Tag Archives: Big Bang

Episode 8. Wires!



Modern stock exchanges couldn’t exist without wires. They are virtual, global, infinitely expanding. Their trading floors are humming servers. But no one ever planned this transformation, and it took many by surprise. This episode explores the long processes of automation throughout the second half of the twentieth century. We hear about engineers, screens, and how technology created a new stock exchange almost by accident.

Transcription

Let’s take a walk through a stock exchange. In the 1980s, it would have sounded like this…

—– trading pit —–[1]

That’s a trading pit, with the bell sounding, bodies crammed together, pushing, shouting. We have heard it a few times by now. In the late 1980s, when Tom Wolfe visited the trading room of Pierce & Pierce, he still found a terrible noise, ‘an ungodly roar, like the roar of a mob…an oppressive space with a ferocious glare, writhing silhouettes…moving about in an agitated manner and sweating early in the morning and shouting, which created the roar. It was’, he writes, ‘the sound of well-educated young white men baying for money on the bond market.’ But the market is only partly in this trading room, it is outside, absent, on the screens. And if you walk through a stock exchange today, it would sound like this…

——– ‘singing servers’—–[2]

Isn’t that eerie? The sound of servers in a data centre, chattering to one another. A beautiful recording, too. These changing sounds are the background to the story in today’s episode, that of automation, the transformation from spoken markets to those of near instantaneous speed, a transformation that has made possible an increase in the volume and scale of financial transactions to a level that would have been simply inconceivable 30 years ago. Economists delight in pointing out how technological improvements in financial markets lead to socially beneficial outcomes through facilitating liquidity and choice. That argument, however, supposes that changing the medium of trade has no consequences other than making it easier. By now, we know this cannot be the case: throughout the first part of this podcast we have seen how the shape, function and purpose of financial markets are every bit as dependent upon their material structures as on regulatory regimes and global political-economic conditions. Through the 1980s and 1990s, automation turned stock exchanges inside out. That is today’s story – even if we don’t make it all the way into the cloud in one episode.

Hello, and welcome to How to Build a Stock Exchange. My name is Philip Roscoe, and I teach and research at the University of St Andrews in Scotland. I am a sociologist interested in the world of finance and I want to build a stock exchange. Why? Because, when it comes to finance, what we have just isn’t good enough. To build something – to make something better – you need to understand how it works. Sometimes that means taking it to pieces, and that’s exactly what we’ll be doing in this podcast. I’ll be asking: what makes financial markets work? What is in a price, and why does it matter? How did finance become so important? And who invented unicorns?

The last two episodes have focused on the upheavals felt in the world of finance during the 1980s, the decade when greed became good. We saw, in episode six, how shifts in the tectonic plates of global economic governance and the intellectual fashions around ownership and collective versus individual responsibility had led to the birth of a new kind of social contract, the individualism of Thatcherism and Reaganomics. We saw how – in the UK at least – that manifested itself in a new kind of investor, Sid, the archetypal blue-collar worker turned property owner who bought into the newly privatised industries and could consider himself a member of the rentier classes. In episode seven I explored the new deals imagined by those working on the cutting edge of finance – the invention of elaborate investment bonds fashioned from home mortgage repayments, and the leveraged buyout beloved of corporate raiders and asset strippers. This was when you forced your target to borrow money to buy itself, tore it to pieces and sold them off to pay the debt, and kept yourself a handsome profit in the process. You justified your actions by claiming that you were returning value to oppressed and voiceless shareholders, whom managers had apparently been robbing for years. But none of this would have been possible without steady, mundane, and often barely noticeable changes in the technological infrastructures of the stock exchange.

Of course, these changes were not always invisible. Some came with a big bang, as on  Monday 27 October, 1986, when London’s markets finally went electronic. You may recall that regulatory changes put in place with Big Bang saw the end of single capacity trading and the role of the jobber, the end of fixed commissions and the liberalisation of ownership rules. The fourth and final plank of the Big Bang reforms was the London Stock Exchange’s decision to replace spoken trading with a distributed, screen-based system called SEAQ – S –E-A-Q. Market-makers – who replaced jobbers and were able to deal for clients and on their own account – published ‘two way’ buy and sell prices over the screens.

The best prices for any security were highlighted by a yellow strip at the top of the screen and a broker who wished to deal would call the market maker on the telephone and strike a bargain. London had borrowed this distributed-trading model from NASDAQ: even the name showed a debt of gratitude, the Stock Exchange Automatic Quotation, echoing National Association of Securities Dealers Automatic Quotation. The new system looked so like the American over-the-counter market that the New York Stock Exchange put itself in a perilous political position by banning its members from trading on the London Stock Exchange, just as they were banned from NASDAQ. A week later New York retracted, a spokesman conceding that, ‘If the British Parliament says it is an Exchange, that’s good enough for the Big Board.’[3] (I should say, as always, that full references are available in the transcript that accompanies this podcast).

Those designing the new market had no particular wish to disrupt the old one. The system was built with continuity in mind and made it possible for people to trade on the Stock Exchange floor, just as they had always done. Many firms took leases to pitches on the new floor, refurbished and upgraded at the cost of several million pounds. But the jobbers knew that their world was changing. While the big firms were buying long-term leases, the jobbers knew that they would never set foot on the floor of the house again. On Friday 24 October, the last day of spoken trading, the floor of the house hosted a day of wild festivities. Jobbers chased a pantomime horse containing two clerks round the floor, and the Spitting Image puppet of Chancellor Nigel Lawson made an appearance. In all, says one historian, it was more a ‘rowdy Irish wake’ than the solemn, final day of a mighty institution.[4] Managers, expecting business as usual, were caught out: ‘Within five minutes of Big Bang,’ says one, ‘on Monday morning, it was clear to me that the floor was dead. I’m not bragging. I was the last person in the City to figure it out.’[5] But there was no reason to loiter downstairs, struggling to elicit prices from a seething crowd of traders when one could survey the whole world of prices from the comfort of one’s desk. The crowds just moved to their offices upstairs, so promptly that, by mid-morning on Monday it was clear that the trading floor was finished. In January 1987 only a hundred people traded regularly on the floor – just a tenth of the crowd that had traded there a year previously – and the Financial Times was speculating about whether the new six-sided pitches might become a ‘Hexagonal Wine Bar’. The trading floor closed three months later.[6]

—- keyboard and typewriter sounds, here and below —-[7]

