Investment bankers

My friend, Jason, who works in an investment bank in London called me today while I was at home in my pyjamas having breakfast. I was in a rush to get to work and couldn’t afford to speak to him – but as it had been a while since we spoke I took his call. He was all in a flutter. Apparently he and his colleagues came out of a meeting in the investment bank where he works – they, along with the whole floor, found cardboard boxes places on their desks. They were told, to clear them out their personal belongings immediately, while being watched by security, and leave the building on the spot – as the whole bank was going bankrupt. It is estimated that the City (of London – which is the square mile of all financial firms) will lose between 110,000-150,000 jobs alone. So my friend Jason, along with everyone else packed their things and left. Some girls were weeping and some people looked bewildered. Others hadn’t really realised what was happening or had been expecting it and were unfazed.

But the thing is, no one cares about bankers who have now lost everything. It is said that bankers are now suffering for losing their job the way someone loses a loved one and yet, they receive no amount of sympathy. Ori said everyone in London was on their laptops or Blackberries scouring the internet for jobs; drinking lattes and being stressed out or just drinking themselves into a stupor. Jobs were decreasing but demand for alcohol wasn’t.

Yet, the jobless banker will go through the same bereavement process as someone in mouring, albeit with different sympotoms, and yet will get no sympathy.
This is both unfair and understandable some say. Unfair because they lost their jobs and have families to support. However it is understandable that people will not be sympathetic as they were earning so much as investment bankers. What they do not understand is that they earned a lot because of the volatility of the market. Which begs the question; if you were paid so much to be an investment banker, and now the market has crashed, should people feel sympathy? Maybe empathy.

But have a look at the video below. My friend Laverne, who saw this said 'who knew the British could be so sassy?' when hearing Vicky Ward (the journalist) talk about Mr. Fuld (of Lehman Brothers). I think she sums up everything people are feeling.

I ♥ Nicosia Fashion Week (but not the models)

Once a year, like Christmas, Fashion Week comes to our nation's capital; Nicosia. Although it has not reached the heights of the Paris or Milan Fashion Weeks, the Cypriot girls aim to reach the colossal heights of the other fashion shows by wearing high-heels that resemble 30-storey buildings. Like snow, the couture citizens of Nicosia and other neighbouring countries descend on our nation's capital, like a very stylish army. Armed with hand-bags and other accessories, the only different these fashionstas are much more intimidating than any army on earth.
Usually I by-passed Fashion Week for the fact that I was just not fashionable enough, but my friend Cake was the one who attends fashion events, as she is trendy and in this case the show was organised by her good friend Funky Fashionista. I on the other hand, have had a history of undressing rather than dressing in couture.
However this year was an excpetion as my good friend Cake had a spare ticket and gave it to me.
‘But I’m hardly the most fashionable person’ I said as I generously accepted the invitation.
‘And I am?’ she said ‘I’m only going for the hell of it. I mean it’s a perfect opportunity to have a laugh.’

However it turns out the laugh was on me. Not only was I 20 minutes late, but I couldn’t find parking and parked miles away from the fashion show, and thanks to Cake, who said I could wear whatever I wanted, I turned up in very stylish clothes… for the beach. I was wearing jeans, a tight-fitting blue-checked shirt and phenomenally fun although totally inappropriate silver trainers! Yes, I should have been at a rave not a fashion show. Everyone else was dressed in black. It was like a fashion funeral rather than a fashion show. I wanted to drink, but refrained.
Luckily I was not the only one wearing anything other than black. Cake was wearing a 60’s style red dress with frills. She made it work, after all she was a woman. I on the other hand looked like a lost party-boy. Couture? What?

So there I sat. In my cool but totally inappropriate clothes. I looked like I just wandered into a Gucci add from an Abercrombie and Fitch advert filmed in Venice Beach, LA. I could literally feel people’s eyes burning into me as they wondered, what the hell is he doing here? I could feel them visually rip my clothes off, not because they thought I was hot (although I’m sure some did) but because I was not a fashion victim. I refused to be a victim.
Talk about fashion police. I thought they would have a security man come over any minute and escort me off the premises.

Looking back, I wish I was fierce in the face of fashion. So I was wearing a blue shirt. It looked great on me but when the whole room is dressed in clothes that makes them look like they are attending a mass funeral and judging me for my lack of black, it is no wonder I would feel intimidated. Still though, I couldn’t help but imagine myself sashaying in inappropriately dressed in my silver shoes and chain, and being completely dismissive of everyone. That would have got them to like me. Or if I went to the fashion show with a devil-may-care attitude, behaving anti-establishment and throwing paint over a model in protest for fur (despite the models being almost naked).

We were sitting on the front row, right opposite the runway. On the other side of the platform, a Russian woman, with a hint of Anna Wintour stared at me. At first I stared back and managed a smile. She looked away. But over the course of the evening she kept looking at me. Was it me of my attire she was looking at? Did she think I actually had come in all anti-establishment-like or was he admiring the fact that I had the balls that I could be dressed to the minus nines in a glamourised convention of fabric-worship? And then it struck me, perhaps she was scouting for male models and had her sights set on me. In would finally be discovered, make lots of money, be paid to look good and live the life I was meant to lead, a hedonistic, lavish life which replaces one of questions, soul-searching, bed-hopping and hard work.

