Dan lived his life in arrears. One month in arrears to be precise. He realised that his credit card company gave him free credit if he paid his bill in full at the end of the month. So at some stage he went out and spent two months worth of income in one month and had Visa look after half of it.
The only problem with this strategy was that as soon as he cleared his bill each month he was stone broke and had to put everything on his credit card again. He was a kind of a proto-type for what the Celtic Tiger was later to become. But when I met him back in 1996, we thought of him simply as a reckless idiot.
That wouldn’t have mattered except I tended to find myself behind him in the lunch queue each day and would watch my Lasagne grow cold as he waited on the barman to process his three pounds fifty payment. Back then, they used the manual carbon paper swipe contraption that never seemed to work first time and required dexterity and nimble fingers not often found in the bar industry.
Dan’s crowning achievement was to purchase a Cadbury’s Crème egg on credit one lunchtime which cost the princely sum of nineteen pence. I had the misfortune to stand behind him in the queue that day too.
I work for the bank that invented the credit card and still makes the majority of its profits in these fiscally challenged times from the poor credit management of card holders. And yet, I will publically state that I hate the things. History has not been kind to me I must admit. I applied for my first Visa card as a fresh faced twenty two year old, fresh off the immigrant boat to England and determined to make my way in the bustling metropolis that was Thatcher’s Britain. My bank sent me a glossy brochure promising all sorts of benefits if I would deign to accept one of their flexible friends. I duly completed the application form and submitted it for approval.
Two weeks later, I received a rejection letter. Despite my high salary and dashing good looks, I didn’t meet their approval criteria. I was devastated, mainly because I didn’t even want the bloody thing in the first place and had only applied because they wrote to me. I saw it as a cunning English plot to humiliate a humble Irishman and I wasn’t going to stand for it. I called the bank and demanded to speak to the manager. As anyone who has tried to do this will know, banks go to extraordinary lengths to avoid letting you speak to their manager. But I was determined, not least because I was calling from work and was therefore using their phone and time. I held on for an hour before I was eventually put through.
“Hello, is that the Manager?” I asked with as much indignation as I could muster.
“Yes, Mr. Borrow here, how can I help you?”
I was momentarily taken aback. “You’re a bank manager called Mr. Borrow?”
“Yes, it gets a few chuckles alright” he said. “You might say I had a calling to this profession. It was either that or become a librarian.”
I laughed and my indignation was lost. I found it hard to muster the fury of my original assault and meekly accepted his offer to ‘look into things’.
Not long after my conversation with Mr Borrow, I received a shiny little card in the post and was welcomed with open arms to the world of personal debt and consumerism. I have to admit that I found the card useful at times, especially in Luxembourg where they would let you buy beer at service stations on your company credit card and mark it up as petrol.
The advent of the Internet led me into a whole new world of spending, as it allowed me to buy things without the hazard of dealing with obnoxious sales people. On the internet, you buy things on your own time (actually in most cases you buy things on your employer’s time, but the less said about this the better). It’s a different matter when you are racing for the tram and anxious to buy a ticket in 7-eleven and some gobshite is buying the paper on his credit card and struggling to remember his Pin number.
New Zealand has a lot to answer for in this respect. I arrived there for the first time in December 1995 and was brought out for a beer by my gracious host on a quiet midweek night in Auckland. There were only two of us in the pub and three staff, but it still took us ten minutes to get served. Tony my host had ordered two bottles of DB bitter that came to the princely sum of 4 of those funny kiwi dollars. He then handed over a battered card that looked like it had been through a few washing machine cycles. I later learned that this was an “EFTPOS” card, a devise that New Zealanders seem bizarrely proud of. It is basically a debit card that has proved so successful that kiwis no longer carry cash, except to buy drugs and pay for hookers, although I’m led to believe that the major players in both these businesses are happy to accept plastic.
Tony spent a few minutes scraping his card along the machine slit without success. He withdrew the card, blew on it, cleaned it against his shirt and retried. After further failure, the barman muttered a phrase normally reserved for the end of relationships. “It’s not you, it’s me”. He proceeded to blow into his machine (a large exhalation of human breath seems to be the preferred repair protocol for EFTPOS related problems) and to bang it aggressively against the bar.
Eventually I stepped forward with a fresh five dollar note and the transaction was closed in seconds.
So I’d like to make a suggestion that might annoy my bosses. Ban card transactions of less than $100 if somebody is standing behind you in a queue. It will speed things up and increase trade. And that my friends, is the only suggestion I’ll give to help Capitalism work its way out of the mess it finds itself in.
Tuesday 20 October 2009
Saturday 10 October 2009
Working for the Yankee Dollar- Part 4
The flight into Guernsey was delayed and Frank felt his stomach lurch as the plane made its bumpy approach. This was his first business trip abroad and the last thing he needed was to be late. Eimear and himself were coming from Dublin to a board meeting where they would be the only Irish people present and despite the Celtic Tiger years, Frank still felt enough cultural inferiority to want to avoid turning up late to a meeting with upper class English people.