If technology merely improved informational efficiency, why was there such inevitability to the collapse of floor trading? And why couldn’t the banks and investment houses themselves see it coming? It was not just more comfortable to trade from one’s desk, but also safer. Traders were now obliged to trade at the prices offered on the screen, for these were ‘firm prices’. But if the telephone was ringing, it was always possible to check the screen before picking it up. In fact, one of the great complaints about screen trading was that during sudden market collapses – when lots of people simultaneously want to sell – dealers stopped picking up the phone. Traders could have more screens on their desk, bringing in all kinds of information from the outside world, and placing them at an advantage to others; office organisation could deliver the same benefits, with salespeople, analysts and other experts easy to reach.[8] Moreover, everyone in the office knew the news first – the technology inverted the relationship between floor trader and clerk, between front office and back. And moving to screens did not mean abandoning all those social relationships that had sustained trade on the floor. Those young men in Peirce & Peirce’s trading room are shouting into telephones, making deals with others that they spoke to, as one trader wryly pointed out, more frequently than they spoke to their spouses. Telephones formed a useful bridge between the bodies of the floor and the disembodiment of screens. Under the SEAQ system, brokers still dealt by phone, or by direct lines connected to an intercom known as the box. These devices were crucially important in the operation of major stock markets in the late 1980s and the 1990s: ‘If you don’t have your brokers in the box, you are not in the market’, said one Parisian trader.[9]

Mechanisation had become a preoccupation of stock exchange officials worldwide. This interest stemmed from the middle of the twentieth century. Often, it had egalitarian underpinnings: if mechanism could reduce manpower, wrote one author, ‘we might even reduce the costs to such an extent that small orders became profitable and the ideal of the Cloth Cap Investor at last became a reality.’[10] Fischer Black, the economist whose option pricing theory was to transform the financial world, had dreamed of a fully automated securities market. His pamphlet was illustrated with a line drawing of an enormous machine straight out of B-movie science fiction, the market machine drawn as a riveted dustbin on stilts with enormous tendrils, like vacuum cleaner tubes, reaching down onto the desks of bankers and traders. It is hard to read the expressions of those occupying the desks, but they certainly are not joyful. Thinking such as this was never entirely benevolent: it also had roots in the desire for effective supervision of market participants, whose dealings by handshake and conversation could be easily hidden. But we should be careful of reading the history of automation as a smooth transition from lumpy, inefficient bodies to sleek, efficient machines at the hands of strategically visionary management. Juan-Pablo Pardo Guerra, who has written extensively on the topic, asks why – bearing in mind the comfortable, profitable market positions held by senior players within the organisation – did automation happen at all? He argues that the process is haphazard and diffuse. It begins, inevitably, with the routine tasks of settlement and clearing; in London, the post war years saw mechanical calculating devices, and then computers, introduced to streamline what had been a labour intensive, time consuming process. Crucially, according to Pardo Guerra, these early machines allowed a new kind of participant, the technologist, into the closed world of the LSE. Calculators and computers demanded technical expertise, and the technologists who worked on them built their own quiet and often invisible networks of power within the organisation. The members of the exchange (the brokers and market-makers) were used to treating back-office workers as staff, secondary in status and in access. They treated the technologists the same way. Pardo Guerra passes on a story about a member meeting the Exchange’s new technical director – a senior appointment – in the lavatories of the sacred seventeenth floor, a space reserved for members, and expressing his displeasure about sharing the facilities with the staff. One can hardly blame the technologists for pushing changes through, until, one day the members woke up to find that they were not in charge any more.

The details of automation are complex, and are exhaustively covered in Pardo Guerra’s book. Change was incremental. In 1970 the London Stock Exchange introduced its Market Price Display Service to show middle prices on black-and-white television sets in offices throughout its newly constructed concrete tower block. The service was a manual-automatic hybrid that relied upon Exchange representatives patrolling the trading floor, physically collecting prices. The blue buttons were happy to delegate this work to them and began quoting prices verbally rather than chalking them up on a board. MPDS prices often differed from those made available by the Financial Times and Extel – rival data producers – so the Exchange banned these organisations from the trading floor, thus creating itself a monopoly in the new and lucrative commercial market for data.  This early analogue computer, data carried in coaxial cables, was soon outdated. The LSE implemented a database called EPIC (The Exchange Price Information Computer) able to hold a limited amount of price information for every single stock traded. Then, in 1978, it launched a new system named TOPIC (or, less snappily, Teletext Output of Price Information by Computer) based on the Post Office’s proprietary teletext system, named Prestel. ‘TOPIC,’ writes Pardo Guerra, ‘was not simply a scoping device, a way of seeing the market: it was, rather, a common platform, a standardized mechanism for displaying market information – from prices and company announcements, to charts and tailored analytics – and reacting to it from afar.’[11] As Pardo-Guerra points out, the crucial advantage of this system was that data could flow both ways – from the trader’s terminal to the central hub and back. TOPIC made possible new modes of visualization and calculation. It was, in other words, creating a new market place: the screen. In the early 1980s the looming Big Bang provided the technologists with an opportunity to cement their grip on the organization of trades, and they set to work to render the sociality of the exchange into cables and screens, a utopian endeavour that simply never came to fruition. Forced to adopt a quick fix to meet the deadline, the Exchange hammered TOPIC and EPIC – its two existing systems together into a new combination, named SEAQ, which underpinned the change to dual capacity trading in October 1986.

