by Nick Louth
Naturally, can’t get an emergency appointment at my own dentist. So instead of reading up on a busy morning of results, I spend all morning sitting in A&E waiting for the hospital wallahs to give me a temporary filling. Cost me a fiver just to leave the Volvo in the hospital car park. That really is a stealth tax.
Monday 19th November: Kitty Catch
When I was at the MoD, each of us in the department used to chip in 50p a week each into a jar for biscuits to go with the tea and coffee. We called it a kitty, and it rarely let it build up to more than a tenner, especially after we caught Sandy Douglas in Procurement helping himself both to the jar and our stockpile of garibaldis. However, Vodafone’s Arun Sarin has a different idea of what constitutes loose change. He referred to a $13 billion stake in China Mobile as a ‘kitty’ which can be used to buy into a restructured Chinese telecoms market, presumably in much the same way we used to buy chocolate digestives. I’m not sure how much dosh would actually be required to make Mr Sarin use the phrase ‘a colossal wad’.
Tuesday 20th November: Slipped Disc
Doing my monthly back-up of the PC’s hard drive, when I realised that I had mislaid my disc. Searched fruitlessly under piles of old FTs and Chronic Investor magazines. I did find an old pair of reading glasses and a rather stale jaffa cake, but no luck with the disc. Still, I’m pretty certain that I didn’t post if off to the Audit Commission like some silly bugger at HM Revenue & Customs did. At least what I’ve lost is still within the building, contains no bank account details nor anything that could be used to further impoverish me. The nearest to embarrassment I’d face would be for the world to see the blasted moonscape of ruination that my investment portfolio has become.
Wednesday 21st November: Ukrainian Foresight
Investment club at the Ring o’Bells seems to be increasingly blighted by Russell Traugh who, when not bragging about spending his wife’s disability benefits, is boasting about how much money he made in shares. So far today we’ve heard about the £12,562.75 he made in cattle breeder Genus, which he bought at the depths of the foot and mouth outbreak in 2001, the £16,321.16 he made from ASOS, the online clothing retailer that allows chavs to pretend they’re celebrities, and the £914.29 he made from a £65 investment in plant hire firm Ashtead when it was almost bankrupt.
As Russell rustles to the bar in his shell suit, Harry turns to the rest of us in exasperation. “If he’s so rich, why is he driving a 12-year-old Ford Transit?”
“And why the baler twine shoe laces?” Martin asks.
“And why can’t he afford a bath?” says Chantelle, who isn’t the first to notice Russell’s earthy ‘aroma’.
“We’ll ask for a share tip. That’ll test him,” says K.P. Sharma. Far from being fazed by this, Russell has one right to hand.
“Alright,” he says. “Here’s one that is a play on rising food prices, low-cost East European land, and biofuels. It lists on AIM tomorrow, so if you want to buy into it you can. It’s called Landkom, and it’s going to be big.”
We wait for more, and then he tells us where it’s based. Ukraine. Harry and Martin burst out laughing, but Russell waits until they’ve calmed down.
“You’ll be laughing on the other side of y’face,” says Russell. “This firms going to rent 300,000 hectares of land, that’s half the size of Lincolnshire and at a fraction of the cost, and will use commercial Australian-style techniques to vastly increase yields. It’s an idea whose time has come, mark my words.”
Chapter Five: Nasdaq The Dog
Friday 23rd November: QinetiQ Rip-Off
Absolutely incandescent. Seems that senior officials at the MoD made a 20,000% profit on their stake in QinetiQ during the sell-off. What irony that those upstairs from my old department, who were by all accounts incapable of getting anything organised on time or on budget, should turn out to be investment wizards when it comes to feathering their own nests. Seeing as the QinetiQ shares I bought are down 20%, I’ve helped subsidise this fiasco too. It’s clear they’ve sold me and many thousands of other innocent investors a pup. Bugger breakfast, I’m going for a walk.
