by Nick Louth
“Volvo’s can’t cope with sweet corn, Mum. It has to be petrol. You know, from the filling station.” Oh God, she’s really gone doo-lally this time.
“Bernard, they run their cars on sweetcorn in America. It said so on the BBC,” she said, as if that removed all possibility of debate. “All the farmers are growing it for fuel. It’s all the rage.”
“Mum, they use corn to make ethanol which is a kind of petrol additive. You can’t just put it straight in, not like this.”
“So it’s cornflour then? Like gravy, except made with petrol?”
“Well, sort of.” Giving up on my attempt to explain, I turn to the subject of investment. Dot has, as I realised in last week’s shopping expedition, taken in the idea of a world food shortage. Her hoarding of flour and rice shows that this is a subject to which she is receptive. So I suggest that she should take £50,000 of her funds and instead set up a joint investment account with me which we can use to beat inflation by investing in commodities.
“But where would we store them, Bernard? The shed’s almost full, and the cellar’s loaded with old rubbish.”
“No, Mum. What we’ll do is to invest in funds which have positions in important food commodities. They will store them, but our shares will show what we own.”
“I hope they’ll be careful. Geoffrey bought a case of corned beef in the war from a spiv, but all the tins were bashed in. And dried egg, you’ve got to watch out for damp.”
“I’ll make sure they understand,” I cooed, barely able to suppress my excitement that I’m pushing at an open door. “Now all you have to do is get Mary Asterby at the WI to help you sell...”
“I’m not going to sell my shares,” Dot says. “Mary would be upset. She’s been helping me, and she doesn’t like you.”
The feeling is mutual. I could strangle the interfering old bat for frustrating me when I’m so close. I rest my head in my hands while Dot heads off to the kitchen. There’s some clattering, so I go in to see she has dragged out an ancient and dusty Bovril box from under the sink. Digging underneath a box of candles, a pair of blackout curtains and rolls of masking tape, she grabs an old Fox’s biscuit tin labelled ‘nuts and bolts’. I help her lift it out. It was very heavy, and must be crammed full of metallic bits and bobs.
“What’s in here, Mum?”
“Oh, it’s just a few old coins, pfennigs, drachmas and pesetas that Geoffrey accumulated. I brought it up from the cellar last week. I thought we could put the money into your ration fund.”
“Well, most of it won’t be legal tender. We’d be lucky to reach 50p, yet alone fifty grand.” I prised the lid off. There were safety pins, tiepins, cuff links, plenty of ancient small change, including threepenny bits and even a ten bob note. However, most of the space was taken up by a cardboard box tied up with ribbon. Inside that were about 100 coins, each wrapped in tissue paper. I unwrapped one and gasped. It was golden, emblazoned with a maple leaf design on one side and the head of Queen Elizabeth on the other. Most important of all, it said ‘fine gold one oz’. I unwrapped each in turn. I was speechless.
“That’s old Canadian money isn’t it?” Dot said. “Looks like chocolate money for the Christmas tree. Is it worth anything?”
“It certainly is! If they each contain an ounce of gold that’s nearly $100,000 worth. Did you know about these?”
“Well, I know Geoffrey bought some gold around the time of the oil crisis, but I didn’t know what he did with it. He complained that no sooner had he bought it, then it halved in value.”
“Well, it’s a perfect start for our commodity ‘ration fund’, that’s for certain.”
Monday 31st March: Hornby Warning
Supplier delays in Asia and a weakening of demand in the UK have hit my Hornby shares, knocking them well below 200p. Still, I’m so busy getting the application forms together for a joint stockbroking account with my mother that I could hardly care less. In the Hornby drawer there is a box of 100 gold coins, current sterling value around £47,000. Yippee!
Chapter Thirteen: Coining It!
