The Last Scotsman on Wall Street

Welcome back to paradise, where the rosé is chilled, the sun strokes the sea, and your third ear is tuned to the gospel according to Hugh.

This week, I take you deep into the delirious heart of Wall Street circa 2006, an era of mutual fund gods, tax-deductible lap dances, and a man named Scotty who nearly exploded trying to mask the scent of strippers with gasoline.

Yes, really.

In a 15-minute acid-laced recital, I read a wild chapter from Derek Wallis’ Occupy a Job on Wall Street. It’s called Gasoline Stripper, but I’ve renamed it The Last Scotsman on Wall Street, a madcap tale of booze, bravado, and the slow incineration of financial decorum.

I riff, I reminisce (shoutout to Dolcis shoes and the Edinburgh's Balmoral Hotel and wine lunches of yore), and I ask the only question that matters:

Can you survive Wall Street if you're the kind of guy who thinks strawberry daiquiris excuse drunk driving?

Spoiler: probably not.

Pour yourself something cold, take a walk with me through midtown madness and fiscal fireballs, and if you're feeling bold, come to the Acid Capitalist Summer Camp 3.0 this August 17th in St. Barts.

Come as a stranger. Leave as a legend. https://www.acidcapitalretreat.com

And I'm delighted to announce that we were selected by FeedSpot as one of the Top 30 Hedge Fund Podcasts on the web. 

https://podcast.feedspot.com/hedge_fund_podcasts/?feedid=5211632&_src=f2_featured_email

Find Derek Wallis' book here 👇

https://a.co/d/gKVySzC

Hugh Hendry  
The Acid Capitalist

⬇️ Subscribe on Patreon or Substack for full episodes ⬇️

https://www.patreon.com/HughHendry
https://hughhendry.substack.com
https://www.instagram.com/hughhendryofficial
https://blancbleustbarts.com
https://www.instagram.com/blancbleuofficial

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ Leave a five star review and comment on Apple Podcasts!

🧢 Hats & Merch
📸 Instagram
🐦 Twitter / X
📩 Substack

👂Listen and 🔥 Subscribe

📺 YouTube
🎧 ...

Transcript

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome back to paradise.

You're listening to Hugh Hendry, the acid capitalist, whispering like an angel into your third ear from my hideaway home in St. Barts.

The sun is stroking the sea right now, and I've got something wild to tell you today.

Before we dive in, a quick word: if you're enjoying the ride, I’d love for you to support my little show. Find me on Substack or Patreon, where I drop acid-laced essays on economics, culture, and market metaphysics. Follow me on X for real-time riffs and irreverence. And of course, if you're bold enough, join me this August 17th for the Acid Capitalist Summer Camp 3.0—our third annual gathering of iconoclasts and cosmic contrarians.

Yes, I’ve made it to the third camp. Who would’ve thought? A blessed occasion, always tinged with madness. Three days and nights of theatre, speedboats, beach lunches, and rosé. But most of all—proximity. To me. To each other. To brilliance, mischief, and meaning.

Now then, pour yourself something cold, turn the dial down on your anxiety, and let me read you a chapter from Derek Wallis’ wild memoir. It’s a rollercoaster account of his time as execution trader at Soros Fund Management.

This chapter is titled “Gasoline Stripper,” but for me—it’s “The Last Scotsman on Wall Street.”

September 2006.

Things are starting to ache. My body, once bulletproof, is blinking. I used to drink all night, rise at 5am, and trade like a feral cat with caffeine for blood.

But I missed my alarm last week. I dozed off during lunch. Worse—I botched a few trades. Being drunk at work isn’t as easy as it used to be.

So I told Billy Irish, that mad prophet of the Street. He said I should speak to Laura. Now Laura—she’s a sales trader with a scalpel for a mind and a psychology degree to match. She’s Wall Street’s Mother Teresa.

We met at a bar called SNAFU—Situation Normal All Fucked Up. Laura had to entertain three traders from a big New Jersey mutual fund that night, but promised to chat with me.

Remember, mutual funds were gods back then. And brokers entertained them the way thieves rob banks—because that’s where the money was. Hedge funds like mine? Redheaded stepchildren.

So in swagger the mutual fund lads—full of cock and bluster. Within five minutes, one drops the C-bomb in front of Laura. Bold move.

Now Laura’s six foot, Philly-born, hot, and hard as tax season. Calmly, she leans in and asks, “What did you just say?”

He repeats it. Huge mistake.

She headbutts him. Right on the bridge of the nose. Drops him.

He stumbles up grinning, bleeding: “I think I’m in love.”

Later, we all head to a strip club. Of course we do. It was that era—Jordan Belfort, Wolf of Wall Street, tax-deductible lap dances.

Laura ends up with two strippers on her lap. Of course she does.

She turns to the guy she Glasgow-kissed and says, “Having a good night, Sparky?”

He nods. She rips open his shirt. Buttons fly like meme stock valuations. He’s got to go home to his wife: bleeding, glittery, shirtless, soaked in eau de stripper.

That guy? His name’s Scotty. The only Scot on Wall Street.

Scotty’s a walking liability. The sort of guy who never knows if he’s gone an inch or a mile too far.

He stumbles out of the club, still bleeding, reeking of strippers, and finds his car. Keys in hand, he congratulates himself for going home early.

Drunk driving—hmm. Let’s just say I once pinged my car while taking a beautiful French damsel home. Poor GPS. Amazing legs.

Anyway. Scotty had already been arrested once for drunk driving and claimed to HR he was making strawberry daiquiris in the car. Somehow kept his job.

He stops at a gas station. His wife has postnatal psychosis and is ready to blow. He smells like a harem. What’s stronger than stripper scent?

Gasoline.

He smears it on his neck, his hands, his crotch. Drives home smelling like a bomb.

Lights a cigarette. Boom. Catches fire.

Falls out of the car. Climbs the stairs like Everest in flip-flops. Rings the bell with his chin.

Creeps into the bedroom backwards.

Wife turns on the light. He throws on his jacket, “Hi love, gotta go trade Europe!”

Turns. Smashes his head. Knocks himself out.

Next morning, they have a talk. She decides Wall Street isn’t for him.

And that, dear listeners, is why there are no Scots on Wall Street.

Until next time, keep the flame alive—but maybe skip the petrol.

Yours from the windswept shores of St. Barts,  
Hugh Hendry  
The Acid Capitalist