Funny Money: The (Investment) Diary of Bernard Jones (Bernard Jones Diaries)

by Louth Nick

  “What about books?” I asked, hoping not to have to shell out more than £25.

  “Well, of course we do encourage him to read. But it isn’t easy to get his interest.”

  “What about Harry Potter? Everyone likes Harry Potter,” I said, particularly thinking of K.P. Sharma at the share club who bought 1,000 shares in publisher Bloomsbury long before J. K. Rowling had even discovered Jobseekers Allowance.

  “Yes, he’s been through most of them,” Janet responded. “They just don’t tend to last. Harry Potter and Prisoner of Azkaban got in the spin dryer and had its cover torn off, Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone Digby traded for a novelty cigarette lighter and a packet of condoms, while Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince was left behind in the gents at Scratchwood services at Easter during one of Digby’s vomiting attacks.”

  “A packet of condoms?!”

  “Oh, it’s not like that. He’s no interest in girls yet, thank God. No, the kids use them for water bombs, mainly. They also put yoghurt in them, and leave them on….”

  “Alright, let’s forget books. What about Lego?”

  “Ooh no, he’s going to be eight. It really isn’t the same anymore. His generation think Lego is for children, he’ll want something they regard as cool.”

  Giving up, I told Janet that I had few ideas of my own. I hope Digby likes surprises.

  Chapter Seventeen: Riding the Correction

  Monday 15th May: Plunging markets

  Good God, the market’s in freefall! Over 100 points down on the FTSE. I could strangle Peter Edgington for being such a know-all. I really don’t understand this nonsense about inflation worries. Why now? Inflation is about two per cent. That’s nothing! In 1975, I recall it was 24 per cent. Now that was an inflation worry. Seems they don’t even make economic crises like they used to. Dither over my portfolio, already down £3,400 since Thursday. Perhaps I should sell something. But what if it recovers?

  Elevenses: Big slice of treacle tart.

  Close of play: Market has halved its losses. Notice Hornby’s keeping up the momentum after those fantastic results last month. I do wish I’d bought more. Actually, even Compass is doing okay down 2p. The advantage of dogs – they can only be beaten down so far.

  Tuesday 16th May: Better late than never

  Compass interim results. With the restatements and exclusions it’s hard to make head or tail of them, but at least the shares picked up to around 240p. Interrupted at 8.45am by builders arriving en masse, with digger. This is the Medway team apparently, led by that annoying gnome with a clipboard. He soon disappears and the rest set to work on the foundations for the damn conservatory. Digger is present for all of two minutes before reversing over Eunice’s geraniums. Skip is moved into back garden, this time it’s friendly fire on her delphiniums. I intervene before they get the clematis. “Sorry mate, thought they wuz weeds.” Moronic peasants!

  Trying to concentrate on the market, which is yo-yoing horribly. Could already be too late to sell, even Spirent which is down 20 per cent from its recent peak of nearly 50p.

  Elevenses: Hornby drawer key seems to have disappeared from the hook above my PC in the den. This is annoying. I’ve got an unopened packet of six fondant fancies in there, picked up from the Kwik Save discount bin last week.

  Close of play: Market seems to have steadied at 5850. Thank God that’s over! Glad I didn’t bother to sell. Should all be upward from here.

  Wednesday 17th May: Humbug and humous

  Equitable Life AGM today, but I can’t bear to go just to hear some depressing humbug. Would be worse than remaining here, where builders’ noise is driving me mad.

  Elevenses: Still can’t find the key. Nothing edible in entire house. In fridge found a tub of something which looked like tile grout, labelled ‘humous’. Olives, pitta breads, Waitrose falafel. Not a fan of such nosh, but Eunice is making a big effort because Irmgard and her so-called ‘partner’ Nils, a media training consultant, are coming for dinner tonight. Why can’t they just admit to being common law husband and wife? That’s what the local paper still calls them in its reports from the magistrate’s court: ‘Potter admitted he hit his common law wife, but claimed he was provoked after she claimed she was bored with hearing about Wayne Rooney’s injured metatarsal.’

