Funny Money: The (Investment) Diary of Bernard Jones (Bernard Jones Diaries)

by Louth Nick

  Elevenses: Two mini-rolls. Three others, however, are missing. I suspect Digby, and the brown smears around his maw seem proof positive, but seeing as Eunice doesn’t know about them I just glare at him and keep schtum.

  Late in the afternoon, I return to the den to look at Wall Street. Out of the window I notice that the snowman has been kicked down. The pipe and coal are lying on the grass, but the Dairylea cheese has vanished.

  Friday 30th December: Blessed peace

  I celebrate the first family-free day for a week with a little up spread-bet on Nasdaq at £3 per point. Barely moves, so having stared at it until 9pm, I leave it to roll over into the New Year. Bit more boring than I thought. Still, can’t expect markets to move all the time. Couldn’t find the Cadbury-Schweppes annual report, so I trawled through the web site. Like others brought up on the stuff, I always thought Cadbury was synonymous with chocolate. I always forget about the drinks side. Now there’s chewing gum too. I suppose that adds a bit of balance. When it’s too hot for chocolate, they can sell more Dr Pepper, when it’s too cold for fizzy pop, they sell more chocolate. And chewing gum keeps the jaws going year round.

  Amazed to discover they are planning to open a ‘centre of excellence’ in the U.S. for chewing gum ‘innovation’. What tosh. Presumably that means ways to make it stick better on tube and bus seats, easier ways to flick it across the classroom, and enhanced gob-open chewing noises for chavs. Having seen what Cadbury is up to, I’m quite glad the shares are on an expensive P/E of 21 and yield only 2.7 per cent. Avoid, as they say in the investment mags.

  Elevenses: Two mini-rolls and a cup of BournVita.

  Close of play: Final day of the year, and the portfolio has recovered quite well. I’m only down 3% this year. Still, can hardly bear to measure myself against the FTSE 100, which is up over nearly 17 per cent.

  New Year’s Eve: Time for a fresh start

  Round to the Edgingtons for one of their dreadful parties. Auld Lang Syne, sweet sherry, and crowding on the sofa next to incontinent great aunts. All the while other people on telly having fun, which we stare at until quarter past midnight when everyone demands to be driven home. Still, a new year is a new start. 2006 will be better after five miserable years of losses. When old investments be forgot, and never brought to mind. I’m going to make enough to pay off that damn conservatory by my birthday, if it kills me.

  Chapter Four: Below the Belt

  Tuesday 3rd January: New Year, new chances

  First trading day of the New Year. January, they say, is the best month of the year in the stock market. Let’s hope so. Since last Thursday I’ve had a £3 per point up-bet riding on the Nasdaq Composite Index on Wall Street, with a break-even of 2,223. Now, with Wall Street about to open, I’m down about a tenner but the pre-market reports say there could be an uplift. Trouble is, can’t sit and watch the action this week. Eunice wants to drag me along to the sales, and (oh God) we’ve got tea with my mother on Thursday.

  Elevenses: Slice of leftover Christmas dundee cake, smuggled out of the tin in the kitchen. If discovered will blame grandson who, as they say in the CID, has ‘form’. Will keep the Hornby drawer empty of snacks for now seeing as Eunice seems to check it regularly.

  Close of play: Nasdaq jumps to 2,244, which puts me sixty quid in the money!

  Better still, Bovis continues to climb. I paid 590p in October and now they’re nearly 800p, but still only on a P/E of 11.

  Wednesday 4th January: The boxer rebellion

  Being dragged around the sales by Eunice was bloody awful. Dismal weather, Bluewater crowded, traffic absolutely vile. To put a cherry on it, M&S wouldn’t take the bloody tartan boxers back because Eunice let slip I’d tried one pair on. Only one pair, I ventured, why won’t you take back the other two? Because they’re sold as a set, that’s why. The pretty young shop assistant gave me this withering look that said: poor sod, now you’ve got to wear them.

