The management accounts don't agree to the management accounts

(Here) is the original.

Up with a spring in my step and a song in my heart at oh-six-thirty hours this morning, after four and half hours of refreshing sleep following a white knuckle ride through some formatting changes in the current year management accounts which had rendered like-for-like analysis on a comparable basis all but impossible.
Having left the chimplets early (refusing to eat their Cheerios despite their grandparent’s best efforts), I arrived at Big Office House at the unusually early time of 8.40am, presenting a golden opportunity to get a flying start to what will inevitably be a long and painful week.

I practically skipped into the male changing rooms (the only part of the UK currently over 30 degrees C in this most Novemberish of Junes), then suddenly f_cking realised that I’d f_cking left my f_cking shoes at f_cking home.

Imagine a plucky chap in the First World War catching a Jerry bullet through the shoulder before he’d even got to the top of the trench ladder and you’ll sense what I was sensing as the realisation hit me.

Grey suit, subtle checked shirt, discreet tie…sweaty ankle socks, O’Neill trainers. Not quite the ‘appropriate business casual attire’ for the values-compliant office environment.

The next forty minutes (the entire time available to prepare for the first conference call of the day, and then some) were spent pounding the streets in search of a shoe shop that was open – it’s surprising how difficult it is to find one in such a footwear-rich place as London. After 10 minutes, I was jealously eyeing shoe-wearers as they blithely breezed past, inanely unaware of how lucky they were. After 20 minutes, I was actively looking for anyone with size 11 feet and a semi-decent pair of shoes to punch out cold, grab his footwear, and tip his lifeless body into the river. Luckily a local loafer-monger eventually obliged, and I finally made it back to the office by taxi, some 10 minutes late for the entire week.

And I haven’t caught up since.

Right, time for lunch, then I have meeting at Bulge Bracket Trust LLC.

Keep buying. Dilute the sonofabitch. I want every orifice in his body flowing red.

This was originally going to be a grimly ironic post about the longest day (summer solstice, some three days ago), involving some sardonic humour about only getting three hours' sleep a night at present. Trouble is, I haven't had time to write it.

Next week requires me to do a month's work in the space of four days (albeit with a little assistance from a regional junior chimp) whilst the boss is on holiday, which I'm really looking forward to.

I find myself in the unusual position of being whatever the equivalent of 'triangulated' is for four items (squargulated? quadrangulated? Strangulated is perhaps the most apt) between no less than four powerful women at present - one who is covering for me on a project I can't spend any time on, one at the private equity house I'm working for, one who's standing in for the boss, and of course Mrs Chimp, who's less than delighted that I'm not home for 21 hours out of 24 at present.

The problem with powerful women is that they all need constant updates as to what I'm up to. I could easily fill the 35 hours (ha!) of my working week with progress meetings, to do lists and conference calls. Trouble is, I'd never get the work done.

And to top it all off, Gordon Brown will be running the country by the end of the week. Hating to tempt fate, can things get any worse?

Rip their throats out and put them in your garbage compactor.

Two unrelated stories about dogs and bicycles today.

As I rounded a corner on a cycle path on Tooting Bec Common, I was sharply rebuked by a plummy mummy in a Barbour jacket, whose black Labrador was squatting in the middle of the cycle path taking the most enormous dump (this in a 152 acre park, with ample opportunities for less anti-social crapping). Apparently the woman was concerned that by exercising my right to use the cycle path, I might disturb her canine pal in mid, um, movement. Ptchah.

Second dog tale (or tail) – I overtook, with a sense of amazement and respect, a gent clad entirely in tweed, riding a creaky old bicycle with one hand, and holding the lead of his faithful hound, who was trotting contentedly along beside him, in the other. They wouldn’t have looked out of place in one of those bucolic villages one finds in Jeeves and Wooster stories (I seem to remember that Chuffy Chufnell lived in Chufnell Regis – that sort of place). He most certainly did look out of place in the bus lane of the A3036.

Currently engaged with our German, er, colleagues on a couple of projects. I love the fact that absolutely everyone in Germany is a Professor or Doctor. I remember a TS trainee (aged c.32) in Germany a few years ago who had a PhD in something (other than accounting, I should think), spending an entire day looking for operating expenses in the balance sheet.

If you’re an accountant, you’ll understand this. If you’re not – thank your lucky stars.

So what’s on your mind kimosabe? Why am I listening to you?

