Small is beautiful

"A little bit of what you fancy does you good," as grandmothers like to say. Therefore I snorted cocaine, insulted my boss and cut the finger off that intern I fancied (I always feel guilty about finding any intern attractive, although at their age of 20 it is hardly a criminal offence - except in certain countries where it is a criminal offence regardless of age). Perhaps certain advice should not be interpreted too literally.

Similarly, "less is more" is a good piece of advice in many areas: Powerpoint presentations should be brief (my first act as grand dictator of the world would be to introduce legislation restricting them to one page); one piece of chocolate, suitably relished with toe-curling intensity really is as good as, say, fifty gobbled down with lightning pace; and people should speak less, apart from me, since I have powerful wisdom to convey. Disney has clearly taken this message to heart by releasing a film (WALL-E) in which people hardly speak at all - clearly they have heard the prayers silently wailed by many a viewer of a Disney film, "please, please, please speak less". (WALL-E is very, very good.)

Those who doubt the impact of brevity should consider PostSecret - a site where users post their secrets from shameful, to sad, to bizarre. "I don't smile anymore," someone says, a secret which speaks of despair and sadness and regret more completely than I can imagine. Or One Sentence, which does something similar: "It happened in a closet," one story says darkly, and "I saw two monks bowling in Seoul," says another, more bewildered. On Thursday I went out with work colleagues. A bit of beer here, a bit of conversation there. Hardly an unusual event. I don't think I've done that for, oh ... two years? So maybe not an event to toast, perhaps not Tony Blair making winsome speeches on a historic achievement, but still ... a connection. And all the things I've missed without realising it: drunk conversations of alarming frankness; the I-really-should-stop-but-I'm-not-going-to feeling as I accept another bottle of beer, dancing to hypnotic, important-feeling music and the strange eyes-closed intensity I have to dancing. You see, it's the little things. It's always the little things.

Paint a rumour

I think Eurythmics summarised events in financial circles best when they sang ...

Paint a rumour (watch the colours spread)
Paint a rumour (see the stock turn red)
I will tell you something (promise not to tell)
I will tell you something (promise not to short sell)

... who thought eighties pop music lyrics (slightly adjusted) would so accurately predict the state of the 2008 stock market?

Wall Street is awash with stories of rumour-mongers deliberately driving down shares and simultaneously short-selling to make huge profits. Now the US regulator (the SEC) has stepped-in. They are carrying out a huge investigation and have said to subpoened a large number of investment banks and hedge funds. In addition they have cracked down on the activity known as naked shorting (shorting, like so many other activities, is legal when it is not naked).

This has revealed some interesting differences between finance and the rest of the world.

"They'll never find them."
"Yeah rumour-mongers are so difficult to find."
"Like those rumours I spread about you having an affair with Jeremy Kyle."
[Shudder] "That was you?"
"Ummm, no. Anyway, to catch them they would have to keep all their e-mails, record all their phone conversations, keep a track of all their IM and bloomberg conversations."
"Yeah. Like investment banks do."

Yes, they do. Doing the sexy realtime instant-messanger nasty with someone in the office is a really bad idea, mostly because it's open-plan ("that's not a meeting!") but also because the conversation will be recorded (it's a regulatory requirement, and is mandatory regardless of the raunch-content of the conversation): who knows what titillations the SEC will uncover when they start going through those seized records?

This is one of the paradoxes these events raise: everyone is terrified of the strict laws that govern investment banking and yet no-one expects the regulators to ever actually do anything or catch anyone (with the exception of the most blatant of acts, the French regulator fined SocGen €4m for their rogue trader, compared to the €4.9bn he had already lost it seems the only reasonable reaction would be a Gallic shrug). If the rumour-mongers exist and there was an organised campaign to drive-down prices of particular stocks it would be undetectable with any reasonable planning, but only if the organisers expected the regulators to actually do something about it. If they take the approach that everyone else takes - it's impossible to track - then they could be in a lot of trouble ... except the regulators never do anything anyway.

The SEC's other action, to effectively outlaw naked short selling, also met with mixed responses. Some felt it was propping up a broken financial system. Others of looking after the pals. Others simply thought those shoes were ghastly and puh-lease, that suit. Naked short selling (and short-selling in general) is controversial (at least, to those who give a damn) - short-sellers have been accused of encouraging financial crises ranging from the Tulip bubble to the '29 Wall Street Crash. Whether or not it is as wide-spread or as damaging as people claim is subject to debate, but it goes to show how skewed perspectives are when an attempt to stop people selling things they do not (and will not) own is seen as unquestionably bad.

Of course it's only investment banks which suffer (or profit, according to some of the news) - and what sympathy do they deserve? I wonder if people would be quite so relaxed if it happened to them?

"I'll pay for this this."
"Thanks for the meal Laphroaig. Managed to overcome all that nonsense about the credit card then?"
"Oh yes, got to the bottom of all that trouble with the credit rating."
"What was it in the end?"
"An organised campaign of rumour-spreading."
"Really?"
"Yes. Apparently everyone was sure I was about to announce massive write-downs due to the credit crunch and an undocumented exposure to the US sub-prime mortgage industry leading to an emergency fire-sale to a UK bank, probably Barclays, for $15."
"How odd."
"I asked the regulator to investigate."
"Oh I wouldn't bother. Rumours are so difficult to track down and it was only endless financial misery, hardship and your reputation."
"But ... but ..."
"Oh come, come, don't be a baby about it. Comes with the territory. And it wasn't true, so what damage did it really do?"

I may be as mad as a beetroot (surely the maddest of all root vegetables) but the world in which I operate can also seem a little unbalanced.

Perhaps we cancel each other out? So, at work, that makes me ... sane?

