Huey’s Foreword: A corporate satire, with a deus ex machina. Of sorts. I don’t remember writing this, but it would certainly have been inspired by, and written at the time of, the Credit Crunch in 2008-09. At least sometime in that timeframe. I took liberty from my time in PR and working in corporate communications, and also my experience as a news journalist.
It’s a little bit of fun.
It’s a short 1,250 words.
I hope you enjoy. Don’t forget to like and share. Thank you.
Huey Hawke, 2025
Sir ‘Dave the Brave’
We talked. Sure, we talked. He didn’t talk much. Til the newspaper arrived on his desk. Then he didn’t stop, unlike the night before; Sir Dave called, said be there early, 5.30 am, ready for calls. Line was, ‘no comment.’ That’s all he said, sounded fine.
I didn’t see the sun the following morning, it stayed hidden behind an early bank of grey June cloud. Took the first train to London. EC1. Sir Dave’s little office in a small building opposite The Castle. Sir’s term for his former powerbase, banking empire RBW. The building was almost invisible, swallowed by The Castle’s shadow. He would say over and over, soon after he hired me, as he stared up through the small window at the glass and steel tower, ‘A knight in his keep should be safe, not thrown to the mob.’ The man was obsessed.
Sir Dave (‘Dave the Brave’, to the MA analysts in the City) was a clever
man. I’d known all about him from the Stateside papers, seen him slice and dice a company with his mind in moments, melt men to puddles. Oh, he was a fighter alright. Always railing and arguing and often times winning. Like Ali in the ring. Man, he thought he was invincible! To a PR guy, like myself, he was a great client, great copy. Reasonable payer. Happy to spit outta word or two, steamroll the journos and always, always in the papers; ‘THE MAN WHO BROKE BRITAIN,’ or, ‘IS THIS THE BIGGEST BANKER IN TOWN?’ Well, he wasn’t a banker when I worked for him. No sir. He was trying to rebuild his reputation.
Hired me to help. I’d worked in corporate communications; US arm of the bank, done okay, got redundant after the Crunch. Set-up on my own, ticking along, made a nice bunch of contacts and figured I could help Sir Dave when he got the shove. Dropped him a line. Six months later, called me up, said, ‘game’s on. Can you start tomorrow?’ I was on a plane in a little under ninety-minutes. You see, the thing about Sir Dave, it’s all a game (you gotta move fast). Just wants to win. Has to win. Even when he loses, it’s a, ‘minor setback, a battle, not a war.’
So, he took me on when he failed to get board-level consultancy work at
several enterprise-class organisations, this and that side of the Pond. The City was a black and white place for Sir Dave; he had his backers and he had his enemies, and there were some big, bad, ugly folk on both sides. You were for Sir Dave, or against him, and most had their knives out and sharpened for, The Black Knight, the man declared responsible for the biggest catastrophe in British banking history, ‘their woes, not mine,’ he said.
Though arrogance, ego, is a good thing in great men, you need that strength of character, pull yourself up high. To be sure, I wanted to watch him do this again, be up close, learn something. First day I met with him he called a meeting. His P.A. received a vicious lashing from his famously jagged tongue, her face streaked with black mascara tears. Four P.A.s in the seven months I worked with him (they hollered loads. So did his five girlfriends in seven weeks – leastways that I counted. Mascara-lined cheeks every time). Always talking about global empires, domination. He was the capital ‘A’ in ‘Alpha’. Berated the betas. Banged doors down using his knighthood. That’s why he hired me. In those boardrooms he wanted folk to see him white, leave those dark shadows out in the street.
That early morning, Sir Dave Baadloss (kid you not, his nemesis in the
Square Mile had been Goodwin, jeez, you couldn’t write that) sat in the office puffing on a big fat Honduran. Made rings of smoke, stabbed ’em with a finger.
‘What’s the deal?’ I said.
‘Take a seat, Cliff.’ He offered me a cigar.
‘Too early, sir.’
‘Time for a leap of faith, Cliff. Got a tip from my mole at the FT, says it’s all going down today.’ He grinned like a fat toddler on Granma’s knee. Had these wisps of ginger hair brushed from the back of his head, over the bald crown.
‘What’s the story, why not brief me?’
‘I’ll you later. Meantime, I’m back in the big time, first consultancy job. Mirror Images plc. Like I said, I’ve already decided, ‘no comment.’ That’s the line.’ His voice purred, a V12 engine inside, ticking over in neutral.
‘No comment?’
‘Dignity.’ He blew a smoke ring, let it escape, watched it climb to the ceiling, dissipate, gone.
‘Dignity?’
‘The most vilified man in Britain one minute, back rocking and rolling the next; can’t rub people’s faces in it. Need some class, Cliff. Dignity.’
‘I see sir, but don’t you reckon it’s an opportunity? Folks gonna read this in the financial pages, think, “if he’s good enough for Mirror, he’s good enough for us”.’
‘Cliff, Cliff. Empty vessels make the loudest noise, something you Americans should know all about. Here in Britain we do things differently. Decorum. I’ve taken a good long quiet look at Mirror, and I like what I see. Let others make their own minds up, the headlines will speak for themselves. They don’t need me saying, “and I can help you too”, do they now, eh. Besides, I went through your contacts book yesterday, and sent all the finance boys a special picture I took on my iPhone – to accompany the story. That picture speaks volumes.’
‘Sir, you did wh -‘ His phone rang. He answered.
Sir Dave had a single-minded attitude to everything, down to the smallest detail, including his wife’s pet name (Fred). He had a dogged attitude to growing things that was, well, healthy. Gorged on foreign banks and apple-pie. Got him to the top. Point is, I wasn’t gonna argue with the man. He just seemed to have an instinct for these things. Might have gone Ping-Pong at RBW, but heck; you don’t try, you don’t get. Whoa! Man should have been in the SAS. Who dares. Besides, he was a knight.
Sir spat the cigar out, landed on the desk. Things started going up in smoke. ‘No. No. No! Can’t be? No!’
‘What’s up? Sir? What’s up?’
Sir Dave’s phone fell to the floor, fingers clawed at the leather-bound desk. Threw his head back violently. ‘Get me a paper!’ His hands went to his head.
The office door swung open violently, handle pierced the plaster, lodged in the wall. Sir’s wife came bounding in, said, ‘Dave the knave! Dave the knave!’ Slammed the Metro down on the desk. Even as she did this, lift pinged, doors opened and screams filled the lobby outside the office, ‘Sir, Sir, Sir!’ P.A. Penny runs in with the early editions, ‘Sorry, so sorry!’
Sir Dave’s phone rang. I picked it up. Assistant editor at the FT.
‘Baadloss like to make a comment?’ said the voice.
‘No comment.’
I picked up the Metro, ‘DAVE THE KNAVE. FORMER RBW BOSS TO LOSE KNIGHTHOOD.’ The Sun, ‘KNIGHT-TIME’S OVER FOR FUN TIME DAVE.’ The Mirror had the inside story. ‘KNIGHT IN SHINING AMOUR.’ All newspapers carried the same picture. Sir, some broad in a sequined dress, hotel bed.
Dave didn’t stop talking.
Seems the forfeiture committee recommended he lose the knighthood on account of his actions as RBW boss. He sent the papers the wrong picture. I’d say the perfect storm. Lost his honour and his wife. Still a hero to me.
The End