Money down the tube?

I spend most of my working hours these days, writing, thinking and speaking about work. But for many years at the Financial Times I worked on corporate investigations. In fact it would be true to say that I joined the newspaper with something of a jaundiced attitude towards the City.

Late in 1987 when I joined the editorial, the City had been indulging itself in a financial feeding frenzy that ended on Black Monday, October 19, when stock markets crashed around the world. By the end of the month the value of UK shares had fallen by more than a quarter.

This was the age of the yuppie (young urban professional), parodied by the comedian Harry Enfield with his character "Loadsamoney" who would brandish bundles of money to advertise his obnoxious behaviour.

Whether or not my attitude was justified is a matter of debate but any illusion that the City was populated solely by gentlemen brokers working to the principal that "my word is my bond" was destroyed by the subsequent scandals at Lloyds, Homes Assured, BCCI, Polly Peck and the Maxwell Corporation.

This was the era when the City discovered one of the greatest medical breakthroughs in history - a cure for Alzheimer's disease. The treatment involved a lengthy trial for insider trading. Little wonder, then, that Ernest Saunders, the former chief executive of Guinness, is the only living beneficiary of this sophisticated remedy. He had shaken off the symptoms of "pre-senile dementia" after serving just 10 months of a prison sentence that had been reduced from five to two-and-a-half years by the time of his release from Ford open prison.

So why should I mention any of this now? Well I'm wondering as we enter the closing years of the decade just who among the current stars in the corporate firmament are going to transform their businesses in to imploding black holes in to which shareholders' investments, pension funds and undeserved reputations will disappear? We can only imagine the flurry of headlines, political recriminations and told-you-so columns penned by those same supine dogs who always fail to bark.

I have one or two ideas but why not do your own spotting? Watch out for those companies that have risen from nowhere, particularly where the chief executive is perceived to possess the Midas touch. Look at the ultimate ownership and evidence of offshore registration or financing.

Is there an elaborate corporate structure with obscure shell companies? If so, ask yourself why it exists and beware the silver tongues who justify such arrangements in the name of tax efficiency. It is no co-incidence that many tax havens are also noted for their secrecy.

Another feature of the markets in the coming year or two may be the fall out from the most recent manifestation of the kind of irrational exuberance that characterised the dot com boom at the end of the 1990s.

There's a new twist this time. On the last occasion the internet business was novel and untried. People threw money at ventures that spent millions trying to grab market share on the strength of their marketing spend rather than on the quality of their service.

This time companies are buying businesses that have grabbed apparent market share (but not earnings). I'm thinking here of ITV's £120m acquisition of Friends Reunited and Google's $1.65bn purchase of YouTube.

I'm wondering whether either of these acquisitions will amount to anything more than a money sponge. Both Friends Reunited and YouTube are communities of interest. But are they great businesses? Do their communities represent a market in any real sense any more than the membership of the Boy Scouts, The Women's' Institute and the Church of England?

Millions of people choose to go to church every Sunday, but their church membership and church going habit does not amount to a commercial enterprise. Why should the behaviour of those who post on YouTube be perceived any differently?

Good luck to the founders of YouTube and Friends Reunited. You have found your place in the sun. I hope that the purchasers of your businesses find lucrative markets among those researching their family trees and those tracing old school friends. But I doubt that they will. People have traced their old school mates and moved on. Interest in family trees will wane.

The problem for YouTube meanwhile is its ubiquity. The internet population is a fickle community that moves locust-like from trend to trend. In their own ways these sites have proved remarkable, transformational communities, phenomena of their time. But are they built to last? Let's wait and see.

Fanning the kipper

The best bit of Christmas is the games and the best game is fan the kipper. To play: Cut some sheets of newspaper into fat fish shapes. These are your kippers. Get two dinner plates and place them adjacent to each other but spaced apart at one end of a room. Clear furniture/people/dogs to the edges of the room. Get some magazines or newspapers; these are your fans.

Now draw up a list of all those there, put their names in to a hat and have someone draw them out to establish the order of play. On a sheet of a paper draw up a tree-style framework like those that are used for a knockout cup competition - finals, semis, quarters etc.

