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

by Louth Nick

  Eunice looked at the stack of old letters laid out on the bed, that I was riffling through. “Not going through another maudlin phase, are we?”

  She picked up a bundle of letters wrapped in ribbon. “Ah yes, the lovely Amelia. She was the short one, wasn’t she?”

  “She wasn’t short! She was petite.”

  “Bernard, 5’1” is short. I remember she was always the last picked in netball. Still, I suppose that could have been because she was bit chubby.”

  “She was not chubby. She was…curvy.”

  “Fat, Bernard. She’d be the size of the Hindenburg now, of course.”

  “Don’t you have some ironing to do?” I retorted, earning a slammed door. Why is it that Eunice is not content with ruining my present and future, but tries to trample my past too?

  Now angry, I drive over to council offices to see Celandine Homes’ planning application. No mention of the pear tree. Looks impossible that any of the trees will survive, given how closely these boxes will be crammed in. The planning officer lets me know that Celandine must have made a killing on this plot, because they bought it five years ago before Old Dorringsfield became trendy. Now, of course, its so trendy you can’t move for tapas bars, hot-tub outlets and lesbian Feng Shui consultants. I ask if I can speak to the tree preservation officer.

  “Sorry, she’s just gone on maternity leave.”

  “Who’s replacing her?”

  “It’s mandated as ‘unfilled’ under the council’s Way Forward scheme, until we can get part funding through Natural England for a consultant to fill in.”

  “Natural England?”

  “It’s the new name for English Nature, formerly the Nature Conservancy Council.”

  I give up and go home.

  Saturday 4th November: Going like hot cakes

  Look up Celandine Homes on the internet. Would you believe, it’s just been bought by Bovis a week ago! That might give me a tiny bit of clout, as a shareholder. First though I need a little reconnaissance. I ring Celandine itself, and express an interest in the houses at Old Dorringsfield. The woman in sales tells me that prices start at £380,000. I’m just in time as there are only eight left.

  “What? You haven’t laid a brick yet!”

  “Most were bought off-plan by investors,” she says explaining that interest was driven by planned road widening on the spur to the M25. Due in 2008, this will cut half an hour off current commuting times. The woman is baffled when I ask to visit the site.

  “There’s nothing to see yet.” When I persist, she says she’ll ask the site manager.

  2pm: Finally get to explore the old orchard. While the site manager tries to show me where the access road will go, and the community building, I want to take photographs of the trees. When we get to the pear tree, I find my carving. It’s smaller than I remembered and heavily weathered. I ask him whether they plan to leave any trees and he shakes his head. There are some mature sycamores at the back that may stay, but the fruit trees all have to go. Over my dead body!

  Chapter Thirty-Nine: Up in Smoke

  Sunday 5th November: Penny for the Bernard

  In the small hours, while Eunice gargled and growled for England, I lay awake fretting about my addled mother having all her money tied up in BAE. Far from being the mature and stable firm our national defence champion should be, BAE shares have yo-yoed between £3.30 and £4.50 per share this year, which makes her portfolio and, yes be honest, my inheritance vary by almost £200,000. That is more than twice what my own shares are worth! It’s driving me to distraction. She’s really not capable of looking after the money, nor understanding what’s at stake but she will not let me take charge. Dot has the irritating habit of being utterly lucid when doctors are about (because she doesn’t trust them), and then she’s off into la-la land when I need her to understand her own post, remember something or keep her passwords secret.

  Two strategic objectives: One, get her to sell some shares and buy tracker funds. Two, get her to make some potentially exempt transfers to my sister Yvonne and me, to save us all from the hell of IHT. I can’t force her to give me power of attorney, and trying but failing would backfire horribly. There is but one tactic: Persuade, cajole, and flatter. If I treat her like a queen, perhaps she will relent.

  Bonfire night. Son Brian, daughter-in-law Janet and their little Antichrist, Digby, are round for the evening together with Dot. Eunice prepared the traditional bangers and onions outside on the barbecue, while I dumped a bin load of leylandii cuttings at the bottom of the garden for a somewhat crackly bonfire. In-laws only emerged from centrally-heated rooms at the last possible moment, after three warnings that I was igniting the fuse on my enormous collection of combustibles. The display was certainly loud, but even during it I was getting nagged.

