Bonfire of the Guarantees

The Masters of the Universe in the City's Square Mile don't like it up 'em, as the Labour Government and the EU are exploring ways of loading them down with fiscal kryptonite. But old greed dies hard, with the threat of RBS board members to resign if they don't get their bonuses the latest flashbulb moment.

But, hey, give them a break. As spread betting was born out of slow moments in the City combined with flogging gold and an A-type personality devotion to sport, lets see the 'boys' of both sexes put their bonuses where their mouths are. Sure, bet the farm to get Leviathan rewards in search of successful hunches, but when playing the market takes on Titanic proportions, be assured that the losses are coming straight out of individual players' salaries.

Anyone can bet their shirt on the Derby, but the risk only becomes sobering when losers see a permanent, naked future in the doss house.

There will always be delusional souls boasting only they know the secret of breaking the bank at the casino, but they should be gently advised their career skills lie elsewhere: perhaps as shanty-town estate agents, as snake oil sales reps, or as authors of self-help books.