Ah... the Rich List. Every year, I experience the same curious sensation when the Sunday Times puts this out. That inner glow that comes from knowing a large part of the country is thinking - for a few hours at least - about the stuff of my daily grind. This year I have the added joy of seeing not one but two of my clients join the list for the first time. Actually, the estimates of their wealth are way off the mark, but that doesn't really matter. Both have called me today, astonishingly to thank me - as if I had anything to do with either their personal wealth creation or the compilation of the list. Of course they're not really thanking me. They're celebrating, and they want me to celebrate with them. The "thank you" is only to excuse the disturbance of my Sunday. Really, I should have called them first to offer my congratulations and so head off all the younger, hungrier private bankers who'll be placing calls to their offices tomorrow morning. The energy just isn't in me these days.
The Sunday Times's wealth estimations are compelling, I'll admit, but ultimately rather useless. Two different measures would be much more informative:
First is the amount of investable wealth, the only figure that my sort ever cares about. It's all very well that the Swire family's stake in the eponymous Group is worth one and a half billion, but it's not as if they're free to do much with it. If Sir Adrian were to grace me with his business, I could certainly suggest a few ways of raising spending money against his paper, but I doubt very much I could invoice him annually for 1% of £1.5bn.
The other measure I'd be curious to see is the effective wealth of these individuals. The Queen may only be worth £320m, but she enjoys a lifestyle (tupperware cereal containers aside) commensurate with a fortune ten times that sum. The ST figure is really rather meaningless in her case. Similarly, a number of the relatively impecunious celebrities at the bottom of the list probably attract freebie vacations, jewellery, cars and travel to match the spending power of the much richer but duller men of finance, property and (I love this one) baking. In the final analysis, isn't one's effective wealth the only measure that really matters in this life? I dare say Keira Knightley, on her paltry £14 million, is having a pretty good time of it.
Sunday 29 April 2007
Friday 27 April 2007
Monday 23 April 2007
Unwired
There seems to be an unreasonable degree of nervousness setting in amongst my younger colleagues, now that the Barclays-ABN merger is official. They all fear the move will send a tsunami of consolidation through the industry, leading to mass-redundancy and the end of our glorious summer of bonuses and expense accounts.
I have a different kind of worry. I was walking along Cornhill this afternoon when I felt an unusual prickling sensation in my scalp. I know I will only confirm my standing as a technological ignoramus if I try to connect this with today's launch of the City-wide Wi-Fi network, but intuitively I know this to be the cause. Has anyone seriously studied the health implications of bombarding us all with yet more radio waves (or whatever the hell they are)?
What I don't understand is why they had to do this here. Can there be a square mile anywhere else in the country with as many broadband connections as the City of London? Why not start in a place with no existing broadband - somewhere French perhaps. Who on earth do they think needs the extra connectivity around here? Are there City workers who take their laptops into McDonalds and run analyses of public companies with a Big Mac in one hand? These are not film students with nowhere else to keep warm, or a desperate yearning for the company of Starbucks staff to save them from lonely oblivion. If they honestly can't do without email in the taxi home, their Blackberrys will function all the way to Notting Hill - unlike The Cloud's offering. Skype, you say? Don't make me laugh. Have you ever met a banker who worried about the cost of his calls? No one's going to lug their laptop over to the Royal Exchange just to save their bank a few quid when phoning home.
I wish The Cloud every success, speaking as a kind-hearted capitalist, but I don't expect they'll find their silver lining in the City.
I have a different kind of worry. I was walking along Cornhill this afternoon when I felt an unusual prickling sensation in my scalp. I know I will only confirm my standing as a technological ignoramus if I try to connect this with today's launch of the City-wide Wi-Fi network, but intuitively I know this to be the cause. Has anyone seriously studied the health implications of bombarding us all with yet more radio waves (or whatever the hell they are)?
