June 12th, 2009
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!”
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Tags: Allen Stanford, Fred Goodwin | No Comments
May 16th, 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.
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Tags: Allen Stanford, Fred Goodwin | No Comments
April 26th, 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.
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April 22nd, 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 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.
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April 4th, 2009
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.’
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