Nothing Banker, just Beautiful - pls watch

I wish someone had shown me this

The Winds of Change

Growing up in a poor country, I was always inclined to think of environmentalists as morons. I was living in paradise, but struggling every day for education, healthcare and hot designer shit. I wish I could walk around cutting down the trees, emsaculating leopards and performing dental work on elephants all for some profitable chinese herbal tea. My family eventually settled on two incredibly environmentally unfriendly industries: garments and crab fishing, to give me my first taste of the good life. I had proven myself right, again.

Until I came to Hong Kong. Even I could see how often Nature had been raped to tame her rolling hills, sparkling waters and clear blue sky. The cock-shaped IFC 2 tower is a literal expression of what mankind has rammed down Nature's throat. Ofcourse I couldn't give two shits. I threw my starbucks paper cup right, I dropped my plastic bag left, I washed my shampoo down the sink and I kept my A/C on high sending sweet CFCs sky-ward.

The earthquakes and flooding changed all that. Suddenly my livelihood, capital markets, were threatened by an endless litany of environmental disasters. Earthquakes in China, floods in China, droughts in Pakistan, floods in Australia (which previously had droughts), floods in Iowa, storms in the North Sea. Even my favourite sushi fish - salmon, was not arriving bloody pink on my plate but instead turning upside down in the slightly warmer waters of Canada and Norway. So for the first time I thought about the environment.

I realised that environmental damage, committed in the name of progress, only ever hurts poor people. Peasants die in floods, peons die in shoddy high-rise collapses during earthquakes, beggars get lung cancer from air pollution. There is an endless, silent death toll in the name of progress. That's not even counting all the cuddly animals, fuck them. So I asked myself three very important questions:

1. How many people have to die before someone invents an environmentally sound system of economic development?

2. Do I give a fuck?

and finally

3. Do I then play China Life from the long or short side?

Why I still read Books

"By the second week in September I reached the conclusion that a unversity education was meanigngless. I decided to think of it as a period of training in techniques for dealing with boredom. I had nothing I especially wanted to accomplish in society that would require me to abandon my studies straight away, and so I went to my lectures each day, took notes, and spent my free time in the library reading or looking things up." - Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami

Six lines to summarise my four years in University.

Bright Red Cherry

Just got a pair of cricket ball cufflinks from Links of London. Feeling very very pimp. Time to work on that MCC membership.

http://www.linksoflondon.com/online-shop/men/cufflinks/5979-sport-cricket-enamel-t-bar

A Trader's Battle Cry

From leveragedsellout.com :

A Few Good Men - A Trader’s Version

I eat breakfast three hundred yards away from four thousand hedge funds who are trained to pick me off. So don't think for one second that you can come down here, flash a client relationship, and make me nervous.

Son, we live in a world that has risks, and those risks have to be hedged by men like me. Who's gonna do it? You? The Sales Force? I have a greater responsibility than you can possibly fathom. You weep for your client and curse the desk. You have that luxury. You have the luxury of not knowing what I know: that your client's loss, while tragic, probably saved p&l. And that my existence, while grotesque and incomprehensible to you, saves p&l. You don't want the truth - because deep down, in places you don't talk about at parties, you want me in those screens.

You need me in those screens. We use words like roll-down, carry, gamma.

We use these words as the backbone of a life spent defending something.

You use them as a punch line. I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain myself to a man who rises and sleeps under the blanket of the very bonus pool that I provide, and then questions the manner in which I provide it! I'd rather you just said "thank you" and went on your way. Otherwise, I'd suggest you pick up a prop book and stand a post. Either way, I don't give a damn what you think you are entitled to!

These are a few of my favourite things

Wall Street + Family Guy = Fucking Hilarious!

Quote of the Day

"We are all worms, but I do believe that I am a glowworm"

- Winston Churchill

Holiday Observations - Part 2

As you may have realised by now, one of my greatest foibles is the insatiable desire for books. Led by one of these urges, I walked into my neighbourhood book store this afternoon, and paused. It looked like a gathering of the Stepford Wives. I was the only man in the whole place. Now I knew what office aunties did after a long day of doing fuck all.

