The weasel of Wall Street
Sep. 24th, 2014 11:09 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
davywavyOne result of my interest in all things economics is that I've spent a lot of time over the last few years hanging round on economics and stock market blogs and chatrooms. The first thing you realise in those places is that there's a distressing numbers of complete fruitcakes grinding their pet theories, be it about fiat money or jews or whatever, but once you've developed a selective brain-filter to weed out the whackjobs you end up chatting with some interesting people. Of course you go through a phase of reading Zerohedge or whatever and taking it dead seriously, but if you're wise that doesn't last and you start taking notice and asking questions of people whose predictions actually seem to come true instead.
And the side effect of not being a complete halfwit and asking intelligent questions and taking answers on board is that over time you get invites to more select groupings; private investors and traders boards and chatrooms where the conversation is robust and the people involved deal with the reality of the markets every day rather than the theory in abstract.
As a rule these rooms aren't what you think they would be; the pro-traders rooms don't have constant insider tips and deals because that sort of thing is illegal and career suicide. Instead they're an endless stream of one-upmanship, pictures of footballers wives and boasts about cars, along with some competitive analysis of the news.
Anyway, a week or two ago I was knocking round with some hedge fund traders on one of these boards listening and not asking any really stupid questions when one of them said "Hey, David. A bunch of us are going out drinking on Wednesday*. Wanna come along?"
Would I!?
I've seen Wall Street and Wolf of Wall Street. I'm totally sure that Hollywood presents an entirely accurate depiction of the life of a city boy. Clearly I could expect an evening of astonishing licentious excess with coke and hookers and champagne. Would I like to go along?
Of course I would!
***
The first thing you should know about city wine bars is they aren't cheap, and the first thing you should know about hedge fund traders is that they take no prisoners for those of us who earn a tenth as much as them. If you want to go drinking with the boys you get your round in, come what may, no matter what the cost or what is ordered, and if you can't afford your round then either suck it up and make more money or leave. As soon as I figured this one out I got my round in good and early, when everyone was still on pints.
I spent an interesting few hours talking to people; most people were friendly and helpful and chatty and as soon as they found out that I wasn't one of them the bravado dropped (as I wasn't competition) and I had, for those first few hours, a pleasant if increasingly boozy evening.
As a very broad rule, there appeared to be three different sorts of people in the profession; Firstly, the stereotypical trader. East End/ Essex boy not more than a generation or two from the market barrow with an instinctive feel for a trade. If pushed he probably couldn't quite explain how he does what he does ("It were farhkin' obvious the market were going ta move, so I slammed it. Bam! Hundred points. Bought me my farhkin' boat. Get in.") as it's second nature. Secondly, there's the solid professional who just wants to do the best job he possibly can and has ended up very well paid as a result. In a past time or place someone with this degree of professional pride and attention to detail might have made Chippendale furniture or Faberge eggs ("I just wait for the opportunities and take them when they arise. Twenty points a day, every day. Losses? Of course I make them, but if you pay attention then over time your gains will outweigh them"), and thirdly there's quiet, slightly nerdy one who did maths or physics at university and has found a fantastically well paid way to use his analytic talents ("I trade on a break of the SMA10 taking directional cues from the RSA8 assuming volumes are indicative, on a 1-3/5 r/r. "
"Does your girlfriend work in the city too?"
"No, she's in the French Olympic Gymnastics team."
"Ah.")
As the evening wore on a group of four up us broke away and carried on chatting at our own table, at which point things got interesting. I'd been dimly aware that the bar we were in had several small groups of girls drinking together. Perfectly normal, I assumed, and thought nothing of it right up until three of them walked over and joined us and it very quickly became clear they were Romanian (or at least they said they were Romanian) prostitutes touting for business. Really, I thought to myself, I should have seen this coming. As it were. And very pretty they were too: the potential rewards on offer clearly attract the attractive, especially when your major alternative is living in a Romanian village.
Two of the people I was with were certainly amenable to being approached, which left me and a slightly nerdy bloke as the remaining alternatives for the third and she fixed on me as the most likely choice - and I've got to say, no matter what you might think of the oldest profession, she was a a tremendous saleswoman. If I was looking for sales staff and could afford to challenge what she undoubtedly earned I'd've been tempted to offer her a job. In the face of studied disinterest and subject-changing on my part she indefatigably set about to inveigle her way into mywallet affections. Any conversational sally I made was deftly returned to the subject at hand, as it were. "You are nice man", said said, indicating my two erstwhile companions who were pawing at her friends in a fairly depressing manner. "You are not like others. I enjoy your company, and this is true, I have not met many men like you in this country. It is sad. It would be nice to spend time with you etc etc &c."
Eventually I figured that she wasn't taking no for an answer and I think she realised she was getting precisely nowhere, as she came out and made a really quite startling offer. I mean, I've been to gaming conventions in the US, but you know, this was quite an eye opener** and not an offer I think I've had before***.
"Cripes", I said (or words to that effect). "Tell you what; I'm just going to have a ciggie and I'll be back in a moment", and using the excuse of bumming a tab off one of the traders I headed out of the door and vanished like a weasel into the darkness.