What I don't understand is why they had to do this here. Can there be a square mile anywhere else in the country with as many broadband connections as the City of London? Why not start in a place with no existing broadband - somewhere French perhaps. Who on earth do they think needs the extra connectivity around here? Are there City workers who take their laptops into McDonalds and run analyses of public companies with a Big Mac in one hand? These are not film students with nowhere else to keep warm, or a desperate yearning for the company of Starbucks staff to save them from lonely oblivion. If they honestly can't do without email in the taxi home, their Blackberrys will function all the way to Notting Hill - unlike The Cloud's offering. Skype, you say? Don't make me laugh. Have you ever met a banker who worried about the cost of his calls? No one's going to lug their laptop over to the Royal Exchange just to save their bank a few quid when phoning home.
I wish The Cloud every success, speaking as a kind-hearted capitalist, but I don't expect they'll find their silver lining in the City.
Sunday 22 April 2007
Boy Wonder
Now I know I'm in trouble. Thank you, "lucy", for the news that the FT piece has been picked up by The Week. A number of clients who would never dream of buying the FT, including Mrs X of Cornwall, are devoted readers of The Week.
I look forward to Cornish storms hitting a small corner of the City sometime tomorrow.
My son, by the way, has spent the day training for next year's London marathon. Is there a lower age limit? If so, he is several years short of it (although I don't think he has been made aware of this yet by his mother, to whom I always delegate such high-risk news-bearing). Nonetheless, he thinks he is in with a chance of winning. He had me time him over a distance of two hundred metres in a nearby lane, then extrapolated - using unfaultable mathematics - to a time of just under two hours for the whole course.
I shall be the proudest father in Christendom.
I look forward to Cornish storms hitting a small corner of the City sometime tomorrow.
My son, by the way, has spent the day training for next year's London marathon. Is there a lower age limit? If so, he is several years short of it (although I don't think he has been made aware of this yet by his mother, to whom I always delegate such high-risk news-bearing). Nonetheless, he thinks he is in with a chance of winning. He had me time him over a distance of two hundred metres in a nearby lane, then extrapolated - using unfaultable mathematics - to a time of just under two hours for the whole course.
I shall be the proudest father in Christendom.
Wednesday 18 April 2007
"Come back AC"
When I was fourteen, I did something rather foolish at school. In these Cameron salad days, that admission sounds alarmingly trendy, but in fact my transgression was rather more serious than an indulgence in soft drugs, and I very much hoped it would remain undetected. Therefore it was not a pleasant feeling when my housemaster, in an announcement after lunch, used a formulation of words which – though innocent to the rest of the boys – made it clear that he was on to me.
A similar effect was achieved by the front page of the FT last week. The innocent formulation that caught my eye was this: “The tale of poisoned goldfish”. Anyone who has read my first post will understand why my stomach turned in on itself in a manner I haven’t experienced for a number of decades.
The revelation that this blog has caught the eye of Jonathan Guthrie, columnist for the Financial Times, coming as it did somewhere between Sussex and a London rail terminus (I find myself suddenly coy on the more specific details), brought with it a number of emotions. Aside from the initial nausea, the predominating reaction was one of wonder that I could have laboured so many years in the City without once doing anything to merit the several column inches devoted to this frankly trivial diary. Admittedly, private bankers aren't supposed to attract attention, but all the same it feels like a terrible indictment of my lacklustre career.
Of course, I'm grateful to Mr Guthrie for his kind review of my ramblings. It is without doubt the first time in my life I have been accorded the accolade, "a rare flash of talent". Mind you, I have a suspicion Mr Guthrie was merely hoping to soften the blow of his next, more accurate appraisal: "burnt-out". Ouch. Still, I can't fault the judgement of a man who uses splendid words like "helot" (which sent me scrambling for my dictionary).
I'm glad to say I can set the good Guthrie's concerns to rest: I haven't been fired. Admittedly, the likelihood of that fate is somewhat greater now. Indeed I've spent the last few days keeping a very low profile and praying that LL in particular should not have his attention drawn to the FT piece. But a week has passed, and I think I've got away with it. LL isn't terribly bright as it happens, so he might not actually recognize the published description of our shared contretemps. Have I been "toying with career suicide"? Perhaps, but interestingly my fear has always been that this might be read by clients, not colleagues. No doubt that says something about my naivety, but at least it shows I've been well trained in the private banking code of client confidentiality. As the internet address was not published, I'm counting on the general laziness of my colleagues to prevent them seeking out this blog.
