Tuesday was my birthday, and it was quite a milestone:
I have reached the age that Reggie was in the original David Nobbs novel : The Death of Reginald Perrin.
Appropriately enough I was an eleven minutes late that day: delays on the Jubilee line following earlier signal failure near Stanmore
I don't normally let on at work that it's my birthday but this year, perhaps in honour of Reggie, I impulsively ventured out to the claustrophobic, low-ceiling shopping centre in the wharf, and spent £37.50 on a small tray of delicate cakes for my co-workers.
The cakes turned out to be still frozen: the baker had done me.
One of Reggie's biggest problems (which actually was brought out rather well in the much maligned recent BBC adaptation of the book) was his growing sense of the pointlessness of the activities carried out at work.
I am lucky that my job is much more interesting than either Sunshine Desserts, or Groomtech. For instance: just on Tuesday we had a conference call with the Cambodia office, who want to temporarily use a non-standard solution for their storage needs. They have cleared this with IT, chiefly because enhancing the standard solution to meet their requirements is non-budgeted and not in the book of work, but they are not sure that IT have the authority to give them the authority to disregard policy and at the same time Compliance are worried that the solution adopted, while in use in many banks, might not be in the spirit of an obscure, ambiguous and implied commitment that we made to the Japanese regulators back in 2003, when the Cambodian subsidiary was partly owned by our Japanese firm . The relevant subject matter experts have left the bank and, Alibert, what do you think we should do?
"I'm sorry... I was looking at the dust in the sunlight which is really ... quite beautiful... Hey, do you think those round pistachio ones have thawed yet?"
Showing posts with label credit crunch. Show all posts
Showing posts with label credit crunch. Show all posts
23 July 2009
10 June 2009
the whole of August
For an under-bonused, over-stressed banking-monkey with a long commute is there anything more tantalising than the offer of unpaid leave?
Two weeks extra leave in 2009 we can have, if we want it; the credit-crunch ill wind blows some good after all. Two weeks! What's not to like?
Except that, ah yes, for a moment I forgot, it's unpaid leave.
So, I could have the whole of August off (hurray!) but with no money to spend (boo).
What to do? Hang out at home? Except everyone knows that it's impossible for a family of five to enjoy themselves in London for less than £200 a day. Could we enjoy ourselves in Paris for less?
The world is our whelk.
Two weeks extra leave in 2009 we can have, if we want it; the credit-crunch ill wind blows some good after all. Two weeks! What's not to like?Except that, ah yes, for a moment I forgot, it's unpaid leave.
So, I could have the whole of August off (hurray!) but with no money to spend (boo).
What to do? Hang out at home? Except everyone knows that it's impossible for a family of five to enjoy themselves in London for less than £200 a day. Could we enjoy ourselves in Paris for less?
The world is our whelk.
22 April 2009
An Excursion
On Monday I received an unexpected summons to the Strategy and Planning Department - they wanted me to brief them on the progress of Project Phoenix.
My spirits were lifted, as I don't often get to visit the C-Suite on the 27th floor. "I would be delighted", I emailed back, "I am free any morning next week between 10 and 12".
They suggested 3pm the following afternoon.
Everyone likes to go up to the 27th floor.
Not for the thick carpets, free mineral water and expensive art on the walls, but because it reassures us that our company don't all spend their time performing reconciliations, testing SOX controls, writing progress reports and wrestling with the automatic bulleting software in Powerpoint. Nope, up on the 27th floor we also make plans, decisions and budgets. "It's like work", I was once told by an indiscreet SPD staffer, at his leaving drinks, "but makes you feel really important - and without having to connect to the outside world"
I had sent my slides ahead, and when I arrived in the SPD conference room, there was the quick thrill of seeing my presentation printed out and bound up, a pack neatly at each seat at the table. But this time something was different and seeing our familiar Phoenix logo brightly on each cover page I gave a sort of squeak of surprise, and was too much taken aback to hold my tongue: "You can print in colour!", I said. "Yes," they said, "we can print in colour, We have that privilege"
I hurried through my presentation, which was entitled Whence Project Phoenix and which asked whether the stakeholders were realising the benefits from which and indeed by which the project was justified. After five slides I was interrupted by senior MD who looked up from his blackberry momentarily to ask "Sorry, but who exactly are you?". I smoothly referred him right back to slide one, and was allowed to continue.
All in all I think it went pretty well: I didn't losing my thread, and I got to the end without asking if there was anyone there from Tarporley.
But I wish someone had warned me about that colour printer: If I had only known I would have taken the trouble to make sure that all green traffic light symbols adorning my handouts were, well, green.
29 January 2009
Looking Forward, Looking Back
Perhaps I am imagining it, but I have been wondering whether we investment bankers have turned a corner, and perhaps everyone suddenly doesn't hate us any more. Or at least: not quite so much. Either way, I don't seem to have spent so many dinner parties pressed against the back of my chair, and I was cheered to read this week that:
In those days I went to lectures, read books, wrote essays and in the exam room attempted to invent clever little economic models on the fly. Nowadays I go to Town-Halls, read policies, write powerpoint and late at night when I get home I attempt to amuse mysterious people I am never likely to meet with silly little blog-posts written on the fly.
Not that I am complaining - for banks pay more money than universities and as an ex-economist and current investment banker I certainly understand the power of incentives. Greatbig medium-sized yearly incentives. In return we're willing to work for them when we need to and, this being January, we need to very much indeed for we are reorganising which is quite the most exciting project that anyone who works in a large organisation can engage in. (We're breaking down our horizontal silos with the some front-to-back verticals)
I studied my economics at Cambridge (the one in England) but if I was nineteen now I'd be strongly tempted to study at GMU which is in. .... well, it's in America somewhere... choosing the economics faculty solely on the quality of their blogging. Does that sound silly? To me it's a lot more sensible than the criteria I chose when I selected my old alma mater (the density and colours of its spring crocuses). For a taster of GMU, and the way economists think you can do worse that listen to this conversation with an earnest Russ Roberts and a laconic Robin Hanson in conversation - eventually - about whether economists actually know anything useful at all. Answer? They do.