Tuesday 1st April: April Fool’s Gold
Today is my 65th birthday, and I’m finally rich. My deranged mother, having blocked my inheritance for years, has allowed me to take away 100 Canadian Maple Leaf gold coins that we discovered in a tin of otherwise worthless foreign coins. The proceeds will be invested, in line with her wishes, in commodities. She has in mind tins of Spam, Bovril, dried egg, Persil flakes and Be-Ro flour. I’m thinking palm oil futures, gold mining shares and Russell’s Ukrainian stock pick, Landkom. I’m lugging this lot into town today to get them authenticated, and I’m so deliriously happy about it that at 7am, after letting in and feeding the cat, I return to bed and whispered to my still-dozing spouse that I was available, immediately and without pre-condition, for birthday hippopotamus manoeuvres. Eunice lifted her eye mask, looked suspiciously at the clock and sat up in bed to remove her curlers.
“Is there something in the tea, Bernard?” she asked.
“No, I’m just happy. The sun is shining, the birds are singing and the world is a marvellous place.”
“Come on, whose pre-tax profits have come in well above expectations?”
“No idea. I’ve not even been on the PC yet.”
“Has Gordon Brown resigned?”
“Not yet, I fear.”
“I bet you’ve borrowed some of those funny blue tablets from Harry Staines, you naughty boy!” She snatched at my bathrobe and pulled the flaps apart. Her face fell. “Hmm. Nothing here that Vodafone would want to mount a transmitter on.”
“Ah, but all third generation equipment,” I responded.
Still, after a shorter than usual delay the matrimonial act was briskly consummated. Casualties were light: a twinge in my lower back and a jolt of sciatica in Eunice’s left hip. As so often these days, the tea was still warm by the end.
Elevenses: Arrived at the bullion dealers at little after 10am. Greeted and shown into a room where a woman confirmed what I already suspected from my Internet searches, that these were original Royal Canadian Mint solid gold coins. The buy price was £457, that’s lower than the selling price of £479 quoted on the website, but never mind. This is a gift horse whose dental condition I have no intention of inspecting. Celebrated with a Thornton’s dark chocolate Easter egg, half price, which I devoured in its entirety on the train journey home, as a gaggle of jealous schoolboys looked on.
Monday 7th April: Vengeance On Rentokil
With thousands now cleared into the bank, I’ve decided to go on a shopping spree. First stop, a short-spread bet on 1000 Rentokil shares at 95p. Eunice’s blasted book, which I ordered for her birthday in January, still hasn’t arrived. I presume that City Link has lost it or sent it back to the publisher. After getting nowhere with customer service (surely the most oxymoronic of corporate terms), it seems the best way of getting even is to devalue the parent company’s shares. This is the first use of my spread-betting account since the disastrous Marks & Spencer short-selling fiasco, but there must surely be some other over-priced candidates where hope exceeds reality. It’s just a question of finding them. I am interrupted in my musings as Eunice comes in holding a copy of The Independent.
“Hamsters doth cringe,” she says, enigmatically.
“I’m not surprised, if that’s the publication shredded on the floor of their cage,” I respond.
“Five and seven. Something, something, Q, something, something,” she says, squinting at the paper.
“Is this one of the paper’s characteristically offbeat lead stories, or are you trying to solve some puzzle or other?”
“Cryptic crossword, Bernard. Irmgard’s done most of the clues, and lent it to me to finish.”
“Look, you know I can’t do cryptic puzzles,” I say, turning back to the PC screen.
“What do you mean? Your entire life has been one long cryptic puzzle, devoid of meaningful clues for those of us around you.” And with this general insult hanging
in the air, she stalks out.
Tuesday 8th April: Spending Spree
Have turned my eyes completely square doing a top-down analysis of commodities. Have decided that oil is the most reliably in short supply, so buy 1000 shares in BP at 535p and 1000 in BG Group at 1280p. For metals, I choose 500 BHP Billiton, which is racing ahead at £16.66. I also decide that leading food companies must be able to force price increases through, so bought 1000 Unilever shares at £17.10. That will allow me to tell Dot that we’ve cornered the market in Marmite, Bovril and Persil ready for the return to world war two rationing she has long predicted.
Wednesday 9th April: Members Only
Arrive at share club full of high spirits after investing my mother’s commodity cash, and offer to fund a round for all members. However, the crackle of cheap trousers moving fast reveals that first at the bar is none other than Russell Traugh. The Ring o’Bells’ own resident Yorkshireman is cheekily demanding a treble Courvoisier. However, Chantelle is serving and she’s no fool.
