Poor Sir Fred, he is at his wits end as we meet him in the palatial atrium of his Riviera palace.
“I can’t take it anymore. I have been treated so terribly, I am a broken man. I am a shadow of my former self. O woe is me,” Sir Fred moans as he cries into his 1928 Krug, sniffing uncontrollably.
Sir Fred Goodwin is seated in a gold plated wheelchair which is pushed around the modest surroundings of the French chateau by his personal butler, Gordon. Outside, a pristine pool gleams in the sunlight and from afar you can glimpse the crystal blue waters of a lake.
“I can’t sleep, I haven’t slept in weeks in fact. People think I don’t have a conscience, they think that I’m a criminal banker swine who has caused misery to thousands of people.
“Today I am mourning the terrible, terrible woeful loss of a very dear part of my stash. My pension has been well and truly shredded, it has been put through the shredder of conscience, and I don’t think I’ll ever get over it. How am I supposed to live on the pittance these people have left me? You try and keep a flotilla of yachts, a private jet, twenty six luxury cars, my wife and children, fifteen luxury villas, a hovercraft and two busloads of servants on the small change I am left with.”
There is a pause as Sir Fred stands up from his wheelchair and walks over to the window fighting back tears of anger and self pity.
A servant walks into the room with a plate of the finest Almas Beluga which is served up to the distraught ex-director of RBS. He pushes the plate away in disgust and continues staring out onto the well pruned jardin.
Sir Goodwin is just another sad casualty of the horrible recession that has befallen so many, we should all spare a thought for his awful circumstances.
