Dunces with Wolves: The third volume of the Bernard Jones Investing Diaries

by Nick Louth

  I quickly stash this terrifying stuff back in the box, and with shaking hands resume my search for Northern Rock material. Eventually, in a tatty envelope, I find an old Northern Rock passbook, circa 1992 with a total at that date of £12,837 credited. With a renewed sense of urgency I jump into the Volvo and set off for Bromley.

  Sunday 16th September: All For Nought

  Stood for four and a half hours yesterday in a very British queue. All types represented, from the Muslim student with his bursary to protect, to a Bermondsey florist hoping to withdraw her life savings. Plus one befuddled old-school fellow in a blazer, who planned to move his mortgage to a safer bank. The staff, cheery despite the prospect of job cuts, were kindly handing out tea and coffee. I’m sure they are as much in shock as the rest of us. Eunice arrived at 3.40pm, with immaculate timing, just as I was making it inside the branch.

  When we finally got to the front, the poor cashier looked worn out. She typed in the account number, looked up and announced: “That’s £16.22. Would you like to withdraw it all?”

  While Eunice quibbled and blustered, I tottered outside where I found a convenient piece of wall next to the cashpoint and started banging my head gently against it.

  “It’s no good needling me about it,” Eunice said when we were on the way home. “I can’t be expected to remember that I transferred it into the Halifax in 1998, can I?” She flicked through the statement they had printed out for her.

  “But why didn’t you close the account?” I wailed. “At least we wouldn’t have these odds and ends knocking around. For the amount of time I spent queuing yesterday, the balance doesn’t even amount to minimum wage.”

  “Certainly not. One doesn’t pay one’s husband for what should be an act of love and solidarity,” Eunice said crisply.

  Tuesday 18th September: Hedge Trimming

  Thank goodness that Peter Edgington has so kindly hedged the share club’s exposure to Northern Rock. By the time I’d got hold of K.P. Sharma to sell the shares on Monday, the price had plummeted to 280p. However, Peter’s short-sell CFD kicked in from 460p on Friday, so we’ve ‘only’ lost, um: 718p minus 460p, which is…258p per share. With 200 shares that is £516 of club funds down the drain, but it could easily have been double. How I wish, for once, that we had listened to Harry Staines and bought shares in the publisher of the Sunday Sport.

  Wednesday 19th September: Robbing Peter

  Share club meeting starts with a little self-congratulation for the money that we have saved, courtesy of Peter, and a vote of thanks to him. Only Harry looks smug, having had nothing to do with out disastrous Northern Rock foray. K.P. Sharma is particularly relieved, seeing as it was his recommendation.

  “So what price did Peter close out his short position at then, Bernard?” K.P. asks.

  “I don’t know. I presume you checked that with him to coordinate closing both positions,” I reply.

  “No, Bernard, I didn’t have time. I just sold our Northern Rock shares. You were down as the coordinator. You didn’t ring him?”

  “Er, no. I thought you would,” I say.

  “Are you saying that he’s still running the position?” Chantelle says. We all crowd around K.P.’s laptop while he checks the price. Northern Rock shares are now down at 255p.

  “Hang on, is that good or bad for us?” I ask.

  “It’s good,” says K.P. “But it would be very bad if the price started to climb above 280p, because then Peter’s profits would no longer exceed the losses we made from 460p downwards.”

  “But we wanted the price to go up,” I say, now thoroughly confused.

  “Yes, Bernard,” said K.P. testily. “When we owned them and before the hedge. But now we’ve sold we are, via Peter, naked short, rather than hedged.”

  I have a headache coming on and take a deep draught of my Damson Porter, a rather fine guest ale that does nothing to clear my head. There follows five minutes of mind-boggling argy-bargy about profits and losses until Chantelle says: “What’s his number?”

  “Whose?” K.P. asks.

  “Peter Edgington’s. Don’t you think we should ring him?”