****
When I got home, the she-David was sitting reading, waiting up for me.
"David", she said. "Where have you been this late? And why do you smell of cigarettes?"
"Well, darling", I replied, patting her amiably on the cheek. "Look on the bright side. I could smell of something you'd be even less happy about."
*They go out drinking every night. They just invited me on the Wednesday.
**As it were.
***Actually, there was a time on the No. 42A bus to Northenden, but that was quite some time ago.
And the side effect of not being a complete halfwit and asking intelligent questions and taking answers on board is that over time you get invites to more select groupings; private investors and traders boards and chatrooms where the conversation is robust and the people involved deal with the reality of the markets every day rather than the theory in abstract.
As a rule these rooms aren't what you think they would be; the pro-traders rooms don't have constant insider tips and deals because that sort of thing is illegal and career suicide. Instead they're an endless stream of one-upmanship, pictures of footballers wives and boasts about cars, along with some competitive analysis of the news.
Anyway, a week or two ago I was knocking round with some hedge fund traders on one of these boards listening and not asking any really stupid questions when one of them said "Hey, David. A bunch of us are going out drinking on Wednesday*. Wanna come along?"
Would I!?
I've seen Wall Street and Wolf of Wall Street. I'm totally sure that Hollywood presents an entirely accurate depiction of the life of a city boy. Clearly I could expect an evening of astonishing licentious excess with coke and hookers and champagne. Would I like to go along?
Of course I would!
***
The first thing you should know about city wine bars is they aren't cheap, and the first thing you should know about hedge fund traders is that they take no prisoners for those of us who earn a tenth as much as them. If you want to go drinking with the boys you get your round in, come what may, no matter what the cost or what is ordered, and if you can't afford your round then either suck it up and make more money or leave. As soon as I figured this one out I got my round in good and early, when everyone was still on pints.
I spent an interesting few hours talking to people; most people were friendly and helpful and chatty and as soon as they found out that I wasn't one of them the bravado dropped (as I wasn't competition) and I had, for those first few hours, a pleasant if increasingly boozy evening.
As a very broad rule, there appeared to be three different sorts of people in the profession; Firstly, the stereotypical trader. East End/ Essex boy not more than a generation or two from the market barrow with an instinctive feel for a trade. If pushed he probably couldn't quite explain how he does what he does ("It were farhkin' obvious the market were going ta move, so I slammed it. Bam! Hundred points. Bought me my farhkin' boat. Get in.") as it's second nature. Secondly, there's the solid professional who just wants to do the best job he possibly can and has ended up very well paid as a result. In a past time or place someone with this degree of professional pride and attention to detail might have made Chippendale furniture or Faberge eggs ("I just wait for the opportunities and take them when they arise. Twenty points a day, every day. Losses? Of course I make them, but if you pay attention then over time your gains will outweigh them"), and thirdly there's quiet, slightly nerdy one who did maths or physics at university and has found a fantastically well paid way to use his analytic talents ("I trade on a break of the SMA10 taking directional cues from the RSA8 assuming volumes are indicative, on a 1-3/5 r/r. "
"Does your girlfriend work in the city too?"
"No, she's in the French Olympic Gymnastics team."
"Ah.")
As the evening wore on a group of four up us broke away and carried on chatting at our own table, at which point things got interesting. I'd been dimly aware that the bar we were in had several small groups of girls drinking together. Perfectly normal, I assumed, and thought nothing of it right up until three of them walked over and joined us and it very quickly became clear they were Romanian (or at least they said they were Romanian) prostitutes touting for business. Really, I thought to myself, I should have seen this coming. As it were. And very pretty they were too: the potential rewards on offer clearly attract the attractive, especially when your major alternative is living in a Romanian village.
Two of the people I was with were certainly amenable to being approached, which left me and a slightly nerdy bloke as the remaining alternatives for the third and she fixed on me as the most likely choice - and I've got to say, no matter what you might think of the oldest profession, she was a a tremendous saleswoman. If I was looking for sales staff and could afford to challenge what she undoubtedly earned I'd've been tempted to offer her a job. In the face of studied disinterest and subject-changing on my part she indefatigably set about to inveigle her way into my
Eventually I figured that she wasn't taking no for an answer and I think she realised she was getting precisely nowhere, as she came out and made a really quite startling offer. I mean, I've been to gaming conventions in the US, but you know, this was quite an eye opener** and not an offer I think I've had before***.
"Cripes", I said (or words to that effect). "Tell you what; I'm just going to have a ciggie and I'll be back in a moment", and using the excuse of bumming a tab off one of the traders I headed out of the door and vanished like a weasel into the darkness.
****
When I got home, the she-David was sitting reading, waiting up for me.
"David", she said. "Where have you been this late? And why do you smell of cigarettes?"
"Well, darling", I replied, patting her amiably on the cheek. "Look on the bright side. I could smell of something you'd be even less happy about."
*They go out drinking every night. They just invited me on the Wednesday.
**As it were.
***Actually, there was a time on the No. 42A bus to Northenden, but that was quite some time ago.
no subject
Date: 2014-09-24 12:05 pm (UTC)