  Close of play: Market’s plunged again! Down another £4,370 after Wall Street slide. A week ago we were at 6,100 on the FTSE, now we’re back at 5,650. What timing that Alan Greenspan had leaving when he did. Looks like the new Fed chap Bernanke’s getting it in the neck already.

  Dinner party: Oh what JOY. Global warming, recycling and animal liberation. Irmgard has an earnest view on anything, and as much sense of humour as a Saudi executioner. She berated Eunice for buying Chilean grapes, which are flown here, but earlier had boasted that her disgusting Fairtrade guanaco fluff poncho was made by Peruvian villagers. So how did it get to the UK then? Perhaps it crawled.

  Eunice flirted endlessly with Nils, who with his tight black rollneck and blond hair looked to me like Dr No’s bodyguard. Afterwards Eunice claimed he was ‘dishy’, and went on endlessly (while I did the washing up) about his ice-blue eyes. I did concur that he, or indeed any sighted male, would be a catch for the spaniel-faced harridan, but got flicked with a tea towel for my trouble.

  Midnight postscript: After bedtime harangue have finally agreed to meet this damn life coach Josh Fenderbrun. Anything for a bit of peace!

  Friday 19th May: In for a pounding

  I woke up with a cracking headache, probably brought on by last night’s meal with Mike Delaney at the Koh-I-Noor, where I mixed Kingfisher lager, prawn dhansak and a double Drambuie. The first two would surely have been fine, but there is some part of the human brain, which goaded by alcohol, always oversteps the mark: “How about a double jeroboam of monkey brain cordial, Sir?”

  “Oh, yes go on, why not?” is what we reply. In for a penny, in for a cerebral pounding. Ibuprofen cannot shift this anvil of hate riding in my temple. Today is the eighth birthday of my grandson, Digby. Not wholly coincidentally, it is also the birthday of Pol Pot. As I hobble into the den to look at shares, I have a sense of foreboding. The dark forces of the universe are clearly in astrological alliance, and I can even feel the black hole of wickedness pull on my portfolio where value is seeping out at an alarming rate. Once shares disappear over the event horizon they are lost forever. If astronomers ever decide that black holes exist, I shall propose they name the first three Jarvis, Railtrack and Equitable Life.

  Elevenses: A cup-a-soup, lovingly prepared by that Escoffier of convenience, Eunice, who assured me it would help settle my stomach. Stuff looked and tasted vile enough, then I made the cardinal error of looking at the packet: glucose syrup, hydrogenated vegetable oil, ammonia caramel, beta carotene and dipotassium phosphate, E471, E621, E635. I ran to the loo and was sick with ease.

  Saturday 20th May: Key reversal

  Though Digby doesn’t play with Lego, we still thought a trip to Legoland would make a nice outing with all of its marvellous scale models. Why don’t I ever learn? Brian and Janet drove the Antichrist over to us by 9.30am, and together with a relentlessly miserable Jemima we packed into the Volvo. Having set out at 11.40am in brilliant sunshine only an hour and forty minutes later than planned, we hit the M25 and solid traffic from junction six. Nothing moved for an hour, but the overhead signs taunted us by continually flashing 60mph. ‘Ha-ha-ha. Here’s a speed you can’t do’. It could hardly be more irritating if they had electronic mooning.

  So what was the cause? The traffic news on the radio told us about road works anti-clockwise at junction 18, a broken down car in the Dartford Tunnel and a lorry which had shed its load of toilet seats at Apex Corner on the North Circular. About what was delaying us, an instant overheated refugee camp of thousands without food, water or information, there was not a word. Only one thing could make the experience worse:

  “Mum, I need to go to the toilet.”

  “Oh, Digby
, you choose your moments,” said Janet.

  “Which is it, Digby?” Brian whispered.

  “What?”

  “It is number ones or number twos?” he hissed. We all groaned when we heard the reply.

  “Digby, we’re in the fast lane. You can’t just nip out. I’m sorry but you’ll just have to wait,” I said.

  “But I have been waiting!” he wailed. “For a whole hour! And I need to go now.”

  “Alright,” said Brian. “I’ll go with him. There’s some bushes on top of the embankment. We’re not going anywhere for a while are we?” Brian let Digby out, ferreted around in the boot for whatever health and safety equipment he needed, and they threaded their way past a Tesco lorry and a BOC gas bottle truck across to the hard shoulder and up into the bushes.