Mind you, economists are pretty unpopular as well, but in the long run I hope it's going to be hard for the public to maintain a serious dislike of either economists or bankers - patly because there simply aren't very many of them and partly because I think they're going to be maintaining a rather lower profile.
But I worry that, before too long it might be turn of another group to bear the brunt of the public's displeasure: I found this in the FT rather chilling
One can’t explain an unusual cluster of errors by citing greed, which is always around, just as one can’t explain a cluster of airplane crashes by citing gravity. Anyway, the greedy aim at profits, not losses.A sentence with a clarity of thought that made me remember why twenty-five years ago I enjoyed being an economist. Probably, now I think about it, more than nowadays I enjoy working in an investment bank.
Lawrence White, writing in Cato Unbound
In those days I went to lectures, read books, wrote essays and in the exam room attempted to invent clever little economic models on the fly. Nowadays I go to Town-Halls, read policies, write powerpoint and late at night when I get home I attempt to amuse mysterious people I am never likely to meet with silly little blog-posts written on the fly.
Not that I am complaining - for banks pay more money than universities and as an ex-economist and current investment banker I certainly understand the power of incentives. Great
I studied my economics at Cambridge (the one in England) but if I was nineteen now I'd be strongly tempted to study at GMU which is in. .... well, it's in America somewhere... choosing the economics faculty solely on the quality of their blogging. Does that sound silly? To me it's a lot more sensible than the criteria I chose when I selected my old alma mater (the density and colours of its spring crocuses). For a taster of GMU, and the way economists think you can do worse that listen to this conversation with an earnest Russ Roberts and a laconic Robin Hanson in conversation - eventually - about whether economists actually know anything useful at all. Answer? They do.
Mind you, economists are pretty unpopular as well, but in the long run I hope it's going to be hard for the public to maintain a serious dislike of either economists or bankers - patly because there simply aren't very many of them and partly because I think they're going to be maintaining a rather lower profile.
But I worry that, before too long it might be turn of another group to bear the brunt of the public's displeasure: I found this in the FT rather chilling
So why should industrious Asians earn a tiny fraction of what citizens in the west earn? Especially when they have so much of the cash and productive resources, while we have deficits, high costs and poor demographics.It may not be a comfortable time to be out of a job in the next few years.
Prepare for a wrenching, unstoppable redistribution of wealth – and I am not talking about domestic taxes. For too long it has been more profitable in the west to finance consumption rather than production. That cannot continue. I am afraid that the west’s credibility – and luck – has run out.
This vast reordering of our economic system has only just begun. We shall have to cancel all the self-indulgence of endless welfare spending and cultivate rather more of a work ethic and a sense of self-sufficiency
Luke Johnson - The West's Luck has run out
09 December 2008
Party Time
Mrs Botogol and I did indeed go to a party at the weekend.
When did everyone start hiring staff for their parties?
It's hard to recall, now, the precise moment when our friends suddenly crossed this boundary that separates the ordinarily middle class from the genuinely wealthy.
It can't be that long ago: I can definitely remember being greeted at front doors by the hostess rather than a bewildered Serb, and taking my own coat upstairs and piling it on the heap on the bed rather than having it pulled lightly from my shoulders with a "thenkyu, and iss thiss a pressent? I vill tek thet es vell"
In the hierarchy of wealth Canape Shifters must have come after cleaners and probably after Having Our Colours Done, but before, I reckon, Cranial Osteopathy, personal trainers and dog walkers. I wonder if all these services will be relinquished in tidy reverse order now that the carnival is over for the wealthy bankers as well as the extremely wealthy bankers.
Still, the axes don't fall until next week, and meanwhile it was a good party, a fin-de-siecle-party, a stuff-the-credit-crunch and drink champagne all night, a we've-even-hired-a-band party and there were loads of staff: not a canape went unpassed, not a glass untopped up and not a guest unwelcomed.
It's good to see old friends, and we were amongst bankers so I was thankful I didn't have to single handedly defend the Wall Street bonus system all over again.
I did wish I had a pound for everyone who asked me whether I had been fired yet, for I'd have eleven pounds which would make up the rather repetitive small talk:
- "Good to see you as well". "No, not yet luckily Ha! Ha!". "Well anyone working for an investment bank has to be worried don't they?". "Well, I hope you're right".
"No, no idea at all, ha ha! Perhaps I'll hand out canapes at parties."
If there are any canapes, and if there are any parties.
When did everyone start hiring staff for their parties?
It's hard to recall, now, the precise moment when our friends suddenly crossed this boundary that separates the ordinarily middle class from the genuinely wealthy.
It can't be that long ago: I can definitely remember being greeted at front doors by the hostess rather than a bewildered Serb, and taking my own coat upstairs and piling it on the heap on the bed rather than having it pulled lightly from my shoulders with a "thenkyu, and iss thiss a pressent? I vill tek thet es vell"
In the hierarchy of wealth Canape Shifters must have come after cleaners and probably after Having Our Colours Done, but before, I reckon, Cranial Osteopathy, personal trainers and dog walkers. I wonder if all these services will be relinquished in tidy reverse order now that the carnival is over for the wealthy bankers as well as the extremely wealthy bankers.
Still, the axes don't fall until next week, and meanwhile it was a good party, a fin-de-siecle-party, a stuff-the-credit-crunch and drink champagne all night, a we've-even-hired-a-band party and there were loads of staff: not a canape went unpassed, not a glass untopped up and not a guest unwelcomed.
It's good to see old friends, and we were amongst bankers so I was thankful I didn't have to single handedly defend the Wall Street bonus system all over again.
I did wish I had a pound for everyone who asked me whether I had been fired yet, for I'd have eleven pounds which would make up the rather repetitive small talk:
- "Good to see you as well". "No, not yet luckily Ha! Ha!". "Well anyone working for an investment bank has to be worried don't they?". "Well, I hope you're right".
"No, no idea at all, ha ha! Perhaps I'll hand out canapes at parties."
If there are any canapes, and if there are any parties.
04 December 2008
Paradise Lost last night
Yes, the performance was in a church, yes, a real live vicar introduced it enthusiastically [ "I just know this is going to be excellent. Unfortunately I can't stay to hear it myself. Bye" Why do people do that?]
