GREG MOODIE

Interviewing Texas billionaire Allen Stanford for a position in Fred Goodwin's new underground bank was one of the more unusual tasks I've been assigned as a graphic designer. But it was Goodwin's request and the grinning buffoon had already shown up so I decided to make the best of it.

I began by asking for his CV and he duly obliged, with a wide-eyed enthusiasm rarely seen in adults. As it turned out, the semi-literate hand-written note he thrust before me was also remarkably child-like. I decided to quiz him directly rather than attempt a deciphering.

"What experience do you think you could bring to this role, Allen?" It was the first and undoubtedly last time I'd ever utter these words.

"Gee, well I guess I built my own bank in Antigua!"

"Hmm."

"It went from strength to strength and became a rock for the island state!"

"That's not particularly deviant or wicked though, is it?" I asked. "You are aware this is an underground organisation?"

"Then I got loaded and blew all the money in Vegas!"

"Aha!" This was more like what Sir Fred was looking for in his staff. In fact, Stanford was the perfect candidate. Not only was he childish, greedy and remorseless, he was also a hopeless gambler.

"You're just the man we're looking for," I said. "You're hired!"

The Banker’s Apprentice

June 12, 2009

Criminal mastermind Fred Goodwin had kept me busy designing corporate stationery for his new underground bank - so busy that I had been neglecting my other lowlife clients. This didn't strike me as a problem, in fact it could be considered a perk.

But just when I thought I could return to analysing Ignacious Spore's Twitter ramblings it became clear Goodwin had other chores in mind.

The doorbell rang and I was faced with a tall moustachioed man with wild eyes and an insane grin. I figured either he was on something or it was Texas billionaire Allen Stanford. Unfortunately it appeared to be both.

"What the hell do you want?" I asked. This was a customary greeting I had adopted for all my clients. Experience had taught me it was best this way.

"I'm here for the interview," he declared excitedly, that crazy grin growing by the second.

"Interview?"

"Sure. Sir Fred tells me you're the guy to know round here!"

Stanford proceeded to explain that Goodwin had been so pleased with my design work, he had given me an executive role in the new venture and I was now in a position of some authority. Clearly the loss of his previous bank had shattered his tiny mind.

The prospect of working with some of the greatest swindlers ever known was daunting, but on reflection I rather fancied it. Hell, if the bankers could make a hash of things, wait till everyone saw what it was like once the graphic designers were through.

The only question was how graphic designers would fit the work between AA meetings.

All The Way From Texas

May 16, 2009

Sir Fred Goodwin's new banking venture with Bernie Madoff was beginning to take shape. I had been working on their branding for several weeks and noted certain familiar names in their corporate literature. Specifically, the company directors were listed as: 'F. Goodwin, B. Madoff, N. Leeson, J. Kerviel.' For an underground organisation, their credentials were impeccable.

I had also gotten to know Goodwin himself over these weeks and found him to be quite pleasant. I may have been a little concerned about his 'conquering the world' comments, but reminded myself that they obviously never bothered anyone at his last bank.

One detail that he had kept under wraps until now was the name of the new organisation.

"We're going to call it AIG," he announced during our most recent nocturnal confab.

"AIG?" I replied. "Isn't that name already taken?"

"That's the beauty of it. I figure nobody will really notice this way."

It was a bold strategy and we would have to wait to see if it paid off. But one thing was sure: I had to admire Goodwin's determination. His journey from failed banker to criminal mastermind was well underway.

Fred Goodwin’s New Bank

April 26, 2009

'Mr. Smith,' as he insisted on being known, turned out to be a demanding client. Phone calls were scheduled for midnight each night, when he would outline the nature of the work I was to undertake during the subsequent hours of 12-6. There was to be no deviation. Electric light was forbidden but candles were acceptable. I asked about my twin monitor set-up and he reckoned that was ok.

It was a tough, gruelling assignment. After two weeks working nights I was starting to feel like every other graphic designer in the world.

