The scene before me is like something from the Ukrainian front line.
A huge, gnarled, rusting, lifeless steelworks — visible for miles around — stands in the middle of an industrial wastescape, sandbags piled high around its base.
A day later, the whole thing has vanished: blown to smithereens in a ball of fire and smoke.
If only some of the City spivs and self-fulfilling prophets of doom, so eagerly talking down Britain’s financial prospects, could have been here to watch the fireworks.
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