Our boy "Jamie" plays a blinder

I just saw this internal e-mail from “Jamie” Dimon who is the boss of J.P. Morgan Chase, the bankers.

He must be the same “Jamie” who is responsible for the banks multi-billion dollar losses through crappy sub-prime paper, but who blithely said he was not worried last autumn.

Actually, I think I hate almost anyone called Jamie, but that’s another subject.

Anyhow, whatever his name is, his memo says he is “very pleased to announce that we have appointed former British Prime Minister Tony Blair as a Senior Advisor to the firm. He will also be joining our International Council.

In this advisory role, Tony Blair will work with us part-time -- advising our Operating Committee and Board; participating in key client events; and helping our bankers on senior-level client matters worldwide.

We're honored that Tony Blair has chosen to work with JPMorgan Chase. He plans to advise a very small number of highly respected companies -- we're the first, and we'll be the only banking institution -- and it's a reflection of all we've achieved together that we are his top choice.”

Christ, if I heard I was the bliar’s top choice I’m not sure I’d be pleased. I’d probably throw myself in front of a bus.

The question is, can the old maestro do for a bank what he managed to do for us?

Could he get them into a couple of wars? Can he teach them anything about bribery – always useful in certain markets? Have they any involvement in education, crime-fighting or medicine? His track record in those areas is remarkable.

A friend has already predicted one possible “initiative”.

Morgan take over a small, defenceless bank in the middle east - fearing they could launch a hostile takeover bid in the next 45 minutes with lunch money.

They’re paying him $500,000 a year – part-time. If that’s for him to stay away three days a week, it's a start. They should bite the bullet and pay him more not to turn up at all.

Do you like music?

Go and have a look at:

http://fr.youtube.com/watch?v=ITd_Y1inZoU.

It features my daughter Martina singing, and my son Nick playing.

All my life I've loved music; I have absolutely NO talent for it. But they have.

I'm not sure whether this is one of the songs they wrote together, but they've done quite a few.

New dogs, old tricks, I see

For decades connoisseurs of municipal folly could confidently rely on the loopies at North London’s Camden council for a few laughs.
For 30-odd years these corrupt incompetent rogues managed to combine the highest taxes in Inner London with the most abysmal service. You could be sure they’d come up with something ludicrous and expensive at frequent intervals. In fact, as Tony Bliar long lived there, I've always wondered if their policies inspired his larger, national schemes of wasteful futility.
It was a bit of a worry, then, when last year the voters finally threw the Camden rascals out, giving the majority to the liberal-democrats. Where would we turn to for samples of urban idiocy?
What a relief, then, to see a string of expensive, pointless posters today round the corner from my modest offices in Newman Street. A splendid example of needless, irrelevant and ill-considered expenditure in the great Camden tradition. Perhaps they were initiated and designed by the council’s design consultants who are, for reasons only an astrologist could fathom, called Dogstar.
To explain why they are such a stupid idea, I should tell overseas readers that last year our Government in its eagerness to stop as many things as possible without starting anything apart from a catastrophic war, decided to ban smoking in public places.
To be fair, though, to even things out, they also introduced round the clock drinking, so what we lost in lung cancer we gained in cirrhosis of the liver and thuggish violence.
Anyhow, for months the proposed smoking ban was a big topic in the press, on TV, on the radio, amongst smokers, non-smokers – anyone alive and not deaf or blind with even the vaguest interest in what was happening in Britain knew about it.
What's more we not only all knew about it long before it happened - but afterwards, too. Its consequences have been debated ever since in the media, always desperate for something trivial rather than real news. Was it going to kill the restaurant or pub businesses? Was it fair? Would they extend it to everywhere? What would they ban next? Farting?
Anyhow, you get the idea. This was one of the most talked about domestic topics for ages.
Judge, then of my joy, to see these posters yesterday, months after the ban was introduced. One is reproduced above, glorious in its irrelevance and political correctness, down to the black model (Camden’s black population is about 4%, by the way).
If there is anyone who can tell me in what way this nonsense serves any purpose, save wasting time and money on asinine self-congratulation, please do.
I have no doubt that the buffoons who authorised it believed that it was "marketing" and would do a lot for their "brand". Stupid bastards.
As a fitting final touch part of this inane exercise has been funded by the national health service. This gives us all a tiny clue as to why that bloated wankocracy has failed to improve its service in the last decade despite having twice the budget it used to have. They pissed the money away on such irrelevant "initiatives".

Help! Where are we? Who knows? Not the bus driver

It’s all go here in London, believe me.

This evening I had an experience which has never come my way in nearly 47 years of living here.

My bus driver got lost.

I had just left my partne, who is currently on an urgent important international mission, on Oxford Street. She is looking for a dress for a wedding in Italy which is taking place in May.