  Mike Delaney popped round after lunch, a vision in corduroy, dandruff and crêpe-sole moccasins. Asked me whether I was interested in the investment club he was setting up, Wednesday lunchtimes in the back room at the Ring o’Bells. Sounds interesting, fits in with my New Year resolutions, except perhaps the one about booze. What his were, I dread to think. Clearly didn’t include a sartorial rethink, nor stopping smoking. As he settled into the sofa and unpeeled a new packet of Lambert & Butler, Eunice noisily banged down a glass ashtray for him. Not a pause. Skin like a rhino, that man. Immediately, smoke drifts everywhere, because like Bill Clinton, he doesn’t inhale. Unfortunately, as Eunice pointed out afterwards, our curtains, furniture, clothes and hair most certainly do inhale. Yes, yes, I agreed after she took me aside, I’ll have a quiet word.

  Elevenses: Another slice of illicit dundee cake. A rock-hard pear has mysteriously materialised in the Hornby drawer. It’s Chinese, according to the label. Avoid at all costs.

  Close of play: More progress on the Nasdaq. Yee-ha!

  Thursday 5th January: Teatime torment

  Mum, it has to be admitted, is a few unit trusts short of a portfolio. For Dorothy, then Dot, now at 89 clearly Dotty, every footstep is in a world long disappeared. She doesn’t realise that memory lane was demolished to make way for the M25 twenty years ago. This time it’s a lost purse crisis.

  “Well, I had left it on the counter at that bank.”

  “Which one?”

  “You know, next door to Joe Lyons.”

  “Mum, the corner house isn’t there any more. The Luftwaffe destroyed it. Do you mean the Halifax?”

  “…but this nice young man saw me and followed me past the Gaumont…”

  I nodded. Yes, the Gaumont cinema built in about 1910, turned into a Locarno dance hall in 1956, into a bingo hall in 1977, into flats in 1993 or thereabouts, then gutted by fire last year.

  Now it’s a gaming arcade on the ground floor, and boarded up above. Fifty years of social history just passed her by.

  “He finally caught up with me at Timothy White’s.”

  “Boots, Mum.”

  “Well it always used to be Timothy White’s.”

  “Until about 1970, yes. But he did give you the purse back?”

  “Oh yes, ever so kind he was. All me tickets were still in it.”

  “You mean your Halifax card?”

  “Anyway I give him a ten bob note for his trouble. He was pleased as punch.”

  “A ten bob note! Mum, what colour was it, orange or purplish?”

  “Purple.”

  Eunice breaks in: “That was twenty pounds, Dot, not ten bob. They don’t have ten bob notes anymore.”

  “Twenty pounds? It never was!” Mum looks shocked.

  “Bernard, it’s no good,” whispers Eunice, when Mum is off making a cuppa. “She can’t cope. I think she’ll have to go into an H-O-M-E.”

  “I’m not going into a home,” Mum yells from the kitchen. “And I’m not deaf. And I can still S-P-E-L-L.” Then she comes in, all smiles.

  “Mrs Oldroyd at number 14 is moving in with her son in March. He’s ever such a good boy, always was.”

  Oh God!

  Friday 6th January: Smalls and shorts

  Doing a bit of research on M&S. Even setting aside the boxer rebellion, I was highly unimpressed by my last trip. Eunice, though admittedly no paragon of fashion, was underwhelmed too. If your matronly fifty-something won’t buy the knitwear, who will? At 500p, the shares trade at 16 times forecast earnings, and have climbed absurdly seeing how much competition there is for dwindling consumer spending. Clearly a lot of investors want to see it do well. Perhaps this is a good contrarian opportunity to test the ability to short spread-bet. I’ll take a look next week.

  Elevenses: One Starburst. Thought I’d try these born-again Opal Fruits, but forgotten what sickeningly perfumed things they are. Threw the rest of the packet away. The Chinese pear, resolutely stone-like, squats inscrutably in the Hornby drawer.

  Close of play: Up £145.

  Monday 9th Janua
ry: A quiet word

  Mike Delaney came round again. This time the fag was already in his mouth before I’d opened the door, and I gagged from the first breath. He walked straight in, plonked himself down and asked whether I was up for the investment club. I hedged my affirmative until I knew who else was in. Mike’s a nice enough fella (at a distance), but he loses money as readily as I do. On the other hand, while I want to glean some expert tips, I do not want some Peter bloody Edgington lecturing me. Mike said he’s asked a few regulars at the Ring o’Bells, but there were no definites yet. That should rule Peter out. The Bells isn’t one of his watering holes. Damn, forgot to have that ‘quiet word about smoking’.

