Cityboy: Beer and Loathing in the Square Mile - Geraint Anderson

Like many other Londoners, I snap up a copy of the "Londonpaper" almost every day (or end up having one pressed into my torso during rush hour) and it certainly makes a good quick read if you're stuck on public transport or grabbing a lonely evening coffee. I prefer it to its competitor (the London Lite) for a number of reasons, one being its often entertaining and always very varied columnists. Last year, we met the enigmatic and anonymous ...
...depravity from the Square Mile, but few foresaw that this Cityboy would ultimately end up publicly abandoning his career as a stockbroker - along with its bonuses and its lavish lifestyle.

In his infamous column, Cityboy revealed himself as Geraint Anderson and urged anyone still trapped in the rat race to follow suit, while announcing his upcoming novel which would elaborate on the darker side of the financial battlefield. Anderson ... more

Like many other Londoners, I snap up a copy of the "Londonpaper" almost every day (or end up having one pressed into my torso during rush hour) and it certainly makes a good quick read if you're stuck on public transport or grabbing a lonely evening coffee. I prefer it to its competitor (the London Lite) for a number of reasons, one being its often entertaining and always very varied columnists. Last year, we met the enigmatic and anonymous 'Cityboy', who would dish out juicy tales of corruption and depravity from the Square Mile, but few foresaw that this Cityboy would ultimately end up publicly abandoning his career as a stockbroker - along with its bonuses and its lavish lifestyle.

In his infamous column, Cityboy revealed himself as Geraint Anderson and urged anyone still trapped in the rat race to follow suit, while announcing his upcoming novel which would elaborate on the darker side of the financial battlefield. Anderson purports to have churned out "Cityboy: Beer and Loathing in the Square Mile" within the span of a month. Despite this, it has become a Sunday Times bestseller, with sales undoubtedly spurred by the onset of the Credit Crunch and a public interest in the bankers that are thought to have caused it.

As a recent LSE graduate I was eager to get my hands on a copy and delve into the world of investment banking that many of my classmates were fiercely intent on becoming a part of. Moreover, I had mounting university debts to pay, and had always wondered whether a few years in the Square Mile would be a good preliminary option before turning to a more creative field. Suffice it to say that I will not be selling my soul anytime soon. Not that I disprove of the financial sector, but "Cityboy" paints a picture of a world so cutthroat (and testosterone-driven) that it is obvious many of us wouldn't last a second in it.

Initially, I was surprised to read the book's disclaimer which stated that the events were, in part, fictional - they did not all happen to the protagonist ("Steve Jones") but were instead representative of "a certain kind of career in the City". Understandably, names had been changed for privacy reasons, but I was a little disappointed that it would not be as intimate and personal as Anderson's columns were. Critics have emphasised this aspect of the novel, suggesting a lack of integrity (or, more simply, balls). Steve, then, tells us how the hippie lifestyle of his youth was sacrificed in favour of unjustifiably large bonuses through the fault of his brother, who arranges an interview with "Banque Inutile" that Steve passes with flying colours. Not because of any financial savvy (Steve was a history graduate) but because, as head of equities David Flynn puts it: "We need sharp, cocky dickheads like you and you fit the bill nicely". And so begins Steve's career as an analyst at Banque Inutile after which he transfers to bigger, better banks, all the way negotiating higher salaries, using Michael the "genius" to increase his own influence, and making a grotesquely high bet with an old nemesis that within an agreed time span, Steve will have gained a ranking - and thus status - to rival his. £100,000, to be precise.

The book reads like a memoir (only I have to keep reminding myself that Steve Jones does not exist) and is mostly a chronological unfolding of events that begins with Steve's shock at the hedonistic lifestyle his colleagues lead, then progresses with his mastery of the tricks needed to climb the corporate ladder, and onto his willing involvement in the (literal) tricks of the trade. These range from telling untruths about the estimated value of a stock, to investing in shares based on insider knowledge, to simply picking up attractive "gold-diggers" for quick gratification.