Sir Fred was taking no chances, but each night he let his guard down a little further. One conversation was particularly revealing. Amongst details of brand guidelines and Pantone references, Goodwin hinted at the reasons for the downfall of his previous banking venture.

"You see," he began in a soft Paisley brogue, "there are those who say I went too far. But my problem was I didn't go far enough. I was just too reasonable."

I took this as evidence he was a complete radge, but he wasn't any worse than Spore or my other lowlife clients.

"That's why, this time around, I have enlisted some of the biggest twisters ever known to man to create a joint banking venture that will one day conquer the world."

Ok, I don't recall Spore ever mentioning conquering the world. But I let him continue.

"Soon you will be contacted by my associate, who is sadly detained at this moment in time. This contact will be made by letter. Which normally takes 5-7 working days."

Before he rang off, Goodwin concluded: "It may or may not surprise you to hear that the name of the contact will be.." He paused. "Bernard Madoff."

I didn't much care, so long as he paid his bills upfront.

My New Client, Sir Fred Goodwin

April 22, 2009

A thinly disguised Fred Goodwin had appeared at my door to commission visuals for his new banking venture. Normally he wouldn't have made it across the threshold but on this occasion I liked the cut of his chequebook. 'Mr. Smith,' as he insisted on being known, turned out to be a demanding client. Phone calls … Continue reading →

Twitter was proving to be quite useful after I discovered my slippery client Spore posted regularly. But today I had other fish to fry after being approached by a slim-built stranger wearing an obvious disguise. The glasses and moustache might have fooled me, but the plastic nose was a real giveaway.

I invited him in and he peered round the room before entering shiftily.

"I need some branded elements for a small business start-up," he offered hesitantly. "Money is no object."

"Ok, Mister.. em..," I replied.

"Smith."

"Mister Smith. What kind of business are you starting?" I was reasonably casual about this confab as so many of my clients had turned out to be complete twonks.

"It's.. a bank," he blurted out.

"A bank? You're starting a bank?"

"Yes," he stated frankly. "It's really not that difficult."

I was about to show the goon the door when he got his chequebook out. There was no point in being hasty.

"I can give you a six-figure advance as a retainer with the promise of daily expenses for, shall we say, six months?"

"I see," I said. He was already writing the cheque so it would have been impolite of me to decline.

The signature complete, he thrust the folded note my way and rose to leave. As he did, the disguise slipped an inch or so and what I could see of the features beneath seemed vaguely familiar.

"My one condition is absolute discretion. I must insist that this arrangement remain strictly entre nous."

"No problem," I replied. Six figures would buy enough booze to keep me quiet for a lifetime.

He made his way hastily out the door and I was left somewhat stunned but far from unhappy. Still, I remained curious. I had an inkling who this character was and a swift scrutiny of the signature on the cheque confirmed my suspicion. There it was, with a flourish that only the over-priveleged can achieve: 'F. Goodwin.'

Bankers Anonymous

April 4, 2009

10^th Nov 2008. Spore: "Found suitable patsy to dupe with misleading trail of non-existent symbols. Meeting Stephen Fry later."

Admittedly, I would follow a trail of peanuts if they were laid out with a modicum of design sense. But at this stage there was nothing more than that to suggest I was the patsy in question. I continued to read.

1^st Dec 2008. Spore: "Discussed fiscal arrangements with FF. Met Fry again and have decided he's a knob."

There was only one FF worth the name and that was LaFlamme. So the raven-haired minx was in collusion with Spore? And who the hell was this Fry character?

Feb 8^th 2009. Spore: "Framing the patsy later today. Fry has taken the huff."

A panic attack of seismic proportions began to take hold as I realised I was being overwhelmed by information. I had the urge to start removing clothes, but with Spore's picture and Fry's omnipresence this seemed improper.

I calmed myself with thoughts of giving up computers forever, and living in an electricity-free state. Eventually, I managed to skip forward to the current week. This time, there was a single entry:

29^th Mar 2009. Spore: "Fait Accompli."