Yes, the subject matter is theological, and yes God, Satan, Adam and Eve all have speaking parts and yes it was written by a devout man - but still, but still. . .I reckon Paradise Lost is a deeply irreligious work.
And that's probably why I like it so much.
Perhaps, like any great work, there are so many threads, so many levels in Paradise Lost that every reader can find in it the narrative they want, and no doubt the other members of the audience in St Giles in the Field last night (the retired and aged, the rapper off the street for the free wine, the young earnest muslim, and the half-dozen assorted A-Level Students) no doubt they all heard, through the prisms of their conventions, something else entirely; but for me Milton is a subversive: Milton believes in a god, of course, but he believes in a god that no one could possibly worship: A god that is cruel and humourless. A god that is sentimental and yet pitiless. A god of entrapment and condescension. I can't believe that Milton worshipped this god.
Whatever: he certainly didn't manage to justify His ways to this man.
The vastly likeable and entertaining, but slightly cheesy, Lance Pierson performed Book IX, in an assured and compelling piece of theatre, and it was excellent, but dispiriting: a young married couple, idealistic and naive, commit a foolish deed in the pursuit of an illusory goal, and the roof simply falls in on their world, destroying the contentment they had.
But they were suckered, taken for a ride, and manipulated; as defenceless as the poor snake that Satan enslaves and are as badly treated. They have been advanced a loan they can't possibly pay back and suddenly it's the mother of all credit crunches.
It all ends in tears and, worse, mutual recriminations, Eve and Adam momentarily forgetting that they are on the same side.
It was an abridged version - of course it was - and naturally some of my favourite passages, it turned out, were not Lance Pierson's favourite passages and they were omitted. So in case any of the other forty people present are blog-searching for reviews tomorrow morning (yeah, right) - here's two they missed:
Satan's state of mind as he approaches Eden.
And here's Eve's defiance in the face of danger.
And so out she goes to face down whatever is out there. Doesn't everyone wish they were brave enough to feel like that?
Lance Pierson ended as Milton ended, and if it's good enough for them, it's good enough for me. Here's Adam and Eve as they leave paradise (It's kind of like being made redundant but being sent to a good outplacement consultant)
Yes, the subject matter is theological, and yes God, Satan, Adam and Eve all have speaking parts and yes it was written by a devout man - but still, but still. . .I reckon Paradise Lost is a deeply irreligious work.
And that's probably why I like it so much.
Perhaps, like any great work, there are so many threads, so many levels in Paradise Lost that every reader can find in it the narrative they want, and no doubt the other members of the audience in St Giles in the Field last night (the retired and aged, the rapper off the street for the free wine, the young earnest muslim, and the half-dozen assorted A-Level Students) no doubt they all heard, through the prisms of their conventions, something else entirely; but for me Milton is a subversive: Milton believes in a god, of course, but he believes in a god that no one could possibly worship: A god that is cruel and humourless. A god that is sentimental and yet pitiless. A god of entrapment and condescension. I can't believe that Milton worshipped this god.
Whatever: he certainly didn't manage to justify His ways to this man.
The vastly likeable and entertaining, but slightly cheesy, Lance Pierson performed Book IX, in an assured and compelling piece of theatre, and it was excellent, but dispiriting: a young married couple, idealistic and naive, commit a foolish deed in the pursuit of an illusory goal, and the roof simply falls in on their world, destroying the contentment they had.
But they were suckered, taken for a ride, and manipulated; as defenceless as the poor snake that Satan enslaves and are as badly treated. They have been advanced a loan they can't possibly pay back and suddenly it's the mother of all credit crunches.
It all ends in tears and, worse, mutual recriminations, Eve and Adam momentarily forgetting that they are on the same side.
It was an abridged version - of course it was - and naturally some of my favourite passages, it turned out, were not Lance Pierson's favourite passages and they were omitted. So in case any of the other forty people present are blog-searching for reviews tomorrow morning (yeah, right) - here's two they missed:
Satan's state of mind as he approaches Eden.
the more I seehasn't everyone felt like that. Doesn't everybody hurt, sometimes?
Pleasures about me, so much more I feel
Torment within me, as from the hateful siege
Of contraries; all good to me becomes
Bane, and in Heaven much worse would be my state.
But neither here seek I, no nor in Heaven
To dwell, unless by mastering Heavens Supreme;
Nor hope to be my self less miserable
By what I seek, but others to make such
As I, though thereby worse to me redound:
For only in destroying I find ease
To my relentless thoughts
And here's Eve's defiance in the face of danger.
If this be our condition, thus to dwell
In narrow circuit straitened by a Foe,
Subtle or violent, we not endued
Single with like defence, wherever met,
How are we happy, still in fear of harm?
And so out she goes to face down whatever is out there. Doesn't everyone wish they were brave enough to feel like that?
Lance Pierson ended as Milton ended, and if it's good enough for them, it's good enough for me. Here's Adam and Eve as they leave paradise (It's kind of like being made redundant but being sent to a good outplacement consultant)
Some natural tears they dropped, but wiped them soon;
The World was all before them, where to choose
Their place of rest, and Providence their guide:
They hand in hand with wandering steps and slow,
Through Eden took their solitary way.
25 November 2008
Diverse Attractions
The financial world as we know it may be ending, the bear may be prowling the corridors, the greedy getting their comeuppance, and lights going out in Canary Wharf, but Investment Bankers still know how to party and last week I scraped a ticket to a client-focused, flagship philanthropy event in a major London gallery: drinks, canapes, and a private tour of the collection. What's not to like?
The word was: 300 had been invited - bankers, dealers, rainmakers, sales staff and clients both corporate and hedge fund.
43 turned up - product controllers, IT, risk management, paralegals and admin as well four others with jobs indescribable.
It seems like no one actually wants to party any more. And who can blame us?
On the tour we admired this painting, and how much the artist had packed into it, cryptic references piled onto obscure allusions all competing for attention in a crowded space (imagine!), for instance the major elements of the nativity story are all there: the stable, the three kings, the annunciation to the shepherds, the holy spirit descending from the star.
One of the themes of the painting (our guide explained) is that the old give way to the new: there's Joseph (that's him in the doorway, dressed in orange) portrayed as an old man, while Mary looks no more than sixteen. Look at the bottom where there is an old dog and a young dog. Look at the buildings: the old, classical and ruined giving way in the distance to a church, modern, fine and young.
