Picture the scene. Dawn on the Med. After a disturbed night, Sir Philip Green — Roman toga, gold laurels — and Neil Woodford — tight T-shirt, jodhpurs — stand on the poop deck of Sir Philip’s 295ft yacht Lionheart in Monaco harbour. Sir Philip emits a sigh as he mulls the problems facing his retail empire. “If only I’d paid a bit more attention to the works of the Stoics Seneca and Epictetus,” he moans, “I wouldn’t be in the f***ing two and eight I am now!” “Know what you mean, Phil,” replies Neil. “Yesterday I was Hargreaves Lansdown’s Nietzschean Übermensch. Now look at me. They’ve even repossessed the Cayenne.”
