The Drunken Poet was busy on October 31st. Irish backpackers mixed amicably with the locals, who comprised longer term emigrants huddled over the best attempt that the Southern Hemisphere can make at a pint of Guinness.
Siobhan worked the counter like Peigin Mike in ‘The Playboy of the Western World’ with a “welcome kind stranger” for every new face that crossed her threshold. It was Halloween, but that wasn’t why the Irish had gathered. An all girl Dixie Band were knocking out the hits of Dolly Parton and that was keeping the attention of those who hadn’t come to sample Arthur’s finest.
The Irish Diaspora are big on their festivals and traditions. St Patrick’s Day gets celebrated with the drunken abandon of a sailor on shore leave and Christmas is often marked by sweating paddies cooking Turkey and Ham in tropical conditions.
Thankfully, Halloween is not something we emigrants are proud of. It is a largely Irish festival, derived from the ancient Celtic festival of Samhain, but like most good things in life, the Yanks have ruined it. To the rest of the world, it is now an American holiday, with oversized pumpkins and sugared up kids in superman outfits.
Australians seem to ignore it, partly because they are smart enough to see a Disney themed festival coming and also because the sun kind of gets in the way. Daylight savings arrived here in October, providing an extra hour of sunlight each evening just as the locals took the winter covers off their BBQs. The simple truth is, kids don’t look scary enough dressed as Dracula when the sun is blazing down.
It wasn’t like that when I was a nipper of course. The clocks in Ireland went back at that time of year with a ghostly suddenness, pitching the country into a seemingly endless winter. Halloween offered an eerie introduction to winter and with nothing else to do until Christmas, we embraced it with the abandon of death row prisoners.
My happiest memories from back then are from the days before I was let out of the house after dark. My mother would buy citrus fruit (as rare in Ireland in the 70’s as in Berlin in May 1945) and nuts that only seemed to be sold at that time of year. We’d crack our teeth on the plastic ring hidden in the Barnbrack and be half drowned by my older brother when playing ‘bob the apple’. He was adept at convincing you to dip your head into a bucket of water, before holding it down once it was in. Many years later my brother emulated this trick with a young lad called McNally and a regularly flushed toilet. My brother spent a lot of time in the Middle East in the early eighties and sometimes I wonder if he was there to teach the CIA how to ‘waterboard’ suspects. He was certainly a master of it at the age of ten.
My scary memories of Halloween (attempted drowning apart) came when I was old enough to wander the streets of town after dark in the company of other young renegades looking for cheap thrills. My problem was that I was desperate to be one of the gang, but had the toughness of Elton John. And I was afraid of fire and that’s what Halloween mostly involved.
Each street would compete to build the biggest bonfire, although how this was judged I never knew as nobody travelled outside their own street on bonfire night for fear of becoming fuel to the neighbour’s flames. Stories of small boys being hurled into infernos were widespread round our way and we stayed close to our lunatics as a result. For weeks beforehand, those lunatics would raid garages for old tyres, dismantle entire buildings just for the wood and gather anything that was combustible and not padlocked.
I always stood far enough back to avoid the exploding gas canisters and horizontally projected fireworks, but still went home smelling like a chimney sweep.
When I came back to Ireland as a responsible adult, I noticed that Halloween was in the early stages of being americanised. But we still maintained an element of the madness that had been a part of my childhood. The British celebrate Guy Fawkes Night on the 5th November. We Irish were never so keen on this festival, as a Catholic trying to blow up the Houses of Parliament was seen in Ireland as a sort of career ambition rather than cause to burn an effigy atop a bonfire.
However, the Brits love their fireworks at that time of year and that provides a ready supply to the Irish to celebrate Halloween five days previously. Fireworks are illegal in Ireland, but not in Northern Ireland. So enterprising businessmen set up warehouses along the border to tempt the would be pyrotechnic wizards from the South.
Alas, very few of these fireworks made it as far as Halloween, patience not being a virtue among the brain dead idiots who buy them. The first one would be let off around mid June, no doubt as a test missile and timed to coincide with that point when normal people like me are about to sink into peaceful sleep. From then until October, we would be treated to a nightly attack of random explosions notable more for their sound than colour, as Dublin became a benign version of Baghdad.
A last minute trip North would be planned on Halloween Eve, to replace the prematurely ejaculated stock. And that meant the night itself was an occasion for dogs and other easily frightened animals like me to don earmuffs and bury ourselves beneath duvets.
Many people ask me what I miss about Ireland and I have a well rehearsed list. Less often, I am asked what I don’t miss. After the weather and the obsession with property, I’d safely put Halloween third. Spend next years at the Drunken Poet and you won’t want to hear a cheap firework again.
Tuesday, 10 November 2009
Tuesday, 3 November 2009
Working for the Yankee Dollar- Part 5
The fund managers, as is their want, turned up fashionably late. They sauntered through the door in a blur of cashmere and Italian leather and settled at the top of the table, unpacking their super trim laptops with the smugness of orchestra conductors. When it was their turn to speak, Alex, who was clearly the senior of the two by virtue of having yawned most during the previous discussions, rose languidly to speak. He carried the bored expression of a man who was being forced to tell everyone how brilliant he was when he expected that they already knew.