The older employees looked ruefully at one another and shifted their feet.
The three kings themselves are represented in the conventional way: one black, one white and one Eastern. Their races are unspecified in the bible, it's a convention - explained our artist - that developed in the Renaissance. Three kings, one each of the major racial groups of the time. It was a device, said our guide, to stress diversity and universality.
I looked over my shoulder at our own corporate display board - a group of serious, but smiling employees gathered around a boardroom table, and then back at the painting.
plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose
19 November 2008
On the treadmill
I used to absolutely hate running. Always.
But then suddenly, in one of those inexplicable, but seemingly permanent, changes that one goes through at around the age of forty, I started to to enjoy it, and now I run as often as I can in the Bushy Park 5km1 each Saturday morning.
My PB is a shade over 22 mins, and I am exceeding proud of it, being of a certain age and not, to be honest, entirely of a runner's build2 and if I work hard, and run as often as I can, I have calculated I'll reach my 100th race, and receive the coveted T-shirt, and a round-of-applause-in-front-of-the-impatient-crowd before I am fifty. Just :-(
On the other hand, before I get too big-headed, 22 mins works out to be an average speed of 13.6 km/h, while the world record for the marathon was set last month in Berlin at an average speed of 20.4 km/h. That's fast. Running at that speed Haile Gebrselassie would win the Bushy Park 5km every single week. Often by more than a minute.
How far, I wondered, could I run at 20.4 km/h?
Well, another splendid thing about working for an Investment Bank is that we have a gym in the basement (and even more splendid - there are fewer people in it every month) so yesterday I put on my fastest trainers, set the treadmill to 20.4, pressed the big green button and sped off.
Afterwards in changing rooms, making idle small talk3 with strangers, I was sure I could have run further, yes much further. What stopped me, you see, thundering along on the treadmill, heart pounding, arms flailing, feet stomping on the belt, sweat dripping from my temples, headphones dangling from one waxy ear, wasn't exhaustion or lactic acid build-up in the calves. Neither was it the increasing realisation that just one tiny misstep or stumble and I was likely to lose my balance and be ejected smartly from the back of the roaring machine on my stomach.
No - what stopped me was the consternation and - if I am honest - look of absolute fear on my neighbours faces on the treadmills either side, and so that's how it was, that after just 250m I was forced to press the big red emergency stop button and call it a day.
===============================================================
1 for all my American readers (cough): 5 kilometres = 3.11 miles
2 the race is dominated by skinny, unhealthy-looking 20 somethings with 30" waists and long legs. Meh.
3 will our top management be sacrificing their bonuses; if they did would it be a trick; and - most importantly - would it mean a smaller or larger bonus pool for the rest of us?
But then suddenly, in one of those inexplicable, but seemingly permanent, changes that one goes through at around the age of forty, I started to to enjoy it, and now I run as often as I can in the Bushy Park 5km1 each Saturday morning.
My PB is a shade over 22 mins, and I am exceeding proud of it, being of a certain age and not, to be honest, entirely of a runner's build2 and if I work hard, and run as often as I can, I have calculated I'll reach my 100th race, and receive the coveted T-shirt, and a round-of-applause-in-front-of-the-impatient-crowd before I am fifty. Just :-(
On the other hand, before I get too big-headed, 22 mins works out to be an average speed of 13.6 km/h, while the world record for the marathon was set last month in Berlin at an average speed of 20.4 km/h. That's fast. Running at that speed Haile Gebrselassie would win the Bushy Park 5km every single week. Often by more than a minute.
How far, I wondered, could I run at 20.4 km/h?
Well, another splendid thing about working for an Investment Bank is that we have a gym in the basement (and even more splendid - there are fewer people in it every month) so yesterday I put on my fastest trainers, set the treadmill to 20.4, pressed the big green button and sped off.
Afterwards in changing rooms, making idle small talk3 with strangers, I was sure I could have run further, yes much further. What stopped me, you see, thundering along on the treadmill, heart pounding, arms flailing, feet stomping on the belt, sweat dripping from my temples, headphones dangling from one waxy ear, wasn't exhaustion or lactic acid build-up in the calves. Neither was it the increasing realisation that just one tiny misstep or stumble and I was likely to lose my balance and be ejected smartly from the back of the roaring machine on my stomach.
No - what stopped me was the consternation and - if I am honest - look of absolute fear on my neighbours faces on the treadmills either side, and so that's how it was, that after just 250m I was forced to press the big red emergency stop button and call it a day.
===============================================================
1 for all my American readers (cough): 5 kilometres = 3.11 miles
2 the race is dominated by skinny, unhealthy-looking 20 somethings with 30" waists and long legs. Meh.
3 will our top management be sacrificing their bonuses; if they did would it be a trick; and - most importantly - would it mean a smaller or larger bonus pool for the rest of us?
12 November 2008
Brodies Notes 2075/76 English Literature GCSE Module 4: "Blogs"
Sub-Module # 6523 "Green Ideas" http://blog.greenideas.com
(a guide for dummies)
In 2008 Alibert Botogol took Green Ideas in a fresh direction: rebranding the site for a short while as 'Green Ideas is Credit Crunched' with over half of its content concerning life in an 'Investment Bank' 1
Contemporary critics suggested this was no more than a transparent and cynical attempt to attract more hits by including popular search terms2 in the title of the page, but kinder readers suggested it was a genuine attempt to open a window into a job which was genuinely indescribable but fleetingly topical
Whatever the reason, Alibert's relaunch wasn't a complete success for, despite the radical new logo and colour-scheme and minor adjustment to the, seldom-read, right-hand side-bar, the style of writing still remained that of a cryptic smart-arse and by Nov 2008 he had still only four 'followers'. One which was himself.
