The end of the world is nigh

I was frustrated when The Guardian chose recent events as a backdrop for an article entitled on whether or not capitalism had run its course. My problem is not with the thinking behind the subject matter but the way it was put together. It was an opportunity to ask the poster boys of the old left to throw their hands in the air and shout "we told you so". So you did. So you did. Now is not the time for triumphant schadenfreude. Ideological gloating can come later.
Well, whatever happens to capitalism now is not to be debated on this page but whilst wandering through one of the capitals of capitalist endeavor of the last eighty years, Leicester Square, one of the more recent symbols of capitalist endeavor blasted Bob Dylan's Maggie's Farm into my ears.
Even though it has nothing to do with the Thatch, even though it has nothing to do with the deregulatory monster she helped to create, even though the lyrics (as much of Dylan's best work is) can only be made sense of by a teenage miserable with pretensions to more delusions than you've ever heard of, the repeat button was hit until I got to work.
The refrain, "I ain't gonna work on Maggie's Farm no more" can be taken as a celebration or a lament. It's up to you. It doesn't really matter because although it's from 1965, for the next fifteen minutes Maggie's Farm is the best song ever.