In the event they were early and had twenty minutes to discuss strategy and to nibble on the chocolate biscuits that had been laid out for the Directors.
Eimear had a few ground rules to set down. ‘Don’t speak unless you are asked something by name. And for God’s sake, don’t question anything that somebody else says. We’re humble service providers and we’re here to deliver the accounts and to get out of dodge without being embarrassed’.
‘I prepared those accounts’; Frank said with as much emotional outrage as Accountants can muster in these situations. ‘And I can stand over every number in them’.
‘It’s not the numbers I’m worried about. These old duffers never look at the numbers. They earn their outrageous fees for spotting that the font on page seventeen doesn’t match the font in the table on page six, or that you have spelt ‘it’s’ with an inappropriate apostrophe. My favorite was last year when they questioned the directors’ fees in the profit and loss account. Geoffrey, the Chairman, gathered all the indignation of the cavalry officer he had previously been.
“Me and the chaps had a quick chat over dinner last night and I’m afraid to say that last year we weren’t paid nearly that much”.
I tried to explain the accruals concept to them and how the sum in the accounts was made up of what they were paid plus what they were owed. But their eyes just glazed over. These guys are supposed to be providing oversight to a four billion pound Hedge Fund and all they care about are their poxy fees’.
Outside, the moneyed life of Guernsey was waking up. Yachts bobbled in St Peter Port and a trail of bustling pin stripe suits were making their way into the various off-shore branches of British banks.
‘Nice view, isn’t it?’ Eimear said. ‘I can think of worse places to have a board meeting. It reeks of money here, so it’s a good place to talk about it’.
‘Sure’, said Frank. ‘But why are we here? This is a fund managed in London, registered in the Cayman Islands and the book-keeping is done by us in Dublin. So why is the board made up of five old guys from the Channel Islands?’
‘It’s all about tax, Frank. These people like to pretend that they’re selling sophisticated investment products but really they’re just a cheap little tax avoidance scheme. This is a British operation, but they can’t have board meetings there or the UK Tax authorities will say that it is an on-shore fund and tax the hell out of it’.
‘But aren’t the Channel Islands part of the UK?’ Frank asked.
‘Only when it suits them’. Eimear replied. ‘It’s like abortion in Ireland. We like to think that we are as pure as the driven snow by not having it. But we turn a blind eye to all the girls sneaking over to England to have it done there. Well the British are like that about tax. Holier than thou when it comes to clamping down on the little guy claiming a few dodgy expenses against his tax bill but at the same time they ignore every millionaire hiding his ill-gotten gains in so called ‘off-shore’ funds.
Frank had tuned out on the mention of abortion. He had spent the trip over sneaking glances at his boss and he didn’t want the erotic thoughts running through his head to be interrupted by talk of terminations. They were staying overnight in Guernsey and Eimear had mentioned a pub that she had been in the year before. Frank wondered if she was dropping hints. A few gin and tonics and a chance to get to know her new good looking staff member. That’s how he liked to see it anyway.
He was ambitious and having a fling with his boss seemed as good a way as any to get ahead. And Eimear was a looker to boot. Particularly today, when she had put on her best power suit for the benefit of the guys on the board. Frank had noticed that suit before. It always seemed to come out when she had a meeting with older men. Deep red with a knee line that was just the right side of decency, it screamed business mixed with pleasure. Eimear was a modern business woman who had smashed through several glass ceilings on her way up. But she didn’t seem to be averse to using sexual attraction when it suited her.
‘You must be the Paddies’, a voice boomed from behind. Frank reeled to find a shovel shaped hand being thrust towards him. ‘Geoffrey Olmer Swanston. I’m the chairman of the board of this little beast. And you must be the chap who has been filling my inbox all week with these blasted accounts’.
Frank was about to answer yes, but the ex cavalry officer had already spotted a more favorable battlefield.
‘Ah, the lovely Eimear. Great to see you again. Hopefully we can get you out for a drink this time. Did you have a pleasant trip over?’
However, it was clear that the chairman didn’t just like the sound of his own voice; he wasn’t interested in hearing the sound of any others. For not even the lovely Eimear was able to get a word in before Geoffrey was bounding over to the door to greet the other directors.
‘Come in gentlemen, we’ve a busy agenda to get through today. We’ll cover the first part this morning and then adjourn for lunch. Debbie has booked the five of us and the two chaps from the fund manager’s office into La Rochelle for 1pm. So keep that in mind if you’re thinking of asking any long winded questions this morning. We’ll wrap up this afternoon with a view to finishing early. Rupert and I have a foursome to get to for 4pm’.
Frank felt a mixture of embarrassment and annoyance. He noticed that the accounts were scheduled for discussion in the afternoon session which meant that they could have gotten a later flight and not had to get up at 3am to catch the red eye. He also realised that Eimear and himself were the only people at the meeting who were not invited to lunch. His cultural inferiority went into overdrive.
It was going to be a long day, so best to just sit back and enjoy the view.