‘If I can refer you to slide one in your pack’, he droned while simultaneously pointing to a garish PowerPoint presentation he had just brought up on screen. ‘You'll see that the fund grew by 27% in the year under review, which was entirely in line with our predictions. Any questions?’ As none were forthcoming, he proceeded through slides two to nine which contained a colourful array of graphs and formulas.
Frank considered himself an intelligent chap but he didn't understand a word of it. But he was mindful of Eimear's earlier warning and kept quiet.
Geoffrey on the other hand hadn't spoken for while and was clearly worried that he might forget how. ‘Maybe you chaps could give us a brief oversight into your investment strategy. Lay man's terms, that sort of thing’.
Alex smiled at his colleague like the smart guy in class who was being asked to explain Einstein's Theory of Relativity. ‘Well our strategy is quite unique, we think. We buy stocks when they are going up in value and sell them when they are coming down’.
Eimear sat between Frank and Alex and Frank noticed that she seemed captivated by everything the flash fund manager was saying. She leaned forward and Alex’s gaze was drawn to her ample cleavage. Frank felt like a young buck deer being challenged by a multi-horned interloper and momentarily forgot his vow of silence.
‘Isn't that what everybody tries to do?’ Frank asked before catching a dark glare from Eimear. Alex hesitated, wondering if he would lower himself to answering a mere bean counter. ‘The science is in knowing when stocks are going to go up in value and when they are going to come down’.
Frank could feel the heat coming from Eimear but he didn't care. The non invitation to lunch and the patronising response of the smug git in the cashmere jacket was too much for him.
‘But you just borrow money from your parent company and lend it out to poor people at a higher interest rate. That's not a science. Credit Unions have been doing that for years but without charging the millions that you guys do’.
Geoffrey coughed, ‘In the interest of time, gentlemen, maybe we should move on’. He was concerned about making his lunch appointment but not nearly as much as he was about the fund from which they all made extortionate amounts being simplified in this manner.
‘The next item on the agenda is directors' fees. We agreed at our last meeting that Rupert here would be best suited to come up with a quote for next year. Rupert sits on the most boards and would have the broadest knowledge of the fees paid in the hedge fund industry’.
Rupert shuffled his papers and cleared his public school educated throat. ‘Well I can only speak for the boards I sit on. The fees range from ten grand to one hundred and twenty, depending on the complexity of the fund’.
‘And how would you see this fund in that range?’ Geoffrey asked, although his smile betrayed the fact that he already knew the answer.
Rupert played along with the charade for a moment before answering ‘Oh, somewhere in the middle. So I'd suggest that the fee should be about, hmm, seventy grand’.
Frank looked at Eimear and thought about how he'd be looking for a pay increase as soon as he got back. Seventy grand was more than he earned in a year and even by the extravagant standards of the business he worked in, it seemed a lot for turning up to four meetings.
The directors on the other hand were as pleased as punch with Rupert's suggestion. ‘That seems like a capital idea’. Geoffrey said. ‘I'll let the promoters know about our decision and we can implement from January 1. Now that seems as good a point as any to break for lunch’.
In the end, the discussion on the accounts was uneventful. The expensive wine at La Rochelle had clearly had a soporific effect and the board were happy to coast for the afternoon. As Frank finished his presentation, he looked at Eimear and caught her smiling at him. He knew his morning indiscretion had been forgiven and that his evening flirting prospects had improved.
The meeting was coming to an end. Expensive pens were carefully placed back in inside pockets, laptop power cables were folded and packed and Frank's stomach muscles relaxed for the first time in two days.
Geoffrey had just one more item to cover on the agenda. ‘The next board meeting is due in March. We had a chat over lunch and we think it would be a capital idea to have the meeting in Dublin. Rupert sits on a couple of boards that do that. Apparently it’s OK as long as you don't hold meetings on the mainland. We were thinking about Friday 24th if that fits into your diaries. Eimear, I presume we can hold the meeting in your office? And maybe afterwards you could take us to one of those wild Irish pubs?’
Eimear was just happy that the day was nearly over. ‘Of course Geoffrey, and if there is anything else we can do for you, then let us know’.
Geoffrey threw a conspiratorial look at Rupert and his tongue danced devilishly around his mouth. ‘Well there is the small matter of a rugger match at your Croke Park the next day. England are playing your lot and Rupert is able to swindle a couple of tickets out of his old school. But if you could get three more tickets for the directors then the board would be happy to put in a positive word for you with the promoter’.
Frank could only smile and wonder how they would explain this to their boss back in Dublin. The meeting broke up with hand shakes and lingering cheek kisses for Eimear. The fund managers departed as rudely as they had arrived. The directors were more polite but their golf game was imminent and soon Eimear and Frank found themselves alone with only shuffled board papers for company.
Eimear stood up and ran her hands slowly along the creases of her ruby red skirt. ‘Well that was a roller-coaster’. She said. ‘I could really do with a drink and to get out of these clothes’.
Frank didn't say anything. But he was enthusiastic about both suggestions.
