PLATFORM:The parable of someone who had to pick up the bill for recklessness has a contemporary ring.

MY SYMPATHIES were always with the Prodigal Son’s older brother; the dutiful one who stayed at home, helped out on the farm and didn’t spend his money on wild living. Although his life seemed boring and tame in comparison with the younger guy who took the inheritance early, went off on a spending frenzy and came home – apparently repentant – when the cash had all been spent and plague and famine had hit the land of plenty.

The older brother didn’t get a lot of comfort from the words of his father on his sibling’s return: “You are always with me and everything I have is yours.” Less the bill for the welcome home bonanza which included some fresh threads, jewellery and the ubiquitous fatted calf.

The father was fairly confident the younger son had learned his lesson and told the other: “We had to celebrate and be glad because this brother of yours was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.”

And, in fairness, the boy himself had confessed that he was no longer worthy to be called his son. But still, there was never a sequel to the parable; no news on whether sibling rivalry existed between the brothers and whether, if the farm continued to flourish under the stewardship of the older, the younger didn’t again go on a spending spree with his take of the profits.

Surprising though it might seem right now, there are many people in this country who lived like the older brother. Perhaps there were moments of madness – an unnecessary makeover of the kitchen, a few weekend breaks to overpriced hotels or a treat of some bling jewellery – but the wild excesses of helicopters, hot tubs and Range Rovers which never saw anything steeper than a speed bump, were confined to a particular clique.

This clique, however, seemed to have been inhabiting the same country as the Prodigal Son. And so, when famine and plague hit it, they came running back. Although, in their case, not with their tail between their legs or comments about not being worthy.

Our Prodigal Sons have come home, told us that they’re necessary for the future running of the farm, asked for the fatted calf and the rest of the banquet and then demanded (with menaces) an additional share of the farm too. And the frustrating thing is that our father figures have no option but to cough up.

Anyone who was a prudent older son during the boom years, who saved and spent within their means and tried to make plans for future financial independence has been whacked by zero interest rates, decimated pension values and seen any investments they may have had sink without trace. At the same time, they have to listen to themselves being called wealthy because they still have somewhere to live.

The problem with the parable of the Prodigal Son and with the solutions to the current economic mess is the mixed messages they send out. Do the right thing and you will end up paying for other people’s mistakes. Do the wrong thing and you’ll be okay because someone else is going to pick up the tab.

It is the extension of the bonus culture that got us where we are today, with its “short-term gain before long-term pain” philosophy. Annoyingly, in the parable, we never heard any more from the father who had inexplicably handed over so much loot to the younger son before he was entitled to it.

We never found out if he blamed himself for the mess that the younger son had got into. After all, if he’d just supervised him a little better, maybe things would’ve turned out differently.

I suppose it was easy for the Prodigal Son to get caught up in the hedonistic lifestyle of the country to which he travelled in order to fritter away his inheritance, just as it was easy for bankers like Brian Goggin to forget the lessons of economics which are so essential in running a bank. (Although that particular comment by the ex-chief of Bank of Ireland was one of the most astonishing I’ve ever heard. My personal recollection of banks is that they have armies of economists whose job it is not to forget their college lessons – there is a reason it’s called the dismal science after all – but maybe nobody was allowed to be dismal in the land of plenty.)

I hope that the Prodigal Son knuckled down after the feast, thought of innovative ways to increase productivity on the farm and put more into the family coffers than he ever took out. And I hope that he mended his relationship with his older brother too.

But somehow I doubt it.