Difference between revisions of "ISDA ninja"

From The Jolly Contrarian
Jump to: navigation, search
 
Line 10: Line 10:
  
 
It seemed that from that [[conference call]] I [[Escalate|escalated]] <br>
 
It seemed that from that [[conference call]] I [[Escalate|escalated]] <br>
Some profound dull {{isdaprov|representation}}, long since [[Waiver|waived]] <br>
+
Some profound dull [[representation]], long since [[Waiver|waived]] <br>
 
Through [[credit]] whose dyspeptic permission granted <br>
 
Through [[credit]] whose dyspeptic permission granted <br>
 
Though [[caveat|caveated]] teeth, a route to our sweet resolve. <br>  
 
Though [[caveat|caveated]] teeth, a route to our sweet resolve. <br>  
Line 19: Line 19:
 
With piteous [[recharacterisation]] in his eyes, <br>
 
With piteous [[recharacterisation]] in his eyes, <br>
 
Lifting distressèd claims, as if to clarify. <br>
 
Lifting distressèd claims, as if to clarify. <br>
And by his carve-out, I knew that sullen hall,— <br>
+
And by his [[carve-out]], I knew that sullen hall,— <br>
 
[[Without limitation|Absent limit]], [[For the avoidance of doubt|all doubt avoided]]: we stood in Hell. <br>
 
[[Without limitation|Absent limit]], [[For the avoidance of doubt|all doubt avoided]]: we stood in Hell. <br>
  
With a thousand fears that vision's face was grained; <br>
+
With a thousand fears that doc-jockey’s face was grained; <br>
Yet no blood reached there from the upper ground, <br>
+
Yet, no representations to which Part {{isdaprov|3(c)}} applies reached there from the upper ground, <br>
And no guns thumped, or down the flues made moan. <br>
+
And no [[covenant]]s thumped, or down the flues made moan. <br>
 
“Strange friend,” I said, “here is no cause to mourn.” <br>
 
“Strange friend,” I said, “here is no cause to mourn.” <br>
 
“None,” said that other, “save the undone years, <br>
 
“None,” said that other, “save the undone years, <br>

Latest revision as of 11:55, 11 September 2019

The Jolly Contrarian’s Glossary

Back in the jug agane.

The snippy guide to financial services lingo.™
For the full index, click here

An old lag, back in the jug agane for another term or lat, algy, geom, hist, bulles cads oiks, skool dog, skool sossages and MASTERS everywhere chiz chiz chiz. Self portrait to the right.

ISDA ninjas have a wealth of esoteric knowledge quite useless to them in any other environment than the one in which they pass their careers — waste deep in the septic sludge of Additional Termination Events, engaged in trench warfare with souls that, deep down, we recognise as like-minded, but still arrayed in slit trenches a few score yards away from us lobbing unexploded covenants at us by day and night.

There is war poetry that they write about their enemies who might otherwise be friends, share a drink

Strange Negotiation

With profound apologies to Wilfred Owen. Honestly, I am really sorry to do this to you.

It seemed that from that conference call I escalated
Some profound dull representation, long since waived
Through credit whose dyspeptic permission granted
Though caveated teeth, a route to our sweet resolve.

Yet also there encumbered assets groaned,
Too fix’d in charge or pledge to be bestirred.
Then, as I probed the liens, one sprang up, and cried
With piteous recharacterisation in his eyes,
Lifting distressèd claims, as if to clarify.
And by his carve-out, I knew that sullen hall,—
Absent limit, all doubt avoided: we stood in Hell.

With a thousand fears that doc-jockey’s face was grained;
Yet, no representations to which Part 3(c) applies reached there from the upper ground,
And no covenants thumped, or down the flues made moan.
“Strange friend,” I said, “here is no cause to mourn.”
“None,” said that other, “save the undone years,
The hopelessness. Whatever hope is yours,
Was my life also; I went hunting wild
After the wildest beauty in the world,
Which lies not calm in eyes, or braided hair,
But mocks the steady running of the hour,
And if it grieves, grieves richlier than here.
For by my glee might many men have laughed,
And of my weeping something had been left,
Which must die now. I mean the truth untold,
The pity of war, the pity war distilled.
Now men will go content with what we spoiled.
Or, discontent, boil bloody, and be spilled.
They will be swift with swiftness of the tigress.
None will break ranks, though nations trek from progress.
Courage was mine, and I had mystery;
Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery:
To miss the march of this retreating world
Into vain citadels that are not walled.
Then, when much blood had clogged their chariot-wheels,
I would go up and wash them from sweet wells,
Even with truths that lie too deep for taint.
I would have poured my spirit without stint
But not through wounds; not on the cess of war.
Foreheads of men have bled where no wounds were.

“I am the enemy you killed, my friend.
I knew you in this dark: for so you frowned
Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed.
I parried; but my hands were loath and cold.
Let us sleep now. . . .”