Cycling home at 1.30am is somehow an exhilarating experience – the streets smell different in the absence of exhaust fumes. There was no-one around other than a startled fox, a couple of chaps in Balham loading money from a van into an ATM, and a couple of other chaps on the other side of the street looking as if they had plans to take the cash back out of the ATM and put it into their own van. Even the chav youths had gone home to bed, happy in a Red Stripe and skunk haze.

Went to a deal meeting this morning, attended by two senior finance dudes rejoicing in the names of Mr Sale and Mr Price. It’s not often that such a golden opportunity for a joke arises in a deal meeting. No-one made the joke, of course. Someone did, however, deliberately and with malice aforethought use the phrase “this is a starter for £200million.”

“The West is accusing Muslims of extremism and terrorism. If someone exploded a
bomb on his body he would be right to do so.”

Is anyone else struggling to reconcile the two halves this statement?

Speaking of struggling to reconcile things, I’m heading back to the ‘basis of preparation’ note on page 174 of the VDD report.

If it looks as good as on paper, we're in the kill zone. We lock and load pal...

You have about a month's worth of Gordon Gekko quotes coming up as blog titles. The guy was, and remains, an absolute legend.

A happy evening spent alone in the office, dancing around like a tw&t every 5 minutes when the motion-sensitive lights go out. Really looking forward to riding home at midnight through the darkened streets of the capital.

Still, iPod random has just served up 'Candy Girl' by New Edition (Bobby Brown's pre-pubescent outfit before he got into unwholesome things), so life can't be all that bad.

Are we part of it? We better be, pal, or I'm gonna eat your lunch for you

Above is evidence, should any be needed, that the current fashion of being inclusive and insisting that the consumers of news websites 'have your say' is an utter waste of everyone's time.

Do you have a view on this view? Would you like to 'have your say' about the editorial policy of Excel Chimp? No f*cking chance. P*ss off.

Chimping tennis report

So it was Fathers' day (in the UK, at least) yesterday, so in a spirit of family solidarity, we dumped the chimplets with the nanny and spent the day at the finals day of the laughably re-branded 'Artois Championship' at the Queen's Club. I guess they're trying to move away from the violent drunk / wife beater image of 'Stella', which used to be the tournament's name. It's all rather academic at somewhere like Queen's - the ruling classes are more likely to get into a heated discussion about whose son is better at sailing after a jug of Pimms than get into a full-blown-paramedic-requiring punch up after 8 pints of industrial lager.

As for the tennis - the men's final was surprisingly good (Queen's matches are usually 6-2 6-2 walkovers, completed in 40 minutes) - Andy Roddick, who despite, according to my source, being rather unpopular at the Surbiton Lawn Tennis Club for being a bad loser (so terribly British to have a detailed etiquette of losing), overcame a Frenchman in three sets, taking a little over two hours, although it boiled down to a handful of crucial points. Some sort of lesson about the arbitrariness of victory and defeat, but I'm not sure what. We then watched a dull doubles final which included the hilariously-titled partnership of Bryan & Bryan. Simply add 'LLP' to the end, and you have a regional accounting firm.

A new element of circus was added to match by the introduction of 'Hawkeye', some sort of electronic gizmo that tells you definitively whether the ball was in or out. So, if your ball is called out by the line judge and you think they're wrong, you stick your finger in the air to appeal the call. The crowd then looks up in expectant silence at the big scoreboard, which draws a pretty picture of the point, and flashes up whether the ball was in or out.

As an investigative accountant, I applaud the triumph of fact over opinion - it's a peculiarly British approach to sport (I think we invented tennis, didn't we?) that teaches players that it's more important to accept a blatantly wrong decision than to upset convention by challenging it.

The problem is that each player only gets three calls per set if they subsequently turn out to be wrong - which is fine if it stops players chancing it and challenging every call, but what if you challenged three calls which turned out to be very marginally OK (there was literally one pixel between the ball and the line on a couple of the calls yesterday), then don't have the opportunity to challenge a fourth? Stand by for law suits. At least half of the challenges made resulted in the original call being over-ruled - makes you wonder about the quality of the line judges. Why not ditch the lot of 'em and have instantaneous electronic scoring? Think of the payroll cost savings.

A structural realignment resulting in a shifting geographic footprint

If you have more time on your hands than me, here is a list of Excel Chimp’s cousins in the corporate blogosphere. Here also is a good piece on BoJo’s blog about Tony Blair laying into the press. I, too, would much rather be regulated by public scorn than by Tony Blair.