‘If I can refer you to slide one in your pack’, he droned while simultaneously pointing to a garish PowerPoint presentation he had just brought up on screen. ‘You'll see that the fund grew by 27% in the year under review, which was entirely in line with our predictions. Any questions?’ As none were forthcoming, he proceeded through slides two to nine which contained a colourful array of graphs and formulas.
Frank considered himself an intelligent chap but he didn't understand a word of it. But he was mindful of Eimear's earlier warning and kept quiet.
Geoffrey on the other hand hadn't spoken for while and was clearly worried that he might forget how. ‘Maybe you chaps could give us a brief oversight into your investment strategy. Lay man's terms, that sort of thing’.
Alex smiled at his colleague like the smart guy in class who was being asked to explain Einstein's Theory of Relativity. ‘Well our strategy is quite unique, we think. We buy stocks when they are going up in value and sell them when they are coming down’.
Eimear sat between Frank and Alex and Frank noticed that she seemed captivated by everything the flash fund manager was saying. She leaned forward and Alex’s gaze was drawn to her ample cleavage. Frank felt like a young buck deer being challenged by a multi-horned interloper and momentarily forgot his vow of silence.
‘Isn't that what everybody tries to do?’ Frank asked before catching a dark glare from Eimear. Alex hesitated, wondering if he would lower himself to answering a mere bean counter. ‘The science is in knowing when stocks are going to go up in value and when they are going to come down’.
Frank could feel the heat coming from Eimear but he didn't care. The non invitation to lunch and the patronising response of the smug git in the cashmere jacket was too much for him.
‘But you just borrow money from your parent company and lend it out to poor people at a higher interest rate. That's not a science. Credit Unions have been doing that for years but without charging the millions that you guys do’.
Geoffrey coughed, ‘In the interest of time, gentlemen, maybe we should move on’. He was concerned about making his lunch appointment but not nearly as much as he was about the fund from which they all made extortionate amounts being simplified in this manner.
‘The next item on the agenda is directors' fees. We agreed at our last meeting that Rupert here would be best suited to come up with a quote for next year. Rupert sits on the most boards and would have the broadest knowledge of the fees paid in the hedge fund industry’.
Rupert shuffled his papers and cleared his public school educated throat. ‘Well I can only speak for the boards I sit on. The fees range from ten grand to one hundred and twenty, depending on the complexity of the fund’.
‘And how would you see this fund in that range?’ Geoffrey asked, although his smile betrayed the fact that he already knew the answer.
Rupert played along with the charade for a moment before answering ‘Oh, somewhere in the middle. So I'd suggest that the fee should be about, hmm, seventy grand’.
Frank looked at Eimear and thought about how he'd be looking for a pay increase as soon as he got back. Seventy grand was more than he earned in a year and even by the extravagant standards of the business he worked in, it seemed a lot for turning up to four meetings.
The directors on the other hand were as pleased as punch with Rupert's suggestion. ‘That seems like a capital idea’. Geoffrey said. ‘I'll let the promoters know about our decision and we can implement from January 1. Now that seems as good a point as any to break for lunch’.
In the end, the discussion on the accounts was uneventful. The expensive wine at La Rochelle had clearly had a soporific effect and the board were happy to coast for the afternoon. As Frank finished his presentation, he looked at Eimear and caught her smiling at him. He knew his morning indiscretion had been forgiven and that his evening flirting prospects had improved.
The meeting was coming to an end. Expensive pens were carefully placed back in inside pockets, laptop power cables were folded and packed and Frank's stomach muscles relaxed for the first time in two days.
Geoffrey had just one more item to cover on the agenda. ‘The next board meeting is due in March. We had a chat over lunch and we think it would be a capital idea to have the meeting in Dublin. Rupert sits on a couple of boards that do that. Apparently it’s OK as long as you don't hold meetings on the mainland. We were thinking about Friday 24th if that fits into your diaries. Eimear, I presume we can hold the meeting in your office? And maybe afterwards you could take us to one of those wild Irish pubs?’
Eimear was just happy that the day was nearly over. ‘Of course Geoffrey, and if there is anything else we can do for you, then let us know’.
Geoffrey threw a conspiratorial look at Rupert and his tongue danced devilishly around his mouth. ‘Well there is the small matter of a rugger match at your Croke Park the next day. England are playing your lot and Rupert is able to swindle a couple of tickets out of his old school. But if you could get three more tickets for the directors then the board would be happy to put in a positive word for you with the promoter’.
Frank could only smile and wonder how they would explain this to their boss back in Dublin. The meeting broke up with hand shakes and lingering cheek kisses for Eimear. The fund managers departed as rudely as they had arrived. The directors were more polite but their golf game was imminent and soon Eimear and Frank found themselves alone with only shuffled board papers for company.
Eimear stood up and ran her hands slowly along the creases of her ruby red skirt. ‘Well that was a roller-coaster’. She said. ‘I could really do with a drink and to get out of these clothes’.
Frank didn't say anything. But he was enthusiastic about both suggestions.
Tuesday, 20 October 2009
Why Kiwis take the credit for everything
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.
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.