“Bernard, stop banging around and slamming doors,” Eunice says. “What on earth is the matter? You’ve not been careless eating the wholemeal toast again, have you? Fillings are expensive you know, so chew more carefully.”
My reply is unprintable. In fact I do have a good mind to go up to the Healthy Grains and Pulses Co-operative, and give Mrs Trilobite, or whatever the owner’s name is, a piece of my mind.
Elevenses: While out walking I get an irresistible desire for a Crunchie. Packed with sugar, full of chocolate, but it’s just what I fancy. Let’s face it, it can’t be any worse for the gnashers than so-called healthy bread.
Saturday 24th November: Nasdaq The Dog
Toothache. Finally did get that fragment of Crunchie out, but the temporary filling came with it. Daren’t tell Eunice what it was I was eating. She is in any case distracted by the arrival of Jemima and Toby for lunch, with their excitable black labrador puppy.
“Have you decided what to call him yet?” I ask.
“Nasdaq,” says Jem. “It was Toby’s idea. Because he’s all over the place all the time.”
It’s hard to disagree with that. Like his namesake U.S. stock market index, Nasdaq is up and down like a yo-yo, with a tail that never stops wagging and a tongue longer than Eunice’s credit card bill. Meanwhile Jem and Toby are still in soppy love mode, giggling, tickling and whispering like a couple of 14-year- olds. Toby is wearing a suit and tie (the latter decorated with hearts) but has, thank God, dispensed with the eyeliner and diamante earring since rediscovering heterosexuality.
After they’ve gone Eunice opens a second bottle of chardonnay and tells me that she’s happy they’re back together.
“Well, we’ll see,” I respond. “He’s still more AC/DC than the National Grid. I really don’t care, so long as he learns to look after money sensibly. There’s £150,000 of Dot’s money disappeared into that relationship somewhere, presumably never to re-emerge.”
“That really is all you think about, isn’t it? Money, money, money.” Eunice drains her glass and pours another one.
“Look. You can depend on money. You can’t depend on Toby. Do you hear what she calls him? Fluffy, for God’s sake. He’s deputy head of CDO trading, with billions of the bank’s money at stake in one of the most critical times in the credit markets, and he’s called Fluffy, and can’t remember to pay his own mortgage.”
“Well, you used to call me sweetie-pie.”
“Nonsense,” I say, turning to the City pages of the Telegraph. Eunice is already halfway down the new glass of wine.
“You did too! Sweetie-pie or Tussletops,” she giggles.
“Glugzilla might have been more apposite,” I say, nodding at the wine bottle.
I had thought just eating organic bread rolls painful enough. But by God, the impact is agony when thrown by an angry spouse.
Monday 26th November: Roll And Filling
Dental appointment for my broken molar finally arrived. Cow of a receptionist reminded me in imperious tones that I’d not been for 2½ years despite reminders. It wasn’t neglect that broke my tooth, stupid woman. It was healthy eating. If I’d been allowed to stick to good old white Rank Hovis McDougall my gnashers wouldn’t be in this state.
Seems that old Lomax has retired. They said I’d be seeing some Dr Unpronounceable. Foreigner, obviously. Waiting room’s been refurbished. Nice sofas, today’s papers and a telly burbling away in the corner. Must have cost a bob or two.
Anyway, get called in, bibbed up. Dr Mroczka (pronounced Muroshka) is dark haired and attractive, with lovely expressive eyes and charmingly halting English. I have to say I’m impressed. No pliers and knockout gas anymore, but videos on oral hygiene, a full explanation of what’s wrong and how to fix it. Old Lomax only used to talk about cricket and socialism. The latter when I had my mouth open and couldn’t reply.
Then I get the
bill. No NHS work since Lomax went. This is going to be private. Four appointments, £630, she says. If my jaw hadn’t already been wedged open, it would have fallen off. As I gargle my protest, I recall that there are a few listed dental shares. If there’s this much money in it, I should take a look.