  We all agree this is the top priority, but tapping my jacket I realise I don’t have my address book with me. Chantelle tries the directory by the payphone, but being the Ring o’Bells, most pages have been ripped to shreds. K.P. tries BT’s free online directory, but he’s not in it. It’s now 4.10pm and Eunice hasn’t returned my call. She finally does so, with perfect timing at 4.31pm.

  “Thank you so much,” I say as she relays Peter’s number.

  “Don’t be sarky, Bernard. If you’d taken your book…”

  “The market’s just closed, that’s the bloody problem.”

  Eunice hangs up on me. So I draw a deep breath and call Peter. He is understandably testy, despite my apologies.

  “That was not the idea, was it? I was doing you all a big favour,” he says. “Let’s just hope there’s no bid for it tomorrow.”

  Thursday 20th September: Edgington Triumphs Again

  9am. Peter rings and, somewhat jubilantly, announces that he has closed his short position on Northern Rock at 176p.

  “Oh, right,” I respond, trying to work out whether that is good for the club or for him. “Are you happy?” I ask cautiously.

  “Naturally,” he says. “I’ve covered your club positions down from 460p to 280p, and at 176p that’s an extra 104p per share profit just for me. Quite honestly, this isn’t my kind of investing, but it was in its own way quite exciting. I’ve saved the Ring o’Bells share club £360, and I’ve made over £200 for myself.”

  Saturday 22nd September: Pomegranate Promise

  Blissful day all to myself on the model railway, staging a re-enactment of the notorious Bristol Temple Meads derailment of 1909. Eunice is out at yet another event to raise lolly for a new roof at St Simeon’s. Apparently, the soaring price of lead keeps pushing the target ever higher. Perhaps they should just have bought shares in BHP Billiton. Still, for the amount of auctioned marrows, beetroot and courgettes jamming our fridge you’d have thought you could have re-roofed St Paul’s Cathedral in gold leaf.

  Eunice arrives at 4pm: “I’ve got some pumpkin and pomegranate chutney from the WI tombola. It’s supposed to be marvellous for your prostate,” she said, waving the jar towards me. “Oh for goodness sake, Bernard, stop looking horrified. You’re supposed to eat it, you don’t have to insert the jar.”

  Monday 24th September: Halo Slips

  Brian tells me that Digby has been pestering him and Janet non-stop for a fortnight to get him an X-Box so he can play some new video game called Halo 3. What either of these things are I cannot tell you, but no child is ‘cool’ without them, so my schoolteacher son tells me. I lost touch with toys when Meccano finally died out, and am shocked to be told it will cost £299 for console and game.

  “That’s a heck of a Christmas present,” I say.

  “Oh no. It can’t wait for Christmas, I’m afraid,” Brian responds. “It came out today, and that’s when he wants it. You know what he’s like if he doesn’t get his way. Frankly it’s worth it for a bit of peace and quiet. Still, it’ll have to go on plastic.”

  Well, if Brian runs his classroom like he runs his home, no wonder our schools are in such a state. Once again it seems that Digby, the pint-size demon, has his parents on a string. In the meantime I look up Halo 3 on the Internet, and I’m amazed. The future of the latest X-box player hangs on this game, which Microsoft has spent more promoting than if it was a Hollywood blockbuster. Actually, it isn’t so daft when you realise it has more in common with a film than a game. It just happens to be a film where you control the characters. You can even play an online version. No wonder Microsoft’s shares have risen as the reviews emerged.

  11.30pm. Eunice comes down to Lemon Curdistan to find me. “Bernard, you’ve missed that Channel 5 programme you wanted to watch about life in Northamptonshire’s public health department.”

  Damn. I�
�d been looking forward to Dysentery in Daventry.

  “So what are you doing? You’re cocoa’s been waiting for two hours. It’s stone cold.”

  “I’m looking for hunters,” I tell her. “I’ve got two down so far, but I’ve taken a hit from a plasma gun and I’ve got to get the sergeant back to a field hospital.”

  “For goodness sake. It’s bad enough that you play trains all day long in the loft, now when I think you’re trying to secure our retirement it turns out you are playing cowboys and Indians. If you’re regression to childhood continues at this rate I’m getting you a shape sorter for Christmas.”

