LONDON. In a scene that could have been torn from a Graham Greene novel re-written by Kafka on a bender, the great banking triumvirate of Lloyds, Halifax, and Bank of Scotland have deigned to return to the digital realm after a catastrophic outage that sent the nation’s middle classes into a frothing panic. For several agonising hours, the great unwashed (those with current accounts) were unable to fritter away their overdrafts on artisan cheeses and avocado toast. The horror. The sheer, unadulterated horror.
One can only imagine the scenes: frantic tapping on smartphone screens, the gnashing of teeth, the bitter recriminations hurled at underpaid call centre staff. “I couldn't check my balance!” wailed one particularly tragic character from Clapham, clutching a flat white as if it were a life raft. “It was like being back in the 1990s!” Indeed, the 1990s: a dark age when one had to actually speak to a teller, or God forbid, write a cheque. Shudder.
But fear not, dear reader. The banks have issued a statement, a greasy press release oozing with the kind of corporate reassurance that usually precedes a PPI scandal. “We apologise for any inconvenience,” they simpered, no doubt sweating into their bespoke suits. “Services are now running as normal.” Oh, how magnanimous. How generous. They have whisked away the digital veil, restored our ability to pay for overpriced cinema tickets and streaming subscriptions. We are saved.
Now, let us examine this “outage” through the fog of my fourth gin and tonic. Is this not a metaphor for the fragility of our modern existence? We have outsourced our very financial souls to a series of blinking servers, and when they hiccup, we spiral into a vortex of existential dread. We are but puppets dancing on the strings of a computer network maintained by a man who probably eats Pot Noodles in a data centre somewhere in Swindon. And yet, we trust him with our mortgages, our savings, our ability to buy a packet of Hobnobs.
The real question, the one no one in a suit will answer, is this: what if they hadn’t come back? What if the digital gods had turned their backs on us permanently? Would we be reduced to a barter system, trading our children for a loaf of bread? Would the City of London descend into Mad Max-style chaos, with fund managers fighting over a crate of still Evian? We will never know. The banks returned, and with them came the sweet, seductive hum of online banking. The status quo is preserved. The bubble remains unpopped.
But mark my words, this is but a dress rehearsal. The great crash is coming. And when it does, I’ll be here, at the bar, watching it all burn with a grim satisfaction. My gin is nearly empty. Cheers.