  Elevenses: Two fig rolls. The Chinese pear has gone from inedibly hard to inedibly rotten in just three days. Had probably sat in suspended animation in some chilled warehouse since the start of the T’ang dynasty.

  Tuesday 10th January: Mum’s the word

  Mum’s finances nagging at me. Drove around first thing, praying that she’s not quite as broke as I fear. Relieved that her Halifax account still has a couple of grand in it, though she will keep drawing out huge wads of cash, leaving rolled notes in elastic bands in Aunty Vi’s Burmese teapot, behind the cuckoo clock and (Lord preserve us) under the mattress. All the places even the dimmest drug-addled teenage burglar would guess. However, in a moment of clarity she digs out a vanity case from under the stairs, bulging with old papers. So I lug them home for a fuller investigation.

  Elevenses: Mum at least knows what I like. Two slices of battenburg, an eccles cake and four chocolate fingers. “I shan’t tell that woman,” she promises, referring to Eunice whom she has never liked.

  Close of play: Nasdaq teetering, so took profits at 2,320. Only deposited a grand in the spread-betting account, and that’s nigh-on 300 smackers already! Still, get slightly depressed when I realise this covers only four ornate brass curtain poles on Eunice’s conservatory.

  Wednesday 11th January: Inequitable Life

  Finally took a look at the great sheaf of Equitable Life stuff I received last year. To read it, you would never know what a disaster has occurred. I start ploughing through my notes, feeling the old blood pressure soaring again. Back in 2000 there was a to-and-fro in the courts about which particular Peter should be robbed to pay Paul, a graphic display of the disadvantages of a mutual. At least with a Plc, there’s shareholder equity to raid. Instead it was guaranteed annuity rate customers against us, the poor with-profits wallahs. Law Lords backed the GAR people. So in 2001, I lost 16 per cent of my policy straight off. Then in September 2001 they had the nerve to give me back four per cent on condition I sign away rights to sue the management. Now I read that they still barely have a penny in equities! They missed out on a golden opportunity to recoup billions. Instead, by sticking everything in government bonds and cash, which yielded bugger-all, they missed out on a share rally, which from the low point of 2003 has pushed the FTSE 100 up 57 per cent! That’s not investment, it’s perversity.

  Elevenses: Three chocolate mini-rolls, munched absent-mindedly while perusing Equitable Life. Eunice ‘had a word’ about the disappearing dundee cake. “Bernard, you can’t deny it. I lifted your keyboard and found sultanas there.” Oh crumbs!

  Chapter Five: Happy Discovery

  Thursday 12th January: Hidden gold

  Astonishing discovery! Digging through Mum’s documents (mostly rubbish) came across three ancient share certificates, issued in Dad’s name in 1936. One was for 75 shares in Gallaher, another was 1,780 in Anglo-Ecuadorian Oil, but here’s the biggest find: 100,000 shares in English Electric Co. Ltd. It’ll take some work to find out, but they could be worth a fortune. Good old Dot! She may be a barmy old hoarder, but that has its advantages.

  Friday 13th January: Digging for victory

  Lucky day for some! Am sitting here with a share certificate from 1936 that might be the saving of all our bacon. English Electric Co Ltd, 100,000 shares, in Dad’s name, but it must have been Grandad’s money because Dad would only have been 16. Nothing about it in the will. So what of English Electric? I know the company was a mainstay of British industry for half a century and I assume it merged or was taken over. Could it have gone bankrupt? I don’t think so. Wanted to Google it this morning, but damn internet connection went down. I could phone know-it-all Peter Edgington, but I’d rather he didn’t know about this for now.

  Got a cracking headache after yelling at BT about the internet line. They’re looking into it. Feeling a bit shivery too.

  Elevenses: Two paracetamol and a Lemsip, then off to bed.

  Before I turned in, finally put in that short spread-bet on Marks & Spencer at 482p, by phone at £10 a point. That’ll teach them to refuse to take back the boxers!

  Thursday 19th January: Beating the system

  Almost a week in bed with flu. Ghastly. Eunice has plied me with enough orange juice to upset the price of Florida citrus futures. The worst thing about being ill is being powerless under the care regime: kiwi fruit breakfasts, rock-hard wholemeal toast, aubergine and celeriac bake for lunch and endless ‘mystery’ soups, from the vegan cookery book Irmgard lent her. I’d kill for an eccles cake!

