In What a Carve Up!, Coe has Thomas Winshaw, the banker of the family, gazing at a City dealing floor:
Watching his foreign exchange dealers as they stared feverishly at their flickering screens, Thomas came as close as he would ever come to feeling parental love. They were the sons he had never had. This was the happiest time of his life, the early to mid 1980s when Mrs Thatcher had transformed the image of currency speculator into national heroes by describing them as "wealth creators", alchemists who could conjure unimaginable fortunes out of thin air. The fact that these fortunes went straight into their own pockets or those of their employees was quietly overlooked.
When Coe published in 1993, the critics admired his novel but treated it as an enjoyably outrageous exercise in satirical excess. I doubt they would today.


















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