SMOKE: When Mortgages Turn Sexy

Originally published: 15 August 2003

I know some things about some things, but one thing I've never known about or understood is finances.

Don't begin trying to engage me in hot debate over the CPIX, or whisper sweet stock prices in my ear - I simply won't begin to understand what you're talking about and may even be forced to give you a slap.

When I left school I was in charge of my finances and did an extremely poor job of it. No matter how much I earned I never had money and no amount of thought or effort helped a jot.

In fact - you're talking to a man who deposited an empty envelope in my ATM and withdrew R300 from an empty account. Later on the same day I did the same thing again, drawing R200, and it took me about three years to pay the money back to my very irate bank manager.

Once I got married it all improved immeasurably, with my wife handling all the necessary payments, transfers and other financial stuff that make up the pile of bills every month. As a result there are no debt collectors or sheriffs beating the door down these days.

A vast improvement on my student years, when I was permanently in hiding from authority, whose jackboots regularly echoed hollowly in the halls on the way to my apartment door.

A term like "repo rate" back then was as foreign to me as the comlexities of antimatter. Whilst I was aware that it existed, and that it seemed to get people either gravely hushed or panting for sex, I had absolutely no interest in it whatsoever.

So imagine my surprise to discover myself getting a semi-erection yesterday, reading the lead story on News24 about the one percent cut in the repo rate and the further news that banks were thereby dropping their lending rates.

Breathlessly I opened the Bond Repayment Calculator - fingers slipping obscenely off my mouse with sweat and hot, hot anticipation - and discovered I will henceforth be making a saving of just over R200 per month, with the possibility of further imminent cuts.

I put on a nice record, poured a glass of wine and firmly yet gently took advantage of myself, right there on the living room floor. I might have moaned, I may have cried out - the truth is I simply can't remember.

The moment was intense and I lovingly draped my arm around my shoulder afterwards, and shared a satisfied smoke with myself.

Just in case you were wondering what I get up to late at night.

I've come a long way since having the impression that the repo rate was some sort of Heavy of who came to your door at night, telling you politely but firmly that some guy you know is waiting for money and that your television and bed and couch and chair would fit just nicely in the back of a Nissan one-tonner. His Nissan. The one parked outside.

Since making a commitment to forking out nigh on R300,000 to da Bank Man over the next two decades, I kinda figured I ought to know why I should be keeping an eye on the repo rate.

What I learned was that all I have to know is that when it goes down - it's good, and when it goes up - it's not.

My kind of banking - easy to understand, no commitment required, and a simple "Good or Bad" scenario to keep an eye on.

While R200 might not seem like a lot (and in the greater scheme of things it certainly isn't), it does open up possibilities that previously weren't there.

If we work on the premise that a Spur cheeseburger is R27.95, the extra money means I can now get seven extra burgers a month and be left with R4.35, which is just enough for two packs of Rizlas from my local Quikshop.

An extra two packs of Rizlas a month, and seven burgers, is not something to be scoffed at - believe me. On a scale of One to Excitement, that's pretty damn exciting.

Alternatively you could go to the bar I was talking about earlier this week, buy three cocktails, choke to death on the smoky air, get hoarse screaming at the person next to you in an effort to be heard above the nebulous, repetitive jazz licks cunningly disguised as nouveau acid trance, and go home only half-pissed with a headache in the rain.


Your opportunities with 200 bucks are simply endless.

What really kills me though is that I'm just simply not that guy - the one who scans market reports, understands the significance of fluctuating crude oil prices and who keeps on top of his personal finances by managing his bond portfolio and associated investments with a ruthless, professional efficiency.

I'm simply an oke who enjoys a smoke, a cuppa tea and a good game o' crickers, not to mention the odd dabble in the worlds of the occult, hardcore sex, drugs and arms dealing, as the occasion arises and time permitting.

I shouldn't have to know about finances - I should be standing in a loin-cloth on top of the hill after conquering my foe, beating my chest and emitting a primal scream into the rapidly-darkening sunset - not having what amounts to gay sex with myself over some press release about a 100-basis-point (bps) cut in the repo rate.

But priorities must prevail, and prevail they do.

Fortunately I have someone to manage my finances, or I would be as good as dead - I'm one step ahead of Vinnie and Dino, two steps ahead of The Law and a hop, skip and a jump away from losing it all completely, which is about as good as it's been since I've been financially independent.

But I'm hanging on. By a thread.

All Smoked Out,
Luke Tagg