Although not much of an ornithologist, the recent return of the watery English sun has brought the welcome return of the lesser spotted Pendulous Booby to Clapham Common. These wonderful young specimens always travel in pairs, and although nested in layers of cotton and fleece for much of the year, generally spend these warm summer months nestling in their summer home of tight lycra. Several prime mating pairs out and about on the common this morning. Time for a cold shower.

It needs to get done yesterday. Don't laugh, I'm serious.

Two variations of an old joke

#1
Q: Why did the due diligence accountant spend the best part of a month considering crossing the road, analysing in great detail the likely consequences of crossing the road (or not crossing the road, or crossing a slightly different road, or crossing half way across the road and re-assessing what to do next based on current performance), attending endless conference calls about crossing the road, preparing high level summaries of ‘initial thoughts’ about crossing the road, but never actually crossing the farking road, and therefore not actually getting paid for it?

A: Because that’s what the private equity firm told him to do

#2
Q: Why did the due diligence accountant cross the next road?

A: The due diligence accountant is not, repeat NOT crossing any more roads until a signed letter of engagement is in place to underwrite the costs.

Never mind the quality, feel the width

Well, I've been playing the due diligence game since Sultan Hisamuddin Alam Shah, Sultan of Selangor, died after a reign of 55 years, and I've heard a few things in my time. But today, in a meeting with a gang of private equiteers (or equity privateers?), I heard the phrase 'detuned model' no less than four times, without ever previously having heard it in my life. Makes one think of an old piano or somesuch. See if you can get in into your next 'Summary of key findings' - spread the word.

Speaking of private equity, the not-too-subtle class warriors of the no-experience-of-work-outside-government Left have got their teeth into the PE industry at present, to such an extent that the fellow who runs the BVCA is heading for a bit of his own downsizing medicine. I'm not quite clear what 'enjoying tax advantages' actually means. Is it better for a UK-based PE guy to pay 10% of his UK earnings to Gordon Brown, or bugger-all because he's moved to Liechtenstein. At the risk of sounding like a Thatcherite, I don't see the problem with the UK government not cynically pissing about with the law to target bright, profit making people, who'll be on the first Learjet out of the UK in any event on the day the law's enacted.

Had the dubious honour of turning down an interview candidate for a job today. Funny how a mouse-click made in a nanosecond determines the course of another's destiny. In the final analysis, we're all lines in an HR spreadsheet. God knows, I've seen enough.

An amazing site today - one of Ken's 18m long buses which had jumped a red light on a roundabout had managed simultaneously to stop all traffic on each of three main roads in Central London for what seemed like 10 minutes. It's like building a dam across a river. In fact, if I wanted to bring London to its knees, I would only need six or so devoted followers to hijack a bendy bus each and park it across a main approach road to zone 1 to completely paralyse the capital.

Enough for now. Time to get on with the FY07 outturn analysis.

The brand is positioned to alienate non core customers

Well, today’s blog really was going to be a humdinger, sprinkled with a light dusting of the wittiest, most incisive, laugh-out-loud hilariously cutting stories about what goes on behind closed doors in the secretive world of financial due diligence.

Was I write, because as my finger was hovering over the Publish Post button, one of the junior chimplets, having crept up (yes, a toddler can apparently creep) behind me, switched off the plug connected to the adapter connected to the PC and yelled ‘STOP!’ with a flourish. Thus died my meisterwerk. This was no accident. Sinister forces are at work.

Instead, and as a late replacement, I bring you my two year old childrens’ considered opinions on the latest Ralph Lauren advertising campaign, which they came across whilst leafing through The Economist this morning (I wish I was joking):

Somewhat remiss on the blogging recently, for the following reasons:

• Mr A from private equity house 'M' wants me to work full time for him for the next two weeks on project '1', and
  
• Mr B from the same private equity house also wants me to work for him, on a different aspect of project '1'. Mr A and Mr B don't really speak to each other much, and
  
• Ms C from the same private equity house wants me to work for her on project '2'. She has no idea as to what Mr A and Mr B (who sit perhaps ten feet away) are up to, and
  
• Partner AA (my boss on projects '1' and '2') has also signed me up for project '3'. This also involves my full time attention, and
  
• Director AB needs me to take an active involvement in finalising the report for project '4'. This is what I've spent this evening doing, sitting in the garden with a large glass of red (and 'doing a Gordon' as listening to the Arctic Monkeys on one's iPod is now known) as the police helicopters above basked in the Streatham twilight, and
  
• Director AC, who, on the basis of never speaking to me or working with me, seems to have formed the view that I don't do any work, has lined me up for project '5', an IPO of a flaky company which will take me 1/2 way around the world for the best part of a month.
  