To be continued……
In the event they were early and had twenty minutes to discuss strategy and to nibble on the chocolate biscuits that had been laid out for the Directors.
Eimear had a few ground rules to set down. ‘Don’t speak unless you are asked something by name. And for God’s sake, don’t question anything that somebody else says. We’re humble service providers and we’re here to deliver the accounts and to get out of dodge without being embarrassed’.
‘I prepared those accounts’; Frank said with as much emotional outrage as Accountants can muster in these situations. ‘And I can stand over every number in them’.
‘It’s not the numbers I’m worried about. These old duffers never look at the numbers. They earn their outrageous fees for spotting that the font on page seventeen doesn’t match the font in the table on page six, or that you have spelt ‘it’s’ with an inappropriate apostrophe. My favorite was last year when they questioned the directors’ fees in the profit and loss account. Geoffrey, the Chairman, gathered all the indignation of the cavalry officer he had previously been.
“Me and the chaps had a quick chat over dinner last night and I’m afraid to say that last year we weren’t paid nearly that much”.
I tried to explain the accruals concept to them and how the sum in the accounts was made up of what they were paid plus what they were owed. But their eyes just glazed over. These guys are supposed to be providing oversight to a four billion pound Hedge Fund and all they care about are their poxy fees’.
Outside, the moneyed life of Guernsey was waking up. Yachts bobbled in St Peter Port and a trail of bustling pin stripe suits were making their way into the various off-shore branches of British banks.
‘Nice view, isn’t it?’ Eimear said. ‘I can think of worse places to have a board meeting. It reeks of money here, so it’s a good place to talk about it’.
‘Sure’, said Frank. ‘But why are we here? This is a fund managed in London, registered in the Cayman Islands and the book-keeping is done by us in Dublin. So why is the board made up of five old guys from the Channel Islands?’
‘It’s all about tax, Frank. These people like to pretend that they’re selling sophisticated investment products but really they’re just a cheap little tax avoidance scheme. This is a British operation, but they can’t have board meetings there or the UK Tax authorities will say that it is an on-shore fund and tax the hell out of it’.
‘But aren’t the Channel Islands part of the UK?’ Frank asked.
‘Only when it suits them’. Eimear replied. ‘It’s like abortion in Ireland. We like to think that we are as pure as the driven snow by not having it. But we turn a blind eye to all the girls sneaking over to England to have it done there. Well the British are like that about tax. Holier than thou when it comes to clamping down on the little guy claiming a few dodgy expenses against his tax bill but at the same time they ignore every millionaire hiding his ill-gotten gains in so called ‘off-shore’ funds.
Frank had tuned out on the mention of abortion. He had spent the trip over sneaking glances at his boss and he didn’t want the erotic thoughts running through his head to be interrupted by talk of terminations. They were staying overnight in Guernsey and Eimear had mentioned a pub that she had been in the year before. Frank wondered if she was dropping hints. A few gin and tonics and a chance to get to know her new good looking staff member. That’s how he liked to see it anyway.
He was ambitious and having a fling with his boss seemed as good a way as any to get ahead. And Eimear was a looker to boot. Particularly today, when she had put on her best power suit for the benefit of the guys on the board. Frank had noticed that suit before. It always seemed to come out when she had a meeting with older men. Deep red with a knee line that was just the right side of decency, it screamed business mixed with pleasure. Eimear was a modern business woman who had smashed through several glass ceilings on her way up. But she didn’t seem to be averse to using sexual attraction when it suited her.
‘You must be the Paddies’, a voice boomed from behind. Frank reeled to find a shovel shaped hand being thrust towards him. ‘Geoffrey Olmer Swanston. I’m the chairman of the board of this little beast. And you must be the chap who has been filling my inbox all week with these blasted accounts’.
Frank was about to answer yes, but the ex cavalry officer had already spotted a more favorable battlefield.
‘Ah, the lovely Eimear. Great to see you again. Hopefully we can get you out for a drink this time. Did you have a pleasant trip over?’
However, it was clear that the chairman didn’t just like the sound of his own voice; he wasn’t interested in hearing the sound of any others. For not even the lovely Eimear was able to get a word in before Geoffrey was bounding over to the door to greet the other directors.
‘Come in gentlemen, we’ve a busy agenda to get through today. We’ll cover the first part this morning and then adjourn for lunch. Debbie has booked the five of us and the two chaps from the fund manager’s office into La Rochelle for 1pm. So keep that in mind if you’re thinking of asking any long winded questions this morning. We’ll wrap up this afternoon with a view to finishing early. Rupert and I have a foursome to get to for 4pm’.
Frank felt a mixture of embarrassment and annoyance. He noticed that the accounts were scheduled for discussion in the afternoon session which meant that they could have gotten a later flight and not had to get up at 3am to catch the red eye. He also realised that Eimear and himself were the only people at the meeting who were not invited to lunch. His cultural inferiority went into overdrive.
It was going to be a long day, so best to just sit back and enjoy the view.
To be continued……
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