Dunces with Wolves: The third volume of the Bernard Jones Investing Diaries

by Nick Louth

  “I’m terribly sorry. He’s not a very good loser, and he is rather clever with computers. I’m sorry to say it’s unlikely to be an accident. He did exactly the same to mine, so I’ve now got it on password protection.”

  “But this is insufferable. Doesn’t his father do anything about it?”

  “Ah, Brian believes in letting the child’s natural talents grow in an atmosphere untrammelled by creative limits. I’m afraid he’s a schoolteacher of the Guardian-reading persuasion.”

  Peter harrumphs about this for a few moments, and then cheers up considerably. “Still, at least I slaughtered the little monster, didn’t I? I shan’t feel guilty about trapping his queen any more.”

  Friday 14th March: Profits With Dignity

  Russell Traugh, the most irritating drinker at the Ring o’Bells, will no doubt be delighted that funeral director’s Dignity, one of his share picks, has again produced excellent results. Profits shuffled forward by another 10%. The cost of death, it seems, is rising, just like the price of bread, eggs and milk. The company is now looking forward to the next decade when the national death rate is expected to rise as baby boomers start croaking in droves. I suppose this must be the ultimate contrarian play, but it gives me the shivers. Besides a P/E ratio of 21 and a measly 1.5% yield leave me colder than the Inverness Co-op’s chapel of rest.

  Monday 17th March: Misery Monday

  The FTSE has fallen to just above 5400. Don’t dare look at my portfolio, for fear of further depression. Plan to spend the rest of the day hiding in the loft, painting the water tank on the model railway layout and eating ginger nuts.

  Tuesday 18th March: Disaster Hits Edgington

  10.45pm Just about to go to bed when got a very alarming phone call from Peter Edgington.

  “Bernard, I think I’ve been the victim of some kind of Internet fraud. Two of my bank accounts have been emptied.”

  “Oh how awful,” I say, dying to ask how much he lost. Instead I ask: “What makes you think it is an Internet fraud?”

  “Simply because the three smaller family bank or savings accounts which we don’t use online are fine. It’s only the ones which I use on the computer, including my main investment account. I’m extremely careful. I don’t write passwords down, I never log in except on my home PC and I never fall for those phishing scams where they try to get you to re-enter security details on bogus sites. However, I’ve just got some new security software, and a scan on my PC detected a ‘key logger’.”

  “Is that some kind of virus?” I asked, as a feeling of impending doom started to gather in my head. I just know the Antichrist had something to do with this.

  “Apparently, they call it a trojan, which means once taken unwittingly inside the PC, it waits rather like the Greeks in the wooden horse at Troy. It watches you entering your account information and makes a copy of the keystrokes you use, which are then beamed over the Internet to some criminal mastermind who then logs in and empties the account.”

  “Good grief. It’s absolutely staggering. Have you called the police?” I asked.

  “Yes, after I called the bank. However, the reason I’m calling you is that scan showed the key logger was installed at 11.55am on Sunday 9th March. Which, as you know, was the day you brought Digby over…”

  “Well, steady on, Peter,” I said. “Now, I know Digby’s a fairly naughty child, but this kind of thing is surely beyond him. He’s not ten years old yet, I mean…”

  “Bernard, I’m not saying he wrote the damn trojan software. But it does seem likely that while surfing online he may have come across one of those dangerous websites and unwittingly downloaded something. The fact that he deleted the browser’s Internet history and my bookmarks is somewhat incriminating.”

  “I’m shocked, I really am…”

  “My main worry, Bernard, is that banks normally reimburse those who are victims of online fraud through no fault of their own. But letting someone else, non-family, use the PC unsupervised could be construed as like leaving the window open for a burglar. Given the amount of money at stake, I’m terrified that I’ll not get a penny. I have to tell you that Geraldine is furious beyond all reason, and is rather blaming you.”

  As soon as I put the phone down, Eunice, in dressing gown and towel-turban started giving me the third degree.

  “You didn’t leave Digby unsupervised, did you?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “You can’t plead ignorance with me. You know he’s a computer whizz,” Eunice declared knowledgably, before returning to the urgent nightly task of filing down her bunions.