  After five minutes they still hadn’t returned. Looking far ahead, I could see vehicle brake lights going off.

  “Oh God, they’re moving,” I said.

  The wave of movement advanced towards us.

  “Come on, Digby, come on,” wailed Janet, but there was still no sign of them.

  “I’ll have to move, I’m afraid,” I said.

  “Bernard, you will not abandon my son and grandson in their hour of need,” said Eunice shielding the handbrake with her hand. “Why don’t you edge right to the crash barrier?”

  “That’s no help, is it! When traffic gets back up to eighty they won’t be able to cross three lanes of traffic!”

  Behind us, someone in a mirror-filling BMW 4x4 leant on the horn and edged to within a whisker of the boot. There was a 100-yard gap in front of me and already the middle lane was up to 30 mph. I set off, but it took me five minutes, and goodness knows how many miles to force my way across three lanes to the hard shoulder. Putting the car into reverse, and with hazards lights on, I edged the Volvo backwards. Trouble was, I had no idea how far I had to go. For ten very slow minutes I crawled backwards.

  “Is this right, anyone?” I asked.

  “I think it’s too far,” said Janet.

  “No, they were much further back, by those yellow flowers,” Eunice said.

  “They’re not flowers, that’s ragwort,” said Jemima, the first words of any kind to pass her lips all day. “And it kills horses.”

  “Thank you for your contribution,” I said. “Now, bright ideas anyone?”

  “Has Brian got his phone with him?” Eunice said, wielding her own.

  “Damn, it’s here,” Janet said. “Aah, but Digby will have his.”

  Finally connected to Brian, we heard that they had to walk across two minor roads and a field to get any seclusion. They claimed they were now on the ridge of the embankment, but we couldn’t see them, and there were no obvious landscape features to navigate by.

  “What big lorries can you see?” I asked.

  “There’s a Sainsbury lorry just level with us in the slow lane.”

  After waiting two minutes no such lorry had passed us, so we reckoned we must have come too far in reverse. Finally, we found them, and there was much rejoicing.

  “Feeling better now?” I asked a dejected looking Digby.

  “Couldn’t go.”

  “What!!!”

  Brian had only one word of explanation. “Wind.”

  Tuesday 23rd May: Qinetiq lethargy

  Good God, the market’s down near 5,500! I thought it was all over last week, but now who knows where it will go? Sold Bovis at 760p while I still had some profits (about 100p per share). Drives me mad! Could have sold at 940p at the end of March. Qinetiq down to 170p, which is a 20 per cent loss. What on earth has this market turmoil got to do with the multi-year-contracts business of a defence technology firm?

  Elevenses: Used screwdriver to break open the Hornby drawer. Broke lock and gashed thumb. Bugger! Got blood all over last month’s Railway Modeller. The fondant fancies are gone. This is sabotage and has to stop.

  Chapter Eighteen: Heavy Breathing

  Thursday 1st June: Who dares, whinges

  Market seems to be recovering a little. Only made back £1,300 of worst losses, and Qinetiq and Spirent seem immovably weak. Having sold Bovis at 760p it has now recovered to 835p. Damn and blast! Perhaps I was wrong to sell. Bought them back at 840p, which turned out to be the day’s peak. That’s 800 quid up the Swanee. Finally got my mother to remember some addresses where she and my father lived. Have e-mailed them off to Telent and BAE registrars.

  Elevenses: Asked Eunice if she knew where my Hornby drawer key had got to. “Isn’t it on the car key ring?” No, of course not I respond, but then there it is. I’m sure I didn’t put it there. Tackled about the missing fondant fancies, Eunice feigns ignorance. After having broken the lock last week, I’m stuck once again with no privacy.

  Friday 2nd June: Yorkshire terror

  Doorbell rings at 7.15am. Put on dressing gown. Grumble on way downstairs, assume it is unusually early start from builders. Open door to see beefy grinning fellow in athletic gear, noisily chewing gum. “Good morning B’nard. Are you ready to greet the day?”

  “Oh God, it isn’t….”

  “Yes, that’s right. Josh Fenderbrun. You’ll soon be glad you changed your mind.”

