Archive for the ‘Fund Manager’ Tag

The Killing Floor (4)


“You got a sense of duty?”

“Strange question for an early morning… why do you ask?”

“Nothing really – just that I had a nine o’clock meeting with an ethical fund manager…”

“Let me guess… God On A Shoestring?  The Tree Hugging Sap Savers?  Profit With Morality – Extremely Limited plc?”

“Yeh; something like that… anyway it got me thinking…”

Oh no… no; no; no; noooo!  No thinking!  Start thinking about any of that duty with responsibility crap; making money with a clear conscience; high fives, alleluia, final day of reckoning rot and you’ll be like a well-honed boxer who gives into an orgy with three virgins the night before a championship bout.  It’s poison to the only true religion… the only clear faith… the miracle of the balance sheet.”

“So you don’t have a sense of a higher authority in anything you do?”

“Only the regulatory bodies in the City.  And him upstairs – on the twenty-fifth floor.  Always remember: the market is our hymn sheet; the deal our expression of faith and money is the sacrament.”

“You don’t answer to anything from a higher plane then?”

“Not so you’d notice – only me old Dad once; and with all that pressure he put on me when I was a kid… well, I guess all he really wanted was for me to make something of myself.  And that’s being charitable… Now look – the only good cause I work for is the charity of ME.  I’ve seen fire, flood, pestilence, disease, famine, feast, war, uprising, colonial insurrection, revolution, jihad, new constitution, devolution, takeover, flotation, administration, management engineered buyout as well as consolidation… and made money out of all of them.”

“Proud Father then?”

“Not really… he left me Mum the mortgage, next door’s missus a baby, and me a post-it note telling me that he thought I was a waste of space and that he’d see me next Tuesday if you get my drift?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realise… where is he now?”

“He opted out to live with a girl half his age but twice his chest size in a tepee community in Wales that lives off the land – and benefits – near the Brecon Beacons.  He’s got hair to his waist, fluff in his navel and what’s left of his brain after years smoking skunk and three more snotty brats to his knees.”

“Oh… Look I’m really sorry…  Hey; what about I go and get us a coffee – Yeh?!”

“Not now … all that ethical shit and talk of my old man has left me feeling distinctly queasy.  Eurgh…  Fuck it…  Let’s make some money!”

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