  “I didn’t know where he was! I was in the loo when Peter gave him permission to play on the PC.”

  “Oh, Bernard, you know what a devious little imp…”

  “Look. It’s all very well you being a hindsight scientist. What’s done is done. We can’t do anything about it now.”

  “But Peter might have lost thousands. It’s no good just sitting there like a sack of potatoes. You’ve got to do something!”

  “What would you suggest? A single-handed jihad against the East European mafia? A Herod-like culling of all youthful computer geniuses? Or perhaps writing Peter a cheque for £424.17, which is all the cash in our current account, as some kind of loose change in compensation?”

  Chapter Eleven: Special Excursion

  Wednesday 19th March: Last Minute Offer

  The share club was just getting into an in-depth discussion on what to do about our shares in Debt Free Direct, now known as Fairpoint, when we heard the characteristic whistling noise that marks the approach of Russell Traugh in his shiny acrylic Asda jogging trousers.

  “Afternoon, losers,” he said with a grin. “What black hole are you pouring money into today?”

  There is a general chorus of ‘shut up’ from around the table, with an added ‘bugger off’ from behind the bar, where an overworked Chantelle is attempting to listen to the discussion while serving up pensioners’ portion lunches of lasagne for a group of ramblers in the front bar.

  “Listen, I’ve got a proposition for you lot,” said Russell. “A very cheap city break in an historic coastal European city, lovely architecture, throbbing nightlife. Best of all, the beer only costs 30p a pint and a meal for two costs a fiver.”

  “Thirty pence a pint?” exclaimed Martin Gale. “Are you having me on?”

  “And they have real ale as well as lagers,” Russell added, enjoying the hold he now has on his audience. “Dark beers, a real brewing tradition for hundreds of years. What’s more, I can get you flights for a penny each way if you decide today.”

  “Bound to be a catch,” shouted Chantelle as she walked past with plates piled high with what looked and smelled like scorched linoleum. “You know what he’s like.”

  “That’s right,” said Martin. “Knowing you it will be a weekend on a caravan site in Skegness.”

  “And the nightlife will be listening to the rap music pounded out by the drug dealers’ BMW in the car park,” added Harry.

  “Well, what a bunch of old miseries,” Russell said. “I’ve a good mind not to let you come. I could easily have filled up all the rooms with me mates from snooker, but no, I thought to myself, I’m sure the Ring o’Bells share club would love to get hold of this opportunity as they are so keen on bargains.”

  “So you are going yourself?” I asked, with mixed feelings.

  “Of course I am. It’s four nights away, rooms from five quid a night. All you’ve got to cover are food and drink, which like I say is dead cheap, and bits and pieces of taxes.”

  “Come on, let us in on the secret,” said Mike Delaney, brushing cigarette ash off his care-worn grey cardigan. “Where is it?”

  “Alright, it’s Riga. Going tomorrow night, back on Monday morning. It’ll be a laugh, I tell yer.”

  “Where the fuck’s Riga?” asked Harry.

  “It’s the capital of Latvia,” I said.

  “Latvia?” said Harry. “Isn’t that Colonel G
adaffi’s place?”

  “You’re thinking of Liberia,” said Martin. “Latvia’s one of those little places in South Africa, I think.”

  K.P. Sharma had watched this exchange with growing incredulity. “You really are the most ignorant bunch I’ve ever come across. Thank God we’re not doing much emerging market investment. Latvia is one of the Baltic republics, formerly Soviet territory. It’s sandwiched between Estonia to the north and Lithuania to the south. Harry, Colonel Gadaffi is from Libya, in north Africa. Martin, Liberia is in west Africa!”

  “And the place in South Africa you’re thinking of, Martin, is called Lesotho,” chips in Chantelle, pulling a pint of Guinness.

  “Lucky I’m here to arrange it for yers,” Russell said. “Couldn’t trust you lot to find your way to a wet weekend in Penge. So who is adventurous enough to join me in a trip to this cheap beer paradise?”