“That’s £6.90 please, Russell,” she says brightly.
“Cobblers! Bernie’s buying this round. I heard him say so.”
“Russell: Club-Members-Only,” she said, enunciating each word through her black-lined lips. “You’ve never joined.”
“C’mon, pet, I’m as good as in. Look at all the share tips and free advice I’ve offered you lot,” Russell said.
“Unwanted advice, insultingly dispensed,” noted Martin.
“You bunch of wazzocks. I should be treated as an honorary member, for God’s sake,” Russell whined.
“C’mon. £6.90, quick,” Chantelle said. “People are waiting.”
“Well, I’ll have a lime and soda instead then,” he grumbled, fishing out a grubby 20p piece from his pocket.
Chantelle put the brandy glass behind the bar, and poured the lime and soda. “So, that’s £7.90 altogether.”
“But I’m not having the brandy now!” Russell squeaked.
“I’ve already poured it. It won’t go back in the optic, will it? Cough up now, or you’re barred!”
“And a bluddy pound for a lime and soda, what a rip-off,” Russell groaned. We all watched as he fished in a back pocket, and pulled out the most mangy banknote we had ever seen.
“Sorry. Don’t take Scottish,” Chantelle said. “House rules.”
“It’s legal tender, you gothic horror story!”
Chantelle responded by taking a good swig from the brandy. “Cheers, Russ. Another insult, and I’ll finish it.”
Grumbling continuously, Russell pulled out an ancient wallet, held together with packing tape, and connected by a long chain to his Traughmatic Abrasives jacket. None of us had ever seen it before, and indeed were not likely to see it again. He took his one and a half drinks and stalked off into the front bar.
K.P. Sharma meanwhile is urging us to look at banks. “They’re discounting every piece of bad news,” he says. “Look at Royal Bank of Scotland. £3.70p each, yielding 8.9%! Come on Bernard, now that you’ve got your winnings, how about contributing a bit more into the club? It’d be very contrarian.”
Harry says: “K.P. can I just say two words?”
“I know, Northern Rock,” sighs K.P. “But there has to come a bottom, and you can’t recognise it until you’re past. All you have to go on are fundamentals. There really is an awful lot of damage already in the price.”
I tell them that I’d still prefer a candidate to go ‘short’ on. I mention my foray into Rentokil, and ask for other candidates.
“What about Punch Taverns?” says Mike Delaney. “This place has been quieter than a grave since the New Year. Maybe their other pubs are down too.”
“Yeah,” says Chantelle. “I know what the problem is. Too many Russells, not enough Bernards.”
Saturday 19th April: Antichrist Refuge
We’re off to see Brian and Janet for the day. Eunice nagged me throughout the entire journey about my ‘lack of appreciation’.
“You haven’t worn that lovely cravat that I bought you for your birthday, not once in two and a half weeks.”
“Well, I’d just feel like a refugee from The Amorous Prawn expected to say ‘Rath-er’ every two seconds. Besides, crimson’s not really my colour.”
“Bernard, you have no idea. Your wardrobe is drabber than a Volgograd council estate. A splash of colour would do you good.”
She joined sartorially critical forces with Janet as soon as we arrived, and while Brian was on vegetable peeling duty I took refuge with the Antichrist in his bedroom. With the PC now removed, as a just penalty for his damage to Perfect Peter’s bank accounts, Digby has renewed an interest in tabletop war gaming. However, looking more closely at his figurines it seems they are a mixture of science fiction and Dungeons & Dragons, using mythical beasts armed with flamethrowers and first world war tanks.
“It’s called Warhammer 4000,” he says. “You could take me down to Games Workshop and I could show you how to play, if you like. I could let you have some of my Smarties too, Grandad.”
The mendacious mite certainly knows my weak points. No doubt I’ll be expected to buy him something from Games Workshop too, but it certainly beats discussing my wardrobe with my own dragon, so I’m game. Besides, it’ll give me an insight into this odd retail phenomenon which has in the past proved quite profitable for investors in the company.