If you have 12 people, say, in your family group put four blank pieces of paper in the hat to signify byes in a draw of 16. In this way the competition will work itself fairly through the rounds. If you get the luck of a draw you have a bye through to the next round.

Choose your kipper and fan. Now you are ready to start. In each match two people "fan off" against each other. The object of the game is to fan your kipper down the room and on to your plate so that no part is touching the floor. The one that achieves this first is the winner.

Our family kipper trophy is a silver rabbit that was given to me many years ago as a corporate gift. As an employee of the Financial Times at that time, the policy was to hand over gifts for a charity raffle among staff. I handed in the rabbit, then won it back. This year I won it again.

I could never bat for England or turn a cricket ball but if fanning the kipper is ever granted international sporting recognition the manager of our national team could be comforted that in one small corner of this great country there is a pretty mean kipper wafter just waiting for the call.

Medium rare

What do you do if you order a restaurant steak and it's not cooked to your taste? I ordered my steak medium rare at lunch today and it arrived well done.

Well woopty doo, my youngest son would have said. I know what he means. For no more than a nanosecond I thought about sending it back. That's all it took to take a grip of my senses. I'm no shrinking violet. I don't mind making a fuss. But I'm not going to make a scene about an overcooked steak that, had it been returned, would have gone to waste.

Some would argue that to tolerate poor service is to condone a culture of second best. Maybe it is. But I don't want to live in an intolerant society. I don't want to upbraid the railway guard for the lateness of the train or the shop assistant for the faulty product. I don't want to chew off the call centre operative for a mistake that probably has much more to do with cheese pairing employment policies in the face of cutthroat competition.

I don't want to scream at the parking attendant writing a ticket to fill an unrealistic quota (I do actually, but must restrain myself). I don't want to send back a new shirt because it's missing a button. I don't want to demand a refund because a page is torn in the book I've just bought. It's OK about these things. I have buttons in a box and if I can read the words the book is fine.

Every day I count my blessings that I was fortunate to be born in to one of the world's wealthiest societies where we can enjoy the luxury of muttering about slow service or tutting over some slightly ripped packaging.

The steak was fine. I would have enjoyed it more had it been pinker in the middle. Just now, however, I'm wondering what those Senegalese refugees ate yesterday as they huddled together in their leaking open boat, risking everything for just one chance to have one tiny fraction of what I have.

Cupboard love

They call it cupboard love when your cat rubs against your leg and purrs for the sole purpose of gaining your attention, a strategy with one end in mind - food. The cat knows how to push our buttons and we fall for it every time. So it's cupboard love, we argue. Better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick.

No-one understands this interaction better than the public relations industry. The PRs have my telephone number. They know that I answer my own phone. So they ring and they ring and they ring. The sad thing is, if they didn't ring, I would probably start to feel lonely.

There are times when the PR has been desperate to get off the line as I tell them my life story. It's their own fault. Whether they are men or women, most PRs are brimming with empathy. I think they must manufacture the stuff in the back room. Before they make their call they take a good munch on their empathy bar.

I know that PRs - the good ones, at least - are reading this blog. They visit my site to find out what I'm up to. So here is a message for you: yes, I am a moody bugger and yes, if I sound clipped or sharp on the phone, it does mean that I'm under deadline pressure. Either that or I am temporarily annoyed at one of the countless irritations that bug me every day.

If you have a juicy report don't email it as a pdf. My printer is disconnected because some kind of software conflict crashed my computer. There is another that I can use in an emergency but I am reluctant to do so and it involves sending the report on by email to my wife's machine. Anyway, the long and the short of it is, if you really want me to read a report then send it the old fashioned way, by post. My address is on the site under "contact details". I'm not sure how I can make myself more accessible.

You don't need to call me to say that it's coming, or call to ask whether I have received it, or call to ask what I think of it or whether I shall be using it. But you will because that's part of your training, because you know that I get so much stuff I can't take it all in. You know that stuff gets overlooked. You know that I'm not at all organised. You know also that I would rather not use your stuff unless it is really adding something to our sum total of knowledge which, let's face it, that cursory ring around your friends - loosely called a survey - rarely does.