So a series of incremental improvements, driven by political concerns, attempts to grab a bigger share of an emerging market for data provision, and the struggles between managers and technologists, eventually coalesce around a system that makes the trading room redundant. Nobody had expected this, and certainly no one had planned it. It caught many off guard. Those who had spent their careers on the floor of the house had learned to read bodies, not numbers. They did not really need to know the long term prospects for a company, how much its dividend might be or whether the bank was likely to foreclose. They simply needed to know who wanted to buy stock, and who wanted to sell; even better, to know who wanted to sell, and who had to. Bodies were enough for that. Eyes, sweat and movement, the look of tension on the junior’s face, these things told an experienced jobber everything they needed to know. Screens project a new kind of market. There are no people, no bodies: no scent of greed or fear, no recognition of friends or foes. The screen trader must make sense of strings of numbers, learning to read the market in an entirely different way. Screens make possible a global market, unrolling through an electronic network that circles the globe from bridgehead city to bridgehead city: Tokyo, Frankfurt, London, New York. Screens are devices that visualize and create the market; the sociologist Karin Knorr Cetina describes them as ‘scoping devices’, analogous to the instruments of a laboratory. Traders arriving at work, she writes, ‘strap themselves to their seats, figuratively speaking, they bring up their screens, and from then on their eyes will be glued to that screen, their visual regard captured by it even when they talk or shout to each other, and their body and the screen world melting together in what appears to be a total immersion in the action in which they are taking part.’[12] Making sense of this vast world of information means building new kinds of calculators, and prices tracing across screens are the perfect material for doing so. Traders’ tools are the graphs and spreadsheets of the Bloomberg terminal, with its endless, varied representations. At first, innovative computer programmers sought to recreate the bodily world of the trading floor. Programs simulated crowd noise, rising and falling in line with activity, but these were never successful. Other prompts and shortcuts grew to fill the space instead. In London, for example, the Exchange introduced the FTSE 100 ‘trigger page’. This showed the code for every single stock in the FTSE 100 on a single, teletext screen. A blue background to the code signified the share was moving up and a red that it was moving down. You no longer needed to hear the crowd to know how the market was faring; the information one needed was there, brightly coloured, on a single screen.[13]

Screen-based markets make it possible to trade without any human help at all. In many ways, this was the dream of visionaries such as Fischer Black, using machines to cut costs and trim trading margins until a truly efficient, democratic market was achieved. According to a certain line of thinking, the proliferation of trades that machines bring creates liquidity and benefits all market participants. The jury is still very much undecided as to whether computerised trading leaves us better off – Michael Lewis’ Flash Boys argues passionately that it does not, and we’ll return to the topic in due course. But it is undeniable that computers react more quickly than people and without any sense of restraint. At the time of the Big Bang, computerised trading had nothing of the sophistication of modern algorithms. Robots followed a simple set of rules designed to launch sales if the market fell too quickly.

Programme trading, as this was called, soon came to the world’s attention when global stock markets suffered their ever worst day of falls: 19 October 1987, Black Monday, just a year after Big Bang. We’ll pick this up next week.

—-

It turns out that technological processes have overflows far beyond their creators’ expectations. In fact, technology can start a stock exchange almost by accident, and in 1995 it did just that. The exchange was called OFEX, and if we are interested in the possibilities of small-scale exchanges for the funding of social goods, we should take good notice of its story.

You may remember from episode six how the Jenkins family established a small jobbing firm in London, specialising in dog tracks and holiday camps; how John Jenkins grew to be senior partner; how they made £1 million in five minutes of trading when the British Telecom issue came out; and how the firm was sold to Guinness Mahon and thence a Japanese investment bank. In the bear market that followed the crash of 1987 the trading desk was closed and Jenkins found himself unemployed, bruised and battered by a difficult period in a toxic working environment. But John had not just traded dog tracks. He had also developed a specialist expertise in the London Stock Exchange’s little-known Rule 163.[14]

The rule, which later became Rule 535, and then Rule 4.2, allowed members to conduct occasional trades in companies not listed on the London Stock Exchange. Trades had to be conducted on a ‘matched bargain’ basis. This meant that the jobbing firm had to line up a buyer and a seller and ‘put through’ the trade, taking a commission of one and a quarter percent on each side. Each bargain had to be reported to the Stock Exchange and was carefully noted and approved by the listings department. It was clearly not meant as a volume operation. But Jenkins & Son already traded like this: jobbers in the smallest stocks could not rely upon a steady flow of buy and sell orders so were reluctant to hold stock on their books, tying up capital, possibly for years. Instead they would build up lists of potential buyers and sellers, and only when they could make a match would they trade. It was fiddly work, says John, though lucrative: ‘Nobody else wanted to do it, nobody else wanted to fill the forms out, run round and you would fiddle about in those days, would the client take 1,049, well I know he wants to buy 1,000 but will he take 963 and then you would have to piece it all together and do it…But for a grand a day, in those days!’

In the early 1990s John was twiddling his thumbs and missing his old trading days. He fancied starting a new firm but his application to the London Stock Exchange was twice turned down. John was on the verge of giving up but his blue button – his apprentice – from a few years before, Paul Brown, was made redundant as well, and this moved John to a final try. Brown remembers the conversation:

‘I rang John up and I said to him, “Look, John, just to let you know, before you hear it, I have been made redundant.” And he went, “Okay”. I’ll never forget it. He said to me, “Okay, Brownie, I’ll come back to you”. And that was it. And he rung me back the next day and he said, “Look, I went for a walk along the river, and I’ve thought about it. I’ve had this idea, trading what was 535(2) stocks then. How about you and I give it a go?” He said, “I can’t pay you a lot of money but it’s a start-up, we’ll get an office, just you and me, and we’ll give it a go.” So I said, “Yeah, fine.”’[15]

The third submission was accepted by the London Stock Exchange, and on 11 February 1991, Jenkins and Brown set up JP Jenkins Ltd with a mandate to trade unquoted stocks ‘over the counter’ under the Stock Exchange rules.

There followed a period John remembers as one of the happiest in his working life. JP Jenkins occupied a small office above the ‘Our Price’ music store in Finsbury Square. A friendly Dutchman on the floor above would descend on their office mid-afternoon bearing a bottle of gin. It was just ‘two guys and a sofa’ trading with pen, paper and phone.

‘John had this old computer,’ says Brown, ‘so he brought it in, so it sat on the desk, but we never used it. We just had it there for show… it was a sofa and a computer that didn’t work. It did absolutely nothing. I mean it did nothing. It just sat there.’

Business was about making lists and matching, and the firm was soon known for the catchphrase “I’ll take a note”. They never said no, they just made a note; they had a good name, and they did well.

In 1992 the firm moved to Moor House in Moorgate. There was a separate room for the back office. Shares traded did not fall under the London Stock Exchange’s Talisman regime, so trades were settled in house, by the ‘manual XSP’ method. A typewritten catalogue of stocks includes some well-established entities such as Rangers and Liverpool football clubs, National Parking Corporation (NCP), breweries such as Daniel Thwaites and Shepherd Neame, Yates’ Wine Lodges, and even Weetabix. Alongside these were the stocks of smaller, high-risk, or less frequently-traded entities: Pan Andean Resources, Dart Valley Light Railway and the Ecclesiastical Insurance Office, to name three at random. Trading business grew steadily and the firm was profitable; John Jenkins’ horizons were not much bigger – no ‘delusions of grandeur’ as he put it.

