JOE KENNEDY once said when the shoe-shine boys start giving you stock tips, it’s time to get out of the market.
In the recollection of his school contemporaries, John was the brightest boy in his year. He had the world at his feet—could have been Governor of the Bank of England back in the day—but all he ever wanted was to be a scrap dealer, which just goes to show how bright he really is.
Like farmers, scrappies have a habit of looking dog-eared, but when did you last meet one on his uppers? One of life’s little pleasures used to be the wad of notes bulging in the pocket after rocking up at John’s yard with a load of old iron or lead. All declared to Her Majesty in due course, naturally, but, for the time being, that rare sensation of a fistful of readies.
The Fun Police have lately removed that pleasure: scrap dealers can no longer use cash. However, it’s still a pleasure to go for a blether with John. On my latest visit, he was shaking his head and looking grim. Metal prices are behaving bearishly, it seems. He didn’t think it augured well for the markets. Time to go liquid.
I hoped this might distract him from noticing my dog wasn’t on board when I went back over the weighbridge, but, no, he’s too fly for that.
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