While some of these dark secrets tell us nothing that many of us had not already assumed about bankers' lifestyles, there are a few that are slightly more surprising - the private stripper joints hidden right beneath our eyes in the West End, the sex parties (where a preliminary photo is required to verify that you are attractive enough to attend) and the copious amounts of cocaine. There is also the disheartening revelation that many City Boys are so detached from their wives and children that they refer to the office as their time off. It is easy to be appalled at the sort of people who dedicate their lives to raking in increasingly preposterous amounts of cash - especially considering the meagre wages of those who toil away as manual workers - but with the promise of an annual bonus that can swiftly evolve into six figures, you wonder if all of us simply have our price.

The writing style and layout of the book make for an easy and quick read. It is light, and certainly entertaining. What I found most hindered my enjoyment of the book, however, were the overabundant and exaggerated stabs at humour, most notably Anderson's crude and not particularly original similes which the reader can barely go a couple of pages without encountering. These include "as likely as John Prescott being named Britain's Poet Laureate and Mr Universe in the same year", "as welcome as a turd in a swimming pool", and "the look on the salesman's face was so extreme it was as if I had just asked him if I could perform the 'Cincinnati Bow-Tie' with his sister". He also has a less-than-subtle way of describing how he has no chance of hooking up with Jane Carter "unless I won the lottery, had plastic surgery to look like Brad Pitt and had Samuel L. Jackson give me a crash course on how to be cool". Not that this manner of his description isn't evocative - quite the contrary - but it is used so frequently that one might feel the flow of the story somewhat interrupted, or at least perturbed at the image of a turd that has been conjured up in a seemingly-innocent passage about corporate events. Then again, if this sort of humour is your taste (to the extent at which you enjoy being bombarded with it), the book is an absolute riot. Perhaps the fact that I'm female also has to do with my lack of interest in reading about Jane's "arse you could eat breakfast off" or the numerous references to fecal matter used as banks' psuedonyms. In the end, Scheissebank, Megashite and something-involving-"Merde" began to confuse me greatly. In fact, some might say this blunt humour is as annoying as a turd in a shallow bucket, to evoke Anderon's style.

In addition, in the midst of descriptive passages, fast-paced action and some general background information about capitalism (9/11, Enron, Weber's political theory), Anderson might interrupt with "Easy, tiger...there's another rant...sorry about that!" which doesn't seem to sit well coming from a protagonist who allegedly doesn't exist. With the editorialising and political opinion evidently coming from Anderson's own heart, it is hard to reconcile with a series of partly fictionalised events in a lifestory that never happened. Perhaps it is just that Anderson makes a better read as a columnist, or maybe a month or two simply wasn't enough time to write more than 400 pages of flawless narrative.

All in all, it's still definitely worth a read, as there is a scarcity of bankers or ex-bankers who dish the dirt on the City lifestyle (there have been other, similar, books to "Cityboy", but they may now be slightly outdated) and it never bores. It will certainly entertain, whether it is by evoking the reader's own lifestyle (or that of their City Boy friends), by shocking and disgusting the reader, or by producing an overwhelming sense of gratitude that you have managed to steer clear of the temptations of bankers' bonuses, now knowing what a tangled and inescapable web they weave.

Anderson himself enjoyed a final £500,000 bonus before finally deciding to quit, indicating that even erstwhile hippies can be so blinded by greed that they dedicate years to indulging their lust. The Londonpaper's female answer to Anderson, Citygirl, revealed herself in a similar manner not two weeks ago (Barbara Stcherbatcheff) and, having also just quit her job, she is releasing a book entitled "Confessions of a Citygirl" which will similarly be part fictionalised. It will be interesting to see what routes women have to take to gain status in the City, and only time will tell whether it will make a good complement to Anderson's take on the Square Mile - or whether it will be its anti-thesis.  

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