Sometimes you call to ask me what I think of a prospective client. What's that all about? I don't like having my brains picked. The stuff inside my head is my meal ticket. I not only write for cash (see A black day for England, my first post), I think for cash too. Some of the stuff I think about is good-for-nothing rubbish. Some has potential, but needs a bit of work. And some is pure, applied, down-on-screen reader-loving prose soon to be jetting its way to a hungry publisher who I love in the way that a cat loves its keeper. Which, I think, is where we came in.

So keep it coming PRs. I love you all. I'd love to see your comments on this or any post. Go on, you know you want to. I can take it.

Good Will hunting

Scraping together the final few Christmas cards. I hate this stage where you run the drag net over missed names and play the "should you/shouldn't you" game over others.

Gill (Mrs Donkin) likes to run a "three strikes and they're out" system but I prefer to keep on sending as long as there's a pulse.

It warmed the cockles of my heart today to receive a Christmas card from one of our leading national newspapers signed by the editor, a former colleague.

What a wonderful feeling to be remembered. Such an unexpected gesture deserved a response, I thought. It could be hardly considered crawling to reciprocate. A pleasantry here, a mention of my web site there.

But just as I put tongue to gum, Gill announced that the card had been sent to her as a subscriber. It was a "keeping the customers happy" card. A corporate thing. My imploding ego was almost as audible as the crunching cockles.

Then there was the dilemma. Having penned the card, I might as well send it. What harm is there in a Christmas wish for an old colleague? Isn't this the season when generosity of spirit prevails? Let him appreciate the joke at my expense.

Even journalism, the most cynical, mean spirited, miserable, back-biting trade on the planet, can make room for a little bit of good will, whether or not it falls on stony ground. It's Christmas after all, I thought.

Sending the card would have been the noble thing to do. But such sentiments appear like a crack in the ice sheets, a fragile channel that soon closes under pressure from that protective frozen shell around our hearts. Stuff him, I thought. I have my pride.

But writing this has changed my mind again. It's like remaining seated in the tube when there's a young woman who needs a seat. You can make all kinds of excuses for staying seated. She may be younger than you, she's probably going to get off at the next stop, she'll almost certainly decline as they do these days. What about equality and all that? What will the other passengers think? I'll just make the other blokes feel bad.

Chivalry, like good will, is so old fashioned. And isn't that sad? So you got your card, Will. I hope you read it and have a little chuckle at my expense. Happy Christmas to you and all the other Fleet Street editors.

Your old mate,

Donks.

Reality gaming - the next big craze?

Stop press for all enthusiasts of the Nintendo Wii console, the game that allows you to control on-screen action by using a hand-held controller to imitate a bat.

A new wave of development is expected to overtake the gaming world with news of "reality gaming", the closest the industry has come to emulating the virtual world of console play.

Still in their evolutionary phase, these "extra-virtual" games, to use the jargon, rely on the game developers' ability to exploit environmental conditions that can take conventional screen-based gaming out of the living room.

The games have harnessed "green resources" to create wooden bats and rackets that, when used with balls in fields, can reproduce realistic game play.

"The real-play games have an extra dimension, allowing scope for socialising with other players. They also help to build muscle tone, team work and leadership skills. We think they have a great future," said a spokesman for the International Cricket Council, promoting its own branch of real-play in a series of test matches.

Players, however, have pointed to drawbacks. "The chances of getting injured are high," says a member of one of the leading international teams. "There is also a problem with commercial exploitation and professionalism that has introduced wage structures to something we envisaged initially as a game."

So what can they do to ease the pressure? "Some of the boys are relaxing with old-style video games," says the player. "They don't involve you quite so much as the Nintendo Wii but there's a lower risk of the damage associated with console play. I've heard of a game called "space invaders" and one guy I know is experimenting with something called tiddly winks. But that's all in the future."

See wiihaveaproblem.com

This site is not very interesting. I include the link because it exists as, sadly, does the Wii. But not in my house.

The power of commas

Work has been a little slow this afternoon. I'm reminded of that Oscar Wilde quote: "I was working on the proof of one of my poems all the morning, and took out a comma. In the afternoon I put it back again."

A site warning of the dangers (and benefits) of misplaced commas.

A site with some quotes about writing.

My favourite is the one by Burton Rasco: "A writer is working when he's staring out of the window."