She has already spent over two days on this task, drawing a blank at Harrods and Harvey Nichols. Why the urgency? Because although the wedding is months away, the sales will not last forever. Perfect sense.

At South Kensington I got on one of my usual buses, the 345. For some reason it didn’t seem to be going in the right direction, which the lady next to me pointed out. It seems there had been a fire at the hospital we nornmally go near, so it was being diverted.

But diverted where? We eventually reached Fulham Broadway, which is quite a way from where I live.

“Does he know where he’s going?” asked the lady.

Eventually a man went up to the front of the bus.

“Are you lost, mate?”

“Mutter.” This was an assent I imagine, since the man was literally going round in circles.

“Don’t worry. I’ll tell you where to go.”

And so he did, to a small burst of applause from the lady and me.

Marvellous!

Will Maurabella go to the ball?

This is a true story that really cheered me up after the barrage of tripe in the media about celebrities or sub-celebrities, many of whom seem pretty trashy people, inculcating worthless values.

Maybe you will like it too.

My partner’s sister Maura is a tango lover. By “tango” I don’t mean the disgusting vaguely orange-y drink; I mean the not-in-the-least-vaguely sexy dance. Not long ago it was her birthday.

The best tango dancer in the world is Pablo Veron. Some judges think he is the best dancer of any kind in the world. You can see his picture at the top, looking somewhat piratical with Maura.

She looks pretty happy, right? Let me tell you why.

Pablo was appearing till recently in Carmen at the English National Opera here in London.

So my partner somehow got hold of Pablo’s mobile number and arranged for her sister to have a private lesson with him. It was to be a birthday surprise. All she told Maura was that they would both go to one of Pablo’s public lessons.

They stood outside the venue having a cigarette and waiting for Pablo. When he arrived the conversation went like this.

Partner: “Hello Pablo, I am the one who rang you about the private lesson.”

Pablo said hello and kissed my partner, to the astonishment of her sister, speechless when faced with the man of her dreams. And utterly speechless when he kissed her too.

Partner: “This is my sister Maura who’s having the lesson.”

Maura (finding her tongue): “No.”

Partner: “Yes; it‘s your birthday present.”

Maura: “No” (These girls from the south of Italy are persistent).

Eventually she allowed that the lesson might indeed exist.

Anyhow although he gave a public lesson, they couldn’t have the private lesson that night. Pablo had a film director friend, Sally Morgan, with him. Nor could it be done the next night, as he had to fly to Italy.

“I will call you on Tuesday to arrange it,” said Pablo.

But he didn’t.

Maura was in despair. Her sister was in despair. They rang - repeatedly - both of them. (These girls from the south of Italy are really persistent) but Pablo didn’t reply.

Unkind words were said about Pablo, I’m afraid. I tried to be comforting.

“Let’s face it, Maura, the man is extremely busy.”

But eventually he rang. We might have guessed the truth. He had booked his return flight with Alitalia, leading contender for the much-contested title “World’s most useless airline”.

To be honest I admire his courage. Would you reply to someone who – together with her sister - had rung about 56 times and was clearly a demented stalker? I thought not.

He said he would try to fit her in, but could make no promises. He was a hero again! We took back the unkind words.

He asked her to go to a milonga (that’s a venue for dancing the tango) to make arrangements. She went and they danced together; then he told her it would be almost impossible to fit in a lesson.

Maura was resigned – but she was already happy that she’d danced with him - see picture above. So she forgot about it.

But after a couple of days she received a call at 6pm one evening. “Hola! Soy Pablo Veron”. And she replied “Yes, and I’m Lady Diana”. He said, “No, soy Pablo Veron and I can meet you tonight at 8 because I moved my ticket to tomorrow morning”.

Now, there were one or two problems. First she had no money, improvident creature. Second, the only place where she could have the lesson was our office – but she didn’t have the keys. Third, the only people who could help were her sister and me, who were on the train to dinner in Teddington.

A crisis! But these girls from southern Italy always have plan A, plan B and plan C because nothing works down there.

My partner leapt off the train with seconds to spare and caught the next train back to Clapham Junction to meet Maura and solve everything.

In the meantime Maura took a taxi to go to Clapham.

They met there, my partner got the money, paid the cab, gave Maura the keys, and put her on the train to Waterloo (not before stopping at Superdrug in the station to get some make-up).

Maura rushed to the office, cleared the meeting room (moving a table and 8 chairs) and then waited for Pablo.

He came. They danced. It was wonderful.

And you know what? Afterwards he put all the furniture back.

A gentleman.

There aren’t that many nowadays. Maybe they all went to Buenos Aires.

Happy New Year, everyone!

And thank you for the kind messages you send.





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