Day 9 – Morning Scribbles for my City Story

21 Feb

Since I’ve known my fate, I’ve told a few people about my life in the City, the scrapes I’ve found myself in and the course this life’s river has taken. I’m writing a story, the prison diary is no more than a feature in this tale. I haven’t a clue where to start a story but I’m sure I’ve got some content. I have a few hours spare and I write a few pages. I pop them in my diary for safe keeping:

 

The start

“If you’re in it for the money, then this job isn’t the one “.

An old director told me that, that same day I jacked his soulless job in. It was in the crazy world of transport planning, designing traffic sequences. It was pony, you could learn everything you’re ever going to learn in that game in one day. I’d go bananas if I stayed another.

Only one thing had kept me in the seat longer than expected. I’d been trying to crack on with an overseas director’s daughter when they’d given me the role to look after her. Obnoxious, gorgeous and only talked to me. She got sent home, after rolling in drunk with me one morning. Daddy didn’t like her fraternising with the help. All avenues of pleasure exhausted, I did the necessary resignation email, hit send and bowled out of that cul-de-sac of life.

Money goes to Money and I knew exactly where I was heading.

Welcome to the City, the real one, not the banker bonuses and the international trading floors, I’m talking about the polished child of an east-end upbringing. Walk around the square mile and you see the Essex boys, the mockneys, new cockneys and old pearly kings – wolves in sheep’s clothing.

The low rise offices, cold drafty spaces, sporting businesses of questionable legitimacy, appearing out the ether and peddling the latest big thing. Land bankers, high pressure stockbrokers, wine merchants, property in exotic places you might buy but will never see let alone go. The Kings of Offplan, the Penny Share bucket shops and any other seemingly high risk deal that has one key ingredient, move money from B and bring it back to A. No prizes for guessing, I wanted in the A- Team.

I kept reading job listings for hungry young salespeople, where 6 figure OTE earnings are possible. An opportunity to work in finance; they were after trainee stockbrokers. There’s me, working long dull days getting nowhere, my pals themselves already plotted up in brokerages, living powerful lifestyles after only months at the post. I’d never worked in sales but I fancied myself giving the idea some blag. Nothing ventured nothing gained.

“A stockbroker? Yeah that’s the game to be in.”

My mind takes itself on flights of fancy, then I recount what little of knowledge of financial markets I had, so I sit at home watching hour after hour of Bloomberg news.

Method acting they call it: live the part, look the part, feel the part. A google search and a few hours rooting the web, told me what I needed to know to get moving on how to make this my next step in life.

2 multiple choice exams, 50 questions and a bit of patter. That is all you need to become a stockbroker in the UK, quality – I’m in.

Courses listed all over the web, hundreds of pounds, some thousands, just for  a handful of lousy training guides. I used my melon, ebay, a tenner and I’ve got a foot in the door.”

 

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