No man is an island. Nor is any small market-maker, and the tendrils of automation soon began to wind their way into the comfortable life of these traders. Ironically, John was always an early adopter of technology. Even before the Big Bang swept terminals into London, he had travelled to the USA, visiting a broking firm named Herzog Heine Geduld, and watched the computer-based NASDAQ. He returned one of the few believers. His new firm soon got rid of the broken computer and installed its own bespoke system. Processes of automation bring existing taken-for-granted practices and assumptions to the surface, so we shouldn’t be surprised that John’s new computers simply mimicked what he and Brown had been successfully doing with pen and paper. But the big story was outside of John’s office.

Alongside SEAQ, the Exchange set up a ‘non-SEAQ board’. It was just another set of teletext screens, a home for Rule 535 stocks. It published rudimentary data and also historic trades. In doing so it made the traders’ margins visible, a matter made worse by screen’s long memory. John’s son, Jonathan, explains:

‘[It] didn’t show any live prices, didn’t show mid-price.  It showed the previous day’s close and it would show you the price at which trades had happened.  It used to piss people off because you’d get someone saying, “I bought them off you at nine and it prints on there you bought them at six.” It showed everybody exactly what we were doing.

But it was the market’s place. At some point in the early 1990s, JP Jenkins took over the operation of the LSE’s non-SEAQ notice board. The LSE had threatened to discontinue the service and the firm could not imagine life without this central, public space. To be excluded from what Knorr Cetina calls the ‘appresentation’ of the market – the electronic production of a virtual form – is to be excluded from the market itself.[16]  Alongside the non-SEAQ board the firm created ‘Newstrack’, a rudimentary news service for the small companies that it traded, displaying prices and a limited amount of company information over the Reuters network – Jenkins struck a chance deal with Reuters, then looking to expand its content. The service provided market capitalisation and some volume information. A rudimentary connectivity between the market makers and Newstrack meant that that if the price moved the market capitalisation would also move. Firms released final and interim results through the pages, published dividends and were encouraged to make trading announcements. In other words, Newstrack consciously mimicked the London Stock Exchange’s Regulatory News Service (RNS). JP Jenkins realised that there was money to be made here, too, and started charging firms to use the service. It had inadvertently stumbled into that new and growing revenue sector for stock exchanges: data provision.

Do you see what’s happening here? All of a sudden JP Jenkins is operating something that looks very like a small-scale stock exchange. It offers a venue where smaller companies can have their shares bought and sold, and where they can achieve some of the publicity and regulatory kudos that comes with a public listing. They can even raise money, for entrepreneurial corporate finance firms have spotted this thing that looks very much like a market and have begun to issue documents for fundraisings. JP Jenkins is making a tidy profit from its market-making, and starting to make inroads into the data sales sector. And all of this under the LSE’s regulatory banner. Remember that exchanges are themselves businesses,  and that they operate in a competitive market for exchange services. It’s not surprising that the LSE starts to become really rather uncomfortable, so much so, that it gives in to political pressure on another front and sets in motion a process to set up another market for growth stocks.[17] You must forgive me jumping around here, but that’s another story… What matters is that in 1995, the LSE closed both its Rule 163 reporting and the non-SEAQ board. It was an overtly defensive measure, but it was too late, for the path dependencies of organisations cannot easily be rolled back. Many of companies traded by Jenkins did not want to go to the LSE’s new venue. They petitioned John who – naturally – was keen to keep his business going. But he was confronted by another problem, the loss of his public venue, of his market place. What trader can manage without a marketplace? He had no option but to build his own space onto his existing data infrastructure. He called it OFEX (for off exchange). At first, it was nothing more than a label. Bolted onto the exiting Newstrack service, running through Reuters’ wires, OFEX was technically a trading facility. But taken as a whole, the assemblage – the wires, the screens, the trading mechanisms and networks of corporate financiers – could be seen as a capital market. On the basis of walks like a duck, talks like a duck (as one executive put it) it was a stock exchange. OFEX, specializing in the stocks of start-ups and small companies, was ready and waiting for the dotcom boom years of the late 1990s. But that’s a story for another episode.

So what have we learned today? That technological change – automation – shapes markets in ways participants do not expect, and that exchanges have histories and path dependencies that count for at least as much as regulation and global politics. And that, if you do want to build a stock exchange, the easiest way to do so seems to be by accident. Well, who said it was going to be easy?

I’m Philip Roscoe, and you’ve been listening to How to Build a Stock Exchange. If you’ve enjoyed this episode, please share it. If you’d like to get in touch and join the conversation, you can find me on Twitter @philip_roscoe or email me on philiproscoe@outlook.com. Thank you for listening, and see you next time when, in the last episode of this first section,  I’ll finally answer that question I’ve been asking all along: what’s in a price, and why does it matter?

 

 

[1] Sound recording from ‘touchassembly’ via freesound.org, under a creative commons attribution licence https://freesound.org/people/touchassembly/sounds/146268/

[2] Recorded by Cinemafia, https://freesound.org/people/cinemafia/sounds/24080/

[3] Norman S.  Poser, “Big Bang and the Financial Services Act Seen through American Eyes,” Brooklyn Journal of International Law 14, no. 2 (1988): 327.

[4] Elizabeth Hennessy, Coffee House to Cyber Market: 200 Years of the London Stock Exchange (London: Ebury Press, 2001), 184.

[5] Eric K. Clemons and Bruce W. Weber, “London’s Big Bang: A Case Study of Information Technology, Competitive Impact, and Organizational Change,” Journal of Management Information Systems 6, no. 4 (1990): 49.

[6] Poser, “Big Bang and the Financial Services Act Seen through American Eyes,” 325. Quotation taken from Clemons and Weber, “London’s Big Bang: A Case Study of Information Technology, Competitive Impact, and Organizational Change,” 49.

[7] Sounds from freesound.org. Keyboard sound https://freesound.org/people/imagery2/sounds/456906/

Typewriter sound https://freesound.org/people/videog/sounds/240839/

[8] ———, “London’s Big Bang: A Case Study of Information Technology, Competitive Impact, and Organizational Change.”

[9] Interviewed by Fabian Muniesa, “Trading Room Telephones and the Identification of Counterparts,” in Living in a Material World, ed. T Pinch and R Swedberg (Cambridge: The MIT Press, 2008), 295.

