You sober up from the big milkround event the night before (obviously from the intoxicatingly pleasant conversation of the bankers you met, rather than the plentiful and free flowing alcohol at the Plaza bar, and the afterparty at Po Na Na where you went with your mates after the Plaza, only to bump into a sleazy group of the investment wankers from presentation, who appear to be on the pull). Thinking back, this is your first experience of what investment bankers are like in a non-work social setting. They all rocked up with their silk print ties, cuffed shirts with monogrammed cufflinks (apart from the DCM guy who was wearing a top of the line, but still off the rack pair of mother of pearl beauties from last season’s Dunhill range) and cashmere coats and scarves. You look at them and know they were wearing Acqua di parma, but deep down inside you just know that what they really smelled like was money.
The beat is piercing the dimly lit club and as you swing back a shot of tequila to wipe clean the image of how cool you will be in clubs when you are a hotshot investment banker, all you can see before your eyes is Christian bale with his slicked back hair and dressed to kill buying a drink in American Psycho. You wash down the tequila with a beer and with your baker wannabe buddies, buy a fresh round of tequila and walk over the banker boys. “Hey, you guys are from Goldmen Suck, aren’t you? I was at your presentation. You guys rock so much more than Lemming Brothers!” Slam. One more round of tequilas – they buy – followed by another round of beers, and then tequilas. Damn. You feel on top of the world – not only did you score lunch with Rupert McMuppet (more excited about it than your date with Camilla deBoobieland on Saturday) but you’re also scoring buddy points with the IBD boys (little do you know that your scoring brownie points with these boys is as close as they have been to scoring in any way, shape or form since they joined the firm). Can life get any better?
Shit. You realise you need to quit daydreaming and get ready for your lunch with Rupert. Shit. Shit. Shit shit shit shit. You bounce around your flat and manage to dress yourself in five minutes, tie your tie in the cab and hop off (leaving the puzzled cabbie an extraordinary tip coz hanging out with the bling boys last night really made you feel like da man) and get taken to a table where you are happy to find that Rupert is not there yet.
Rupert arrives before you know it, wearing a double breasted wide pinstripe suit, pink cutaway collar shirt (mis)matched with a silk print tie in pale green. You try not to stare in amazement at this sartorial combination that after a few deep moment of thought at to its deeper significance, you realise that there is none other than the statement “Fuck you – I’m wearing this because I can. That’s right, I’m such a BSD and I want (feel the need for) everyone to know it.”
Exchanging pleasantries, you realize that Rupert is an old Etonian (not because you are paying attention to what he is saying, or because of the ring he wars on his left finger – this is a more profound, deep realization, stemming from the fact that the ridiculously coloured and definitely faux pas socks he is wearing are in keeping with some long dead tradition of matching one’s socks to one’s tie, and the fact that he speaks of the days before the Americans entered the City with an accent that feels like he has a piping hot potato in his mouth and is trying desperately hard not to burn himself while he speaks). Good, you think to yourself. The little you said so far was in your English accent (a bit of a gamble as the decision to stick with that was based on the little of your conversation – where you were daydreaming – with Rupert you had the night before, that wasn’t wiped away by the 8 tequilas and countless beers you slammed at Po Na Na the night before with the banker boys). Well done. Talk about your English upbringing (you know only too well not to mention the fact that daddy is a Yank). When Rupert asks you about your political views, you remember quickly your interview experience at the Socialist Republic of Cambridge (aka Cambridge University) where you voices a rather conservative political tone (which is why you are now reading bullshit here instead). Cautiously, you fire back a well rehearsed answer that pigeonholes you as a business friendly, tax hating, globalisation loving conservative. Kaching. You just know that you fit the bill by now. You’ve hit the nail right on the head. Now all you need is to ace those silly motivation questions and you’re through!
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