  “Bernard, look at the fireworks, not at your watch,” Eunice said.

  “I want to see how long it lasts. The box says three minutes.”

  “But you’re missing the show. Oh, look that’s a pretty green,” she said as the final rocket erupted.

  “Damn! Two minutes and 42 seconds…”

  “Bernard, don’t be such a skinflint.”

  “That collection cost £110! If I was a skinflint, I’d have bought a packet of sparklers. That little lot must have been developed by the same company which arms the stealth bomber.”

  “We all enjoyed it, didn’t we?” said Eunice, brightly.

  “Far too loud,” retorted Dot. “Why didn’t you get some nice ha’penny catherine wheels like we used to have before the war?”

  “You liked it didn’t you Digby,” Eunice said, turning to our sullen faced grandson.

  “S’alright,” he said, looking up from his Gameboy. “Look, Grandma I got to the 14th level!”

  I caught Eunice’s expression and for once there was a meeting of minds. We expect disappointment, but does it have to come so expensive?

  Monday 6th November: Follow the money

  If the UK chemical industry is under such pressure, how come that Bonfire Night now involves spontaneous combustion of the wallet? I presume that fireworks, like so much else, are made in China, but it hardly seems to be beyond the wit of man to make them here. Looked on lots of websites of U.K. retailers, but didn’t see any well-known corporate names. Looks like I’ll have to remain with the bigger munitions outfit, BAE.

  A thought just struck me. If Dot won’t sell her 140,000-odd BAE shares, I can certainly sell my small tranche of 1,000 bought in October last year. That at least will dent our reliance on this one firm. Having decided, sold immediately and got £4.10 for them, not a bad return on the £3.30 paid.

  Wednesday 8th November: A heart judged on a pear tree

  Thinking about my long-lost Amelia again. What pleasure was the longing, the anticipation, the hoping, the lust. Trouble with today is that boys get what they want immediately. Sometimes at twelve or thirteen, before they even know what it is they do want. They’re getting it from some cider-addled Tracy or Kylie who doesn’t remember what happened or with whom, and doesn’t care. They wouldn’t know it, but the interest rate on sex deferred produces a return even Provident Financial can only dream of.

  Elevenses: A jaffa cake bar. Nice, but less so than the original. Brand spreading is I think what they call it. New formats for old ideas. Clearly works brilliantly for Reckitt Benkiser and its household products (another long-standing success of Perfect Peter’s portfolio, damn his eyes), but not so clever with food where conservatism rules.

  Close of Play: Phoned Bovis investor relations, saying I had a planning issue with Celandine Homes. Was told that the takeover wouldn’t be completed for months so that I should speak to Celandine itself. I daren’t even mention that it was about one solitary pear tree for fear of being laughed at. Perhaps I’ll try the planning department again. I’m not giving up.

  Chapter Forty: Saving Mr Kipling

  Friday 10th November: Airfixed up

  So Hornby really is buying Humbrol and Airfix.
Risky, given the decline in the modelling market. But buying assets that generated £6.5m of sales in 2005 for £2.6m cash seems thrifty enough. However the market is definitely spooked, with Hornby shares down this morning from 250p to 225p. While this only costs me a few quid with my holding of 200 shares, Peter Edgington, who bought 20,000 in September, must be nursing a loss! From memory, he said he paid 240p, so that’s £3,000 adrift. Every cloud has a silver lining….

  Elevenses: Caught red-handed with mince pie in hand. “Bernard, this secretive sugary vice of yours has to stop,” Eunice said.

  “It’s only secretive because you give me grief when I eat openly.”

  “I’m only concerned for your health. The doctor has warned you time and again about your cholesterol.”

  “Yes, but there’s loads of fruit in this, I’m working towards my five-a-day.”

  “Nonsense. That’s machine-processed syrup slurry, loaded with sugars and fat.”

  “I think Mr Kipling would be turning in his grave to hear you speak ill of his products.”