[10]  A Mr M Bennett, writing in the Stock Exchange Journal of 1959, and quoted by Juan Pablo Pardo-Guerra, “Creating Flows of Interpersonal Bits: The Automation of the London Stock Exchange, C. 1955–90,” Economy and Society 39, no. 1 (2010): 93.

[11] ———, Automating Finance: Infrastructures, Engineers, and the Making of Electronic Markets (Oxfoird: Oxford University Press, 2019), 128.

[12] K Knorr Cetina and U Bruegger, “The Market as an Object of Attachment: Exploring Postsocial Relations in Financial Markets,” Canadian Journal of Sociology 25, no. 2 (2000): 146.

[13] Pardo-Guerra, “Creating Flows of Interpersonal Bits: The Automation of the London Stock Exchange, C. 1955–90.”

[14] for more detail on this history see my booklet, downloadable at https://research-repository.st-andrews.ac.uk/handle/10023/11688

[15] Brown interview

[16] Karin Knorr Cetina and Urs Bruegger, “Global Microstructures: The Virtual Societies of Financial Markets,” American Journal of Sociology 107, no. 4 (2002).

[17] This is my claim, but it’s supported by Posner’s account of strategic rivalry among exchanges. Elliot Posner, The Origins of Europe’s New Stock Markets (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2009).


Episode 6. The decade when greed became good.



We can’t make sense of contemporary stock exchanges without understanding the huge changes that swept through finance in the 1980s. This episode explores those upheavals at the level of states and markets, and the of lived reality of Britain’s markets: the collapse of Bretton Woods, the Iron Lady’s reforms, striking miners and a new kind of investor called Sid. This really was the decade when greed became good.

Transcript

Under the great dome of the Old House, close to the edge of the floor: here you would have found the post-war boom in the shares of dog-tracks, and here you would have found a remarkably tall man, one Sidney Jenkins, sometimes known as ‘King of the Dogs’, reputable dealer in all shares leisure-related. On 1 April, 1960 – April’s Fools day – Sidney Jenkins and his son Anthony formed S Jenkins & Son Ltd. Sidney’s son John started work as junior in the early 1960s.  It was, says Anthony, ‘a family firm and everybody knew one another.  We knew when people had families and passed their driving tests, and they were good days.’

The firm specialized in leisure stocks, dog tracks and the holiday camps – Butlins and Pontins – that boomed in the days before cheap air travel opened up the Costas. This was often described as the ‘spivvy’ end of the market, but it lacked the defining characteristic of spivviness – financial sharp practice. Sidney Jenkins may have been ‘King of the Dogs’ but his firm was conservatively run. It had a good reputation and deep personal connections to the directors of the businesses whose stocks they traded. Jenkins had a horror of overtrading and the ‘hammerings’, when gavels wielded by the Exchange’s top hatted waiters sounded the end of a firm and the confiscation of a partner’s assets. Jenkins eschewed excessive risk wherever possible. The firm never borrowed money or stock: ‘Father’s attitude was “I like to sleep at night,”’ says Anthony. ‘We earned a good living out of the business and the staff all did well, and Father’s attitude was “Why should I over-trade?” That was something that he was always frightened of.  You’ve got to remember also father saw a lot of hammerings, a lot firms went broke in his time.’

People remember the Jenkins family for two things: for being tall, and for being decent. One former broker’s boy remembers going down to the floor on his first day unaccompanied – an unusual occurrence – and looking helplessly at the crowd: ‘I was sort of wandering around, a little bit lost, and a very tall man bent down and said, ‘Your first day, sonny?’ and I said, ‘Yes sir’. He said, ‘How can I help?’ and I told him, and I showed him the list of prices I’d been obliged to collect. That man was Sid Jenkins.’

The family were generous to a fault: ‘If you had a charity that you wanted to raise something for’, said another broker, ‘they’d often put a bucket in the middle of the floor on a Friday afternoon and fill it up, or make people fill it up.’ In all, they had a good name, and on the floor of the old Stock Exchange that mattered.[1]

I tell you this anecdote for two reasons. First, John Jenkins is a name we will hear again in coming episodes, because he actually did build a stock exchange. And second, it just captures the state of finance at the onset of the nineteen eighties – a bit threadbare, small-time, parochial. Careful – the kind of world that tidied the books every night and slept soundly on the takings, however meagre. Sid Jenkins died in 1981, and Anthony briefly became senior partner. A year later John became senior partner. That’s in 1982, when S Jenkins & Son was still the smallest firm of jobbers on the Exchange. In 1984 this same firm made a million pounds in a few minutes of trading. In 1986 it sold out to investment bank Guinness Mahon and thence to Japanese Giant Nomura. In 1987, the firm – now a trading desk in a global bank – lost £10 million in a day’s trading and clawed most of it back over the following few.

Something, it seems, has changed…

Hello, and welcome to How to Build a Stock Exchange. My name is Philip Roscoe, and I teach and research at the University of St Andrews in Scotland. I am a sociologist interested in the world of finance and I want to build a stock exchange. Why? Because, when it comes to finance, what we have just isn’t good enough. To build something – to make something better – you need to understand how it works. Sometimes that means taking it to pieces, and that’s exactly what we’ll be doing in this podcast. I’ll be asking: what makes financial markets work? What is in a price, and why does it matter? How did finance become so important? And who invented unicorns? You know, at some point I’m going to have to answer that question – thank you Dr Cheded for reminding me…

So far, I have set out four key themes for understanding financial markets. I have sought to show you how the finance that dominates our world is the result of colliding factors: social, political, material-technological, and organizational. I’m telling you the story of our exchanges as a lens on finance, because we can’t understand how markets are without knowing how they came to be like that – markets have histories and path dependencies, like any other organization or even person.