Another ripper

The five women found dead near Ipswich, all prostitutes, all murdered within a few days of each other, has brought back memories of the Yorkshire Ripper, Peter Sutcliffe. I was working on Yorkshire newspapers at the time. I covered some of the attacks and attended the press conference in Dewsbury when the police announced that they had their man.

It was a dark time when women were afraid to walk out alone. Sutcliffe should have been caught much earlier. Much has changed in the interim. Card indexing files have been replaced by computers. There are many more CCTV cameras around today and DNA testing has come of age. It is inconceivable that the killer of these young women will be at large for long.

I heard a woman speaking on the radio this morning, saying that the victims should not be described as prostitutes but as "sex workers". It was a silly argument. She was suggesting, and I understand what she says, that the word "prostitute" has become loaded with derogatory baggage.

But should you avoid words simply because of the meaning they convey in the minds of some people? That some will make certain judgements about prostitutes is not going to disappear if you take away the noun and replace it with a different noun. Prostitutes sell sex. It's what they do whether we approve or disapprove.

The more important point is that there should be no distinction between the life of a prostitute and that of any other citizen. While the law upholds this point, I know that, in reality, not all will agree. Even the police, at times, can betray a "hierarchy of worth."

Many years ago I was assaulted on a train. When I was interviewed by a police officer he rang through to another force in an attempt to secure an arrest. Describing me on the telephone , he assured his fellow officer that I was "no toe rag". Presumably toe rags, whoever they may be, can expect a lower level of justice.

But I don't believe that such judgements will apply in this case. The public and police want this killer caught. The prospect of another Yorkshire Ripper is unimaginable.

A plea for lighter evenings

The one and only leader I ever wrote for the FT was in favour of daylight saving. I thought about that while walking the dog this evening in the park. It was only about 5 pm and kids were still coming home from school yet it could have been the middle of the night.

Some people need to get up early but what's wrong with getting up in the dark? I think that more light is wasted by more people at the start of the day during winter than is saved at the end.

I can just about recall the UK experiment with darker winter mornings between 1968 and 1971 when British clocks were harmonised with those of other Western European countries.

For those three years, the UK had British Summer Time - re-named British Standard Time - all year. The Government dropped the experiment after pressure from the construction industry, farmers and politicians in Scotland who complained about a rise in road accidents during the dark mornings.

The number of early day accidents in Scotland did indeed rise. But a study carried out some years ago by the Policy Studies Institute showed that the fall in the number of road accidents in evenings during the period of year-round BST more than compensated for the rise at the other end of the day.

The study calculated that year-round BST would result in 600 fewer deaths and serious injuries a year resulting from road accidents.

Meyer Hillman, who carried out that study in 1988, said something telling at the time: "The death of a child on a dark morning in Scotland can prove very emotive evidence for retaining Greenwich Mean Time. Unfortunately lives that are not lost as a result of a change in hours do not make headlines."

There were other economic benefits too in fuel savings and extra income for leisure industries. I think year-round BST is a good idea. But we should go further and have double summer time in the lighter months as they did during the Second World War.

If lighter evenings make more economic sense, if they make life more pleasant for most of us, then why doesn't the Government make the change and leave it like that? The answer, I'm sad to say, is that there is no political will for this anywhere. It's a move that is difficult to explain to everyone, people generally are suspicious of change, and this kind of initiative does not win votes.

If only countries ran on common sense.

Here's an interesting US-based site on daylight saving

I don't like Mondays

Bob Geldof isn't the only one. Monday is column day for the FT, often preceded by some report or book reading on the Sunday night as I get my ideas together. Why don't I write the thing the previous Friday? You could ask that of any journalist.

As a colleague once tried to explain to an unreceptive chief executive who was trying to introduce his own management ideas, you can't produce news like tins of beans on a conveyor belt. Journalists work to deadlines, the closer the deadline, the better the concentration and focus.

Removing a deadline is akin to releasing a mental shackle that prevents the mind from wandering randomly around its favourite places where we learn new things and nourish our thinking.

I love that feeling when, in writing terms, I get on the back straight. By that time the thoughts and words are in full flow and sometimes it's an effort to end things. Then there's the checking and double-checking. Even then, mistakes sometimes still creep through.