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……
Monday, 28 September 2009
Coffee and a Muffin to go
It’s 9am and I’m feeling a little tired, which is not a great place to be when you haven’t started work yet. Thankfully coffee seems to have been invented for this sort of thing. However,. I’m a traditional Irishman, reared on eight cups of strong tea a day. So coffee is an alien concoction to me, as foreign as Tiramisu and Falafel. I was sixteen years old before I tasted a cup of Brazil’s finest. My brother, who liked to think of himself as a debonair peacock among the dull grey pigeons of 1980’s Ireland, had purchased a jar of Maxwell House (which I later discovered is the Old Spice of the coffee world) and laid down an instruction to my poor beleaguered Mother that she was to deliver a cup of the said product with a dash of milk and two spoons of sugar to him each morning.
My Mother, as was her way, told him to take a very long walk off a very short pier and so the jar stayed in our cupboard for eternity, alongside the other unused products such as curry powder and soda stream concentrate.
I came in late one night from my high paying job collecting glasses in the local pub and decided to test out the strange elixir in the cupboard. All my TV heroes, for example, were coffee drinkers and even the posh kids at school would come in with stories about whipped cream extravagances that went on in their big houses on the hill. The result was the worst thing I had tasted since I mistook our Dog’s abolitions for a Mars Bar when I was four. Then I remembered that I’d had the same reaction when I first drank beer and that perseverance paid off in that regard.
So I have been an occasional coffee drinker ever since, although I still struggle to tell the difference between a flat white and a skinny latte (except that the latte is clearly made with milk extracted from skinny cows) and the much maligned Maxwell House tastes the same to me as freshly ground premium blend.
Melbourne thinks it has the best coffee in the world so it would be remiss of me not to try it out. I’ve started cycling to work a few days each week and when I do so; I reward myself with a latte and muffin from the little cafe at the base of our building. Li works the coffee machine there like a steam locomotive driver in the19th Century and knows me by name now which suggests that I eat a lot more muffins than I’d care to admit.
She has taken to leaving a little slice of cake on the lid of my cup, which I’ve noticed she only does for special customers and people who by their shape suggest that they really, really like cake. I’m not sure which category I fall into but I like to think that I’m in the special customer club. Some shops do loyalty cards. This one does little cakes and I know which I prefer.
My muffin choice is dependent on my healthy food intake for that week. I like to comply with Victorian State Government recommendations and consume 5 portions of fruit and veg each day. If I’m struggling, I supplement my diet with an apple or blueberry muffin. If I’ve done well, by perhaps consuming some pear cider or strawberry ice-cream, I’ll reward myself with a chocolate muffin, safe in the knowledge that I have dodged the food police for another week.
When I leave Li’s café, I have a choice of turning left or right. The distance back to my desk is the same both ways, but the right hand side is busier and you are more likely to bump into someone than if you turn left.
Normally at this point, both hands are busy with carrying duties, so I nibble the small slice of cake on the top of the cup like an oversized mouse. It’s not a sight I am keen to share with the general public, so I normally take the quiet route.
This morning however, I was a little sleepy and turned right without thinking. I had hardly walked two meters before I was stopped by a recruitment consultant of limited acquaintance. During the boom years, these people were matched only by Estate Agents and Bank Executives in the ease with which they made money. Now they sweep the streets where broken dreams are thrown. It’s humbling to watch them working for a living for a change. But I work in a bank, so perhaps I shouldn’t throw stones.
Their sales technique is overwhelming however. They want to be your best friend, which is an uncomfortable feeling for us accountants, who take years to trust somebody enough to look up from our shoes. She spent ten minutes telling me how well I looked, how business was booming and how she had a fantastic candidate that she was saving just for me.
The cup was slowly burning into the palm of my hand to the point where I felt that skin was about to come off. So I mumbled my excuses and left. As I ascended in the lift I thought about all those options we are faced with in life. All those figurative forks in yellow woods that we come across. How different would our lives be now if we’d turned right out of the disco toilets back in 1985 and not left? Turning left meant bumping into that girl who ended up breaking your heart, who made you leave town and move abroad where you ended up winning the local lottery and being hit by a bus as you crossed the road to collect the cheque.
Life is all about choices. As a Woody Allen character once said “We define ourselves by the choices we have made”. But I don’t think there is any point getting caught up in it. That’s just the way life is. But I will give you some advice. Always choose the busier path; there are more interesting things to be found there. But choose the quieter path if you want your coffee to be warm when you get back to your desk.
My Mother, as was her way, told him to take a very long walk off a very short pier and so the jar stayed in our cupboard for eternity, alongside the other unused products such as curry powder and soda stream concentrate.
I came in late one night from my high paying job collecting glasses in the local pub and decided to test out the strange elixir in the cupboard. All my TV heroes, for example, were coffee drinkers and even the posh kids at school would come in with stories about whipped cream extravagances that went on in their big houses on the hill. The result was the worst thing I had tasted since I mistook our Dog’s abolitions for a Mars Bar when I was four. Then I remembered that I’d had the same reaction when I first drank beer and that perseverance paid off in that regard.
So I have been an occasional coffee drinker ever since, although I still struggle to tell the difference between a flat white and a skinny latte (except that the latte is clearly made with milk extracted from skinny cows) and the much maligned Maxwell House tastes the same to me as freshly ground premium blend.
