From: the.wise.one@abel.co.uk   
      
   A day in the life   
      
      
   Recently, I had lunch with Steve; we had known each other a long time;   
   we had worked together and afterwards had kept in touch.   
      
        'Maaateeeee,' he began. 'Mate' or its affectionate counterpart   
   'maaaate' and 'maaateeeee' is a sign of Anglo-Saxon intimacy amongst   
   traders.  The longer the 'eeeee' at the end, the closer the implied   
   relationship.  The American equivalent is the less descriptive 'guy' or   
   'dude'.  'Mate, you wouldn't believe it,' Steve moaned.  'We had it all.   
     Judas, Stalinist purges, rewriting of history.  We had it all.  And   
   the f****** air cover failed to show up.  F***.'   
      
        About one year prior, Steve had joined a new derivative start-up --   
   the new entrant was owned by a well-established bank.  The staff,   
   including Steve, had an equity stake.  There were also some other equity   
   investors.   
      
        The operation had begun well but now it was falling apart.  The   
   owner had brought in a senior guy from an American bank; a review of the   
   'business model' had been done; consultants had explored 'strategic   
   options'.  The operation was to be wound up.  The start-up's owner was   
   going back to its knitting.   
      
        The whole process was disastrous.  The review of the business   
   brought out deep-seated antipathies between the principals.  One senior   
   person, Judas, sold out, betraying his colleagues.  He revealed problems   
   with the business; discrepancies in earnings and undisclosed risks.  He   
   was gunning for the top job.  The Stalinist phase commenced: senior   
   employees rediscovered 'personal interests', there was a purge of   
   supporters and allies, history was rewritten, names of the vanquished   
   disappeared and their activities were entirely disavowed.  The owners   
   decided to shut the whole thing down.  The other equity investors were   
   there to create a wedge, allowing the managers to play one shareholder   
   off against another.  At the critical moment, the investors had not been   
   sighted, the air cover had failed to show.  The operation had imploded.   
      
        Steve and I had lived through good times and bad.  The reality was   
   that we worked in a brutal and uncertain profession.  In the good times,   
   we had done a lot of interesting trades, we had made a lot of money.   
   The money compensated for the dog-cat-dog nature of our business, the   
   relentless pressure to produce and the false camaraderie.  There were   
   the bad periods: you were forced to sack people you liked, you fired   
   somebody you had hired with promises of a wonderful career.  They had   
   families, mortgages and obligations; you couldn't make eye contact with   
   them as you told them the news.   
      
        During one period, the firm we worked for had shed 20% of its   
   staff.  There were too many people to speak with individually and people   
   were fired over the public address system in the trading room.  Security   
   personnel arrived at your desk, your security access card was   
   confiscated, your personal effects were emptied into a garbage bag and   
   you were escorted from the building.  In a Dilbertian twist, one firm   
   used emails: everybody anxiously checked their screens to see if they   
   were to be laid off.  In another firm, groups were called together to be   
   terminated.  It was like taking people into a room and throwing in a   
   grenade.   
      
        I remember Crem's reaction when he was laid off after the firm   
   merged with a competitor.  It was about 8 pm.  He walked down to the   
   parking lot and got his car, a vintage model Porsche leased as part of   
   his compensation package.  He drove to the front of the building, revved   
   the engine and drove the car through the plate glass doors of the lobby.   
     Crem got out calmly, locked the doors and activated the car's security   
   system.  He then walked out of the building, down the street and dropped   
   the car keys into a drain.   
      
        I looked at Steve: he was 48 years old, my age, and he looked   
   tired.  Like me, he had been in this business for over 20 years,   
   starting straight out of university.  He was up to wife number two and   
   had assorted children from the two marriages.  He had made and spent a   
   lot of money in his life.  Steve was out of a job and it was going to be   
   hard starting out all over again.  It was a young person's game.   
      
        When I began in banking, the premise was that you stayed with the   
   same organization for life.  You could rise to head the firm.  It was a   
   beautiful lie, like so many we told our clients, our bosses and   
   ourselves all through our careers.   
      
      
   from:   
   "Traders, Guns & Money: Knowns and unknowns in the dazzling world of   
   derivatives"   
   by Satyajit Das   
   FT Prentice Hall, 2006   
   Chapter 2: Beautiful lies -- the 'sell' side   
   pages 83-85   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)