And I don’t think that it’s possible to understand contemporary markets – let alone think about building new ones to make the world a better place – without taking stock of the colossal changes that struck the markets in the 1980s. In Britain, change centres on 27 October, 1986, the day named ‘Big Bang’. But that day, though it turned the world upside down for those who lived and worked in the London markets, is only a pivot in a process of change that spans three decades, from the 1970s onwards. I want to try and tell that story at the grand, theoretical level of states and capital and politics; and at the local level, what it felt like on the ground. There are other stories, too, the massive digitization and automations of exchanges, moving bodies from trading floors to desks, changing the shape of markets altogether, and the evolution of increasingly complex financial transactions that shift the power relations between finance and business forever. I will be dealing with these over the next couple of episodes. Let’s start here with states and capital, and a two minute tour of post-war political economy…

—-Timer sound—-[2]

The period from the late 1940s to the end of the 1960s saw sustained gains in productivity and quality-of-life on both sides of the Iron Curtain. These came from an expansion of industrial employment as agrarian workers moved to the cities and took up jobs in factories. An economist would call this extensive growth, adding new factors of production, rather than intensive growth, getting more out of the same resources. In the liberal West a political-economic settlement centring on the Bretton Woods agreement of 1944 secured America’s global economic leadership, with the dollar exchange rate pegged to gold and other currencies pinned to the dollar. New institutions such as the International Monetary Fund and the World Bank came into being as international banks that facilitated this global – or at least semi-global – structure. Weaker economies could hold dollars in their reserves as a source of financial stability. Fixed exchange rates and a strong dollar meant relative luxury for the United States, particularly in the form of cheap, imported oil, partly guaranteed by exploitative political pressure on the producers in the Middle East. International currency flows led to a growth in global financial markets, and by the 1970s US regulators had become increasingly inclined to laissez-faire regulation. If you want to go looking for a time when America was great – and you don’t mind overlooking its foreign-policy adventures under Kennedy and Johnson and the constant threat of nuclear annihilation – this was probably it. Of course, it couldn’t last. These international and now ungovernable financial markets pressured the overinflated dollar. In 1971, America abandoned the gold standard and tried instead to devalue the dollar to improve prospects for its exports.

This, in turn, caused massive collateral damage to those developing world countries holding dollars in their central reserves, and since many of them produced oil, they clubbed together and put the prices up. The Shah of Iran remarked that ‘the industrial world will have to realize that the era of their terrific progress and even more terrific income based on cheap oil is finished.’ (This comes from historian Daniel Sargent’s work, as does much of my potted history – and as always, full references are provided in the transcript on the podcast website.) Multiple economic shocks followed across the West, with Britain one of many countries struggling through a toxic combination of recession and inflation – from January to March 1974 the country even endured a three day week as coalminers, whose wages had been eaten away by inflation, went on strike and coal-fired power stations ran short on fuel. We should add to this a slow decline in the influence and popularity of post-war Keynesian economics, which now seemed unable to cope with these kinds of crisis, and in its place a growing vogue for free-market, monetarist policies of the kind advocated by Friedrich Hayek and Milton Friedman. The free marketers were radical and organised, seekers of individualist utopia inspired by the writing of Ayn Rand. Their ideas spread.  In 1979, the federal reserve under Paul Volker adopted an explicitly monetarist – anti-Keynesian – policy that forced dollar interest rates upwards, leading to a rush of capital back home to the US and a stinging recession everywhere else.

There was something else at work, too. With ever less value to be had from industrial production, so capital begins to circulate elsewhere, through the financial economy. It becomes increasingly self-referential: rather than investing in productive assets, it invests in debts, derivatives and other kinds of financial instrument. It dislikes financial assets sitting quietly on balance sheets, and seeks to parcel them up and move them around. Such assets become an end in their own right, and commercial arrangements are reshaped to produce them. Wall Street discovered new concepts – like securitisation and financial engineering, a phrase that subtly places financial models and debt securities in the same category as railways, bridges, factories and other sturdy trappings of industrial production. This is financialization, and in the mid-1980s it looked like the beginning of a new world, at least for those on the right side of the fence.

There is a just so story that Margaret Thatcher’s Conservative government tore down sacred cows and hacked through red tape to turn London into a global financial powerhouse. In truth, if the government’s policies transformed London, they did so accidentally. Historians argue that the government displayed a remarkable timidity in terms of targeting the financial sector for reform during its first term, through to 1983.

It did not want to be seen as pandering to its friends in the City, nor did it want to upset its friends in the City. But the wheels were already in motion, and the reforms of London’s exchange were in many ways an inevitable consequence of one of the earliest reforms the new government had made.[3]

In 1979 the Conservative government scrapped legislation that restricted the flow of capital in and out of the country. These ‘exchange controls’ were designed to preserve the stability of Sterling and were part of the post-war financial settlement, which had revolved around Bretton Woods and the gold standard. Now that settlement was collapsing, and in 1979 the government struck down legislation that had limited the flow of capital in and out of Britain so severely that tourists’ holiday money was restricted. Wikipedia notes an approving comment by Sir Nicholas Goodison, then chairman of the London Stock Exchange, to the effect that exchange controls had done great harm to Britain as a financial centre.[4] This is ironic, because the great beneficiary had been the Exchange itself. Currency controls had made it impossible for overseas investors to trade in the shares of British companies and protected the jobbers with their comfortable, fixed commissions.

This trade was a lucrative business, with big orders and low costs, so brokers in New York and elsewhere began dealing the shares of British companies as soon as exchange controls were cancelled. They were already in town: during the 1970s many international businesses had opened up shop in London, lured by the growing international securities and ‘Eurobonds’ market. They could cherry-pick the large orders and deliver them cheaply, undercutting the London jobbers who were bound by the fixed commission regime. The London market was now in trouble, losing its lucrative trade to foreign competition and still bound to offer competitive prices on smaller, less cost-effective deals. Without cross-subsidy the jobbers were left in the worst possible world, and they pressured the Exchange to reform its rules. The Exchange was willing, but the main obstacle to progress was the Conservative government. In 1979 the Government’s Office of Fair Trading had taken the Exchange to court over its restrictive practices. Goodison tried to open up negotiations but the Government, fearful of what the tabloids might say, declined. As the Exchange defended itself against the OFT, it became ever more entrenched in the systems of single capacity and fixed commissions, exactly what the Government hoped it would reform.

In 1983, however, the Conservatives won a second election victory. Thatcher exploited the jingoism of the Falklands War and the Iron Lady, as she was now known, had a mandate for more confrontational policy.

The newly appointed Secretary of State for Trade and Industry, Cecil Parkinson, was amenable to a negotiations with the Exchange and a deal – the Goodison Parkinson Agreement – was agreed. Minimum commissions would be abandoned. Single capacity would have to follow soon afterwards because the ability to negotiate commissions would swiftly cut out the middleman – the jobber – as brokers simply did deals between each other. The deadline for these reforms was set three years into the future, for 1986. Monday 27 October was the day singled out for London’s Big Bang.