So if I take on project '5', projects '1' to '4' will go to hell. If I don't, Director AC will blackball me at the next promotion round for being lazy and incompetent. This is why I spent the cycle ride home wondering whether there's a timesheet code for 'General worrying about work'. There isn't. So 'Admin' will have to take another pounding.

An endless digital forest of mediocrity

Spent most of the day trying to rally sufficient pieces of paper to satisfy the anti-money laundering bureaucracy, which is spiralling out of control. Some 12 emails and 200 sheets of A4 paper later, I may just be permitted to work with a company that has been a client of our US firm for 10 years.

Made the mistake of riding home during jogging rush hour - acres and acres of sweaty flesh encased in lycra wobbling around London's parks. Nice.

My head has turned to spinach having spent the evening reading two Information Memoranda on completely separate businesses, which have somehow become the same thing in my fevered mind. Although modesty prevents me from mentioning actual sectors, it's a bit like reading in quick succession (accompanied by a number of beers) about a sheep farm then a credit card business, and failing to remember whether the fall in mutton output is due to increased repayment deliquency by the lambs, or poor weather affecting the feeding habits of the Buy Now Pay Later customers.

Enough already.

A joke to end with:

Q: What do you call a French solider who chucks a hand grenade into a '70s kitchen?























A: Linoleum Blownapart. Tres drole.

We're not looking to max out on the leverage

Looks as if Dubya’s got a case of the brad pitts at the G8 Summit. Can’t help wondering whether he deliberately ate a bunch of oysters left on a radiator in order to avoid a handbagging (not this meaning, I hope) on climate change from just about everybody else there.

Now we none of us like discussing the painful subject of fees with clients (the product of our labours generally comes in at a bag o’ sand per page, before expenses - all of those Deliverance dinners and 2am cabs). So how about settling them with a game of spoof? Billionaire Mike Ashley did, and he lost. Whereas £200k is a mere bagatelle to Ashley, the dude from Merrill would have had the hell of a meeting with their risk management people (assuming that they have any) had he lost.

There’s very little that hasn’t already been said about this week’s Apprentice – we all knew that Sralan’s East end henchman probably aren’t completely au fait with the requirements of the UK’s sex discrimination legislation, but trust the good old bloody moaning Indie to bring the TUC and the Equal Opportunities Commission into the fray. It all comes down to the old question – what’s wrong with being sexy?

The strange thing was just how much of an unpleasant cow the blonde founder of Ultimo pants was on the aftershow – she seemed to get off on telling everyone what a totally brilliant and successful millionaire she is. Not a pleasant character trait. She also proudly declared that everyone who works for her loves her. Yeah, right.

The boring 2012 logo debate rumbles on. I wonder if any of you remember that the sinister and pointless Wolff Olins who are behind all this have also been let loose a couple of times in our own fair profession.

Firstly, these are the guys who came up with the brilliant idea of PricewaterhouseCoopers (all one word, no punctuation, annoying small ‘w’, capital ‘C’ without a space before it), which I should think is mis-spelt one third of the time it appears in print, some nine years later.

The comble de joie, however, was renaming PwC consulting ‘Monday:’ (don’t forget the “:”) at a cost of £75m. The rebrand lasted a grand total of 50 days (a cool £1.5mil a day) before being re-re-branded to something along the lines of 'IBM Global Services' or something equally dull.

But if you’d like to see an example of a tragically misunderstood branding exercise, check out the logo of the Brazilian Institute for Eastern Studies. It certain rams the message home.

The subject of sore posteriors leads one nicely onto the subject of cycling to work – yes, the chimp bike has been dusted off for the first time in about 8 months. The battle for London’s streets continues unabated – Ken’s latest wheeze at Vauxhall is for cyclists and pedestrians to ‘share space’ when crossing a major road junction. This results in chaos, since both parties, having followed separate cheery diktats from City Hall that walking and cycling are very good things, are filled with righteous indignation that the other party is getting in their way.

In the same way, Wandsworth BC has somewhat undermined its policy of splitting paths between cyclists and pedestrians with a big white stripe by nailing signs saying ‘Cyclists must giveway’ (oneword, apparently) on every lamp post. So if I am on what appears to be a cycle path and a pedestrian throws himself under my wheels, is it my fault for not givingway? Idontknow.

