Application to become an investment banker

(Click on the image to enlarge)

This is how a real investment banker applies for a job.

Confident,

Articulate,

Capable,

Useless.

...and the kind of shit that (often) happens in investment banking

... continued from "The kind of shit that (not so often) happens in investment banking"

You waltz into the office at around 10:30 am, feeling like you own the place in light of the information you acquired the night before, on your way home from work. You get to your desk, drop your things onto loudly, look at your phone, where the red indicator light is blinking indicating that you have voicemails, and choose to ignore it. You pick up the phone to Mike, one of your buddies in the industrial manufacturing group and arrange to meet him at the lifts for coffee. You take a stroll around the floor, saying hi to fellow monkeys and the secretaries, and stopping by to exchange a few (condescending, given that you are now a pro forma master of the universe) words with each of them.

"Don't you have work to do man?"

Asks one of the summer interns, who is religiously compiling annual and quarterly reports for the comps he needs to do.

"My man, you will learn. In time, you will learn... not to ask silly questions like that"

As you pass more and more people in the office, blatantly demonstrating the fact that you are really doing nothing, more heads start to turn, and you can hear the puzzled whispers as you pass each desk.

"Is he quitting?"

You barely make out the words coming from behind you, as you make your way to the lifts.

You chuckle, as you make out the words. Little do they know what is really on the table, you think to yourself and picture yourself turning around, walking over the the little naive monkey who asked the question and saying:

"Little man, quitting is for amateurs. For the guys that aren't good enough to stay. I am by no means quitting. Mark these words, as you are talking to the future department head... and when you know the kind of shit that I know, that won't be in the too distant future".

The kind of shit that (not so often) happens in investment banking

So you’re leaving the office late. It’s 1am as you get into a cab to take you home. Bonus paid, money in the account and no offer at hand, so you decide to drown yourself in workaholicism, in the hope that you will forget that seven of your fellow analysts quit today and there are a good few more to come over the next few days.

You can’t believe your luck as your taxi driver dims your lights, and when you give him a puzzled look, he turns on the intercom to the passenger cabin and says:

“You looked like you wanted some peace and quiet, so I figured I’d turn down the lights so you can get a kip guv”

You thank the good man and doze off with the views of the London Eye, Buckingham Palace and other central London attractions swiftly passing beside you.

As you wake up to see the cab sitting in front of your Chelsea, flat you dig into your firm branded gym bag for your keys. And again. And again, and with more agitation at each attempt. No keys. And again. Nothing.

You must have left them at the office. Damn it. When things are going so well, here you are, having to go back to the city, get your keys and lose another hour of sleep. Damn it in deed.

You politely ask the cabbie to take you back and you try to catch a few more winks of sleep which prove to be difficult as the cabbie decides to take you Through Mayfair towards the City.

You watch the crowds of party goers outside the cab, when a familiar looking face catches your eye. You look again in disbelief, and yes, clear as daylight, it is Rupert, hailing a taxi coming in the opposite direction. With him is… Noooo! It can’t be.

“Wow!”

You think to yourself. The rumour potential of this is tremendous. It’s Rupert and Melinda, getting into a cab together. At 2 am!

Forgetting those keys in the office wasn’t so bad after all. Now this is how an hour of sleep can gain you an incredible amount of leverage. Who said that working late doesn’t have it’s benefits?

The world is your oyster*

*WARNING: Please ensure you are not allergic to oysters.
________________________________________

It's your first day at the firm and you're feeling so damn good about yourself. Damn right man, you're an investment banker now. Master of the universe. Big swinging dick. King of the capital markets. You'll be able to have conversations where when asked about what line of work you're in, you reply in sheer American Psycho "muders & executions". The world is your oyster and your heart is beating way too fast to read the health warning. That's for losers anyway. Let the dude in GIR read the fuckin' health warning... hehe. Health warnings are for wimps, not masters of the universe.

You give it a week. Ten days tops, before very single MD will be begging for your advice. You feel like a kid before Christmas as you walk triumphantly into the firm's London headquarters. You can almost hear the Christmas carols in your head.