It turns out that professional women love to read, read crap, but read nevertheless. Suddenly, the success (and for fuck's sake, sequels) of "The true stories of a London Call Girl" made a whole lot of sense. Publishers have realised that the only people who still read by holding ink and pulp for hours are women, and have instructed their minions (writers) to produce books accordingly. In addition to the incessant drivel pumped out by romance/susepense/soft-porn/travel/cookery/"hot guy autobiography"/"brave/abused woman autobiography" writers, serious literature is also adjusting to the changing demographics of its readership. Rushdie's newest book is about love, not Shaitan falling from the sky into a British Pastoral. A woman, a bloody feminist at that, has won the Nobel Prize for Literature, and she had the balls (sic) to refuse.

I'm not Talib, and welcome the development of a race of women who actually know more about the world than the latest on Britney's tit flashings but I mourn for my fellow brothers. Please start reading, before we have to start those fucking gay book clubs.

Holiday Observations - Part 1

I've finally been granted a break from my 4-screened toils, for an entire blessed week. It might come as a shock to you that I will spend the whole week in Hong Kong. Why? Well, firstly I have punched quite a hole in my bank balance with my home-bound remittances, clothes, books, food and booze spending. Secondly, I find international travel on my passport so stressful and humiliating that it rather defeats the purpose. Lastly, my definition of de-stressing is sitting in a quiet cafe with a great book and a sickly sweet cuppa.

Besides acting like a retired old white man, I have also been wandering around the movie theatres and shopping malls of Hong Kong trying to burn some time. In the process, I have proved to myself a seemingly biased piece of ancient wisdom: "having a wife and kids is fucking expensive". I used to think that fathers made too much of a fuss about the ball and chain and her progeny. Until I saw IFC Mall on a Monday afternoon. As their men were being tossed about by the waves of incomprenhensible stagflationary markets worldwide and being drenched in red ink, women and children were taking safe refuge in this giant Ark of consumerism, full of designer clothing, sensual perfume and ever-tackier sunglasses. As the cash machines rang, I realised the inevitability of the "shirts sleeves to shirts sleeves" rule. It might take three or five generations, but as long as you give your woman a credit card, it WILL happen.

It occured to me: when men finally get their permanent vacation, would they be able to afford the same retail therapy? I hope that our wives atleast buy us a book and some skinny lattes.

Bust a Cap in your Ass

Trader 1: "Dude, did you come in strapped today?"

Trader 2: "Yo, I never leave home without my glock homie, I like the respect it gives me"

Trader 1: "Left mine at home bro, you think I can make do with just my fingers looking like a gun"

Trader 2: "Yeah dude,just keep your hands in your pocket at the next meeting, make them feel the fear"

Together: "Respecttttah"

The White Stripes

I have seen a few too many young Asian tigers fail to get within mauling range of the great-white-hunters only because they approach them wrong. What follows is a rough guide to the types of white people found on a trading floor that hopefully make the difference between Republic Day and the Sepoy Mutiny:

1. Steven Seagal

This tough son of a bitch thinks he's Asian. Not Asian as in a lover of chinese food, women and culture. No, I mean he thinks he's slit-eyed, small-cocked, straight-haired proper Asian. This guy wants nothing more than to be told the secrets of your culture and language. Indulge him in his moronic quest for Eastern enlightenment and you will soon find yourself a VP. Then get together with the other Desis and the Triads and send him into retirement in Tibet.

2. Chuck Norris

This badly dressed, weather beaten monstrosity is from some obscure part of a Western country. All his millions have not changed his outlook on life or on personal hygiene. Despite management pressure and the racial integration guidebooks, he still thinks of Vietnam when he sees Orientals and Apu when he sees Indians. The best way to play Mr. American-History-X is to behave like the Asian manservant that he thinks you are. Eventually you'll find yourself doing so much of his work that you can fit seamlessly into his role when he retires to fuck cowboys down in Montana.