  “Mr Kipling doesn’t exist, you silly dodo. He’s an advertising voice to cover up a sinister national network of factories dedicated to silting up the arteries of the sugar-addicted masses.”

  There you have it: How thoroughly my wife has fallen under the spell of that spaniel-faced vegan activist Irmgard.

  Close of play: Hornby recovered considerably, to 235p. Notice Tanfield performing superbly too. From 30p to 42p in just three months. Who said milk floats can’t accelerate?

  Friday 17th November: Bernard’s first ten-bagger

  Hornby results received well, shares completed remarkable recovery to 270p, which now makes it officially a ten-bagger from my 26p buy price in 2001. However, my £488 actual profit is infuriatingly small. Perfect Peter’s gains since he bought in September are now an irritating £6,000. Even in my own area of expertise, I’m outmatched.

  Elevenses: A plate of crisps has mysteriously appeared on the desk in Lemon Curdistan. Highly suspicious! No idea what type, no bag to check. Odd aroma, perhaps sautéed vole? Knowing Eunice they are likely to be a cunning twist on a known flavour, like beef and mustard gas, or pickled bunion. Perhaps she’s been taking tips from the KGB. First Litvinenko, now me! After ignoring them for a half hour, I am unable to resist the lure of vole, and eat a morsel. Quite pleasant, consume remainder.

  Close of play: I can hear a recently-arrived Eunice in the kitchen. Emerging silently across the Curdistan border, I notice the Waitrose bags in the hall. Flitting from shadow to shadow, I flatten myself behind the kitchen door.

  “Enjoy the crisps, Bernard?” Eunice says.

  I hold my breath. How on earth does she know?

  “There’s no point hiding, dear. I can smell your new slippers.”

  The horrifying story emerges. It appears I have ingested a lethal dose of a substance known only to a few in the security services. It is a kind of Lincolnshire ginseng, known by the code word ‘parsnip’. This rare root can masquerade as real crisps by being thin sliced and then deep-fried. Finally, she lets me know who is the culprit.

  “Irmgard made them specially. Hardly any salt, lightly fried in sesame oil and with eight per cent fibre, they’ll be perfect for elevenses. So come on, hand over the key to the Hornby drawer. Your cake days are over.”

  Tuesday 14th November: Planning oversight

  Celandine Homes insists that it isn’t possible to save any of the fruit trees because of the stone setts they are planning for the driveways. Right, we’ll see about that. Go to the planning office in person and read every turgid word of the old orchard planning application. No mention of the fruit trees at all. So I ask the planning officer whether a planning application would have to note any trees that they plan to fell. The answer is yes, so long as said greenery is more than 1.5 metres high and 10cm in diameter. I point out to him that the Old Orchard was full of trees of at least this size, and some remain. Eyebrows are raised. Notes scribbled. Phone calls made. I see the wheels of bureaucracy finally begin to turn! I ask if I can make an application for a preservation order on one tree in particular. I am handed forms to fill in. Perhaps, just perhaps, my council tax payments aren’t wasted after all.

  Elevenses: Sitting in the Volvo opposite the old orchard, with the heater on, and a copy of Chronic Investor to disguise my surveillance. I see the pear tree is still there, thank God. I open the glove compartment, and help myself to a fresh cream éclair. This is going to have to be the new Hornby drawer in exile, now that Lemon Curdistan is under the enemy boot.

  Chapter Forty-One: Flight of Angels

  Monday 4th December: Quornered

  Another food merger. After losing out in its attempt to get hold of United Biscuits in October, Premier Foods has now tried to swallow RHM, maker of Mr Kipling cakes (and by Royal appointment, supplier to Bernard Jones). RHM has twice the sales of Premier, but because of a lower market value could be digestible by the smaller firm. But what could it be about Angel Delight, Quorn, Branston Pickle and Smash that makes Premier worth so much more at £1.4bn than the £900m pre-bid value accorded the maker of Bisto, Mr Kipling and Mothers Pride (the only bread that the Antichrist will consider for his salad cream sandwiches)? RHM’s gross margin is higher, its net margin is the same and it boasts a better dividend. It even has less debt. So why is it worth less? Baffled.

