V for Vendetta

Far be it for me to pursue a vendetta but I really do hate some of the guys here. Let me describe to you the scene this morning. Four traders sitting on the desk chatting about: pornography.

Banker 1: “Oooh I saw a bit of Martine Aspen’s latest film last night. The coople on that girl!”

Banker 2: “Did you see the bit in the forest, with the wolf?”

Banker 1: “You mean where she gets it in the face? Yes I’ve got a bid– six at 15?”

Banker 2: “Yeah.”

Banker 3: “On all fours?”

Banker 1: “Euro-dollar crossover, mark me at two-tenths. Face, body and a55!”

Banker 2: “Literally a dirty dog. Filth. Two yards on 10-year Eurobank.”

Banker 3: “Borrow it?

Banker 1: “Nope not at that price. What?”

Banker 3: “DVD.”

Banker 1: “Yeah sure. Collateral?”

Banker 3: “Erm, lunch, Le Caprice?”

Banker 1: “Done. Give me seventeen fifths of crossover.”

That’s the level of conversation one gets here most days. Nope I was not happy with that trade. Anyway drove through St Paul’s this morning. A lot of these masks on show.

An interesting fact- -that mask is actually modelled on my father’s friend, Jamie Goldsmith, who worked in the city in the 1960s. He tells me the same story every time I go home. Jamie, who used to have long hair in those days, was a terribly arrogant sod. He’d often go into a rival’s office and pull out his long cane getting ready to flay the opponent to the ground. One day my father, in a pique of rage, drew a caricature of the smiling Goldsmith, giving him a ridiculous ‘tache and beard to boot. This same drawing disappeared. Only years later did my father realise that the new intern they were employing back then was none other than Alan Moore! How fate works.