His November 2008 post 'Cowslip's Warren' was typical of the style of the period being particularly cryptic and yielding no fewer than three comments of complaint and is worth looking at in more detail to unravel its meaning. Especially for Americans
In this post Botogol is preoccupied with people leaving his Bank and the different ways in which departures are handled. For any Investment Banker beyond the age of 40 this was entirely normal. The first style of announcement that he discusses is fulsome and warm, but, he says, reserved for the 'time'servers' - senior bankers who didn't set the world alight. The most successful bankers ('rainmakers') on the other hand, he claims, generally leave on bad terms and receive only grudging notices
Botogol allows a hint of bitterness to show through in his desriptions of the first two styles, but his tone changes as he discusses the departure of the hapless 'RIFFED' (victims of a Reduction In Force, or redundancy programme).
The post's title, Cowslip's Warren, is a reference to the popular novel Watership Down, in which the travelling rabbits encounter a strange warren whose inhabitants live a life of unimaginable riches, provided with generous bounty of luxurious food and protected from pests by a local farmer. However it turns out they pay a terrible price for not only are they humiliated by other rabbits at Dinner Parties, the farmer also sets snares for the unwary, and any rabbits caught are dead meat.
The rabbits of Cowslip's warren develop a complex culture that detracts attention from their doomed and shallow lives, a culture with one strong taboo: those who disappear are never mentioned again. Botogol likens this to the fate of the riffed - who in Investment Banks at the time were normally removed suddenly, and without farewell from the working environment; or 'Cubicle'
Footnotes
1. Investment Bank - in the 20th Century the economies, and employment markets of US and UK were dominated by Investment Banks, controlled by greedy, bonus driven executives, the banks failed to survive to the great Crunch of 2008-2017, brought down largely by the greed of the employees, as every fule kno. (see Golden Goose)
2. Popular search terms in 2008, mention of which any in a blog-post being sure to attract readers included 'credit crunch', 'greedy', 'investment bank', 'jonathan ross' and 'russell brand'
Needlessly Cryptic References Used by Botogol in Cowslip's Warren
Bigwig - a hardworking and loyal character in Watership Down
Owsla - Middle Management team in a warren.
Outer Party - Middle Management team in the novel 1984 by George Orwell
Parsons, Tom - Unperson (someone who is disappeared by the state) in the novel 1984
(a guide for dummies)
In 2008 Alibert Botogol took Green Ideas in a fresh direction: rebranding the site for a short while as 'Green Ideas is Credit Crunched' with over half of its content concerning life in an 'Investment Bank' 1
Contemporary critics suggested this was no more than a transparent and cynical attempt to attract more hits by including popular search terms2 in the title of the page, but kinder readers suggested it was a genuine attempt to open a window into a job which was genuinely indescribable but fleetingly topical
Whatever the reason, Alibert's relaunch wasn't a complete success for, despite the radical new logo and colour-scheme and minor adjustment to the, seldom-read, right-hand side-bar, the style of writing still remained that of a cryptic smart-arse and by Nov 2008 he had still only four 'followers'. One which was himself.
His November 2008 post 'Cowslip's Warren' was typical of the style of the period being particularly cryptic and yielding no fewer than three comments of complaint and is worth looking at in more detail to unravel its meaning. Especially for Americans
In this post Botogol is preoccupied with people leaving his Bank and the different ways in which departures are handled. For any Investment Banker beyond the age of 40 this was entirely normal. The first style of announcement that he discusses is fulsome and warm, but, he says, reserved for the 'time'servers' - senior bankers who didn't set the world alight. The most successful bankers ('rainmakers') on the other hand, he claims, generally leave on bad terms and receive only grudging notices
Botogol allows a hint of bitterness to show through in his desriptions of the first two styles, but his tone changes as he discusses the departure of the hapless 'RIFFED' (victims of a Reduction In Force, or redundancy programme).
The post's title, Cowslip's Warren, is a reference to the popular novel Watership Down, in which the travelling rabbits encounter a strange warren whose inhabitants live a life of unimaginable riches, provided with generous bounty of luxurious food and protected from pests by a local farmer. However it turns out they pay a terrible price for not only are they humiliated by other rabbits at Dinner Parties, the farmer also sets snares for the unwary, and any rabbits caught are dead meat.
The rabbits of Cowslip's warren develop a complex culture that detracts attention from their doomed and shallow lives, a culture with one strong taboo: those who disappear are never mentioned again. Botogol likens this to the fate of the riffed - who in Investment Banks at the time were normally removed suddenly, and without farewell from the working environment; or 'Cubicle'
Footnotes
1. Investment Bank - in the 20th Century the economies, and employment markets of US and UK were dominated by Investment Banks, controlled by greedy, bonus driven executives, the banks failed to survive to the great Crunch of 2008-2017, brought down largely by the greed of the employees, as every fule kno. (see Golden Goose)
2. Popular search terms in 2008, mention of which any in a blog-post being sure to attract readers included 'credit crunch', 'greedy', 'investment bank', 'jonathan ross' and 'russell brand'
Needlessly Cryptic References Used by Botogol in Cowslip's Warren
Bigwig - a hardworking and loyal character in Watership Down
Owsla - Middle Management team in a warren.
Outer Party - Middle Management team in the novel 1984 by George Orwell
Parsons, Tom - Unperson (someone who is disappeared by the state) in the novel 1984
10 November 2008
Cowslip's Warren
You can tell a lot about an Investment Banker's career by the manner of her leaving it.
The hierarchy of styles-of-exit is subtle and complex; but also well-studied and instinctively understood so even the greenest, youngest, Assistant Vice President will be able to describe the three basic manners:
The grandest (but not, curiously, the most prestigious) is by way of the Obituary in CorporateNews
But in the time of the Credit Crunch the most common style of exit we see is neither of the above. It's the hushed but steady, unmistakable departure of the RIFfed, and it's a quiet sort of event, an embarassed type of event, a please-step-up-to-the-27th-floor-to-see-HR type of event and there are no individual announcements of the names of the At Risk, just suddenly empty cubicles, hushed water-cooler conversations and in the email directory a give-away #.