  Wednesday 26th September: Traumatic For Some

  Hell’s Bell’s share club meeting. K.P. Sharma brandishes a copy of the FT and shows us a full page story on Chinese pork prices. “Isn’t that amazing?” he says.

  “Yeah,” says Harry Staines. “The Golden Wheel’s now charging £7.85 for ribs in sweet and sour sauce, and when that miserable cow’s there you only get three in a box. My missus has always preferred the chicken anyway.”

  “No, what I mean is that the trend of meat consumption, animal supply and farmyard diseases in China is now recognised as a real force in global commodity prices. Isn’t that an amazing development?” K.P. said.

  I agree with him, but can’t decide how we in suburban North Kent can play this particular trend.

  “How about buying a commodity fund?” Martin Gale asks.

  “We need to take a rigorous approach though,” says Chantelle, as she cleans the counter of the Ring o’Bells food bar. “Pig prices are going up not just because the Chinese can now afford to eat more meat, but due to the cost of feed. And that’s going up because the American’s are turning corn into ethanol.”

  Impressed by this analysis, we wait for more. Our barmaid-cum-investor today has orange and purple hair, black lipstick and three rivets just above each collarbone. She looks like an escapee from an Andrew Lloyd-Webber musical.

  “All I’m saying is pricey pork doesn’t mean easy money from investing in pigs,” she adds.

  “What about pig-breeding?” we hear a Yorkshire voice say. Standing at the bar is a small bloke in overalls, with a thin face and bad teeth. “That Genus company makes money from pigs, like, as well as cows. I’ve done well with them shares.”

  Harry waves him over to join us, and he introduces himself as Russell Traugh. Only then do I see the logo on his overalls: ‘TraughMatic Ltd: Your local abrasive experience.’

  Russell, it seems, is a self-made man whose experience of business, which he is delighted to share with us unprompted, comes down to one thing. “It’s cash in your pocket, money in the bank and nowt more. Get cashflow right and you’re more n’halfway.”

  He stays for a while, asks about what’s in the club portfolio, but then wanders off after finishing the pint that Harry bought him.

  “Should we let him join if he’s interested?” asks K.P.

  “I’d wait to see if he buys a round,” says Harry. “One tightwad like Martin is enough for any share club.”

  Chapter Three: Sooty And Sweep

  Thursday 4th October: Glove Puppets Off

  After Halo 3, what future for Sooty? I read that privately-owned Hit Entertainment and Guinness Flight, joint owners of Sooty and Sweep, are selling up having given up hope of selling foreign rights to the glove puppets’ TV show. Thousands of bored children would not be surprised to hear that Guinness Flight had already slashed the equity value of the brand to £324,000 from £2 million. Why it’s still worth that baffles me. Still, it’s the end of an era. That kind of direct entertainment which doesn’t actually need a screen now seems like something out of the dark ages. Perhaps I should look for something in my portfolio that reflects that future.

  Wednesday 10th October: Taxing Admiration

  Hell’s Bell’s share club is off to a slow start. Harry is checking odds in the Racing Post, making careful notes in the margin.

  “You’ll never get rich that way,” K.P. Sharma says.

  “I’ll never get rich the other way either,” Harry retorts through a mouthful of cheese and pickle roll. “I’ve just got two words to say about the share club’s recommendations: ‘Northern’ and ‘Rock’.”

  Just then, our friend Russell walks in wearing cheap glossy tracksuit trousers that whistle while he walks. Ever the self-publicist, he’s wearing a TraughMatic Ltd T-shirt.

  “You all broke yet?” he chuckles.

  “Soon will be if you don’t buy a round,” Harry mutters.

  Russell gets himself a pint and sits down at the table to look at K.P.’s laptop. “What y’got ‘ere then?”

  “Losses,” says Martin Gale. “Apart from BHP Billiton, which is doing very nicely.”

  “I’m not surprised. Harry here can’t even add up.”

  “I certainly can,” Harry said. “In fact every year the Inland Revenue writes to me to tell me how good my tax return is.”

  “Really?” says Chantelle, clearly shocked.