Melbourne thinks it has the best coffee in the world so it would be remiss of me not to try it out. I’ve started cycling to work a few days each week and when I do so; I reward myself with a latte and muffin from the little cafe at the base of our building. Li works the coffee machine there like a steam locomotive driver in the19th Century and knows me by name now which suggests that I eat a lot more muffins than I’d care to admit.
She has taken to leaving a little slice of cake on the lid of my cup, which I’ve noticed she only does for special customers and people who by their shape suggest that they really, really like cake. I’m not sure which category I fall into but I like to think that I’m in the special customer club. Some shops do loyalty cards. This one does little cakes and I know which I prefer.
My muffin choice is dependent on my healthy food intake for that week. I like to comply with Victorian State Government recommendations and consume 5 portions of fruit and veg each day. If I’m struggling, I supplement my diet with an apple or blueberry muffin. If I’ve done well, by perhaps consuming some pear cider or strawberry ice-cream, I’ll reward myself with a chocolate muffin, safe in the knowledge that I have dodged the food police for another week.
When I leave Li’s café, I have a choice of turning left or right. The distance back to my desk is the same both ways, but the right hand side is busier and you are more likely to bump into someone than if you turn left.
Normally at this point, both hands are busy with carrying duties, so I nibble the small slice of cake on the top of the cup like an oversized mouse. It’s not a sight I am keen to share with the general public, so I normally take the quiet route.
This morning however, I was a little sleepy and turned right without thinking. I had hardly walked two meters before I was stopped by a recruitment consultant of limited acquaintance. During the boom years, these people were matched only by Estate Agents and Bank Executives in the ease with which they made money. Now they sweep the streets where broken dreams are thrown. It’s humbling to watch them working for a living for a change. But I work in a bank, so perhaps I shouldn’t throw stones.
Their sales technique is overwhelming however. They want to be your best friend, which is an uncomfortable feeling for us accountants, who take years to trust somebody enough to look up from our shoes. She spent ten minutes telling me how well I looked, how business was booming and how she had a fantastic candidate that she was saving just for me.
The cup was slowly burning into the palm of my hand to the point where I felt that skin was about to come off. So I mumbled my excuses and left. As I ascended in the lift I thought about all those options we are faced with in life. All those figurative forks in yellow woods that we come across. How different would our lives be now if we’d turned right out of the disco toilets back in 1985 and not left? Turning left meant bumping into that girl who ended up breaking your heart, who made you leave town and move abroad where you ended up winning the local lottery and being hit by a bus as you crossed the road to collect the cheque.
Life is all about choices. As a Woody Allen character once said “We define ourselves by the choices we have made”. But I don’t think there is any point getting caught up in it. That’s just the way life is. But I will give you some advice. Always choose the busier path; there are more interesting things to be found there. But choose the quieter path if you want your coffee to be warm when you get back to your desk.
Tuesday, 15 September 2009
Thursday Morning Coming Down
To paraphrase Johnny Cash, "I woke up Thursday morning with no way to hold my head that didn't hurt". Drinking on school nights is a practice that should be restricted to students and the unemployed. They have the energy to keep going and the opportunity to sleep in the next day. Bankers of a certain age have no such advantage and I'm paying the sorry price for that now. Twenty four hours ago, the beer was flowing and the craic was mighty. I gave no thought to getting up for work the next day and neither did my drinking buddies. We were just intent on proving that the Global Financial Crisis wasn't going to stop us from partying.
We were entertaining a visitor from Singapore and trying to prove that Melbourne has a midweek nightlife. In practice, that proved tougher than finding a bacon buttie in Tel Aviv on Yon Kippur.
But there were ten of us and that tends to create its own dynamic. All boys are competitive, except at different things. Some like to show their alpha maleness by reaching the pinnacle of their profession. Others prove themselves through sport or by hooking up with supermodels. God decided that my killer instinct is invoked whenever I’m drinking beer in company.
People who know me are aware that I like a beer. In fact some have commented that I am one of the few people in life who consider beer more important than oxygen and one ex girlfriend cruelly described me as a not particularly complicated biological machine for turning beer into urine. It may come as a shock to these people that I can happily go weeks without touching the amber nectar. But put me in a situation where other men are drinking and I turn into Michael Schumacher. I can’t help myself; I have to drink faster and longer than anyone else in a desperate attempt to prove my manliness.
That’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it. I didn’t get hammered on Wednesday night because I’m immature and reckless. My DNA made me do it.
I have my alarm set up to turn on the radio each morning and I'm usually met by the soothing tones of Red Symons on ABC, who jokes his way through the news and eases listeners into the day. As luck would have it, when the alarm kicked off this morning, Red had moved to a story about the Italian Film festival and I was woken to the sounds of machine gun fire and piercing screams.
I groped manically for the snooze button and desperately tried to get a grip on reality. My mouth was as dry as a Quaker’s wake and my tongue felt like it had been ripped out in the middle of the night and replaced with one that didn’t quite fit.
The act of showering and dressing took longer than normal and I knew something was really up when I sat down for my daily bowl of cornflakes and found that I was eating them individually.
