Sanity check

Its 9am and you see sitting in the boardroom of ScrewedCo, surrounded by Rupert, Rob and Dirk, a managing director from the Holland office. Dirk is a funny animal. The reason he is in this meeting is because he knows the CEO through social circles in Amsterdam. In fact, Dirk doesn't have a clue as to why we are seeing ScrewedCo.

You sent him the presentation at 4am, just when you sent it to the printers, who got it done by 6am - just in time to head with the books to your flat, shower and head to the airport. Your eyes begin to twitch as the effect of the third cup of extra strong black coffee of the morning begins to wane. You feel that (too good to be true) feeling as you ease back in the leather chair and begin to drift to sleep. Ah, bliss.

Your slumber is interrupted by Dirk, who leans over to your chair and taps you on the shoulder.

"Zhet ish a wery goot book you have prepared. Very nish chartsh. But you sheem to have a problem witsh your email. I only resheived it early thish morning. You musht get IT to fix it when you get back to the offish."

No shit sherlock. You don't say I've got a problem. Thee reason you got the email at four AM is because you sent it to him at four AM. Schmuck. What planet does this guy live on?

Ok. He means well, but come on. What third tier commercial bank did the firm pick this guy out of? Does he really not know how i-banking works? You look at him trying to spot clues giving away his lower position in the food chain even though he is an MD. You look for the usual giveaways. Shoes - buffed and finely made. No joy there. Hands. Clean, well manicured and never carried anything heavier than a ten page pitchnook. Tie. Perfectly matching his suit. Hermes. No joy here. Shirt. Crisp, tailored, cufflinks and no pocket. He even has the extra taste to not have those ridiculously tacky monograms all the nouveau riche bankers pride themselves on. Also, cufflinks are hand made and tasteful. No luck there. Everything about this hit smells like money. Old money at it. He does not behave like a rodeo from Texas wearing a Hermes tie and good suit. This guy is actually more impressive than Rupert. For one thing, he doesn't wear socks with holes. Granted, he speaks funny, but then again, so does Rupert.

You have a brief moment of panic as you see this non i-banker exhibiting all the attributes of a BSD and then some. Are you in the wrong job? Should you begin speaking with a funny accent and ask to be relocated to Amsterdam? You seem relieved to notice that the panic quickly subsides and is replaced by the peaceful lull of sleep, as you sink into the leather chair.

"Gentlemen."

The CEO walks in his army of cronies. Shit. Shitty shitty shit. Sleep will have to wait. You know that you need to be on standby to bail Rupert out when he inevitably fucks up presenting. You cheer yourself up by the fact that you really see indispensable to the firm, whilst learning from some of the best minds in the business.

Aha.

Living the (fucking) dream...

It's a tick before 3AM, the i-banker standard switchoff time. A common misconception in the outside world is that i-bankers are like the Energizer bunny - they just keep going and going and goin. Well, unlike the energizer bunny who eventually gives up and gets a recharge, an i-banker (naturally this is solely the privilege of those sould working for a reputable first tier institution) does not have that luxury. You've heard the story many times over, where the cabbie, barman or just one of your mates says:

"So what's the big deal with all nighters anyway. Why are you whining all the time. I pulled one once and ok, the next day i was a little tired and had to go to bed at 6PM but then it was fine."

Exactly. Once being the key word here. Who the fuck are they to lecture me on all nighters, you think to yourself.

The reasom why you are afforded the luxury of replaying these frustrating conversations in your head is the 3AM switchoff. What is it? Once you start ritualistically going to bed at 5Am and coming to work at 9 (AM and the same day mate), your body isn't very happy. Your eyes start to see double, your hair starts to fall out and turn gray, and the only part of your anatomy that seems to be having a good time is your stomach, which baloons out of your suit pants (even after you adjust them at the waist for maximum leeway). Anyway. 3AM, and you need powernap. if you're really hardcore, you fuck the nap and go out for a smoke or three. It is on your second cigarette, with Rob and an associate called Frank that you lose it.

"Fuckedy, fuck fuck fuck fuck"

You blurt out as you start swirling around in front of the reception, like a madman trying to do a Singing in the Rain act.

