered the opportunity to fundraise at a bond traders' dinner, they were desperate for a speaker and asked me to step into the breech. On that occasion things went reasonably well – if begging is ever OK.
I doffed my rhetorical cap, and the rich guys listened respectfully to my spiel, before tossing a 10p coin into it. In fact, they divvied up a couple of hundred grand, but proportionally – given there were trillions in the Great Hall – I was a Big Issue seller in a suit.
This year War Child came knocking again. I do believe in the work they're doing – helping kids in war zones, feeding them, clothing them, building them schools – it's just I'm not sure it's them that should be doing it.
Any good is better than no good, and so it was that I found myself, within the gates of the law, watching the black ties getting spattered with red wine.
The dinner was an opportunity for these nabobs of debt creation to give themselves glitzy awards with snappy names like Best Arranger of Project Finance Loans and Best Arranger of Turkish Loans.
Finally, it was my turn to approach the gatekeeper of the Law. I spoke for 20 minutes or so, giving a run-down on War Child's work, exhorting the assembled extremely wealthy people to divvy up for building toilets and schools in Iraq, and retraining traumatised child soldiers in the Congo, before ending up with a description of one case history: a 12-year-old Afghani girl raped by her uncle and then imprisoned for – you guessed it – adultery.
It was then that I began to hear a distinct susurration spreading through the Great Hall and lapping against the pretentious pillars: they were talking. And not just one or two of them, but entire tables chatting away while they slugged back the Rioja.
I stopped, and boomed at them: "I'm wondering what exactly it is that you're discussing that can possibly be more important than a child being raped?"
But it was a stupid question, because I knew already: it was money.
(Will Self: PsychoGeography, The Independent, Saturday, 23 February 2008. Picture by Ralph Steadman)
I was here almost a year ago, called upon by a charity called War Child. Having been offered the opportunity to fundraise at a bond traders' dinner, they were desperate for a speaker and asked me to step into the breech. On that occasion things went reasonably well – if begging is ever OK.
I doffed my rhetorical cap, and the rich guys listened respectfully to my spiel, before tossing a 10p coin into it. In fact, they divvied up a couple of hundred grand, but proportionally – given there were trillions in the Great Hall – I was a Big Issue seller in a suit.
This year War Child came knocking again. I do believe in the work they're doing – helping kids in war zones, feeding them, clothing them, building them schools – it's just I'm not sure it's them that should be doing it.
Any good is better than no good, and so it was that I found myself, within the gates of the law, watching the black ties getting spattered with red wine.
The dinner was an opportunity for these nabobs of debt creation to give themselves glitzy awards with snappy names like Best Arranger of Project Finance Loans and Best Arranger of Turkish Loans.
Finally, it was my turn to approach the gatekeeper of the Law. I spoke for 20 minutes or so, giving a run-down on War Child's work, exhorting the assembled extremely wealthy people to divvy up for building toilets and schools in Iraq, and retraining traumatised child soldiers in the Congo, before ending up with a description of one case history: a 12-year-old Afghani girl raped by her uncle and then imprisoned for – you guessed it – adultery.
It was then that I began to hear a distinct susurration spreading through the Great Hall and lapping against the pretentious pillars: they were talking. And not just one or two of them, but entire tables chatting away while they slugged back the Rioja.
I stopped, and boomed at them: "I'm wondering what exactly it is that you're discussing that can possibly be more important than a child being raped?"
But it was a stupid question, because I knew already: it was money.
(Will Self: PsychoGeography, The Independent, Saturday, 23 February 2008. Picture by Ralph Steadman)
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