No, I haven't been fired. In fact, the reason for my silence has been rather more serious. I have been ill. Not physically, but to my shame I have recently gone through what could best be described as a minor breakdown. It hasn't been obvious, I hope, to my colleagues and clients, but since this blog is all about honesty I may as well come clean on this matter too. I like to think I'm fairly robust, and that when push came to shove I wouldn't be too traumatised if someone took away my iPod or likened me to Mr Bean. But around the end of February, something just stopped functioning in my brain. It had a lot to do with the sense of futility I experienced at the beginning of the year, and I don't want to dwell on the gloomy details, but suffice to say March was not a good month for me (or my poor, long-suffering family). At the time I suspected that this bloggish introspection might have contributed to my malaise, and so it seemed wise to stop it for a while. However I've since taken a very pleasant and relaxing holiday, and am feeling much more positive about this banking life. So what if it is futile? The money's good, and excellent restaurants are always close at hand. Besides, nothing could better stroke a burnt-out banker’s ego than a direct appeal for more from the pages of the FT. Jonathan, how could my vanity resist your flattery?
A similar effect was achieved by the front page of the FT last week. The innocent formulation that caught my eye was this: “The tale of poisoned goldfish”. Anyone who has read my first post will understand why my stomach turned in on itself in a manner I haven’t experienced for a number of decades.
The revelation that this blog has caught the eye of Jonathan Guthrie, columnist for the Financial Times, coming as it did somewhere between Sussex and a London rail terminus (I find myself suddenly coy on the more specific details), brought with it a number of emotions. Aside from the initial nausea, the predominating reaction was one of wonder that I could have laboured so many years in the City without once doing anything to merit the several column inches devoted to this frankly trivial diary. Admittedly, private bankers aren't supposed to attract attention, but all the same it feels like a terrible indictment of my lacklustre career.
Of course, I'm grateful to Mr Guthrie for his kind review of my ramblings. It is without doubt the first time in my life I have been accorded the accolade, "a rare flash of talent". Mind you, I have a suspicion Mr Guthrie was merely hoping to soften the blow of his next, more accurate appraisal: "burnt-out". Ouch. Still, I can't fault the judgement of a man who uses splendid words like "helot" (which sent me scrambling for my dictionary).
I'm glad to say I can set the good Guthrie's concerns to rest: I haven't been fired. Admittedly, the likelihood of that fate is somewhat greater now. Indeed I've spent the last few days keeping a very low profile and praying that LL in particular should not have his attention drawn to the FT piece. But a week has passed, and I think I've got away with it. LL isn't terribly bright as it happens, so he might not actually recognize the published description of our shared contretemps. Have I been "toying with career suicide"? Perhaps, but interestingly my fear has always been that this might be read by clients, not colleagues. No doubt that says something about my naivety, but at least it shows I've been well trained in the private banking code of client confidentiality. As the internet address was not published, I'm counting on the general laziness of my colleagues to prevent them seeking out this blog.
No, I haven't been fired. In fact, the reason for my silence has been rather more serious. I have been ill. Not physically, but to my shame I have recently gone through what could best be described as a minor breakdown. It hasn't been obvious, I hope, to my colleagues and clients, but since this blog is all about honesty I may as well come clean on this matter too. I like to think I'm fairly robust, and that when push came to shove I wouldn't be too traumatised if someone took away my iPod or likened me to Mr Bean. But around the end of February, something just stopped functioning in my brain. It had a lot to do with the sense of futility I experienced at the beginning of the year, and I don't want to dwell on the gloomy details, but suffice to say March was not a good month for me (or my poor, long-suffering family). At the time I suspected that this bloggish introspection might have contributed to my malaise, and so it seemed wise to stop it for a while. However I've since taken a very pleasant and relaxing holiday, and am feeling much more positive about this banking life. So what if it is futile? The money's good, and excellent restaurants are always close at hand. Besides, nothing could better stroke a burnt-out banker’s ego than a direct appeal for more from the pages of the FT. Jonathan, how could my vanity resist your flattery?
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