Goodbye, Salamander

After his sojourn on the island of Salamander, Alternative Investments makes a terrifying discovery and is forced to plot his return to England

D ark days, readers. Not literally – it’s rather bright outside, as per usual here on Salamander – but rather in my mind. The Swedish taxman Sven-Nils, sent here by the government to investigate my financial irregularities, has finally opened my eyes. I’m done for – and my downfall has come from the most unexpected source.

“How much, precisely, do you think you are worth, Mr Alternative Investments?” Sven-Nils said to me this morning, beckoning me into my own walnut-lined office. Conservative estimates have put my fortune at around £30 trillion: I venture forth that amount. Sven-Nils snorts.

“Your May audited accounts put your wealth at precisely 6,922 new English pennies,” he says. “Just enough to buy you dinner tonight, I’d say. The reasons for this dip are many. First up, wicker prices have fluctuated violently, losing you well over half of your fortune. Then there’s that preposterous Saddam-style palace you’re trying to build.” He seems to be enjoying this. I resent the comparisons to the moustachioed Iraqi goon, but I light my pipe and beckon him to continue. “Your project has hemorrhaged money into the Rio Fernandizo. Hundreds of workers round the clock – even on minimum wage, materials, power – it’s ridiculously ambitious. Then there’s this house. Do you realise how much it costs to run an underground heated golf course? Or having a fully-staffed hospital on site in case you sneeze? Rather a lot. But that’s not the biggest cause of your problems.”

“It’s not?” I manage to squeak.

“No. To find out where most of your money has gone, you need to speak to Farouk.” With that, he tosses a dossier before me, and makes off in his clinical Swedish gait. I pick up the documents, and it all becomes clear: my most trusted manservant has been robbing me blind. Around 90 per cent of my recent earnings, which I have trusted the dear boy to run for me, have been filtered into his account. Farouk and his devious English associate Barry from Braintree have been spending the lot on lager and darts. Jesus, I feel like Sting.

It reminds me of something my father told me as a boy. “Never bloody trust anyone, son,” he used to say. “Not even another Alternative Investments. Least of all me.” He illustrated this lesson by deviously creaming off 90 per cent of my pocket money through a series of night-time piggy bank raids.

Whatever, one thing is clear: it’s time to leave the island and return to the safe family bosom back in Buckminsterfullerine, Buckinghamshire. I cannot face confronting Farouk; instead I sign over my last remaining possessions on the island to him, and slink out of the house to steal his prize possession: the good ship HMS Unperturbable upon which he returned to Salamander after a Christmas jaunt to England. As he’s had my cash, I’ll take his boat, dammit.

An old sea dog like me can navigate to the mother country with ease, so with a swab of the poop deck and a splicing of the mainbrace, I’m soon setting sail for a far more beautiful place: home. As Salamander fades into the distance I load my pipe and contemplate how things always turn full circle in the end. With 6,922 English pence jingling in my pocket (according to the audit), it’s Blighty, here we come. I wonder if Crystal Palace are still playing top-flight football?

Goodbye!

Alternative Investments, the ex-Salamandan