The hierarchy of styles-of-exit is subtle and complex; but also well-studied and instinctively understood so even the greenest, youngest, Assistant Vice President will be able to describe the three basic manners:
The grandest (but not, curiously, the most prestigious) is by way of the Obituary in CorporateNews
Fred T. Bigwig has left the bank to pursue other opportunities. He joined in 2002 as Director in charge of Complex Transactions EMEA (exc. South Africa) and in 2004 was promoted to Co-Head of Financial Engineering, APAC where he oversaw three-fold growth in revenues. In 2006 he was honoured by Risk Magazine for his contribution to Diversity in the City. He is leaving to pursue opportunities elsewhere.Translation: Outer Party, Owsla time-server: eased out with nothing but several million Euros in shares to salve his pride. No genuine rainmaker ever gets a send off like that - for then no genuine rainmaker ever leaves on good terms. Fired, retired, competitively hired, whatever: they all get Exit Style #2.
Please congratulate AnneT Bigwig on her promotion to Global Co-Head of Deal-Making. She replaces A Rainmaker who after 6 years with the bank has left for personal reason.
But in the time of the Credit Crunch the most common style of exit we see is neither of the above. It's the hushed but steady, unmistakable departure of the RIFfed, and it's a quiet sort of event, an embarassed type of event, a please-step-up-to-the-27th-floor-to-see-HR type of event and there are no individual announcements of the names of the At Risk, just suddenly empty cubicles, hushed water-cooler conversations and in the email directory a give-away #.
#Parsons, Tom is out-of-the-office and is not responding to emails. Thank you for not mentioning his name.
23 October 2008
Nerve Centre
"If you're going to the Bank of England this evening", said Mrs Botogol from behind the newspaper, "to meet the Governor, then I think you should wear a tie."
I was halfway out of front door, but I paused.
I haven't worn a tie since investment banks dressed down in 2000 in response to the dizzy heights of the dot-com boom... but I had a horrible suspicion she was right.
"In fact", she continued, languidly, buttering her crumpet, "you could wear the tie I bought you in the Christmas of '05, you know: the one you've never worn yet"
"OK, but wh..."
"Second drawer: at back, on the left; still in it's box"; and when I fetched it, she put it on for me.
It was an alumni evening for graduates of my old alma mater: a tour of the Bank of England, and then drinks with Mervyn King himself. Just for a few minutes, he has economies to save. He shook hands and conversed enthusiastically with the assembled company.
"Do you feel sorry for all the investment bankers losing their jobs in the credit crunch", someone asked, "or don't you think some of them deserve it?".
Nice to know where you stand, that's what I always think.
I was halfway out of front door, but I paused.
I haven't worn a tie since investment banks dressed down in 2000 in response to the dizzy heights of the dot-com boom... but I had a horrible suspicion she was right.
"In fact", she continued, languidly, buttering her crumpet, "you could wear the tie I bought you in the Christmas of '05, you know: the one you've never worn yet"
"OK, but wh..."
"Second drawer: at back, on the left; still in it's box"; and when I fetched it, she put it on for me.
It was an alumni evening for graduates of my old alma mater: a tour of the Bank of England, and then drinks with Mervyn King himself. Just for a few minutes, he has economies to save. He shook hands and conversed enthusiastically with the assembled company.
"Do you feel sorry for all the investment bankers losing their jobs in the credit crunch", someone asked, "or don't you think some of them deserve it?".
Nice to know where you stand, that's what I always think.
20 October 2008
Fox-hole friends
The bear seems quiet, but cubicle wisdom says : it's not gone. It may be even be an armoured bear, built to last.
It's not a good time to work in a bank, people keep their heads down and think of other careers.
Back in the summer the FSA raised cheers in back offices City-wide when it warned banks not to cut back on control staff, but August is a long time ago: why there were still investment banks around back in August. Now in October with perfect irony just as our new joiners all arrive, snatched in the hiring frenzy that was the collapse of Lehman's, employee consultation starts for another reduction in force, and it doesn't feel unduly pessimistic to believe the rumours that a further round follows close behind.
At the bank where I worked in 2002 each successive wave were rumoured to receive a worse deal. I don't know if the people on the first list of 2008 will feel angry or relieved. Either way I suppose they will go to dinner parties and reflect that they are greedy irresponsible risk takers and deserve it (were there so many people actually welcoming the propsect of a recession last time around? But then, were so many people with Government jobs and up-yours final-salary pensions last time around? Still, at least they are not greedy.)
It's a time for networking. Alumni groups flourish and old colleagues pop up on LinkedIn with freshly minted profiles. I have three friends, which is 145 fewer than my daughter has on Facebook. "That many??", I said, "Wow... On the other hand - you've been doing this for ages". "Yes", she said, "nearly a week".
It's not a good time to work in a bank, people keep their heads down and think of other careers.
Back in the summer the FSA raised cheers in back offices City-wide when it warned banks not to cut back on control staff, but August is a long time ago: why there were still investment banks around back in August. Now in October with perfect irony just as our new joiners all arrive, snatched in the hiring frenzy that was the collapse of Lehman's, employee consultation starts for another reduction in force, and it doesn't feel unduly pessimistic to believe the rumours that a further round follows close behind.
At the bank where I worked in 2002 each successive wave were rumoured to receive a worse deal. I don't know if the people on the first list of 2008 will feel angry or relieved. Either way I suppose they will go to dinner parties and reflect that they are greedy irresponsible risk takers and deserve it (were there so many people actually welcoming the propsect of a recession last time around? But then, were so many people with Government jobs and up-yours final-salary pensions last time around? Still, at least they are not greedy.)
It's a time for networking. Alumni groups flourish and old colleagues pop up on LinkedIn with freshly minted profiles. I have three friends, which is 145 fewer than my daughter has on Facebook. "That many??", I said, "Wow... On the other hand - you've been doing this for ages". "Yes", she said, "nearly a week".
12 October 2008
Life in the time of the Bear
"It's like mowing the lawn while the house is on fire", announced a gloomy colleague, half-way through a long meeting on our Corporate Archiving Policy during which the financial world as we know it collapsed in sea of red. "I mean - what are we doing here? Look at the screens! Look at the share price! Who cares anyway? Archive? Shmarchive! "
It was a Code Blue. Following established protocol (and a brief comparison of rank) the most senior Managing Director present took control: "George! Step. Away. From. The. Whiteboard. And. Put. Down. The. Marker-Pen"
Poor George collapsed into his 7-way-adjustable swivel chair and we smartly tipped it back, rendering him helpless. Thus imprisoned in the nylon mesh fabric, we followed our MD's lead wheeling him to the 47th floor, the lair of the bear, all the way to the very gates of HR department where she dumped him in front of the bored Security Guards. "One for the RIF" she said, grimly.