"Twas the nigh before banking, and the markets were still
waiting for the intern who will make the big kill,
he'll advise on disposals and sponoffs and such,
he'll even get a bonus coz they'll love him so much.
his models will roll and his pitchbooks will rock,
boy all the MDs will be in for a shock,
he'll get jumped to VP just a week in the ranks,
and his name will be feard by the other i-banks"

You open your eyes and absorb the grand reception of the firm's European headquarters. Green marble left right and centre, tall ceilings, a long reception desk to which you start walking triumphantly. As you walk the long stretch of floor between the entrance and the marble, you can feel the beat of the heels of your shoes against the marble floor. It's almost like a song you've heard many many times before. The closer you get to the reception desk, the more clear it becomes, and there it is, just as you are about to reach it, you look around and you know it. It could be the firm's theme song. The sterile smell of freshness, the beat of your soles, the blingy green marble and bang. The christmas songs are replaced by the smooth beat of Jenny from the block.

Almost hitting the reception desk, dazed in bling of "the rocks they got", you come to a stop, ready to grace the firm with your presence. It's the moment they have all been waiting for.

"Can I help you sir?" blurts the receptionist with a smile on her face. "Can she help me?!? WTF?!?" You feel like exploging into a "Don't you know who I am? I am the guy that will be this firm's youngest MD. I will be the guy that will bring in more deals that all the officers combined. I will be" STOP! You realise that she must be new and obviously the fact that she should be expecting the new interns has slipped her mind. Nobody is perfect. You calm down and let her know politely your name, rank and serial number. Your have been welcomed to the world of the individual.

Lunch with Rupert McMuppet

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!

Tailored suits and silk print ties

You're 20 years old and studying for a business studies (aka bullshit studies) degree on a day like any other on campus, with overcast skies, pouring rain and the odd lecture during the day, except the circus is in town today. It's the start of the milkrounds, the recruiting season for the investment banks, where armies of London based bankers make their way out of town, dressed to impress and guns a'blazin, firing more than 100 pieces of bullshit a minute (bpm is the industry norm, and 120 is the world record).

You're in the banquet room of the Plaza hotel, surrounded by the London suits, sipping on beers and wine, huddled around signs with flash corporate logos, below which you read "ECM","DCM","IB","FICC","GIR"...and you're just thinking "WTF - I just wanna get a job with them and get my suit done at the same tailor coz it looks sooooooo good". Sunndenly, you get cornered by one of the half-drunk sleazy chaps from GIR (equity research) and think to yourself "dude, not only does your breath stink, but you're wearing a off the rack four button suit, your shoes are fit for a stag night in Newcastle and you work for a department that sucks more than the infamous equity sales in Dallas". Unfortunately for you, the GIR dude can't read your mind (or the look of desparation on your face) and gives you a limp handshake and asks "So, why do you want to work for GIR?". You fight the urge to resopond candidly and explain why you do not see yourself as a loser and actually wanna be one of the BSDs (big swinging dicks) in the investment banking division, so you politely ask him if he wants another drink (phew...that's why you will be a cut-throat banker...thinking on your feet...give the baby some milt and it aint gonna cry no more...oh how you will put that sharp brain of yours to use when you become an (drool) investment banker! Your coworkers will stankd up in silence every morning you walk onto your floor, managing directors will queue in front of your office asking for advice on how to defend their client against a fantastic hostile offer they have just received, and you will walk out of pitches with a standing ovation following you out of the boardroom. Ah, the world will truly be your oyster, when you become one of the few (and eventually the undisputed leader of the) masters of the universe.

Wake up! Bugger. Whilst you were daydreaming, Rupert McMuppet, Managing Director in the investment banking division has been telling you about what a great opportunity becoming an investment banker is, and after a ten minute template spiel on why I-banking is the best thing that could ever happen to you, he is about to stuff your hand with his business card and an invite to lunch the next day. You wake up just in time to catch the eggshell white, thick paper business card with the bank's logo elegantly embossed in an understated rectangle in the top corner, and Rupert's name triumphantly embossed with a glossy black ink finish, below which the letters spelling managing director unmistakably allude to his BSD status. "Holy shit!" you think to yourself. Lunch with Rupert! All that bla bla you gave him about wanting to push the limit of what is achieveable, addign value as part of a team, working with the best people in the business, loving the work, being motivated by the prospect of reading about your deals in the FT...all that crap and he bought it!

As you politely thank Rupert, you swiftly make your way to the bar, as you know whilst there is no such thing as a free lunch, there definitely is such a thing as a free bar at the Plaza.