Tuesday 18th December: Cash Extraction
Finished my final dental appointment today, numb of mouth and empty of wallet. Two extractions and three fillings. That’s most of a year’s dividends on the portfolio, all gone in one chomp of granary toast. It would have been one extraction, except the charmingly attractive but overly-incentivised Dr Mroczka spotted another area of decay. While my mouth was prised open and the good dentist’s sharp instrument poised to strike, I was asked to gargle my assent to another £175 on top of the £630 already siphoned out of my account. Unfortunately, my objections were delivered with all the eloquence of Bill and Ben the flowerpot men, though with a great deal more saliva.
“Your mouth’s a big trouble, yes?” Dr Mroczka said, wiping her face. “You must look after. Or all fall out.”
“May I have the extracted teeth?” I asked.
“Why do you want?”
“I’m going to put them under my pillow for the blasted tooth fairy. I used to get a shiny sixpence when I was a child, I’m just hoping that she will now oblige me with £805 now I really need it.”
Wednesday 19th December: Smoking IS Good For You
Last meeting before Christmas at the Ring o’Bells, and the mood is glum. With a tender mouth, I sensibly turn down the offer of Martin Gale’s pork scratchings, though I do weaken at the prospect of a slice of Chantelle’s chicken and ham pie. This turns out to be a serious error, because the pastry is so hard it could have been constructed by Harland & Wolff.
“Who made any money this year?” Harry asks.
“I’m down 2%,” says K.P. Sharma. “Bradford & Bingley was my biggest mistake. It could have been worse.”
“Certainly would have been if we hadn’t managed to get the club out of Northern Rock,” Harry says.
I admit to my 11% fall, which has been made worse by a continuing and unjustified slide in Domino’s Pizza.
Martin, who held iSoft shares all the way down from 390p to 58p confesses to losing about a third of his portfolio. However, he stresses that counting his ‘alternative investments’, which includes his Bulgarian wine rebottling venture and the looting of a BMW motorcycle from a shipwreck, he’s merely lost 28%.
“I’m up 10%,” grins Chantelle. “I bought Xstrata.”
“What about you, Mike?” asks Martin.
Mike Delaney, holding an unlit cigar in his mouth, smiles and points a finger upwards. “45%,” he whispers.
“What! You kept that quiet,” Martin replies.
“I had Gallaher, which was taken over by Japan Tobacco in the April, plus BAT and National Grid. I never did a trade all year.”
“Looks like fags are good for you,” Martin sighed.
Monday 24th December: Christmas Shopping
All I seem to read about is the house price crash, the bank lending crisis and the personal debt catastrophe. Nobody, however, seems to have told the Great British consumer. Bluewater shopping centre is more crowded than an Eastenders plot. Even W.H. Smith has a queue, for goodness sake. If Kate Swann can hold off the supermarket challenge there, then perhaps someone can do it for Woolworth’s too.
Eunice has refused to give me a Christmas list this year, asking me to use my ‘initiative’. However, initiative is carefully fenced in. She doesn’t want books, claiming they are unromantic, I daren’t buy her lingerie after the allergic reaction to the Moroccan pop socks five years ago which made her feet swell up to the size of moon boots. She has outlawed cardigans and scarves because of the warehouse-full of unused ones in the spare room. I’m damned if I’ll go anywhere near Ann Summers, and I can’t imagine there is anything to do with basket-weaving she hasn’t already got. That leaves jewellery or perfume. I take a deep breath and lurch into the House of Fraser. At the perfume counter is a six-foot toothpick dipped in face powder which I must presume to be a female member of staff.
“I’d like to get my wife some perfume,” I say with as much insouciance as I can muster.
“Atomiser?”
“After my shopping experience today I’d certainly be tempted,” I respond. “If House of Fraser has the plutonium,”
“No, atomiser or spray? Perfume or eau de toilette?”
“Haven’t the foggiest. Nothing too smelly, though.”
“What about this?” the stick insect says, spraying a blast of some noxious substance onto a sample card. This brings on a terrible coughing fit, during which a chair is procured for me until my lungs recover and my eyes stop streaming.