"What will happen to him?" asked a wide-eyed AVP from Corporate Centre.
"Let's just say he's At Risk"
It was a Code Blue. Following established protocol (and a brief comparison of rank) the most senior Managing Director present took control: "George! Step. Away. From. The. Whiteboard. And. Put. Down. The. Marker-Pen"
Poor George collapsed into his 7-way-adjustable swivel chair and we smartly tipped it back, rendering him helpless. Thus imprisoned in the nylon mesh fabric, we followed our MD's lead wheeling him to the 47th floor, the lair of the bear, all the way to the very gates of HR department where she dumped him in front of the bored Security Guards. "One for the RIF" she said, grimly.
"What will happen to him?" asked a wide-eyed AVP from Corporate Centre.
"Let's just say he's At Risk"
09 October 2008
The Business School of Hard Knocks
It's the end of the financial WAWKI but, with the delightful optimism that comes with youth, and lots of government money the Young Enterpise 2008 is going strong
My daughter Boto-Teen is entered, and her company have been instructed by their Non-Executive Chairman (Mrs Adams, the biology teacher, for it is she) to develop an innovative product or service, relevant to 2008
"Bankruptcy consultants, manufacturers of snooping tools for local governments, wind farm demolition experts, asset fire-salesmen, redundancy counsellors, providers of specialist spin doctoring and Facebook friend-finders", I rattled off, "Chewing gum street scrapers, house repossessors, IVA arrangers, soup kitchen organisers, pan-handlers, managers of Troubled Assets, and shoe leather repairers". I paused. "Benefits Claims Officers, burger flippers..."
"Oh do be quiet, Alibert, dear" said Mrs Botogol, "didn't Mrs Adams have any suggestions, dear?"
"The Non-Exec Chairman, you mean", chided Boto-Teen, "not really, but she wondered if perhaps we could create a product or service for deaf people"
I suggested taking them to Harlequins games for the price our tickets, and in return describing the action to them as it unfolded; and she looked at me blankly. "But they are deaf" she said.
Young Enterprise starts with the students selecting the management team: CEO, CFO, CIO, COO, CMO, CRO and Head of HR. The team negotiated for two hours until they had shared out the jobs on a democratic and equitable basis. Then the Non-Exec Chairman injected a note of genuine true-to-life corporate reality by announcing that while they were planning she had head-hunted a sixth former from Tiffin Girls to be the new CEO in return for a guaranteed bonus and 20% of the revenues (talent like her's doesn't cheap, she explained, and anyway Tiffin had attempted a buy-back)
It was a bit of a shock in C-suite, but you have to applaud the way the Non-Exec Chairman thinks: not just a Biology teacher after all.
"But didn't you mind?" Mrs Botogol asked Boto-Teen when she heard the news.
"Not at alI: I, for one, welcome our new Tiffin overlords", the crest-fallen Boto-Teen told us sincerely: she will go a long way.
"OverlordS?" asked Mrs Botogol, "plural? are there more than one?"
It turns out that, although the management team has supposedly survived intact, the new Chief Executiff has installed three 5th formheavies acolytes in her own private office in the roles of Chief of Staff, Head of Expense Management and Communications Director . Between the four of them they therefore control the purse strings, the compensation, and the company facebook group. "Oh, she's good", I said, "she's very good"
"Yes", sighed Boto-teen, "and they spend all their time behind a closed door, planning and making product decisions. A sort of inner circle. It's not righ: these things should be decided at board meetings. A real company wouldn't be like that, would it?"
I shifted a little uncomfortably in my armchair, "And what have they set you doing?"
"Not much. What do deaf people like, anyway?"
My daughter Boto-Teen is entered, and her company have been instructed by their Non-Executive Chairman (Mrs Adams, the biology teacher, for it is she) to develop an innovative product or service, relevant to 2008
"Bankruptcy consultants, manufacturers of snooping tools for local governments, wind farm demolition experts, asset fire-salesmen, redundancy counsellors, providers of specialist spin doctoring and Facebook friend-finders", I rattled off, "Chewing gum street scrapers, house repossessors, IVA arrangers, soup kitchen organisers, pan-handlers, managers of Troubled Assets, and shoe leather repairers". I paused. "Benefits Claims Officers, burger flippers..."
"Oh do be quiet, Alibert, dear" said Mrs Botogol, "didn't Mrs Adams have any suggestions, dear?"
"The Non-Exec Chairman, you mean", chided Boto-Teen, "not really, but she wondered if perhaps we could create a product or service for deaf people"
I suggested taking them to Harlequins games for the price our tickets, and in return describing the action to them as it unfolded; and she looked at me blankly. "But they are deaf" she said.
Young Enterprise starts with the students selecting the management team: CEO, CFO, CIO, COO, CMO, CRO and Head of HR. The team negotiated for two hours until they had shared out the jobs on a democratic and equitable basis. Then the Non-Exec Chairman injected a note of genuine true-to-life corporate reality by announcing that while they were planning she had head-hunted a sixth former from Tiffin Girls to be the new CEO in return for a guaranteed bonus and 20% of the revenues (talent like her's doesn't cheap, she explained, and anyway Tiffin had attempted a buy-back)
It was a bit of a shock in C-suite, but you have to applaud the way the Non-Exec Chairman thinks: not just a Biology teacher after all.
"But didn't you mind?" Mrs Botogol asked Boto-Teen when she heard the news.
"Not at alI: I, for one, welcome our new Tiffin overlords", the crest-fallen Boto-Teen told us sincerely: she will go a long way.
"OverlordS?" asked Mrs Botogol, "plural? are there more than one?"
It turns out that, although the management team has supposedly survived intact, the new Chief Executiff has installed three 5th form
"Yes", sighed Boto-teen, "and they spend all their time behind a closed door, planning and making product decisions. A sort of inner circle. It's not righ: these things should be decided at board meetings. A real company wouldn't be like that, would it?"
I shifted a little uncomfortably in my armchair, "And what have they set you doing?"
"Not much. What do deaf people like, anyway?"