So, I sat there and posed. I would tilt my head and arch my back slightly. I would look at the models intently, pretending to scrutinise their clothes acting out as if I were interested in the colours, the lines of the clothing the fabric and whatever else it is fashionistas notice in a garment. Then, forgetting that I was meant to be posing, I would take pictures with my digital cameras (the flash definitely made others notice me too, but for other reasons).

I could feel her glancing every so often in my direction and I became convinced that she would recruit me, the way Kate Moss was recruited while waiting outside a train station. I sat there wondering what I would say to her when she would say ‘you should be a model. Call me’ and then hand me her card. The whole time there, at the back of my mine I wondered ‘really? Me?’ and why not, I mean I do have chiselled features, and its not like models have to be beautiful right? Just different looking. Right?

But the models walked on and off, and on and off again and the show had ended. And no one approached me, other than the manager of the event who thought I was a waiter who was late and wanted me to get changed. Actually, someone did approach me; the Womaniser (why am I not surprised he is at a fashion show filled with half naked women?). He turned up with a model or two, trailing him like two dinghies training a streamliner.
‘Hello’ was all he said, and expected me to fill in the rest.
‘Hey…’ I began, forgetting his name (Womaniser would suffice) and to gain access to it introduced him to Cake.
‘This is my friend Cake’ I said, who had her back to us. As she turned she was scoffing down a pinkish type of hors d’ouevres and said with a mouthful ‘God damn it, I’m so hungry, I could eat a frigging horse.’ The Man-Eater smiled weakly and swanned off, with his two fag hags trotting off after him and Cake went back to scoffing caviar-spread nibbles.

The after party was at a bar called Planet Vodka. Almost everyone went for the models. I went with Cake for the free booze.

Tribute to NY

Happy Diwali

Yesterday I went to a party that celebrated Diwali which is the Indian New Year. My Indian friends put the red line and a yellow dot on my forehead (I forgot what it was called, I believe it is called a Tika, or Tikra, or something like that) and was told that I had to out my hand on my head and make a wish and that it would come true within the year. I love Indian culture, so many bright colours, especially red and the food... let's just say I don't even season my food with pepper! I wish to to all my Indian friends, a very happy Diwali.

Wine // Art // and Mr. Van Gogh Away

My friend Laverne was back in Cyprus for some work and of course she came and stayed with me. On Saturday night we arranged to meet up with Cake. Cake told us to meet her in a fancy-shmancy art gallery in the city centre. So we met her at the renaissance paintings, scaring the people who had more flesh than clothes on display and were biting into apples in an inviting manner. ‘It’s art’ she explained to us, trying to excuse the fact that she was mesmerized by the painting of the man covered only in fruit and holding a giant banana.

‘Would you like some wine?’ asked the gallery owner, who we shall call Mr. Van Gogh Away. ‘Here let me show you around the gallery’ he said to us as if we were art connoisseurs about to spend our lifesavings (of €9.56) on fine art. I don’t know how he didn’t realise that we were there only because Cake told us to. But we are polite so we obliged. The next thing we knew, we were on the roof, sipping wine and listening to outlandish stories about his life in Knightsbridge (a fancy-shmancy place in London; that is dropped into a conversation to impress).

And so begin his attempts to let us know that he is someone. ‘Yes and I am friend with Baroness Von Thurenbergen of the House of Lower Saxony… and I went to school with James Taylor III. You know James Taylor III. JT? The Thuuurd???’ he repeated after our blank stares. We all nodded and smiled fearfully having no idea who he was talking about. The only JT I know is Justin Timberlake. The singer. Not the third.
And he continued ‘… that’s when I moved in with Maria Consuelo de Gracias Rodrigues of Argentina and her Indian husband, the grandson of the Maharaja of Madras in southern India… and I went hot air balloon riding with the cousin of King Carlos of Spain twice removed, oh we had a jolly good time’. Jolly good time? This guy is from the mountains of Cyprus and he is talking to me as if he is European royalty?
After a while of name dropping Cake asked him ‘do you buy the art? Does this art belong you?’ and he replied by saying in a husky, out-of-breath voice, ‘no dearest child, art does not belong to me, it belong to everyone. To you. To me. To society.’*
Oh yeah? Well then please explain to me why Damien Hurst is making millions during the credit crunch by selling to private investors. Why then tramps do not own art? Is it because they have no where to store it? And if art belong to society as a whole, then why haven’t I got a Klimt original hanging up in my dining room?