Fait Accompli? The panic passed but was now replaced by all-out alarm. Whatever the loon-supreme was up to, I sure as hell didn't want it accompli-ed, with or without Stephen Fry.

My Client Calls Stephen Fry A Knob

April 1, 2009

You could hardly sue them for misrepresentation of the facts - the name 'Twitter' said it all. But uncovering your client's 140-character musings had its attractions, especially when the client was Ignacious Spore. 10th Nov 2008. Spore: "Found suitable patsy to dupe with misleading trail of non-existent symbols. Meeting Stephen Fry later." Admittedly, I would … Continue reading →

The discovery that my design client Ignacious Spore had been using Twitter had jolted me out of my force ten apathy towards the micro blogging site.

Spore had already sent me on a wild goose chase involving the worst logo in the world, Jack Daniels, and the raven-haired minx Fifi LaFlamme (who was now a best-selling author after her self-help book 'Help Yourself To Drink' had gone top ten).

His nefarious activities began with a request that I analyse the religious symbology of his 'IS' monogram, in the mistaken belief that I was a certain Harvard professor. This column had become increasingly silly ever since.

But the fact that the slippery nutjob could have been posting 140-character clues on the utterly pointless typing-based me-fest that is Twitter was just too intriguing to pass up.

My path was clear. I clicked 'follow.'

My Client Right Or Wrong

March 20, 2009

The discovery that my design client Ignacious Spore had been using Twitter had jolted me out of my force ten apathy towards the micro blogging site. Spore had already sent me on a wild goose chase involving the worst logo in the world, Jack Daniels, and the raven-haired minx Fifi LaFlamme (who was now a best-selling author … Continue reading →

The Admiral had explained 'twittering' to me in words of one syllable and yet I still found the concept baffling. I asked for a diagram.

Later that evening I began to explore for myself. There had to be a reason for the popularity of this typing-based pastime and I was determined to find it.

I arrived at the conclusion that the world was in the grip of typing-induced delirium, because after several hours spent amongst all this random keyboard spawn, I was unable to find any actual writing.

I was also finding it difficult to see the possible attraction in following the nonsensical ramblings of strangers when I could barely follow my own.

But just when I was about to give up on the idea altogether and slide into coma-level apathy, I stumbled upon a correspondent by the oddly familiar name of @Spore, who was about to change my opinion altogether.

Twitter: The Typing Sickness

March 18, 2009

The Admiral had explained 'twittering' to me in words of one syllable and yet I still found the concept baffling. I asked for a diagram. Later that evening I began to explore for myself. There had to be a reason for the popularity of this typing-based pastime and I was determined to find it. I … Continue reading →

"Twittering?" I queried. "Not typing?"

"Hmm."

"Not texting?"

"That's right. It's when you describe in 140 characters or less what you are doing. Let me give you an example." He began poking at the device. "Going to meet my colleague, the eminent psychologist Lydia Pine-Coffin." He looked pleased with this.

"But you're not. You're typing."

"Well yes, but you misunderstand. It's about social networking, it's about micro blogging."

"It's about typing." I took the device and punched in the following letters: 'hav just stuffd my armdillo and now thinkng tacos for brekfst.' I showed him this marvellous piece of prose. "Typing."

"You're being childish now," he scolded. "Deliberately obtuse."

"Bum bum bum," I retaliated, deciding to stick with childish rather than have to look up obtuse. "You don't need 140 characters to describe what you're doing. Just write 'typing.'"

But it seemed the Admiral was far from alone. Most people's list of hobbies would be headed with 'typing' if they ever dared admit it. Maybe it was like going to the bathroom - I enjoy my rest breaks but I wouldn't necessarily class them as a hobby.

More Joy Of Typing

March 12, 2009

Even though the Admiral was using a mobile phone rather than a keyboard, I still felt that he was essentially typing. But he took issue with this, insisting he was neither typing nor texting, but in fact 'twittering.' "Twittering?" I queried. "Not typing?" "Hmm." "Not texting?" "That's right. It's when you describe in 140 characters … Continue reading →