Apposite joke. An Irish banker, pressurised from head office to achieve ever higher business growth targets, dies and goes to heaven. He is met by Saint Peter who goes through the usual questionnaire.

"What sort of banker are you?" says St Peter. "I'm a branch manager at a busy suburban branch," he replies. "Name?" He gives his name. St Peter twiddles with the mouse on the celestial mainframe and access the file. "Oh yes, we're been expecting you. You've reached your allotted span". "Surely some mistake," the banker says. "I'm only 48." "Ah well, no, on the basis of entreaties wafting up from below, we carried out an independent audit. We looked at your time sheets and the hours, and interest you've charged your clients. By our reckoning, you're at least 93. Oh, and by the way, you owe us £25 for the consultation."