3. The White Chris Tucker

This harmless Westerner's only view of Asians are as comic fodder. There is no real racism in his mind, its just that we look/smell/sound fucking hilarious. He has no objection to working with Asians, eating Asian food or boning Asian women. In short, he is the perfect boss or teammate and you will eventually use him as the investor front man for your hedge fund.

Quote of the Day

Me: "Dude, why is Japan up 3% on no news?"

Director, in wise tone: "More buyers than sellers son".

Buying Self-Worth at IFC Mall

Once a month, atleast, the shocking truth of a trader's sole purpose on earth hits him/her/it in the head. We ask a simple, yet terrifying question of ourselves: why do I do this shitty job?

Well, its obvious. We work, and thus live, for the acquistion, storage and spending of money. The last of these three phases is the most important. Without this vital release, we are angry Monarchs, potent with pent-up purchasing power, straining at our emotions and our fears. Occasionally, we roar in fury and buckle the knees of the plebians and patricians of retail alike. We ride towards the city, our chariots kicking up the dust in the face of those who meekly follow.

The grand palace of the Hong Kong retail experience is the IFC Mall in the centre of the city. All the brands conceived in the minds of cynical style-mongers, genius homosexuals and every combination in between, is housed in this elegant intersection of glass, marble and steel. Housing thousands of people at any one time, it still exudes a reverent hush. For good reason. It is here that lives are given meaning.

My first visit was to my trusty Brooks Brothers store. I had noticed that every second managing director had checked shirts. Not the ones you can buy on the streets of Madras, but rather creations sculpted by warrior gnobes in the forests of Sweden. I settled for the non-iron, poplin produce of dexterous Filipino hands. Two window-pane shirts and HKD 1500 later, I was feeling the first head rush of retail emancipation.

In search of further freedom from mental slavery (didja catch the Marley reference), I entered the home of an old friend, Armani Exchange. I had not bought a whisper-thin, peruvian cotton, brazen be-logoed T-shirt since college and I picked up two just for old time's sake. I will wear them when I feel good about my body as well as my soul. I had fulfilled my quest, my heart was lighter and my spirit soared.

My last purchase was a pair of D&G aviator sunglasses. They were something I really did need. The sun shines much brighter up above the clouds.

Jungle Guides

Nobody is capable of making it through Wall Street without a jungle guide. Someone to help a hapless novice past the blood-sucking theta bushes, to avoid the poisonous vega snake and to get out of the way of the thundering commodity play. These are a few characters that have tried to mentor me in my short time on Wall Street (they all male because if you have a female boss on Wall Street, you are already too far gone to be helped):

1. The Mister Miyagi

This mild-mannered, yet deadly if fucked with, Asian man prepares you for the real world by forcing you to incessantly repeat inane tasks. You do nothing of any significance for your first few years on the job. Abruptly he will then shove you into harm's way, helping a client hedge his currency exposure in Pakistani GDRs.

Upside: The nitty gritty of your job becomes second nature, so your mind is completely free to concentrate on the important, strategic stuff. Like why you are balancing on one leg on a pole in the middle of the fucking ocean.

Downside: There is no way to hedge your currency risk in Pakistan. Your client, and thus you, are fucked.

2. The Gordon Gekko

This evil white man will put complete and utter faith in your intelligence, street smarts and complete lack of ethics to turn you into a ruthless money-making machine. You will learn how to rip off clients, fudge PnL and generally walk around like your dick is 8 feet long. The scraps off this man's plate will upgrade you from your student dive to a penthouse apartment overlooking the city crammed full of the best new toys.

Upside: You're rich bitch. Optional time-share of his leggy whore.

Downside: He punches you in the mouth, you sell out your father's firm and you become a rapper's bitch in prison. Soul is lost never to return.