“Good grief what was that?” I wheeze, tears streaming down my face. “Ypres Saint Laurent?”
“No, it’s Curious, by Britney Spears. It’s a top-seller. You’re probably just allergic.”
Allergic? To Christmas shopping, certainly.
Chapter Six: Crème De La Crème
Tuesday 25th December: Christmas Mourning
Had a lovely dream that I outperformed the FTSE 100 by 70%, by investing in funeral firms. However, while drowning in cash, kept feeling a great and immovable weight as if my own coffin lid was closing on top of me. Awoke to find it was Eunice, all varicose veins and seasonal suet, girding up for a festive hippopotamus manoeuvre. I now know how Alliance & Leicester feels: a tad short on liquidity, but resigned to the credit crunch.
Staggered up an hour later for the full family fiasco. The fridge, garage and freezer in the shed were each packed to overflowing with food after four Waitrose trips in the last week. Still, you can never have enough, as I was to discover. I walked into the kitchen to find my good wife with her forearm inserted into a bald, trussed and understandably distraught ostrich.
“Bernard, I don’t think we’ve got enough whipping cream. Would you nip out to the Spar and get some?”
“But I’m sure we have cream.” I gingerly opened the fridge, and dismantled a vertical wall of produce to uncover two pints of double cream, a half pint of half-fat pouring cream, a tub of extra-thick Cornish, a pot of crème fraiche, two cartons of long-life single cream and a carton of organic plain yoghurt. “Look at all this…”
“Bernard, look, I’m busy enough as you can see….”
At this point Digby burst into the kitchen shooting us with his MegaBattleStarDeathWand, which each time the trigger was pressed squawked: “You’re dead meat, sucker.” Oddly, he failed to shoot the turkey, which would at least have rendered its electronic proclamations accurate.
“We’ll manage,” I continued. “Please, give poor supermarkets this one special day to recover. I mean, what you do to them isn’t shopping, it’s corporate stalking.”
At the Spar shop, one spotty youth wearing a pair of illuminated antlers is serving a large and sullen queue at Glasgow union convenor work-to-rule pace. This gives me time to survey the UK seasonal economy, and wonder at the resilience of the British consumer. One woman has a trolley full of Huggies nappies, kitchen wipes and Panadol. Another has a large bottle of cooking sherry and a toilet brush. The man in front has the bachelor Christmas special: a tin of frankfurters, a pot noodle, four tins of John Smiths bitter and the Readers’ Wives Christmas Edition of Men Only. How depressing.
Elevenses: A plain chocolate Bounty consumed while in the queue. I would have had time to finish a family pack, had I known.
Christmas Afternoon: Underwhelmed, Overground
Eunice was less than overwhelmed by my gifts: Natralox organic anti-wrinkle cream, three Budleigh Salterton tea towels, a new mat to go around the base of the loo, and a Jeffrey Archer omnibus.
“Bernard, you know I don’t like Jeffrey Archer. I’ve never been to Budleigh Salterton, and do I need to be reminded I have the odd smile line?”
Grimace gorges, more like. Her gifts to me were equally disappointing. A set of points for
the railway layout, new slippers and a computer programme that calculates your damn cholesterol. Oh, yes. A box of Maltesers too.
“Only one at a time, and only after meals, Bernard,” she said.
Brian and Janet bought me John Train’s biography of Warren Buffett, The Midas Touch, which looks excellent.
Digby had been more imaginative, thoughtfully vandalising one of my existing double-O passenger footbridges for a more post-Beeching feel.
“Look Grandad. I painted Man U and Spurs on the side, and some naughty ‘F’ words. And glued some tiny bits of broken glass on the stairs, just behind the hoodies, see there? They’ve just happy-slapped that commuter for his phone.”
“Ah yes. Very realistic, very urban. What are these pink and orange splotches supposed to be?”
“That’s puke.”
Well, I can’t complain that my railway does not fully capture the British travelling experience, I suppose.