  No one spoke for a while. The realisation was dawning that the only adventurous part of the trip would be spending time with Russell, rather than being in another country, however obscure.

  “I’ve heard good reports about Latvia,” said K.P. “Many people speak English, and Riga is supposedly a pleasant and cosmopolitan city. There isn’t much crime.”

  “So are you up for it then?” Russell asked

  “Er, no. I have family commitments,” K.P. said.

  “Well, I’m game,” said Harry.

  “If it’s really that cheap, so am I,” Martin said. “It’s the only holiday I’ll be able to afford, that’s for sure.”

  “What about you, Chantelle?” Harry asked.

  “If you think I’d go on holiday with you, you’ve got another think coming,” Chantelle said. “Especially having heard what you lot got up to in last year’s club outing.”

  Memories of last year’s round-Britain-romp in Harry’s knackered Jaguar, with a giant saliva-drenched dog, remained seared into the minds of all concerned.

  Russell, having assured us that the all-in cost is likely to be less than £100 a head manages to rope in Mike Delaney too. When it comes to me, I’m in favour but know I’ll have to get Eunice’s permission first.

  “Look, Russell,” I said. “I’ll have to pretend it’s about shares and investment or Eunice won’t let me go. Can we say that we are going to look around some emerging markets companies or something? Otherwise she’ll either ban me or more likely want to come too.”

  There is a collective groan at the thought of Eunice joining the party. Her 40-minute harangue of the members of the Ring o’Bells share club after a stripper was organised for my birthday last year will not soon be forgotten.

  Wednesday 19th March: Evening Excuses

  6.30pm. Eunice has prepared a particularly revolting dinner tonight. It looks like imaginatively arranged road kill, but is apparently grilled snoek on a bed of sautéed beetroot and endives with pistachio nuts. I take my first fishy mouthful and gag immediately.

  “Don’t be like that, Bernard. There’s a whole week’s omega 4 and selenium in that dish.”

  “It’s somewhat bitter,” I manage, not wanting to upset my spouse just before asking the favour of a foreign trip.

  “It’s from Irmgard’s Men’s Health cookbook.”

  “Ah, well that would explain it,” I respond, taking a sip of the accompanying drink, which tastes like diluted stoat plasma but is apparently cranberry juice and soya milk.

  “You see, Bernard, I’m taking care of your prostate and lower intestinal tract as well as your cholesterol. Really, you should be thanking me for putting right all the damage you do with those illicit cakes, biscuits and sweets which I know you still hide in and around the den.”

  “Well, thank you,” I say. After eating as much of the food as I can stomach I bring up the subject of the trip.

  “Darling,” I begin gently, which of course immediately raises her suspicions. “An opportunity has come up through the share club to take a weekend away as part of our research into emerging markets investment themes.”

  “Not anything like last year’s I hope,” Eunice responds.

  “Well, no, this one’s abroad, in Latvia. A city break with hotel included, all for about £100 a head. That’s a bargain, really.”

  “Oh, that sounds quite good. I think we should go. I’ve never been to any of the Baltic republics.”

  “Um, well. I’m not sure you’d like it, there’s going to be some investment presentations, talks with businessmen, that kind of thing. You’d probably be bored. And it’s ever so cold, minus something, bound to be. Do you know the sea often freezes along that part of the Baltic until April?” All this spills out rather hurriedly.

  “Bernard. If your share club hasn’t got any money, as you are always telling me, why on earth will local businessmen be queuing up to talk to you? And which of you speaks Latvian?”

  “Oh. I think they mostly speak English. I don’t know all the details, Russell’s arranging it.”

  “But he isn’t even in the share club, is he?” Eunice says. “This just doesn’t make any sense. I just think you’re trying to put me off. I mean we’ve not been abroad for months, and now you don’t even want me to come with you when we have the chance.”

  “I’d love you to come, really. But it is rather short notice.”

  “Why, when are you going?”

  “Tomorrow, and coming back on Monday.”

  “But Bernard, this weekend is Irmgard and Nil’s party!”

  “Oh,” I fib. “I thought that was next weekend.”