3. The Simon Cowell/Tyra Banks

This bastard can be of any race/colour or creed. He will insist on making you look retarded for the smallest mistakes and his speech on what an idiot you are will take longer than simpler explanation of how to fix the problem. On the flip side, he runs an immensely sucessful business and the price of hanging on his coat-tails is you get hit by his shit in the face.

Upside: You develop skin of steel. Spectacle of your humiliation also draws attention to your group, increasing visibility and bonus pool.

Downside: He will always be making more money than you. He will also probably only keep you on the show for a few seasons.

Quote of the Day

"There is something reductive about the markets. You can be right for all the wrong reasons and wrong for all the right reasons, all the market sees are wrong and right. Compare this to a teacher who asks a class of young children to name two pronouns. Since noone speaks up, she asks Timmy who, frozen in fright, replies "Who, me?". Timmy might not get an A in English, but if this were the market, he'd be very rich." - A Mathematician Plays the Market - John Allen Paulos.

Bankers and Brotherly Love

I realised today that UN does not have shit on the average non-Japanese trading floor of an investment bank. We often speed through our day not noticing the individuals we dealing with day to day, but if we stop speeding through our lives, the white blur teases itself out into all the colours of human species. My day, in this vivid technicolour, is as follows:

1. Use friendship with Hong Kong Chinese boy to get a copy of Research in the neatly collated form used by Research (not the shoddy piecemeal shit they send to the clients and our desk).

2. Greet the head of our desk, a lily-white Canadian, and ask how his Korean wife is feeling after the flu. Pass him the research report. He flips over it, something catches his eye and he immediately calls up his Japanese-American broker in Tokyo.

3. Next to arrive is the Taiwanese-Chinese-origin, Canadian-born trader who handles Korea and Taiwan. He begins his day by going over night arbs with our Italian/Irish American staffed Asian Equities desk in New York. He opens his first e-mail of the day, the Korea derivatives summary, written by a young Frenchman.

4. Later still arrives the Indian and Pakistan trader, a North London lad of the best kind. He jabbers excitedly about his trip to see tigers in Rantanbore, forts in Jaipur and mujaheddin in Delhi. He complains that his Malay-Chinese-origin, London-born wife is harassed as all women are in India. He wonders how the locals keep their hands off Indian women, who he finds gorgeous. He spends the rest of the day speaking to several dozen Indian brokers, who first words are invariably "Arite mate?". But two of these calls are personal: an Indian broker's British wife is homesick, would he get something for her next time he goes to London....an Australian broker fro Macquarie living in Mumbai calls in to boast about bowling to Sachin Tendulkar in the Mumbai Indians nets. Sachin pulled the rank long hop to Brisbane.

5. Last to arrive is our American-origin, British-born Hong Kong and China trader. He slides elegantly to his desk, his beautiful Malay-born, American-educated, investment banker girlfriend by his side. As they part ways, he remembers something, and he asks me:

"Mate are there any good places to dive in Sri Lanka? There is a boutique hotel there we want to check out"

A full cirle, world peace and a benneton ad. Bankers 1, Hypocritcal Hippies 0.

Question of the Day

If it rains summer, autumn and winter in Hong Kong, why are all the sidewalks paved in fucking slate or marble?

Quote of the Day

"To feel like a black man in New York, play a game of cricket in public - we put on white, to remember we are black" - Netherland by Joseph O'Neill

To feel brown for that matter.

The IIM interns leave next week

I will miss them. I dont even know their names, but I know I will. Long after the last gorah has left the building, we talk about cricket and Calcutta, about Sachin, Shoaib, Sanath, Satyam and SAIL. I will miss the smell of paratas and aloo gobi in the pantry during lunch time. I will miss having someone to help me with Excel macros. I will miss being the best looking South Asian on the floor, instead of the only South Asian.

But,

I WILL NOT FUCKING MISS THOSE SOCKS. HOW CAN A GIRL WEAR SOCKS?

Sigh. It was sweet in a moronic kind of way.