Investment Banking Monkey - The All Nighter

You’re sitting in Rupert’s office, chewing the fat with this BSD that you almost feel like you can call a colleague! Nothing has been said yet, but you know it and everyone else knows it – you’ve got a job with the firm. You feel like a million fucking dollars (worth of bling handing off your neck) as you sit across the desk from Rupert, who after spending the first half hour of your meeting in his office with his feet outstretched on his desk, has now decided to take off his shoes, and throws them in the left hand corner of his enormous desk. Amazing. You’re so trusted by this BSD of BSDs that he does not feel the need to exhibit even the most basic of courtesies with you any more (which is to refrain from sharing with you the stench that fills the room as his freaking feet come into contact with the crisp air conditioned air). He’s wearing £80 a pop cashmere socks that were sparkling new, clean and not embarrassingly thinning at the heels (to the extent commonly known as a hole) at some date. You can’t make out if the colour is really grey or whether they have absorbed bits and pieces of the surroundings and metamorphosized into that form at some point. You just can’t get it. No matter how important they are. No matter how much of a BSD they are. No matter how much money the make and how much more they have, i-bankers of the Ruppert McMuppet breed are the stingiest fuckers in town when it comes to personal hygiene and items of clothing that they think nobody notices.