After the City: Fond memories of filthy jokes

One of things I miss most about the dealing room is the laughter, the clowning and, of course, the utterly filthy, usually inappropriate and generally hilarious jokes.

I had always been of the 'join 'em rather than beat 'em' school of female stock brokers and it astounded me that women could - as they frequently did - get heated over the banter that would go on at their generic expense.

It seemed to me that this was the nature of the beast, was always largely harmless and was therefore to be indulged and partaken in rather than upset by.

True enough, I left my first employer (a Presbyterian family outfit where, to succeed, one needed to be either a member of the family, married to one, or ex-Scots Guards) on discovering from a recently resigned boss that it had been decided that should I become pregnant with a second child - I had just got back from having the first - that they would find some excuse to let me go.

My first reaction was to go ballistic, and thence to the press and the courts in that order. My second was quietly to move on to the next job and let the other lot get with it without me.

Their loss, and a far better choice for me both at the time and with the benefits of hindsight.

Only once was I truly floored by the behaviour of a colleague - male - when I arrived for work one morning to find on my desk a heartfelt, emotional and, dare I say, rather graphic love letter from the salesman sitting opposite.

Most galling was that as I unsuspectingly opened this epistle, there he was, sat at his desk reading his newspaper and munching on his breakfast croissant. Once my blushes had faded (I was rather young) I pondered the solution to this crisis as I had no interest in the character involved and certainly no intention of acceding to his more colourful wishes.

Alcohol was the obvious remedy and so it was that the two of us went to the pub for one of those memorable lunches from which there is no return to the office that day.

The man in question remains a great friend and never since has the matter been discussed. Sadly, being a creature of habit, he tried it again some time later with another unsuspecting lass whose solution was the HR department rather than the bar. The outcome in this instance was less happy for all concerned.

We live now in an unforgiving age where political correctness has the upper hand.

Much has been lost from the character of a trading desk as a result and the powers that be fail to realise that to nurture the very particular talent that goes with being a successful trader, one needs also to give rein to the personalities that are part of their make-up during those long, frequent and stultifyingly boring times when nothing happens.

The best man I ever hired - my great fortune to the very end - had been a victim of PC gone mad at his previous firm.

Like so many of us, he had an e-mail group of his chums set up - this one particularly for the transmission of the harmlessly lewd and the occasionally funny.

A keen scuba diver, he named this buddy group Divers. It came to pass that his company was taken over by an American organisation. At their headquarters in New York was an internal watchdog, manned by women (as it were) and tasked with weeding out any politically incorrect behaviour.

Anyone could e-mail this group to complain about something and the e-mail address for so doing was Diversity. One day, shortly, after the takeover, the mail directories of the two companies merged..........you know what is going to happen don't you? Well it did.

The result - despite a genuine apology the minute he realised what he'd inadvertently done - was the sack. Instant and without references. My gain, their loss. Thank you Diversity.

Now that I'm happily retired, I do miss the jokes. Noone dares e-mail them anymore and I'm no longer exposed to the verbal banter.

One day the pendulum will swing back I hope and the broking world will once more become a more amusing and cheerful place.

In the meantime, in the real world, I have no watch dog on my e-mail (I was once asked to discipline my secretary who had used an 'inappropriate word' in a private e-mail to a friend) and I'd still rather join 'em than beat 'em.

candiapeterson@hotmail.com