  Elevenses: A Mr Kipling mince pie, something of a bitter-sweet moment as the brand changes hands. I do hope they don’t mess with the recipe and fill it with Quorn. After all, we know what Nestlé did to After Eights.

  Wednesday 13th December: Party time

  Investment club Christmas knees-up. The Ring o’Bells is packed. Martin Gale in better spirits after his IVA, which hasn’t even required him so far to surrender his stake in the club. Though Martin pleads poverty when it’s his round, he still expects to drink like a fish. Get to discussing food companies with Harry Staines, who says he just made a festive food investment in InterLink Foods.

  “Weren’t they the ones who had a profit warning?” I asked.

  “Ah, but that’s what makes them cheap. They make 120 million mince pies a year, so the dosh should be pouring in now.”

  K.P. Sharma has had a double whisky and is now wearing a Santa hat and waving mistletoe about.

  Thursday 21st December: Raiders of the lost cause

  Unbelievable evening. Eunice at an old girls’ reunion at Wigmore Hall, marking forty years since leaving St Celia’s Girls Academy. A more terrifying gaggle of Amaretto-marinated nymphomaniacs you would be hard pressed to find. She said she’d stay with Angharad in Pimlico if she missed the last train. So as the rain slashed down outside, I settled down with a glass of Islay to watch the life history of Brunel that I’d recorded from BBC2.

  11.30pm: Doorbell went repeatedly. Surely Daphne Hanson-Hart hadn’t reversed into our gatepost again. However, as I walked into the hall, a glance through the glass revealed this wasn’t Daphne, nor Eunice. I opened the front door and a sobbing Astrid, wearing only a bathrobe threw herself into my arms.

  “Please, Mr Jones. Help me. Mr O’Riordan attacked me.”

  I saw she had a cut foot, and ushered her in.

  “I lock myself in bathroom, and climbs out through window. But I broke vase…sorry, my English is terrible now.”

  “Well, you’ll be safe here. Come, on let’s get that foot sorted out,” I said gently. I got a tea towel from the kitchen, wrapped up her bare foot, and then helped her upstairs. I sat her on the side of the bath while I washed, bathed and bandaged that beautiful foot. Once I’d got her a brandy she told me the full story. Ken O’Riordan had dispatched his wife to a spa as a pre-Christmas gambit, and once Astrid had put the children to bed he suggested they watch a film together. Poor innocent Astrid thought the title was Raiders of the Lost Ark, but realised her mistake the moment the first naked posterior wobbled into view. Seeing her expression, Ken complained that as a Dane she shouldn’t be ashamed of her nation’s greatest exp
ort. He pinned her on the sofa, and when he tried to pull her bathrobe open, she used a knee to good effect and fled upstairs. Now, as I stared into those almond-shaped brown eyes, brimming with tears, I saw pure trust. I couldn’t let her down.

  “Astrid, you don’t have to go back. Not at all. I’ll call the police…”

  “Please, no. I don’t want big trouble. I just have to get my things. My iPod is there…”

  “Look stay here tonight. I’ll go and get your things first thing tomorrow morning when he’s sobered up, then we can go to the police afterwards.”

  I found her some of Jemima’s spare pyjamas (choice of rabbits, elephants or heart pattern). A thunderous pounding on the front door interrupted us.

  “That’s him! Oh God!” Astrid shrieked.

  “Leave him to me,” I said, feeling far less confident than I hoped I sounded. Through the green glass door panel I could see O’Riordan, all 6’3” and apparently a body double for the Incredible Hulk.

  “I know she’s there, Jones,” he growled. “This door opens in five seconds, or I’ll rip it from the frame. Your choice.”

  There was no doubt he meant it. I picked up the only weapon to hand, a Dambusters memorial wall clock that Eunice’s late mother had given us in 1983 to mark forty years since the raid. It was certainly a nasty piece of tat, but would it be nasty enough?

  “Right,” O’Riordan boomed. “Five, four, three, two….”

  There was no doubt Ken O’Riordan would have demolished the house to get at Astrid, but I wasn’t going to open the door. I gripped my weapon like a discus. Then, just as Ken’s countdown for me to open the door reached one, I heard a child yell.