  “Bernard, don’t be so ridiculous. I wrote it in your diary months ago. You know full-well they are launching an online dietary advice service, and you know that I agreed ages ago that we would help them set up and run the launch party.”

  “Oh dear, that is tiresome,” I say. “But you see I’ve already paid for the flights.” This is also a lie, but I’m in too far now to back out. “I promised Russell that I’d help with the checking in, as there’s quite a few of us going.”

  “But I’ve bought a new dress!” Eunice wails.

  “Well you can still wear it, can’t you?” I say emolliently.

  “Don’t patronise me, you old goat. Don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to. Don’t blame me if I end up being seduced by any of the sexy younger men that are bound to be there.”

  “Oh, have they invited North Kent Blind and Partially Sighted again?” I ask. I was only just in time to duck as the remainder of my dinner came hurtling towards me.

  Later that night, I take the precaution of secreting my passport, wallet and a selection of clothes in a suitcase under my model railway in the loft. I wouldn’t put it past Eunice to hide vital necessities to stop me going.

  Thursday 20th March: Stansted Stand-Up

  Stansted check-in is a miserable place at the best of times, but at quarter to eleven in the evening, it is truly depressing. Having shared a car, Harry, Martin, Mike Delaney and I arrive to find the queue for the check-in already substantial. There is no sign of Russell at all.

  “Hi guys!” We look up to see Chantelle approaching. She’s wearing a skin-tight Spandex top and sporting spiky orange and purple hair. With her is a taller and rather shapely woman of perhaps 25, in high-heeled ankle boots and jeans, with an alarming Mohican cut of green hair and a racoon stripe of black eye make-up. “This is Stef,” says Chantelle. “She’s coming too.”

  “After what you said I didn’t expect you to come,” I say. “Why the change of mind?”

  “Well, it’s alright if you can bring a friend ain’t it? I just didn’t want to be the only woman, especially with the danger of getting cornered by randy Harry here. Stef’s a red belt Tae Kwon Do, so watch out. Especially after she’s had a few vodkas!”

  “Where has Russell got to, Harry?” I ask, interrupting Harry from open-mouthed leering over Stef.

  “Oh, I think he got himself a fast check-in without baggage. He asked if I’d take his bags through as mine, while he went ahead to get a place in the boa
rding queue.”

  “Hang on a minute,” I say. “Ryanair charges extra for bags, doesn’t it?”

  Harry scrutinises the sheaf of papers with the booking reference that Russell has given him. “The evil bastard,” he mutters, “The tight, scheming, evil bastard.”

  When we finally get to the Ryanair desk we discover that we have only had the most basic costs have been covered. We already knew that the 1p tickets were inflated by £15 of taxes. But we hadn’t realised we were booked in as having no luggage, so are having to pay £12 a bag each way per person to get them through, plus an extra £3 per person desk fee. By the time Harry gets through with three bags, one for himself and two for Russell, he’s livid.

  “I’m already down more than the £100 quoted for the whole weekend, and we haven’t left bloody Stansted yet.”

  We thought security would be a doddle at this time of day. Unfortunately, Chantelle and Stef are ahead of us, having to strip off boots and jackets and goodness knows-what piercings to be able to avoid setting off the gateway alarm. Finally, they are each searched by female security officers, while the rest of us wait. Visible underneath Stef’s suede jacket is, according to Harry, “a very comely pair of jugs.”

  Eventually we get through into the departure lounge, and here we find Russell Traugh sitting at a bar, looking unusually smart in white shirt and jacket, and halfway down a pint of Kronenbourg. Harry marches up to him, 6’2” of anger, his face as livid as a strawberry. A ten-minute argument ensues, which ends in a compromise. Russell says he’ll cover Harry’s hotel bill to make up for the cost of the bags, and on the way back he’ll pay for his own luggage. “Now,” says Russell. “I think I owe you all a drink.”

  Such an offer, utterly out of character, disarms us all. “Surprised you’d pay these prices for beer,” Martin said. “Thought you’d wait until we get to Riga where it’s cheaper.”