It was 9am before I was ready to meet the day and I stumbled down the road to the tram stop. The 96 tram goes through a metamorphosis at 9am. Before that point, it is full of sleepy commuters heading into their office jobs in the City. It’s usually packed and dominated by Ipod wearing, Aravind Adiga readers.
They are safely tucked up at their desks by 9am and at that point the tram is taken over by a bohemian mix that wouldn’t look out of place on the set of Trainspotting. The first to board are the tramps who sleep rough around Acland Street and have just been rudely woken by shopkeepers who take exception to them kipping in their doorways. A comfortable seat on the tram is clearly the best way they can find to ease themselves into the day. Unfortunately, they have a fairly random acquaintance with hygiene and trams are a pretty enclosed space. So my liberal sympathies are very quickly overtaken by a need to protect the volatile contents of my stomach.
So I make my way to the front of the tram and bury myself in a book. Two stops later and we’re on Fitzroy Street, home to fast food restaurants and hostels that cater for drug addicts and the generally bewildered. The wind was strong and several emaciated figures were huddled in the small shelter. That was exactly where the front door of the tram stopped and pretty quickly I was surrounded by six twitching junkies with dark sunken eyes hidden behind sunglasses and skin like old boot leather.
I was feeling pretty judgmental, particularly as none of them bothered to buy a ticket. I’m guessing that they were on their way to the City to engage in financial transactions involving illegal drugs and shop lifting. Strange how you become a right wing scare monger when you have a hangover!
The only other passengers on the tram were a motley crew who had boarded at St Kilda Junction. They were dressed in similar fashion to the junkies but looked healthy and out of place in their clothes. I had seen groups like this before but in my hungover state, it took me a few moments to place them. They were plain clothes ticket inspectors sent in swarms to catch the 90% of passengers who don’t buy a ticket. The tramps and junkies had beaten me to it however. In the few seconds it took my addled brain to work all this out, they had jumped off the tram like ghostly pirates and disappeared into the nearby park.
I flashed my ticket at the inspectors and huddled more tightly in the seat. The click clackety click of the metal wheels rebounded in my head as though somebody was smacking my eyeballs with a hammer from the inside. A smell of stale body odour and year old chewing gum hung round the tram and attacked my senses with every intake of breath. I got off three stops early to breathe in some air and to find a café selling oversized sausage rolls.
Johnny Cash had the right idea. If you’re going to wake up feeling like this, it’s best to do it on a Sunday morning when you can crawl back into bed and at least be comfortable when you lie to yourself about how you are never, ever, ever drinking again.
We were entertaining a visitor from Singapore and trying to prove that Melbourne has a midweek nightlife. In practice, that proved tougher than finding a bacon buttie in Tel Aviv on Yon Kippur.
But there were ten of us and that tends to create its own dynamic. All boys are competitive, except at different things. Some like to show their alpha maleness by reaching the pinnacle of their profession. Others prove themselves through sport or by hooking up with supermodels. God decided that my killer instinct is invoked whenever I’m drinking beer in company.
People who know me are aware that I like a beer. In fact some have commented that I am one of the few people in life who consider beer more important than oxygen and one ex girlfriend cruelly described me as a not particularly complicated biological machine for turning beer into urine. It may come as a shock to these people that I can happily go weeks without touching the amber nectar. But put me in a situation where other men are drinking and I turn into Michael Schumacher. I can’t help myself; I have to drink faster and longer than anyone else in a desperate attempt to prove my manliness.
That’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it. I didn’t get hammered on Wednesday night because I’m immature and reckless. My DNA made me do it.
I have my alarm set up to turn on the radio each morning and I'm usually met by the soothing tones of Red Symons on ABC, who jokes his way through the news and eases listeners into the day. As luck would have it, when the alarm kicked off this morning, Red had moved to a story about the Italian Film festival and I was woken to the sounds of machine gun fire and piercing screams.
I groped manically for the snooze button and desperately tried to get a grip on reality. My mouth was as dry as a Quaker’s wake and my tongue felt like it had been ripped out in the middle of the night and replaced with one that didn’t quite fit.
The act of showering and dressing took longer than normal and I knew something was really up when I sat down for my daily bowl of cornflakes and found that I was eating them individually.
It was 9am before I was ready to meet the day and I stumbled down the road to the tram stop. The 96 tram goes through a metamorphosis at 9am. Before that point, it is full of sleepy commuters heading into their office jobs in the City. It’s usually packed and dominated by Ipod wearing, Aravind Adiga readers.
They are safely tucked up at their desks by 9am and at that point the tram is taken over by a bohemian mix that wouldn’t look out of place on the set of Trainspotting. The first to board are the tramps who sleep rough around Acland Street and have just been rudely woken by shopkeepers who take exception to them kipping in their doorways. A comfortable seat on the tram is clearly the best way they can find to ease themselves into the day. Unfortunately, they have a fairly random acquaintance with hygiene and trams are a pretty enclosed space. So my liberal sympathies are very quickly overtaken by a need to protect the volatile contents of my stomach.
