Bankers Town

It’s a book.
It’s part thriller, part comedy, part ruthless City exposé.
It’s set in the years leading up to 2009 when the world went to shit, and it lifts the lid on the people and the deals that sent it there.
It deals with bonds, bodies and blackmail, it doesn’t preach, it doesn’t teach, and it doesn’t rest for a second.

The following extracts may give you a flavour for the whole big bastard:

Maybe not the most magnificent epitaph: “here lies Alex Konninger, whose untimely death delayed a City deal by a couple of days”. But you’ve got to take your ego-trips where you can.

I’m an idiot, my brain’s in my dick, and neither of them are much to boast about – guilty, your honour, but really, where’s the harm?

Apparently if you’re a frightening, lurching drunk, it doesn’t really matter what kind of drink it was that got you there.

Since then I’ve come off the bike, fallen through a glass door, and had my balls almost crushed by a madwoman, so I know a little about pain.

I wouldn’t have been surprised to see JFK, Jimmy Hoffa and Shergar march into the office and point two fingers and a hoof at me.

I’d even been thrown out of McDonalds. What kind of state do you have to be in to get thrown out of McDonalds?