It was the fixed income party.
So it's last night, Thursday, and we are all herded sheepishly into the basement of a so-called tapas bar somewhere in the City.
The decor was decidedly late 80s, and there had been some considerable storm damage to the wallpaper (I hadn't realised the flooding in Cumbria had reached Central London).
Giant bottles of 'Mahou' beer were brought out to slake our collective thirst. It's been a bad year.
I said I'd just have two small glasses and then sample the wine, but it didn't quite work out like that. After drunkenly berating one of my trading colleagues for the lack of information (what information? we'll never know), I moved on to an easier target. The lady who reviews expenses had refused to sanction the gin part of my G+T on the flight back from a biz trip. She did allow, however, the tonic and crisps component. We had a delightful chat about this and agreed that yet another aimless management directive was probably to blame.
By now I was quaffing a strange Rioja called Mil Gracias. It had to be Rioja coz we were in a tapas bar, but it sure didn't taste like it. In fact in trying to 'place' this noble wine, I must have drunk a complete bottle. My hair was standing on end, I felt as hot as a sunbather on an Iberian beach with a crack habit. I burst into hysterical guffaws of laughter at the slightest provocation.
Conversation with sales colleagues was in no way peace, goodwill and good cheer, but rather a snide dig at whichever colleague happened not to be there, and especially our boss who had cried off sick. Our views on regulators, compliance and management are not fit to be printed here. I staggered out at 8.30, two hours after my original ETD and some 45 alcoholic units over my original target. Some of my colleagues on the desk seem to have difficulty seeing straight this morning.
There is a sense of subdued, collective shame and a job well done. Happy Friday.
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