  “I didn’t. My wife changed my mind. Good God man, do you know what the time is?” I had recalled the dreaded life coach was coming today, but had assumed it would be some civilised time.

  “Early starts, always. It’s all on the documentation, B’nard. Haven’t you prepared yourself for module 1? Did you watch the video?”

  “Look. I did agree to see you, but I haven’t had time to watch the video or anything.”

  “Okay, today, B’nard is a two hour introductory session about breathing. Br-e-e-e-athing,” he said, exhaling a nasty waft of spearmint into my face. “Open your body to oxygen, open your mind to relaxation.” He then asked me if I had my ‘jogging suit’ and ‘sneakers’ ready. It gradually dawned on me that exercise of some sort was involved. After some acrimonious exchanges, I left him on the doorstep and went upstairs, returning in moleskin trousers, Barbour jacket and stout brogues.

  His jaw dropped. “We’re not going on safari, B’nard.” He’s equally shocked that not only do I not belong to a gym, but that I don’t know where the nearest one is. We agree to go to the park half a mile away, and then I’m shocked when he goes to unlock his car. “Aren’t we going to walk?” I say.

  “Is it safe?” he asks.

  “It’s north Kent, not Chechnya!”

  On arrival at the park, I watch in embarrassed awe as he starts running on the spot, bellowing instructions and flinging his arms wide. I decline to participate, merely watching as joggers and dog walkers stare slack-jawed at this testosterone twit hurling his body into the air.

  “C’mon B’nard, jump, get with it,” he boomed. “Get those quads into action.”

  At this moment a Yorkshire terrier comes tearing over yipping wildly, chased by an elderly lady. The diminutive hound circles Fenderbrun, nipping at his ankles and finally sinking its teeth into his tracksuit.

  “Naughty Titus, stop it!” the lady says, adding for Fenderbrun’s benefit: “I’m so sorry, but you Americans are too tanned. Titus just assumed you were a coloured person.”

  The session fizzles out, with Fenderbrun wiping dog saliva from his ankles and me bent double gasping for breath, stomach muscles aching. Haven’t laughed so much for years. He says he’ll come next Friday, and I’m too winded to argue.

  Elevenses: Two gorgeous fresh cream éclairs from the local bakers. Feel I’ve earned them with all this exercise.

  Close of play: Market recovered quite nicely. Notice Prescott, Jemima’s enormous suede pig, has now been installed in the den. It looks as glum as the deputy prime minister.

  Wednesday 7th June: General samosas

  Awful day. Market fallen sharply again. Bovis has now fallen under 800p! I seem to be like a reverse trader. Buy high, sell low. How utterly depressing. How long is this going to go on? That chap who runs the Fidelity
fund, Anthony Bolton, seems to think it may last all summer. Well, that’s all right for him, he’s leaving. What about the rest of us?

  To cap it all Qinetiq came in with some fairly miserable results. Profits down, just a few months after the IPO! Business with the MoD has halved and the staff are up in arms for more pay too. I’ve lost 15 per cent since February. Decided not to mention it any more at share club.

  Elevenses: Mrs Sharma’s samosas, distributed by K.P. at the Ring o’Bells. He said they were mild, but one bite almost sent me to Pluto. By God, we didn’t half drink some beer afterwards. The drunken recriminations about Billiton purchase, already below £10 (“We should have bought it cheaper,” says Martin Gale, master of the obvious) are followed by misery that we don’t yet have enough cash to make a new purchase. Gale also suggested we open a spread-betting account to gear up our remaining pittance. Firmly rejected. The man’s a loose cannon.

  Chapter Nineteen: Dead Cat Bounce

  Tuesday 13th June: Nine lives not enough

  Tokyo stock market took a whack this morning. Knew it must be bad when they mentioned it on Radio 4’s Today programme, which doesn’t normally give a fig about business or markets. Ran to the den, tripping over the bloody cat, which I rather unceremoniously ejected into the garden. Sure enough, from the opening bell FTSE 100 dropped out of the bottom of the trading range to below 5,500. Everything’s down! This is awful. I’d promised to make enough money by April to pay for the conservatory, but have merely lost enough to buy a small car.