Chapter Fourteen: Monsters From Hell
Sunday 20th April: A Kick In The Warlocks
Took my grandson to Games Workshop for a war gaming day. Saw an astonishing collection of devils, imps and goblins, and that was just the children. The good-natured staff, treated as free child-minders, seemed happy to lead the tabletop mayhem in which intricately painted miniatures did battle amid convincing scenery. Digby’s army, largely made up of evil rat-men known as skaven, was outnumbered by the ogres and beastmen of a skinny bespectacled ten-year-old called Trevor. Still, the Antichrist did well until he was ambushed by dark elves, whereupon his warlocks took an almighty bashing. Digby yelled repeatedly in frustration while tiny Trevor tutted at him.
“You should grow up,” he said, stroking his chief troll. “Learn to lose gracefully.”
Digby’s reddening ears alerted me to impending violence and I was able to scoop him away before he swept everything from the table. Having delivered the Antichrist home, I looked up Games Workshop shares and saw they have been recovering reasonably well from weakness earlier in the year when the dividend was cut. Though the products look as enticing as ever, it isn’t as compelling a cost-cutting story as others. Chronic Investor says ‘High enough’ which is hard to argue with.
Monday 21st April: Keeping Abreast Of Rivals
Eunice is spring-cleaning the den. That means mayhem for all my papers, and probably a dysfunctional PC afterwards too, after the vigorous scrubbing she is giving screen and keyboard. I’m about to visit the downstairs loo, but discover that she’s stacked two boxes of annual reports and Prescott, the giant stuffed pig, on the floor.
Hearing my protestations, Eunice comes in to see me trying to manhandle Prescott out of the door.
“Bernard, please leave Prescott there. He’s got bulimia and he needs the loo more than you do.”
Eventually I return to my desk and after rebooting the PC discover two profit warnings. One, I’m delighted to say, is Rentokil, the stock on which I have had a short position since 7 April. Yet, on checking the share price chart, would you believe it, the shares rose from 90p at the open to 97p? How can a dismal company like this warn of a ‘significant full year loss’ instead of a break-even and be rewarded with a higher price? I absolutely do not understand the stock market sometimes, I really don’t.
I take some comfort from the other profit warning though.
This is Sport Media Group, the firm that Harry Staines last year boasted was growing profits by 250% a year and had a P/E ratio of eight. But the shares, down 11½p to 30p today, and are a long way from the 76p that Harry bought
his at, and the culprit seems to be too much competition in the world of adult content. Hmm, I wonder. Just as I’m clicking on the paper’s website, the doorbell goes.
“Would you get that, dear? I’m tied up at the moment,” I say, as a graphic image of a young woman in stockings fills the screen.
The only reply is the suck and roar of the vacuum cleaner upstairs. Finally I trudge out to the front door to see a card being pushed through the letterbox, and the familiar but elusive yellow and green of a City Link van sitting outside. Exploding into action, I fling open the door and tear after the driver in a blur of paisley slippers. He stops just before getting into the van, and I finally take delivery of Eunice’s book, A Gentlewife’s Guide To Pleasing Her Spouse, by Lady Lucinder Mockett, which I had ordered for Valentine’s Day.
Elevenses: Two raspberry and cream tarts from the independent baker in town, in commiseration of the fact that I got the right share to short, but the market got it wrong.
Tuesday 22nd April: Rights And Wrongs
Royal Bank of Scotland has launched the rumoured £12 billion rights issue that just a few months ago we were told wasn’t ever going to happen. I don’t really know what Tier 1 capital is, but I’m just glad that we didn’t listen to K.P. Sharma at the share club. If we’d bought the shares as he recommended then we’d not only have lost a wodge of cash in the falling price, but would have needed to stump up extra lolly for the rights just to retain our share of the bank’s profit. It’s all very well talking about 11-for-18 at 200p, but what does it actually mean to shareholders, and how can we work out whether it’s value for money? I would normally ask Perfect Peter Edgington this kind of question, but after the Antichrist’s devastation of his PC, I suspect that I’ll be persona non grata for a long time to come. Perhaps K.P. himself will be able to walk us through the calculations, because you don’t see it in any of the papers.