The London Stock Exchange, you will remember, had run in a peculiar way. Its ‘single capacity’ prevented brokers from trading on their own account or settling deals in their own office away from the Exchange floor. Jobbers could settle deals for brokers but never met clients. The system, which had evolved alongside the Exchange itself over the course of two centuries, elegantly prevented profiteering, as brokers never had the opportunity to offer their clients anything other than the prices available from jobbers, while these latter were forced to offer good prices as they competed for business. In other words, single capacity and fixed commissions were part of a package that allowed the Exchange to act as a regulator, maintaining standards of dealing with ordinary investors, as well as a trading institution. The downside was that dealing was expensive for customers and that the market could only be accessed by brokers offering advisory services, whose own rules and costs ruled out participation by the everyday punter. It was, says Andrew Beeson, then a small company stockbroker and more recently chairman of investment bank Schroders, a ‘cartel’. In 1985, the prospect of life outside such a cartel may have seemed unappealing, even terrifying. Again, hindsight helps us see things in a different light: when I meet Beeson the city grandee – tall, elegantly tailored and immaculately spoken – in the executive suite of the bank, with its discreet lighting, Chesterfields and old masters, it seems that those fears had been unnecessary.

In fact, this should alert us to another vital aspect of the sociology of markets: those that have carved out profitable positions try hard to hold onto them. If they do, they soon become part of the furniture. Their advantages ‘congeal’ into the organization of markets, so that, as the sociologist Greta Krippner so neatly puts it, ‘congealed into every market exchange is a history of struggle and contestation… In this sense, the state, culture, and politics are contained in every market act’.[5] At the time, however, things looked less comfortable: the Exchange found itself open to foreign competition, with firms forced to cut their commissions to keep business.

In order to survive in this newly deregulated financial jungle firms needed to be bigger, wealthier, and able to integrate a much wider range of services. The reforms to single capacity trading and commissions were, therefore, accompanied by a third ruling, allowing Stock Exchange members to be owned by foreign firms. But what had these firms – some tiny enterprises like S Jenkins and Son – to offer that could possibly interest global investment banks?

—— Report from the ‘Battle of Orgreave’, 1984—[6]

Those growing up in the 1980s will remember the violence of industrial unrest, miners hurling rocks and bottles while police charged on horses, raining truncheon blows down on the heads of protesters. Margaret Thatcher’s reforms gutted industrial Scotland, the coal mining north-east of Britain, coal mining and engineering Yorkshire, the steelworks of the Black Country and the potteries of Stoke, in fact most of the British regions. This was class war, but class war between working classes in centres of industrial production and the newly propertied class of shopkeepers and small-time entrepreneurs that she had bought into being across the nation. It was internecine strife, and underlying it was a broader project to shift political power away from workers and to those who owned assets – from labour to capital.

The destruction of the unions through confrontation – the armed repression of the miners’ strike and the print unions’ ‘Siege of Wapping’ – was only one weapon at Thatcher’s disposal. The other, much more effective in the long run, was to greatly enlarge those on the moral side of capital, the property-owning classes, and this she did. Her political followers were exemplified by ‘Sierra Man’, worker turned property owner, polishing his car on the drive of his recently purchased council home.[7] Sierra, by the way, refers to the Ford Sierra, the archetypal affordable, mid-range family vehicle of the time. So the post-war social contract of solidarity and mutual protection came to an end alongside the economic institutions that accompanied it. New thinking scoffed at collective action – there is no such thing as society, said Thatcher, parroting the free-market economist Milton Friedman – and worshipped instead individuality and family values. Its disdain for the state, again  inherited from Friedman, saw national ownership of assets – be they council houses, infrastructure, heavy industries or utilities – as wasteful and undemocratic. The government needed to rid itself of the state-owned industries that it had inherited, inefficient, bureaucratic behemoths needing nothing less than a good dose of private enterprise and market discipline to knock them into shape.

Through a series of huge privatisations the government sold shares in these institutions – now corporations – to members of the public, often at knockdown prices that guaranteed a quick profit. No one seemed to be unduly bothered by the fact that, as citizens, they had already owned the assets that had just been sold back to them, nor that by abolishing the principle of cross-subsidy through a nationalised industry they would make it possible for private enterprises to scoop up lucrative, cheap parts of the infrastructure while abandoning the rest, a recipe for long term exclusion and unfairness. Nor indeed, by the fact that in the longer term private enterprise would be unwilling and unable to compete with cheaper foreign labour and that many of these corporations would simply close, leaving a wasteland of post-industrial despair over much of Britain.

—‘If you see Sid’[8]

Quite the reverse. The privatisations were seen as manna from heaven, pound notes raining from the sky, and generated a huge popular interest in the stock market. A new category of investor was born: Sierra Man could add a few British Gas shares to his ever-growing collection of assets. This new investor even had a name: Sid. The government commissioned an series of ingenious television adverts for the new share issues. Sid is the protagonist. We never meet him, but simply hear a series of strangers passing the news of the latest offer with the catchphrase, ‘If you see Sid, tell him’. The messengers are postmen, milkmen, men in country pubs, old ladies out shopping, all pillars of the emerging, Tory-voting, economic majority. Regional accents abound. As these everymen and women pass the message to the ever absent Sid, it becomes quite clear that it is intended for you, the viewer, whoever you may be. Economic times, they were a-changing – though perhaps not as much as all that, because the advert’s final voice-over, advising a call to NM Rothschild &Sons, is in a cut glass, upper-class accent and the established order holds firm.

—-Voiceover—

For those on the floor of the Exchange, these deals really were manna from heaven. The first big issue was the British Telecom flotation, offered for sale in November 1984. While lucky investors made a few hundred pounds, the jobbers made a killing. Though many of the jobbing firms were still really quite tiny, the government broker scattered riches without discrimination. S Jenkins & Son, smallest of all, received almost the same allocation as the larger firms, despite its complete lack of experience in the telecoms sector.

‘The boys heard about this BT issue coming up,’ says John Jenkins, ‘and they went up and saw the shop broker and said “We want to have a go at this”.  We had no track record at all in British Telecom, nothing, or any electronic business, nothing at all.  They went and saw the shop broker and all of the market makers were issued with the same amount of stock…900,000 shares in British Telecom, which we sold first thing on the morning of the float and we took nearly one million profit.’

‘We actually finished up with something like 950,000 shares,’ says John’s brother Antony, ‘and when you think that Akroyd and Wedd all the large people got 1.4 million, for a little tiny firm of our size to get 950,000 was absolutely amazing because we got all these profits. But at the same time I wasn’t entirely happy with this because whatever bargain you’ve got you are still at risk.’