05 October 2008
Crisis Management
Well that was an exciting month to take a break from blogging: while greenideas was away banks collapsed in the worst financial crisis that even old timers like me can remember.
It's an astonishing 23 years this month since I started work in the City.
(I can still remember my first day: it was an appropriately high tension, sweaty one as I found myself hopelessly lost walking in small circles around Holborn viaduct looking for an office I had never been to before, without the aid of an A to Z or even, in fact, the address)
In the first twenty-two years, eleven months of my career I witnessed just three financial events of the where-you-when? variety. They were:
And, if there was pattern to my witness it was that on each of those events I didn't actually have a clue to the full extent of the crisis before me, and each time I mainly got on with my work, glancing occasionally at the screen, before going home to have my tea.
Actually it's a good job I wasn't a trader because I don't think I would have been a successful one: a key skill in the markets is realising, seeing, understanding the situation you are actually in, the crisis that is unfolding, the options and opportunities available; and then choosing one. Indeed perhaps that's the key to facing any crisis whether financial, military or indeed of the soul: it's not choosing the fork in the road that's hard: it's noticing that you were, in point of fact, at a fork.
So third time around, facing the collapse of the financial markets and quite possibly TEOTWAWKI, I was determined to do better and to pay more attention and so, instead of merely working, I have spent the last three weeks chuckling at the sardonic wit on alphaville, standing outside Lehman brothers watchnig laptops walking out the building in what amounted to a mass looting and, in the evenings, mainly panicking.
I was a believer in omens, or superstition I would have noted how the extraordinary events in the markets were once again accompanied by extraordinary weather: while Black Monday was preceded by a hurricane, the fall of Lehmans and Merrill took place with Canary Wharf bathed in unseasonal sunshine, and on the Friday evening, ten days ago, several thousand people gathered in Jubilee Place to drink and talk in the eerie, late autumn sunshine.
Twenty-three years previously, in October 1985, as it become later and later, and I became sweatier and sweatier, it eventually dawned on me that I was actually going to have to ask for help and, at my wit's end I went inside an open church door, and asked the vicar. For an unbeliever I seem to have spent a lot of my life in churches.
The priest was kind but clueless, but right outside I met a grimy street cleaner who had no trouble at all pointing out the Coopers & Lybrand building. I hurried away, and when I remembered to look back to thank him he had disappeared. I got to work at 8:59; perhaps he was an angel.
It's an astonishing 23 years this month since I started work in the City.
(I can still remember my first day: it was an appropriately high tension, sweaty one as I found myself hopelessly lost walking in small circles around Holborn viaduct looking for an office I had never been to before, without the aid of an A to Z or even, in fact, the address)
In the first twenty-two years, eleven months of my career I witnessed just three financial events of the where-you-when? variety. They were:
- 19 October 1987
- 16 September 1992
- and, of course, most excitingly of all: the glorious champagne soaked hedonism of the celebrations in the old Arbitrager, Throgmorton Street on 16 March, 1988
And, if there was pattern to my witness it was that on each of those events I didn't actually have a clue to the full extent of the crisis before me, and each time I mainly got on with my work, glancing occasionally at the screen, before going home to have my tea.
Actually it's a good job I wasn't a trader because I don't think I would have been a successful one: a key skill in the markets is realising, seeing, understanding the situation you are actually in, the crisis that is unfolding, the options and opportunities available; and then choosing one. Indeed perhaps that's the key to facing any crisis whether financial, military or indeed of the soul: it's not choosing the fork in the road that's hard: it's noticing that you were, in point of fact, at a fork.
So third time around, facing the collapse of the financial markets and quite possibly TEOTWAWKI, I was determined to do better and to pay more attention and so, instead of merely working, I have spent the last three weeks chuckling at the sardonic wit on alphaville, standing outside Lehman brothers watchnig laptops walking out the building in what amounted to a mass looting and, in the evenings, mainly panicking.
I was a believer in omens, or superstition I would have noted how the extraordinary events in the markets were once again accompanied by extraordinary weather: while Black Monday was preceded by a hurricane, the fall of Lehmans and Merrill took place with Canary Wharf bathed in unseasonal sunshine, and on the Friday evening, ten days ago, several thousand people gathered in Jubilee Place to drink and talk in the eerie, late autumn sunshine.
Twenty-three years previously, in October 1985, as it become later and later, and I became sweatier and sweatier, it eventually dawned on me that I was actually going to have to ask for help and, at my wit's end I went inside an open church door, and asked the vicar. For an unbeliever I seem to have spent a lot of my life in churches.
The priest was kind but clueless, but right outside I met a grimy street cleaner who had no trouble at all pointing out the Coopers & Lybrand building. I hurried away, and when I remembered to look back to thank him he had disappeared. I got to work at 8:59; perhaps he was an angel.
15 September 2008
Credit Crunched and All Burned Out
picture by The Rocketeer
I'm taking a little break from blogging.
13 February 2008
Bear Baiting
A chill wind is gently blowing in the financial district: bonuses are down, budgets are flat and haunted-looking strangers riding the elevator down from the 47th floor mumur of bears glimpsed prowling the far away corridors of the C-suite. Quite nasty-looking bears
Oh there's nothing certain, but still, but still : headhunters are no longer calling up vice-presidents with talk of silly salaries, hiring is curtailed and plans for dreamy beach houses on quiet Long Island shores are shelved
But, Hey! Not everything in the world is gloomy. One of our friends tells us she has commissioned a bronze bust of, well, of her bust; and I have a new squeezebox :-)
I never heard of such a thing before - have I spotted a new micro-trend?
When it's completed, I wonder whether it will be polite - or not? - to comment on the quality of the likeness.
Oh there's nothing certain, but still, but still : headhunters are no longer calling up vice-presidents with talk of silly salaries, hiring is curtailed and plans for dreamy beach houses on quiet Long Island shores are shelved
But, Hey! Not everything in the world is gloomy. One of our friends tells us she has commissioned a bronze bust of, well, of her bust; and I have a new squeezebox :-)
I never heard of such a thing before - have I spotted a new micro-trend?
When it's completed, I wonder whether it will be polite - or not? - to comment on the quality of the likeness.
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