Those in the know attributed to original idea to an undisclosed European source. To the wider public, though, this acclaimed initiative had come straight from Number 10, and seldom had a government project been greeted with such widespread support.
The idea itself was a miracle of ingenuity. The public couldn't stand bankers, and the armed forces could only prevent public lynchings for so long. Bankers, on the other hand, refused to amend their wicked ways and rumours of bonus-fuelled orgies of sexual depravity and indecent manipulations of statistics ran like wildfire. In other words, a civil war between the City and the rest of the country looked inevitable, and there was little a cash-strapped government could do to avert it.
This is why, Cameron announced in the speech that he would later credit with his overwhelming victory in the following general election, a compromise would have to be reached. There would now be a bi-weekly free for all on bankers - provided there was no actual manslaughter. This is what family values are all about, he insisted: if people can have their wicked way with the evil bankers, but under tightly health-and-safety overseen regulations that still allow said bankers to keep their bonuses and their dangly parts more or less intact, civil society's cohesion will be preserved.
A side benefit was, of course, to allow the bloodthirstier members of the community to unleash the violent passions on those who justly deserved it, thus leaving foxes, badgers and East European human-trafficked streetwalkers alone. The vegetarian lobby's newfound support for the Tories after the new policy was introduced counted for a good 10 percentage points.
Instructions on how to proceed on Banker Cull days were duly issued by the various local authorities (with versions in French, Bengali, Sanskrit, audio and large print available upon request). Members of the public would have to form an orderly queue outside of the City's tube stations. Once issued with the government-standard leather leash and wide collar, they would have to patiently wait until 4 pm, when the first bankers complete their working day, and use it as a lasso to catch a specimen of high finance evil.
Now this may sound a bit too easy, like shooting fish in a barrel when all they have to defend themselves is a little briefcase filled with hedge-fund performance graphs and carefully clipped out extracts from the Sun's page 3. Many a seasoned buffalo hunter would however disagree and explain that wild animals, when smelling danger, have a tendency to herd together in a forward stampede, oyster card on the ready, thus enabling most of them to get through the turnstiles unharmed. It is a fine combination of luck, innate skill and months of assiduous practice that allows one to sling the leather leash just so, feel it fall at just the right angle and, most importantly, pull it back with a banker's neck secured inside.
History doesn't say whether Parsifal the banker considered himself more pisces or bovine, or indeed what emotions the feel of leather tightening around his neck aroused into him one sunny Thursday in July. It can only be surmised that a fleeting regret for having agreed to keep his bonus on those terms may briefly have been evoked, followed by the uncertain pondering on what the next few hours held in store for him.
Most people would agree that bankers were best used either for hen do entertainment or as recipients for mindless violence. As he meekly followed the pull of his leash that brought him to his new owner in front of a jeering crowd, Parsifal probably hoped for the former. Hen parties usually involved large amounts of alcohol, and, not unlike the universal pull of gravity, some unwritten law of nature translated into its inevitable finding its way to the nearest banker's lips.
From then onwards, things proceeded very much like a standard night out in the land of Nelson and Cromwell. Clothes would be shed, nipples would be twisted, more vodka would be ordered, and a somewhat dishevelled but still good-humoured banker would find his way back to his office in the early hours of the morning, mindless of the lipstick smears on his underwear and tie, just on time to quickly run a cocktail umbrella through his hair before the start the daily nap more commonly known as the morning team meeting. Nothing, in a word, to distinguish that night from any other in said banker's private career. He might even keep the leash as a trophy, a keepsake for his well-spent youth – a memento to pass on to the younger generations along with wise advice on how to pass a drunken hiccup as sound pension-fund advice.
Parsifal's heart fell when he caught a first glimpse of his owner for the evening. No pink tutu, no tiara, and no half-dozen inebriated ladies in tow - he was looking at mindless violence.
"Jackpot," the woman said. "We've got a pretty one this time."
He tried to assess the situation. Jones from the retail banking department had been caught by a bunch of Trotskyites a few months back and hadn't been able to sit straight since then. This lot didn't look particularly left-wing, though. Conservative attire. Maybe they were a secret banker protection squad, come to whisk him away to safety, maybe with a blow-job or three for his trouble.
He brought his hand to his collar - rather uncomfortable, these things, when someone kept tugging at them so - and hung on to that thought for dear life as he followed his new owner meekly.
All residual optimism however disappeared when he saw the spanking stocks.
He had watched their erection, with, he was ashamed to admit, one of his own. They had been built to maximise banker exposure and to minimise banker chances of escape. The wood was thick, the openings of neck and wrists were small, and the locks very secure indeed. What's more, a well-placed stool propped one's bottom up, giving a jeering crowd full view of one's exposed private in the all too likely event of one's owner divesting one of one's trousers.
Parsifal had often wondered how it would feel to be trapped that way, head and hands secured in the heavy wooden board, his hindquarters left rather vulnerable to anything the tormentors had in mind. The general rule was, he realised with a touch of panic, that everything was fair game as long as no banker actually died. That left a lot of possible playing around - possibly a lot more than his buttocks had previously experienced or indeed wished for.
"Come on, up you go," his handler said, pushing him up the to slightly elevated platform, cutting his musings short.
He hadn't really noticed it before, but the stocks themselves were on a wooden construction, not unlike the edifices the French had erected to support their guillotines. This, he came to understand as he walked up, had the unfortunate consequence of rendering the victim very visible to any onlooker. This wasn't too bad as long as he wore his clothes-
"Come on," his owner prompted. "Don't keep us waiting, take your clothes off!"
"Couldn't you, er, spank me with my trousers on?" he queried.
She smiled.
"Who told you I would stop with the spanking?"
He blushed and tried to keep his composure.
"He's not obeying!" an unhelpful voice shouted from the crowd.
His handler stepped on the platform too. She was now holding his leash in her left hand, and her right one, he realised, held a crop, the tip of which she placed right under his chin, forcing his head upwards.
"You heard the reminder, and yet you're still not obeying..."
"I..."
"Shut up. I won't be amused if I have to repeat the order."
His hands shook slightly. There was being comfortable with your own body, and there was disrobing in front of a mob of horny and possibly sadistic women. The two shouldn't be mistaken for one another!
The crop disappear from under his chin and violently smacked him on the cheek.
"One..."
He brought his hand to his cheek, staring at her in disbelief. What on earth-
The second smack came on the other cheek, harder.
"Two!"
"I'll do it! I'm doing it!"
He swallowed hard, breaths quick and shallow, trembling hands fumbling with his belt and fly. His trousers fell on his ankles.
The crowd cheered.
It would be hard to envision a more humiliating position, he mused until he was interrupted once more with violence. His tormentor had grasped both sides of his shirt, pulling hard until it tore in the middle.
"You're not a quick one, are you? Also didn't see that banking crash coming, I bet, hmm?"
She pulled the shirt away and twisted his right nipple with what could only be described as a savage grin.
"Too bad it's time to pay for this now, hmm?"
Although never usually one to lack a witty repartee, he was at loss for words. There was something about standing there in your underwear in the middle of a hostile crowd, nipple on fire, waiting for one's punitive spanking to commence, that hindered polite conversation somewhat. He placed his hands in front of his stubborn erection, hoping to conceal it from view.
"Now now now. Let's not be shy..."
He could swear the witch had the hint of a French accent. If a millenium of ritual humiliation in various battlefields by the hereditary enemy was to be believed, this did not bode well for him.