Jobbers who signed up to the issue had to pay for the stock the next day, whether they sold it or not. ‘If anything happens to Maggie Thatcher,’ thought Anthony, ‘or if another war breaks out then its pay and be paid with this sort of stock’. But it is hard to find much sympathy with Anthony’s predicament, or to believe, in view of the tectonic shifts in British politics and the sudden explosion of enthusiasm for the market, that these jobbing firms took any real risk at all. The British Telecom issue was the most profitable bargain that anyone in the Exchange could remember. Ever.

More flotations followed, and the profits poured in. Of course, this could not go on for ever so now would be an ideal time to sell your business at a vastly inflated price to someone wealthy and foolish, someone who did not understand the social upheavals besetting Britain. Such a shame that foreign banks were not allowed to own members of the London Stock Exchange. Oh, wait a minute, that rule had just been abandoned as well…

Suddenly, the treasure chest that was nineteen eighties London lay open to all. It offered a bridgehead for American firms looking eastward and European or Australasian firms looking west. Here was an opportunity to gain entry to the august London Stock Exchange, a closed shop for two hundred years. The easiest way to get a seat on the Exchange was to buy a firm that already owned a membership, and bidders circled: there was a deal-making frenzy. Foreign buyers found the jobbers fattened by the profits of these public issues, and snapped them up at inflated prices. S Jenkins & Son was sold to Guinness Mahon, which was soon bought by the Japanese bank Nomura. Beeson’s firm was bought by Grindlays Bank in 1984, and the whole was almost at once consumed by ANZ. The sums at play were extraordinary by the standards of the time.

‘1980 was a very difficult period…’ says Beeson, ‘Four years later, suddenly someone was going to pay us £11 million. You know, [pay] all the partners for this business and we thought that Christmas had come.’

Among other deals, US bank Security Pacific paid £8.1 million for a 29.9% stake in Hoare, Govett; Barclays swallowed the jobbers Wedd, Durlacher and the brokers de Zoete & Bevan, making eighties stalwart BZW. Citicorp grabbed three brokers, Vickers da Costa, Scrimgeour [Scrimjer] Kemp Gee, and J. & E. Davy, while Chase Manhattan, writes Michie, who has catalogued the deals, ‘contented itself with two, namely Laurie Milbank and Simon & Coates. Even the chairman’s own firm, Quilter Goodison, sold a 100 per cent stake to the French bank, Paribas, in 1986.’[9]

Note Beeson’s phrasing: ‘pay the partners’. Not the staff or the shareholders, but those who happened to be standing at the top of the escalator in October 1986. Big Bang, then, did more than dismantle a system that had been in place for two hundred years. It completely destroyed the social infrastructure of the City. The old firms had run on the partnership model. Jobbers traded with the bosses’ money; they had to ‘mind their fucking eye’ and wince inwardly as the partners ran their careful fingers down each day’s tally. Apprentices earned little but could work up the ladder to a seat on the Exchange and a place in the partnership where they would be comfortable, secure and one day even wealthy. Everyone’s interests were focused on the long-term: if the firm went broke, everyone lost.

Big Bang tore this apart. The partners, almost overnight, became richer than Croesus and took with them the spoils that might have gone to future partners.  The era of time-served jobbers was over. Youngsters, often with university educations, ruled the roost. They traded long hours at screens before dashing to exclusive wine bars or the BMW dealership; less middle-age than Mercedes and more accessible than Porsche, the BMW had become the young city slicker’s car of choice. Firms that did well were those that catered to their new tastes, often fronted by flamboyant entrepreneurs: Richard Branson’s Virgin, Anita Roddick’s The Body Shop, Terence Conran’s Habitat, and Paul Smith’s expensive-but-fashionable suit shops all flourished in the centres of global capital.[10] These youngsters were tasked with making as much money as they possibly could, seemingly irrespective of the risk. The bonus culture replaced the partnership culture. But who cared? It was boom time, and the money rolled in.

This really was the decade when greed became good.

To keep on rising, stock markets need a steady stream of money. Much of that money came from private investors, these newly minted Sierra men and women, taking their life savings from under the mattress  – or at least out of the building society –  and hurling them into the ever rising stock market.

That it stopped rising barely a year later came as a great shock to many – not just private investors but also a new generation of freshly wealthy, young financial professionals who did not have the life experience to know that investments can go down as well as up. But the really big money – enormous sums – came from another source. Throughout the 1980s corporate raiders, epitomized for ever in the tanned and slicked Gordon Gekko, dreamed up new mechanisms for making money, and in doing so forever reshaped the relationship between finance and business. Their greed was of monstrous proportions – and as Oliver Stone makes clear, wasn’t good at all. I’ll be looking at what they did, and why it matters for all of us in the next episode.

I’m Philip Roscoe, and you’ve been listening to How to Build a Stock Exchange. If you’ve enjoyed this episode, please share it. If you’d like to get in touch and join the conversation, you can find me on Twitter @philip_roscoe or email me on philiproscoe@outlook.com. Thank you for listening, and see you next time.

[1] Quotations are from Bernard Attard’s interview with Anthony Jenkins, and my own oral histories, see

https://research-repository.st-andrews.ac.uk/handle/10023/11688

[2] Sound recording from ‘Ancorapazzo’ via freesound.org, under an attribution creative commons licence from https://freesound.org/people/ancorapazzo/sounds/181630/

[3] For detailed accounts of the Big Bang see, among others, Michie, The London Stock Exchange: A History.ch.12; Clemons and Weber, “London’s Big Bang: A Case Study of Information Technology, Competitive Impact, and Organizational Change.”; Norman S.  Poser, “Big Bang and the Financial Services Act Seen through American Eyes,” Brooklyn Journal of International Law 14, no. 2 (1988).

[4] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Exchange_Controls_in_the_United_Kingdom [14.05.19]

[5] GR Krippner, “The Elusive Market: Embeddedness and the Paradigm of Economic Sociology,” Theory and Society 30, no. 6 (2001): 785.

[6] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d2jH53e6_jQ

[7] For further commentary on the development of the housing market under Thatcher see chapter two in Philip Roscoe, I Spend Therefore I Am (London: Penguin Viking, 2014).

[8] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n5aOO7Aem4M

[9] Michie, The London Stock Exchange: A History, 555.

[10] I’m following Bryan Appleyard’s characterization here, drawn in three very prescient columns, ‘A Year after the Big Bang’, published in the Times 19-21 October, 1986.