Taken from his formerly anonymous column in a London freesheet and fleshed out with "made up" characters from the City, Anderson's stories of charmless wonders and druggy excess certainly explain what went wrong with all our money.
Though it is full of repetitive and laboured smutty allusions ("I was one of the few people who refused to get on my metaphorical hands and knees and give this joker a metaphorical blowjob... It's as if the big swinging dicks had just entered freezing water...") it has a certain momentum and does at least clear up what the collective term for bankers is: a "wunch".
A cautionary tale that came too late, it will appeal to anyone who finds Cityboy humour amusing but is not (or no longer) a Cityboy. Not many, then.