Summertime and the living is easy

Summer brings an abundance of that migratory creature: the intern. They swarm, bright-eyed and slightly frightened with dreams of mega-bucks deals clearly visible in their eyes. Usually they get sent to me.

"What's your job, Laphroaig?"
"That's a very good question."
[Expectant silence]
"Let me know if you ever find the answer."
[Slightly dumb-founded look]

Then we get them to do some filing.

Roles and responsibilities, job titles, performance-measurement ... all these things are important; if an employer attempts to change your title from "Project Delivery Manager" to "Convicted Fraudster" it should, in general, be resisted - such titles can be quite unflattering on a CV - and is a sign that either you've really annoyed someone in HR, or that they're on to you, or that they're trying to prevent you from leaving without that tedious expense of higher salaries.

Fortunately my current job title is of no help at all. Electronic Client Person, is fraught with ambiguities.

"So, you're electronic?"
"In a sense, yes."
"Does that mean you're a creature of pure energy?"
"Ummmm, no."
"Ah, I see. Electronic Client ... Person. Your clients are creatures of pure energy?"
"Ah, no."
"Probably for the best. Not much of a market I suppose?"
"Ah, I suppose not."
"Can you shoot electricity out of your hands?"
"Well, no."
"That's rather disappointing. I have to say, Mr Laphroaig. This job title is blatantly misleading and fraught with ambiguities."

This could work in my favour. I could do nothing all day, turning away all work by adopting a Dick Van Dyke Cockney accent and saying "love to help you, guv'nor, can't do it I'm afraid, not my job you see, boss would go maaaaaad if I took it on". Alternatively I could just attach myself to the project with the best-looking men on it and use meetings as a sort of mini speed-dating. Perhaps not the best idea with redundancy in the air.

And so I have become something more esoteric.
NB - The ninjawords definition of esoteric concludes with "and without obvious practical application".
I flit from project to project as instructed. This, of course, means they're rubbish projects typically in trouble. I have started to lobby HR for an official job title of Trouble-Shooter as part of a five-step plan to allow me to bring guns into the office and shoot anyone who annoys me.

"You ... you ... you shot the lead deveoper!"
"He was trouble. So I shot him. That's what I do."
"But ..."
"You ain't givin' me trouble, are you?"

However, they made the excellent observation "who the hell do you think you are?" and I do suppose that such a job title has an inherent ability to insult.

"We've drafted Laphroaig on to your project."
"I didn't realise we were in trouble."
"Well the project is late. And he writes dreadfully nice e-mails."

And so with one mega project done and dusted, it is time to move on. And while I love to complain about my odd-job man role, at least I get the variety (i.e. a constant state of change, not the entertainment magazine, investment banking has not yet reached the levels where compensation is in the form of glossy magazines) and with it the challenge and, no doubt, the lack of recognition at the end of year promotion bout.

"So, Laphroaig, what's his job?"
"I can't say for sure, but he's very useful. That's why we thought of promoting him."
"Yes, my secretary's very useful. Shoots lightning bolts out of her hands. Is he a secretary?"
"Could be. Sort of greases the wheels."
"So an odd-job man?"
"Don't think so."
"Bartender?"
"Maybe. He sorts of looks after problem projects, but then they always get better by themselves so we have to move him on again."
"Oh, a vagrant?"
"Could be. He looked after that mega project."
"Oh that one. What happened to that?"
"It went live."
"I didn't notice."
"You weren't supposed to, I think."
"Should we be promoting people for things we don't notice?"
"Maybe next year."

Would I have it any other way? And so I smile at my interns.

"Sometimes we need ambiguity in job roles. It's a good thing."
"Really?"
"Yes. It ensures gaps are filled and it gives me variety."
"Oooo, can I borrow? There's a really interesting article about Angelina Jolie."

Afraid of showing your brain in the changing room?

Today an e-mail arrived in my inbox: ACTUAL PEOPLE SEARCHING FOR REAL SEX RIGHT NOW! It sounds rather surprised at itself. Perhaps in the past it has come tantalisingly close to this perfect combination:

• NOT QUITE ACTUAL PEOPLE (BUT QUITE CLOSE) SEARCHING ...
• ACTUAL PEOPLE UNINTERESTED IN FINDING REAL SEX ...
• ACTUAL PEOPLE SEARCHING FOR KITCHEN ACCESSORIES RIGHT NOW!
• ACTUAL PEOPLE SEARCHING FOR REAL SEX BUT AT A LATER DATE WHEN IT WOULD BE LESS INCONVENIENT IF YOU DON'T MIND!
  

Despite the obvious temptations of a crowd of people lurching through the streets with zombie-like fixation on "se-e-e-e-e-e-ex, re-e-e-e-a-a-a-a-al s-e-x-x-x-x-x", and the coincidence that at work I get e-mails promising me unreal sex with just a few pills (surely this should be investigated), I decide to delete the e-mail as I have something more interesting waiting for me on my PC.

No, I am not talking about porn.

I have my brain on a CD. I went for an MRI scan and afterwards, much to my surprise, they present the results on a CD. I spend a long time looking at, searching for clues for my particular personality quirks (is that particular patch where my epilepsy is lurking, I wonder) and wonder if this is narcissistic. There is something deeply disturbing about seeing the curves and ridges of your spinal chord (it looks depressingly fragile). There is even a setting to flick through my the pictures quickly so you get the impression of floating through your own brain. It's a pretty short journey - I think Alton Towers might have the edge on it.

But mostly, I always thought my brain would be, well, without wanting to be crude, bigger. Perhaps I should contact those people bombarding my e-mail promising "massive increases in the size of my love equipment" if they have anything for any other areas.