So I make my way to the front of the tram and bury myself in a book. Two stops later and we’re on Fitzroy Street, home to fast food restaurants and hostels that cater for drug addicts and the generally bewildered. The wind was strong and several emaciated figures were huddled in the small shelter. That was exactly where the front door of the tram stopped and pretty quickly I was surrounded by six twitching junkies with dark sunken eyes hidden behind sunglasses and skin like old boot leather.
I was feeling pretty judgmental, particularly as none of them bothered to buy a ticket. I’m guessing that they were on their way to the City to engage in financial transactions involving illegal drugs and shop lifting. Strange how you become a right wing scare monger when you have a hangover!
The only other passengers on the tram were a motley crew who had boarded at St Kilda Junction. They were dressed in similar fashion to the junkies but looked healthy and out of place in their clothes. I had seen groups like this before but in my hungover state, it took me a few moments to place them. They were plain clothes ticket inspectors sent in swarms to catch the 90% of passengers who don’t buy a ticket. The tramps and junkies had beaten me to it however. In the few seconds it took my addled brain to work all this out, they had jumped off the tram like ghostly pirates and disappeared into the nearby park.
I flashed my ticket at the inspectors and huddled more tightly in the seat. The click clackety click of the metal wheels rebounded in my head as though somebody was smacking my eyeballs with a hammer from the inside. A smell of stale body odour and year old chewing gum hung round the tram and attacked my senses with every intake of breath. I got off three stops early to breathe in some air and to find a café selling oversized sausage rolls.
Johnny Cash had the right idea. If you’re going to wake up feeling like this, it’s best to do it on a Sunday morning when you can crawl back into bed and at least be comfortable when you lie to yourself about how you are never, ever, ever drinking again.
Thursday, 3 September 2009
The Written Test
It’s 8.30am on a Saturday morning and I’m sitting in the plaza ballroom of the Brisbane Exhibition Centre. And I’m bored. They took our mobile phones and IPods from us at reception and the test I’m here for doesn’t start until 9am. So I’m alone with my thoughts and about 300 Chinese and Indian people. Like me, they are here to sit a written English exam for residency purposes and to judge by their expressions they are equally at a loss to know what to do without electronic gadgets.
It wasn’t like that when I last sat an exam, which was back in the long hot summer of 1987. That was held in the Industrial Hall of the Royal Dublin Society which was like an oven on the day I sat my Financial Accounting test. At 1pm that day, I finished eighteen years of education and did what any Irishman would do in that situation. I went to the pub. This wasn’t necessarily a good idea. The exams came at the end of six weeks study leave during which time, I had hardly eaten, slept or washed. So after two pints in the Horseshoe Inn in Ballsbridge, I was floating on air. Ten hours and many pints later, I stumbled into Wanderers Rugby Club which held a disco on Friday nights, for the purposes of introducing nurses to young trainee accountants like me.
Unfortunately, on that Friday night, I was in more need of medical care from those nurses than loving. Somewhere around midnight, I stumbled into the toilets for a quick evacuation of my stomach and somehow managed to lose my glasses. Luckily, through the benefit of alcohol, I didn’t notice I was blind until the middle of the following day. I have only one other memory of that weekend. On the Saturday night, I went to see Elton John in an outdoor concert and couldn’t see a thing. Which was quite an achievement considering the clothes he was wearing.
I’m all grown up now of course and as I sat waiting for the exam to start in Brisbane, all I was dreaming of was a nice latte at the end of the test. I glanced around the hall and marvelled at the geographic spread of the students. For some reason it brought me back to a geography exam I sat in school. I sat beside a particular idiot who stared mournfully at his paper for an hour before nudging me.
“Why did Copenhagen become the biggest City in Denmark?” he asked. I was deep in contemplation at the time on the weightier matter of South American weather systems but I felt sorry for the poor guy as he looked like he lacked the geographical knowledge to find the toilet during the break.
“Because it’s a Port” I said, feeling that this was a suitable titbit to offer and would shut him up.
He gave me a conspirator’s wink and wrote in barely legible type, “Because it’s imported”.
I felt a mixture of annoyance and guilt, so I leant across and repeated my instruction. He nodded and put a line through his first attempt before writing “Because it’s exported”.
I sighed and decided to leave him to his ignorance. He’s probably an economic advisor to one of the Irish Banks now.
Finally the Brisbane test was about to start. The question and answer booklets were handed out but a rather angry English woman stood at the top of the hall and warned us under pain of death that we weren’t allowed to turn the papers over until she said so. She was paranoid about cheating and seemed to be under the impression that students had hidden answers in the toilet cisterns because she issued a severe warning that after the exam started anyone feeling a call of nature would have to cross their legs for three hours.
She spent the next ten minutes explaining how to complete the personal information section at the front of the answer sheet. One of the questions was “Male or female” which left her slightly flummoxed. Her headmistress persona was temporarily dented as she searched for the correct instruction. In the end she said “You can choose either one”. Everyone in the room laughed which was enough proof for me that they understood English and we should have just packed up and gone for a coffee. But it just made her angrier. She slammed her hand on the lectern and stared menacingly. I don’t know about the Chinese and Indians, but I was reminded of a particularly nasty Mother Superior and had the good sense to shut up and get back to my paper.