"Why me, why the fuck does it have to always happen to me"

"And my model. A little reff* here, a little reff there a lotta reffetty fucking reff every fucking where"

"Sign the fucking line they said. Sign the fucking dotted fucking line they said. The world is your oyster they said"

"Well I'm fucking alergic to fucking oysters"

"I'm alergic to fucking clients"

"I'm alergic to fucking MDs"

"And i'm particulary alergic to wiseass fucking dipshit associates who cant tell their ass from their fucking elbow and cant count for fucking diddley squat and have the fucking nerve to fucking tell me what the fuck I'm fucking meant to do"

"Fucking thir tier recriuted asshole. What the fuck kind of headhunter did we hire to get a pice of shit like that. One fucking thing is for sure. I'd give good money to get the best headhunter in the city and find him another job."

You takle a puff at your cigarette.

"And even that won't fly, cause there aint a headhuntef good enough to get that piece of shit a job even in a fourth tier continental commercial bank"

Final puff, toss the bud, and back to work.

---

*Reff, in short, is when your excel model gets fucked and takes you with it.

The grass is (fucking) greener...

"A True Story of what happens when you go to a smaller M&A place to be the biggest BSD. Experience the real-life drama. The excitement. The challenges. The dedication. Read, and feel the bending branches swish past your ears as our fellow monkey swings from branch to branch.”

Someone offers you an analyst role after a shitty year at a big bank. These so called saviours promise you better hours, better pay, better learning experience and no associates to deal with. Yeay! You think this is great; You are finally getting recognition for your own abilities. You won’t be getting a shitty review from your associate because they suffer from small penis syndrome. You finally get to show the world what a superstar analyst you really are with more sleep AND gain direct financial lessons from the big guns.

WRONG.

1. Better hours = no work to go around. NO WORK
ie no deal… ie CV looks like crap... ie you feel stupid because this is something you cannot bullshit your way out of – i-bankers are the gods of that and you cannot meander your way around this. You are stuck.

2. Learning experience = getting creative on how you should fill in your spare time after you visit lakelandslimited.com for anodised pots and pans, because you have already spent money on other household bullshit you don’t need, but realise you do need after surfing the net for endless hours

3. No associate = You suddenly realise how much you miss them. Because when the shit flies and the sun fails to rise, there is no one between you, the superstar analyst, and the big gun MDs (we will deal with these big guns later on). You get shot. You become the scapegoat when the tiny printing and binding machine doesn’t work in this small place. You get blamed when models don’t run properly or in good time because there is no Datastream to hook you up with proper numbers which saves you time from running to Bloomberg every 5 minutes. You also don’t have the wonderful printing team on the 10th floor to help you put together 50 presentations that are 100 pages long (you work in a one floor building now). You also start to get used to feeling like a small mosquito that everyone is trying to kill. You get used to being bullied and taken apart for not knowing something that an associate should know. Didn’t these big guns (oops they look like the BSDs you used to work with now!) realise that they are hiring an analyst and not a young freaking Rupert McMuppet who went to Excel Summer School in Muppet Land!!! This happens on a daily basis, so after a while you feel that you should re-enrol to kindergarten to justify your position here

Remember I said ‘direct financial lessons’?

BEEP!

First thing, some of these guys can’t work Excel, let alone know how to use a mouse. Second, they can’t count for shit. Third, their ideas are mocked by outsiders anyway, so why risk being Krusty the clown on Wall Street?

3.1 No associate is also good = You see these big guns for the real people that they are. You stop revering the word ‘MD’. You realise quickly what it feels like to be a loser working in a loser environment because you get to go to meetings and learn how to keep a straight face when clients laugh at your BSDs’ ideas and clucks sympathetically because the 100 page presentation isn’t worth the work (Christ, you realise you are stuck with them and don’t have a million other MDs in the bank to work with now). At this very moment, you realise your relationship with any associate is like being in a marriage. Cant live without the other, can live without the other

4. Bonus time comes. You get screwed because the team has done so badly. The main BSD shies away in his corner office because he promised you deals when you joined and several months down the line, fails to deliver. You feel like taking all the presentations you have worked your own ass on, placing stacks of them on his floor and lighting them on fire. Oh yeah, people quit the next day

5. Shit. Your friends are now gone. Your cv is in a mess. You are severely tempted to call your HR rep at your previous place for your old job.

6. Morale? It’s the same shit everywhere.