  “Can’t believe it,” says K.P. Sharma.

  Harry smirked. “Every February they say: ‘Dear Mr Staines, we have to tell you that once again your tax return is outstanding’.”

  After the laughter has subsided, even Russell gives in and buys a round. However, when it arrives it turns out to be halves and not pints.

  Thursday 11th October: A Sharp Fall

  My mother phones up at 6am and says she’s poorly.

  I can hardly hear her voice. Alarmingly, it turns out she had a fall yesterday and didn’t tell me. “What happened, Mum?”

  “Well, I was in Boots and I got Maurice stuck in foot care. It’s a bit tight there, and I normally reverse into toiletries. This time there wasn’t room because of this fat woman on a chair waiting for a prescription. So the lady from pharmacy said I should do a U-turn in feminine hygiene. But I got my arm caught on the Durex display and when I turned it pulled me out the seat, and I fell on me hip. My first thought was: that’s me prolapse gone again. Anyway, it wasn’t. They sorted me out and got me home in an ambulance. But this morning I had a funny turn.”

  I was more than a bit concerned about this, and interrupted the medical minutiae to tell her I would go around to Isleworth and bring her to stay with us for a couple of days. After interminable delays on the M25 I arrived to find her looking very pale, sitting up in bed with reams of handwritten notes around her.

  “You’re wearing Geoffrey’s old glasses again, aren’t you?” I said gently. “Now what’s all this stuff then?”

  “I’m re-doing me will. I though I better had,” she said tearfully. “I’m not long for this world.”

  A fist tightened in my heart. I looked at the sheaf of paper, threaded with indecipherable spidery scrawl. “May I look?”

  She nodded. The first thing I saw was ‘Donkey Sanctuary.’ How much she was leaving it I couldn’t decipher.

  “Mum. Don’t you think we should get Mr Ridley to do it for you? This is very untidy and hard to understand.”

  I picked up another page and read just one clear sentence. ‘I leave my zebra hide ottoman and £500 to Maurice.’

  “You can’t leave a pouf to your mobility vehicle! Or cash, for that matter. It’s not even a cat! It’s entirely inanimate!”

  “He could do with a new seat cover. Zebra would look nice.”

  This is clearly more serious than I thought. Sound mind? Not a bit of it. I wonder where the original will is, and ask her. She points to the bedside cabinet, and there it is, in an envelope from Mr Ridley of Ridley, Gryp and Poultice. I open it with trembling hands and see a neat 15-page document, but also notice it has been snipped at. There are all sorts of neat little holes in it.

  “What on earth is this?” I ask, poking my finger through one of many holes.

  “I said I’d cut you out, didn’t I? Well I did.”

  Friday 12th October: Wilful Behaviour

  Can’t believe my mother cut me out of her will…with scissors! I showed t
his doily of a document to Eunice yesterday, who thought it the funniest thing she’d ever seen. Still, now she’s laughing on the other side of her face as Dot is here to recuperate from her fall. She’s only been here 24 hours and is driving us to distraction. First it was getting up at 3.30am to peel parsnips for dinner. Then it was looking under the bed at 4.15am for Uncle Harold’s terrapin (which was actually incinerated by an incendiary bomb in 1940, along with Harold’s priceless collection of Boer War cummerbunds, and yes, we reminded her, poor Harold himself). Finally, after a few hours kip I awoke at 7am to persistent prodding to see Dot standing over me wearing a gas mask and not a lot else. I screamed in terror (as anyone would). Even when I had regained my composure, her urgent mumbling remained incomprehensible. I pulled the mask off her head, leaving her hair in frightening vertical wisps.

  “Why hasn’t the siren gone off? A V2 just landed!”

  “I think that’ll just be the bin men, Dot,” Eunice said, blearily.

  “But Bernard, there was a huge bang!”

  “Yes,” I explained. “Daphne Hanson-Hart’s recycling bin. The bin men don’t like Daphne because of her year-long refusal to accept a bin. Now after emptying it, they like to throw it into her drive from the back of the lorry to make a point. That’s all.”