'Phone call today from the Chairman of our lead VC company ', Ed writes in hi his diary, 'cheeky bugger tells me I need to get fit for the IPO roadshow and has booked me into his bloody gym - some swanky sweat-hole in Mayfair.
'He says I'm out of condition and in no shape to take on 70 presentations in three weeks on three continents,' writes Ed.
'"I've seen chaps crack up during their dog and pony show", the VC tells me, "and they've all been much fitter men than you." '
'I suppose I'll have to do as he says,' writes Ed, 'he'll check up on me, and my take from the IPO is still at his say-so to an extent.'
'But then', adds Ed 'the so-and-so ends the call by saying: "I'd think twice about kissing your personal trainer, Ed, he used to be a Sergeant in the Royal Marines."'
'The crap I have to put up with,' writes Ed, 'but only for another 60 days till the IPO, and then I'll have enough fuck-off ackers to tell the VCs to take a hike."
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