The exam itself was tougher than I expected. Having to write with a pen was a challenge. We have become so used to typing and texting that very few of us use pens any more apart from completing Sudoku puzzles. Spell check has also made me lazy and I found myself not using particular words because I lacked the confidence to spell them.
The first part of the test was about listening, a subject that all my ex girlfriends would grade me as an F. You had to interpret what was being said and answer questions on the hoof. This meant doing two things at once, which being a man, presented problems. After that, we had an hour of comprehension, which is harder to spell than it is to sit. We finished by having to write an essay on the subject of “Success in later life is determined by your parents. Discuss”.
I could see the finishing post and let fly with gusto. Nature versus nurture got a mention before I felt the need to lighten things up a little. So I mentioned my mother and how she bought me my first pair of glasses. That allowed me to study and to land the big jobs that have taken me all over the world. Those glasses not sit somewhere within the sewage system of Wanderers Rugby Club in Dublin. But they did their job Mam. Thanks for that and for teaching me how to speak English in the first place.
It wasn’t like that when I last sat an exam, which was back in the long hot summer of 1987. That was held in the Industrial Hall of the Royal Dublin Society which was like an oven on the day I sat my Financial Accounting test. At 1pm that day, I finished eighteen years of education and did what any Irishman would do in that situation. I went to the pub. This wasn’t necessarily a good idea. The exams came at the end of six weeks study leave during which time, I had hardly eaten, slept or washed. So after two pints in the Horseshoe Inn in Ballsbridge, I was floating on air. Ten hours and many pints later, I stumbled into Wanderers Rugby Club which held a disco on Friday nights, for the purposes of introducing nurses to young trainee accountants like me.
Unfortunately, on that Friday night, I was in more need of medical care from those nurses than loving. Somewhere around midnight, I stumbled into the toilets for a quick evacuation of my stomach and somehow managed to lose my glasses. Luckily, through the benefit of alcohol, I didn’t notice I was blind until the middle of the following day. I have only one other memory of that weekend. On the Saturday night, I went to see Elton John in an outdoor concert and couldn’t see a thing. Which was quite an achievement considering the clothes he was wearing.
I’m all grown up now of course and as I sat waiting for the exam to start in Brisbane, all I was dreaming of was a nice latte at the end of the test. I glanced around the hall and marvelled at the geographic spread of the students. For some reason it brought me back to a geography exam I sat in school. I sat beside a particular idiot who stared mournfully at his paper for an hour before nudging me.
“Why did Copenhagen become the biggest City in Denmark?” he asked. I was deep in contemplation at the time on the weightier matter of South American weather systems but I felt sorry for the poor guy as he looked like he lacked the geographical knowledge to find the toilet during the break.
“Because it’s a Port” I said, feeling that this was a suitable titbit to offer and would shut him up.
He gave me a conspirator’s wink and wrote in barely legible type, “Because it’s imported”.
I felt a mixture of annoyance and guilt, so I leant across and repeated my instruction. He nodded and put a line through his first attempt before writing “Because it’s exported”.
I sighed and decided to leave him to his ignorance. He’s probably an economic advisor to one of the Irish Banks now.
Finally the Brisbane test was about to start. The question and answer booklets were handed out but a rather angry English woman stood at the top of the hall and warned us under pain of death that we weren’t allowed to turn the papers over until she said so. She was paranoid about cheating and seemed to be under the impression that students had hidden answers in the toilet cisterns because she issued a severe warning that after the exam started anyone feeling a call of nature would have to cross their legs for three hours.
She spent the next ten minutes explaining how to complete the personal information section at the front of the answer sheet. One of the questions was “Male or female” which left her slightly flummoxed. Her headmistress persona was temporarily dented as she searched for the correct instruction. In the end she said “You can choose either one”. Everyone in the room laughed which was enough proof for me that they understood English and we should have just packed up and gone for a coffee. But it just made her angrier. She slammed her hand on the lectern and stared menacingly. I don’t know about the Chinese and Indians, but I was reminded of a particularly nasty Mother Superior and had the good sense to shut up and get back to my paper.
The exam itself was tougher than I expected. Having to write with a pen was a challenge. We have become so used to typing and texting that very few of us use pens any more apart from completing Sudoku puzzles. Spell check has also made me lazy and I found myself not using particular words because I lacked the confidence to spell them.
The first part of the test was about listening, a subject that all my ex girlfriends would grade me as an F. You had to interpret what was being said and answer questions on the hoof. This meant doing two things at once, which being a man, presented problems. After that, we had an hour of comprehension, which is harder to spell than it is to sit. We finished by having to write an essay on the subject of “Success in later life is determined by your parents. Discuss”.
I could see the finishing post and let fly with gusto. Nature versus nurture got a mention before I felt the need to lighten things up a little. So I mentioned my mother and how she bought me my first pair of glasses. That allowed me to study and to land the big jobs that have taken me all over the world. Those glasses not sit somewhere within the sewage system of Wanderers Rugby Club in Dublin. But they did their job Mam. Thanks for that and for teaching me how to speak English in the first place.
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