  Waited until Eunice had set off to the chemist and crawled down to the den. Hornby drawer has been ransacked, not a crumb remains. Desk wiped and polished and all my papers stacked in a heap. I’ll never find anything now! Quick check online shows a) dial-up now works and b) M&S is resolutely stable.

  Elevenses: Desperate hunt for edibles. Cake’s gone. Biscuit tin in kitchen empty, as per usual. Fridge stuffed full of green kryptonite, the vegetable that slayed Superman. It’s cunningly labelled as curly kale, but I’m not fooled. While looking in lowest cupboards, saw something right at the back behind the pickle jars. A packet, stuck to the shelf. A good tug brings it away. Yes! It’s a half packet of Penguins! Best before date illegible and, worryingly, looks to be in Aramaic. Gobble the lot down and scurry back to bed. Bliss!

  Friday 20th January: They’re back

  Seems now to be gastric flu. Awful, awful Hyderabad guts. I blame the curly kale. Mike Delaney phoned up about the share club, Eunice ran upstairs with the question. Yes, yes I said, count me in. Whatever, as they say in New York. Inaugural meeting February 1st. Then more ding-donging at the door. No peace, no sleep. Put pillow over head, feign death. Hear thundering up and down the stairs, banging bags and theatrical shushing. For God’s sake! An hour later, when the hubbub is merely downstairs, I venture out on 14th trip to the loo.

  The door to Jemima’s old room is open. Oh Lord! They’re back, tucked up along the edge of the pillow: Tiggy the Tiger, Jumbo Wiggy, Mrs Teasel the hedgehog, Mr Bear and assorted supporting characters. This can only mean one thing. My daughter, an allegedly high-flying international corporate lawyer of 27, has broken up with yet another chinless boyfriend, and has fled home. Sure enough I can hear plaintive sobs from downstairs. When I descend, I find that though it’s gone midday I’m not the only one in pyjamas. Jemima, in heart-bedecked brushed cotton is draped around Eunice’s neck, snivelling. For God’s sake grow up!

  Elevenses: Two Arret tablets and a glass of water. Delhi belly gone, but now suffering from Mysore bum.

  Monday 23rd January: Toby or not Toby, that is the question

  Feel somewhat better, though neglected. Jemima is receiving oceans of Eunice’s sympathy over Toby. Put up with my share of “Daddy, Daddy you’re the only reliable man in the world,” and the dreadful continental-style spontaneous hugging. Asked my opinion of Terrible Toby, I offer that there never seemed much to like or dislike, and indeed there wasn’t. Tall, smartly dressed, well-polished shoes. Something in derivatives – polite but vacant. However, turns out to be gay, apparently. Foolishly ventured: “Can’t be that gay, can he? You’ve been sharing a bedroom for 18 months.” Eunice barked “Bernard!” at double the usual volume. Scuttled away to the den to sift through Mum’s papers and dream about untold riches.

  Elevenses: Tin of Heinz tomat
o soup. Finally, something even Eunice can’t find fault with. One of the five-a-day portions, and it tastes nice too. If only we had some white bread for proper toast.

  Close of play: Down £486 at one point, but market recovered almost all but a little. Thinking about that share certificate. Tomorrow, I’ll find out for sure!

  Chapter Six: The Curse of Marconi

  Tuesday 24th January: Telent scout

  Feeling much better. Up bright and early, and down into the den like a squirrel. Aha! Among Mum’s papers is a yellowed page ripped out of the Times of December 9th 1936 giving the day’s share bargains. English Electric changed hands at 27/9, presumably 27 shillings and nine pence, while Gallaher was around £6 (that’s odd, because they’re only a third higher now). But think, this certificate for English Electric alone was worth £127,000 back in 1936. It could be worth a million or more by now! Looked up English Electric on the web. I had thought it was taken over by Hawker Siddeley or BTR, but I was wrong. It was bought in 1968 by GEC, during Arnold Weinstock’s day. Slight sense of foreboding because GEC became Marconi (one disaster I never partook of), so it won’t have grown much in recent years. Found Marconi’s website, and blow me down, they’ve changed their name again. This time to Telent. Pity the switchboard gals: “Hello, GEC…I mean Hello, Marconi, I mean Hello, Telent.”