Yet… it got better.
Cake for some reason falls in love with, not a piece of art, but a road sign. It was an arrow pointing straight ahead. She liked it that much that she made us take a photo of herself holding it. Which in most cases would seem ridiculous but that night, it was rather fitting. Cake likes it that much however that she made Laverne ask the man in she could have it.
‘Why? What for?’ he asked. ‘Cake just likes it’ Laverne said, ‘is there any use for it?’ she continued. ‘No, no use for it. I don’t even know what it is doing there.’ So then the man turned to Cake and said ‘if you like it that much come back again with her husband and she can have it.’ Cake smiled politely. Laverne grinned. I was scandalised.
Let me get this straight. Apparently art belongs to everyone but a road sign that my taxes paid for, that is not used and is on his roof is private property? Usually I would advocate stealing it (I did indirectly pay for it with my taxes). But since we already asked for it, we couldn’t take it, as he would realise that we took it. Although it’s not like we would be making off with a five metre painting of the birth of Venus, painted in acrylics. I mean what charges would be press? They took a road sign from me that was on my roof?

The verbal mayhem ensued…
‘… and that’s because I live in Lesvos and we all know what Lesvos is known for’ explained Laverne.
‘I see, and so are you inclined towards women?’ asked Van Gogh Away.
‘No’ said Laverne politely ‘I have a boyfriend.’
WTF? You don’t ask people you met literally 15 minutes and a bottle of wine ago questions like that. No matter how liberal you are (and you better be if you read this blog) you still maintain some distance.

After another 15 minutes Van Gogh Away said 'allow me to get my great-great-grandfather who is sitting downstairs to play you a tune on his violin.’ Now, I don’t know about you, but I hate private shows of entertainment (but not when they are inside the bedroom). For me, there is nothing more uncomfortable than having to listen to a violinist, play a ditty for you, while you smile and look interest and not embarrassed and try not to laugh. Communicating with our eyes when Van Gogh Away’s back was to us, we agreed that we did not want to stay there to hear a tune.
BabyBusinessMan: We’d love to say but we have to go.
Van Gogh Away: Go?
BBM: Yes, we have reservations
VGA: Where?
BBM: In Restaurant Petite Paris (quick thinking)
VGA: With whom?
BBM: With a friend from Egypt
VGA: When?
BBM: Now.
VGA: They do food there?
BBM. YES!
VGA: Oh well I guess they do. Fine then! GO!

Now, if I wasn’t scandalised before, now I was. What were these questions? How dare anyone ask you these things? But if you’re being showered with free wine and someone is actually polite (albeit passive-aggressively rude) then you answer these questions. Of course Laverne would never criticise and Cake couldn’t be bothered to. But I was shocked. The name dropping? The pretence? The intrusion? But I will admit one thing. The wine was excellent. Maybe he did own a vineyard in Tuscany that Giuseppe di Garda gave him as a present for writing the most flattering poem in honour of his mother. There might just be some truth in it all…

*I’m not going to pretend I know a lot about art. But I believe that the only art that belongs to society is by Banksy. Now that is art. And it’s for society.

Backing Barack

If McCain wins, people will move to Canada (or even better; France) and America will begin a debate about how racist American actually is (with emphasis given to the southern states). If Obama wins, it will give a new lease of life to a nation tired of Republic mistakes and bigotry and we will never here the end of Obama being the first black president. To me, it’s no big deal, he is black; the race to the White House for me never included any racial undertones because it don’t matter what colour you are as long as you can do the job. But we will never hear the end about Obama being the first black president (which he will be). He could cede Alaska (and Palin while he’s at it) to Russia, Texas to Mexico, New York to Israel and the rest of America to Yemen and people wouldn’t bat an eyelid. Instead, people will still be talking about him being the first black president.

One of my (American) friends say that that’s because some Americans are racist (finger pointing to the south), but are they really? How is that possible when America is such a melting-pot to have such racial tensions? When I was there I saw nothing but integration and multiculturalism. But my friend pointed out that I was in the OC and Vegas. Not exactly middle-America, bible-belt, guns and tractors now, is it?

For me, the presidential race 2008 is not a race issue, it’s an age issue. McCain will be 70-something if he becomes president (which he won’t). Fine so we shouldn’t be ageist. Fine I won’t be. But his age doesn’t merely mean he is old, it means that he represents all that is old, Republican, extreme and dusty about America. And let’s face it; America is still a vibrant and innovative place and for that you need a vibrant and innovative president, enter Obama! Yes, I know I am looking mostly at the coasts and pockets of affluence in certain states (like Austin, Texas for example; it’s a blue dot in a sea of red). But these places run the country and the economy (which the Reps ran into the ground). Furthermore, if anything happens to him, Palin, the moose-hunter/ hockey-mum/ republican from hell will not only lead America, she will rule the world. And she only know where Russia is because it’s opposite her house.

So I am (finally) backing Obama after dealing with my issues about Hillary not being in the race. Obama is good for the economy, he is good for America and its (necessary) new foreign policy image and he is even good for Cyprus and Israel. So let’s hope he wins the White House come Nov 4th!

Short Story: Stay Away

So this guy got nuts because I was talking to his girlfriend at a party I was making an appearance in.
‘Back off from my girlfriend’ he said. ‘Just back off. I know guys like you’.
I responded: ‘I know guys like me too. Not too many though. We’re a rare breed…’ and walked off towards the bar to get myself another dirty Martini while the guy looked on, incredulously.