More, more, more, cried they. These rebel yellers unschooled in the politics of punk but looking, oh so, prettily vacant for the impending media frenzy of third-eye-blind-shutter-vision voyeurism. The hour was not midnight, yet here they were. Armed with arrows of pent-up desire, poised to shoot their loads all over the prison halls of wealth and fashion. And once they had, London would inevitably be left stained and shamed. Forsaken and forlorn. At the checkout till, quite possibly. But, oh, so verily and utterly spent. Most literally. Or so it had seemed daring to suggest at the time. When it came, it was loud. That call to the faraway towns. War, all the boys and girls of this ghastly masquerade, declared, was on and the battle (had) come down. It was then that she knew. These heirs of glory, these villains of unwritten story, these lushes of intoxication most capital – they would hawk her beloved country for nothing less than a price of blood and bow of burning gold. For the Free-Marketeers were they, these masked men of England. And their motto was, quite simply: all for none and none for all. The writer is the Deputy Managing Editor, Daily Times. She can be reached at mirandahusain@me.com and tweets @humeiwei Published in Daily Times, August 30th 2017.