Life was perhaps a little simpler when, in the absence of millions of detailed lists setting out everyone’s rights, people had to behave with common courtesy and consideration towards each other without bleating and reaching for a rule book.

God, it's so boring to spend so much time moaning. Back to drafting initial comments on the SPA.

"Not even the Germans have gone this far, " he said

The proposition seems to be fast inching its way into a preferred position

Today’s column is dedicated to a chimping ex-colleague who was recently stabbed in the leg on his birthday by a gentleman as keen as mustard to relieve him of his wallet and consumer durables. When he reported the crime (I believe that stabbing someone in the leg remains a criminal offence, even in multi-cultural London), he was pulled up by Old Bill for using the phrase ‘mugging’ – apparently this is no longer politically correct – ‘street robbery’ is the currently-acceptable terminology. Anyway, get well soon, me ole mucker.

Back in my counting house after a week spent packing things into boxes, then unpacking them again. Our new street is apparently much smarter (according to Up My Street, anyway), although I’m not so sure. If the cars parked on a London street are a social barometer, our former street was, to use the fib still beloved by estate agents, 'up and coming.' The M-reg Fords and Nissans were gradually being replaced by soft-top Porsche and Audis, whereas in our new street, practically everyone (including ourselves) has a beaten up estate car or MPV equipped with mandatory child seats, cat blinds and single juvenile Wellington boots on the biscuit-crumb-laden floor. Not a low-slung coupe to be seen.

Anyway, the cat is completely freaking out, and I still haven’t got used to the idea that I now have a ‘wet room’ (“The Modern Way to Shower!”) in my house.

So here’s a strange comment from the Times website yesterday, hidden away in the inevitable ‘have your say’ column appended to a somewhat dull article about computers.

The BBC is struggling to interpret the news that Vlad “Bad Muthaf*cka” Putin is about to point his rusty nukes back in our direction, leading a number of people in the US to suggest that the yanks should pull out of Europe entirely. Why? Well, the Beeb is sometimes rather keen on presenting the US as a bunch of aggressive morons, and the Russians as our somewhat misunderstood best friends. Difficult to put a positive spin on Europe being left adrift in the hands of a bunch of ex-spies from Leningrad hell bent on re-establishing the Soviet-era political system. Still, apparently all Vlad wants is respec’ (as they call it at the other, less smart, end of my new street), which suggests that he’s simply a jumped up mugger (sorry, ‘street robber’) with intercontinental ballistic missiles instead of bling and a shank.

Strange how détente has moved on, though – Russia’s reason for not attacking us is no longer for fear of swift annihilation at the hands of the Americans, but rather that Western Europe is its major energy customer, and therefore a valuable source of wealth. Best to wait until they’ve bled us dry of a few hundred billion more petrodollars until they let the SS20s loose, I guess.

Silly government initiative of the day? ‘Britain Day’. Great idea, but for the fact that the Scots and the Welsh hate the very guts of the English, mainly because we have no idea who or where they are, and really don’t care because it doesn’t matter. Oh, and we pay them millions and millions for sitting around moaning about us. As for Northern Ireland – well, I should think that participation in the celebrations may not be wholeheartedly embraced across the constituency of communities…

You’ve no doubt read that Michael Moore’s latest number (about the failings of the US healthcare system) holds up our own dear NHS as an exemplar of all that is great about healthcare. I don’t suppose that I’m entirely objective - Mrs Chimp has spent two years waiting to be allowed onto the waiting list for the waiting list for a post-birth operation that for bureaucratic reasons is classed as ‘cosmetic surgery’, thereby placing her behind dozens of fatso South London chavs waiting for government-funded boob jobs and tummy tucks (breathe, man, breathe) – but this is perhaps evidence that Mr Moore has finally descended into madness.

I was going to do a moaning piece about the recently launched London 2012 logo, but due to the fact that a gentleman amusingly called Marcel Knobil (a ‘brand expert’, apparently) doesn’t like it, it gets my vote.

And finally, have you ever wished you could have been a Nazi soldier sweeping majestically across the cornfields of the Urals in an open topped Kubelwagen in the glorious summer of ’41, with the wind blowing through your clipped blonde hair as the communist untermenschen scatter before you? Look no further. All you have to do is buy one, get it to the Polish border, and drive Eastwards at speed with a bit of Wagner on the multiplay CD. Sorted.