We had an Irishman on the desk called Declan, a great gentle giant of a man from a farming family in Tipperary, who’d been brought up to believe that a pint of Guinness had to be left to settle before you touched it, and that anyone who rushed one deserved what was coming to them. One afternoon in October ‘87 he’d just been handed a pint in the pub across the road when someone ran in shouting that the market was falling off a cliff. We all went straight back to the office. Declan stayed where he was and waited for his pint to settle. By the time he got back to his desk he’d lost the bank a fortune, and by five o’clock he’d lost his job. He went home to the farm not long after, and as far as I know never set foot in a dealing room again. He told me years later it was the best pint he ever had.