I remember once, an FT production management mantra called "right first time", probably related to the Six Sigma principle of continuous improvement. I don't believe that anything is ever right first time. An aeroplane take-off must be right but pilots are working within margins for error. A word or name is spelled correctly or it isn't.

I have mild dyslexia and often transpose letters. There are certain words - necessarily is one - that I might spell correctly nine times out of 10 only to see the 10th attempt flounder miserably. So spelling and writing is a constant struggle.

This week I have written something relating to the Leitch report on skills. Part of me had wanted to write about job interviewing but Leitch won out because, I suppose, it's important. It's easy to get on your high horse, writing a column criticising this and that. But everyone out there is trying to make the best of things aren't they? We're condemned to improve. No-one gets anything right first time.

Christmas card anxiety

Angst over the Christmas cards. For years we've sent ones with Madonna and child motifs cherubs or trumpeting angels, a Murillo or a Raphael radiating with godly intent, peace and goodwill to all men (and women too for heaven's sake, no intent to be sexist here).

This year, just to be different, we chose cows wearing Santa hats, cuddly penguins and 1930s bathing bells throwing snowballs. Now I'm reading in my Saturday Telegraph, self-styled arbiter of middle class behaviour, that its columnist, Jeff Randall, has declared his intent to tear up any card he receives that does not mention the word "Christmas".

"Outrage against non-Christmas cards growing," says the Telegraph headline. I check out our cards. "Merry Christmas," say the penguins, "With best wishes for Christmas and the New Year," say the cows. "Season's Greetings," say the bathing belles. Season's Greetings? Is that the best they can muster? What are we to do? Half of our Christmas card output this year has failed the Randall test.

Ah well, it wouldn't be Christmas without anxiety over the cards. For as long as I can remember I have felt guilty over corporate Christmas cards. In the good old days when I first worked at the Financial Times, all the reporters received a fat allocation of tasteful cards with a pile of highly sought after FT desk diaries to dispense among favoured contacts.

People would sell their grandmothers for those diaries. But to give them out was to create a climate of expectation. Resentment over not receiving one after a run of diaries in past years was almost as great as the initial gratitude.

Then there was the Christmas card design. A lapse one year in to corporate tastelessness led to a sharp rebuke from David Lascelles, the then banking editor, who set himself up as the editorial Christmas card guru. Cost cutting did for the diaries in the same way that it did for the long lunches and, finally, the Christmas cards, although an amount is designated now to charity in their place.

But cards continue to arrive from contacts. I don't have a secretary with an easily accessible list of names and addresses so I expect I will settle for a message on my web site. I know there is as much thought there as there is in some of the cards. I had one from a car company executive who I could barely recall. For him, I'm sure, the contact was similarly vague, only he passed my calling card to his secretary who noted it on the list. Come Christmas, the list is converted to cards, the cards are in a pile awaiting a signature and the card is sent. It's a process. But it's not a thought process. So, if it's the thought that counts, this ritualistic exchange of cards doesn't amount to much.

That's why the personal message is so important, only this can really pile on the guilt when it has not been reciprocated. In the past few years I have joined the much criticised set who send "round robin" notes with their cards. I would have ended the practice but people tell me they like them. Sometimes people get a round robin note and a personal message. If that doesn't give them a little glow I don't know what can.

Bathing belles throwing snowballs? Thank God Jeff Randall isn't on my Christmas list. Imagine Jeff's card collection this year. It's going to be overflowing with godliness, plum duff, holly and fat-belted Father Christmases. On second thoughts I might just send him my bathing belles, complete with a corporate calling card with wishes for a prosperous New Year.

Banks are never born in a stable

I write a lot about organisations, companies mostly, the people who run them, the people who work for them, and the way they select people and move them around. Every year an unbelievable number of books are written on leadership, usually by Americans reflecting a national obsession with getting to the top.

Most of these books write about the qualities needed in leadership. It's fashionable these days to write about humility, the idea being that a humble leader can engage with every level of employee or any of the company's customers. I'm sure a lot of bosses understand this need, but, if they ever had the common touch, it soon deserts them as they climb the corporate ladder.

