Rich Sinbad, poor Sinbad

Our next guest hardly requires any duction, let alone an introduction, but with increasing workplace health and safety incidents, I am contractually obliged to make a workplace induction to reduce risk. Ha! Just a little joke, folks. Now, our next guest is Sinbad Jones – that's right, the son of famous merchant Dow Jones. While Sinbad was given a little help here and there by his parents, nobody can argue that he isn't a bona fide investor in his own right. He took a meagre inheritance and threw it away before making his own, through undeniable hard work travelling the seven seas. Sinbad has just published a new book, Rich Sinbad, Poor Sinbad – published by Faber, is that correct? – yes, Faber. Folks, never before has a book captured sound financial advice and business acumen, and coupled it so gracefully with enlightening and chortling anecdotes, except perhaps The Art of War. Please, let's all welcome to the stage, Sinbad the Sailor.

Sinbad the sailor sailing the sea. Wikipedia

Thanks for the introduction, Al. Let's set the scene for a reminiscence. There I am, sixteen years old, and my parents hop in the three-wheeler, a Troika 802 AD, and head down the Silk road for the weekend, looking for some Damascus steel. No rum and concubines, they say. Ha! I'm sixteen years old, of course I'm going to have rum and concubines! And a big bag of betel nuts too, so I can have a nice little party. Now it's the day after the party, and oh boy, do I have some cleaning to do before my parents get back. I'm there scrubbing the betel nuts out of the rug on the antechamber floor and I hear the crunch of wagon wheels on the driveway gravel. My guts slide down into my shoes. There's a knock on the door. It's Hoople, my parents' manservant, and he tells me that my parents have been killed by bandits. Oof! What can I do? I get more rum and concubines and betel nuts! Fine but, ah, don't go crazy, you know. I guess, if I had to sum up my life experience into one lesson, it's don't go crazy with the betel nuts; they make your teeth fall out.

Sinbad the sailor assailing the beast. Wikipedia

A few years go by, it's my eighteenth birthday, and what do I have to show for it? Nothing! I've had to sell everything in the house, even the betel nut splattered rug in the antechamber, just to pay for my betel nut addiction. Terrible. I figure, hey, I can take a nice little cruise, get clean, maybe come back and get a job as a chartered accountant. We set sail for the island of Bohomo. The captain, Grant Garnt, is a bewhiskered fellow who, every morning, lines up his crew and gives each one a good lashing. After their preemptive punishment, the crew are free to run amok for the next twenty-four hours, gambling and sodomising indiscriminately. This is how I caught my first case of gomorrhœa.

Sinbad the sailor assaying the scree. Wikipedia

The island of Bohomo came onto the horizon as my betel-shakes were dissipating. I threw away the seaweed I had been sucking on and got ready to board. Little did I know, Grant Garnt's band of rowdy pirates had decided behind my back to desert me! I still don't know why. So there I was, stranded on Bohomo, looking for some food to eat, and what do you think I find? A great big lode of the good shit – diamonds, a valley of them! Using the gem as a reflective torch, I signalled back to the vanishing ship. Well, I can tell you now, it didn't take long for Grant Garnt to turn around and pick me up – and the diamonds! We filled the hull, and headed back to Baghdad.