I FOLLOWED the fat man. I swore I never would, but I did. The fat man is a pompous acquaintance in the fund management business, who lives what some people call the good life. That means he dines and drinks excessively, and actually likes cocktail parties. The only exercise he gets is trembling every morning.
The fat man drives a Rolls. He is arrogant and shallow. Worse, he is British. Worse than that, I followed him.
I thought if he could become rich and slothful managing other people's money then he must be doing something right for his clients. This despite his having an English boarding school background and a laugh that goes haw, haw, haw through a mouthful of smoked salmon.
It was not him in particular I followed. I went with the idea of sticking some cash into a managed fund because I reckoned that if he could make money then everyone else in the business must be brilliant.
I chose two companies, a reputable Canadian bank and a leading local hong. I spread one million dollars over six funds comprising hundreds of companies in dozens of countries, and numerous currencies and bonds. Two years later no fund has made a single cent. All headed south the week after I went in. Every bond, every equity, every currency transaction.
Failure with a spread like that must be a billion-to-one-shot.