Last week I found myself in the boardroom of one of the world's largest banks. As boardrooms go this was spectacular, sitting atop a high-rise glass and steel office block. The ceiling was two storeys above us. Along one side of the room was floor-to-ceiling glass while, on the facing wall, above broad stainless steel doors was a giant map of the world in polished steel relief.

You would have needed a cricket fielder's arm to throw a pencil sharpener from one end of the giant desk to the other. Even speaking to each other across the table was impossible without an acoustic system. This room said nothing about humility and everything about power.

Judge an organisation not by its marketing patter, or the mellow words in its annual report, but by its innards. If the makers of the next James Bond film are looking for the kind of interior they need to reflect the megalomaniac tendencies of a Mr Big intent on mastery of the globe, they might send me an email. I know just the place.

And the winner is.....

Have you ever won an award? There are so many awards knocking about these days it's difficult to avoid them. I think there should be a "best awards" award that recognises those who organise award ceremonies. The thing is, if you entered all of them you would never do enough to get one.

It's a sign of age that these days I'm at the other side of the award process, sitting on two judging panels - The Confederation of British Industry's Human Capital Awards and the Work Foundation's Workworld Media Awards. This week was judging day for the media awards.

It takes ages doing these things. First you're asked to draw up a short list for a specific category, then we get together to mull over the shortlisted entries. The process never fails to amuse me. Sometimes there is a clear leader and it all seems done and dusted until someone mentions another name, puts up a convincing case, and its like watching the last furlongs of a horse race as the back marker passes everyone and pips the leading horse at the post. If only they knew.

Awards are important in my business. They can boost a budding career and revive one that has been flagging. We all like to win them but losing out can be a bruising experience, particularly when you believe you're better than the winner. This year they had a good crop of entries and there was reasonable unanimity over the choices. So what's in it for me? Nothing much, other than a nice lunch, pleasant conversation, and the opportunity to be up to date with who's in and who's out. It's good to know where the talent is hiding.

A black day for England

A few years ago I was on the San Francisco waterfront outside the terminal where the tour boats take visitors to Alcatraz. If you have to beg - and quite a few people have to beg, even in San Francisco - this is the place to do it.

The San Francisco beggars are an enterprising bunch. I saw one chap at an intersection, his feet fastened to milk crates in order to get above the traffic, passing a child's fishing net in front of car windows in the hope of getting a few cents.

Down at the terminal one of the beggars was dressed in a cow suit. Round his neck hung a placard saying "I moo for cash".

There are echos of that placard as I start this blog (not a word I like) since I write for cash. It's how I make my living. Like the laughing policeman in a penny arcade you just show me the money and those words start spewing out. Yet here I am, four paragraphs into whatever this is, and every word you've read has been brought to you absolutely free. It's killing me.

So I don't want you to expect a work of art in these columns and please don't get shirty if you find the odd spelling mistake or grammatical error. Don't expect essays or long columns either. They're elsewhere on my website . No, I think this spot is going to be reserved for snippets: stuff about the work that I do, the way that I work, the way that I live, bits about my family, things that I'm thinking of, partly formed ideas, some general observations, maybe some quirky stuff and the odd snapshot.

Talking of snapshots, and seeing as this space is going to include some personal stuff, you might be interested in having a peep at my photography. Ignore the shopping basket symbols. Any picture can be downloaded freely by friends. But if you want to use them professionally in any way, then get in touch. I snap for cash.

Have you noticed how some days are good and some not so good, for no fault of our own? Today should have been great. The sun was shining. There was no sign of the heron that has been eating the fish in my pond. And yet there was something niggling away, something I couldn't quite articulate for myself until I saw Freddy Flintoff's picture on the front page of the Telegraph. That was it. We had lost the second test. It shouldn't have happened but it had. There must be cricket lovers all over England walking around underneath their personal little black clouds. Don't let anyone tell you it doesn't hurt when we lose like that. It really hurts. I have a friend, Charles, who is out there just now. He had to leave for the beach before the end of the first test, couldn't bear any more of it. God only knows how he's taken this one. Why do the English have to suffer for their sport? I suppose it could be have been worse had I been born a Scot. It's hard to raise the roof over Curling.