'This is really silly,' writes Ed, 'as an exercise pour encourager les autres it's destructive, wasteful and unnecessary. But The Brats have spoken and I must sacrifice the careers of my execs to save my own.'
The Brats is what Ed calls the 20-something year-old super-sharpies who monitor Ed's company for its private equity owners. The Brats have told Ed to winkle out all his C-class execs in a routine private equity roustabout to keep the execs on their toes.
'Trouble is, I appointed all these guys. They're sort of like friends, or at least acquaintances, on the other hand I know what they're like. I should be able to kick them out quite painlessly. Painlessly for me, that is', writes Ed.
Next day's entry reads: 'First C-exec for the chop is going to be the CIO - the IT guy. Easy pickings. Total tosser. Mumbles incomprehensibly. Wet as a scrubber. He'll go quietly.'
A couple of days later, the entry reads: 'Had the CIO in today. "Have you thought of opportunities outside the company?" I asked him, 'he looks as if he can't understand the question.'
'"No", he says.'
'"This is a very good time," I tell him, "sky's the limit for CIOs. You'll have many more oportunities outside than you have here. There's nowhere further for you to go here".'
'"You want me to leave?"' asked the CIO.'
'"Well, in a nutshell, frankly, it would be the best thing for you", I tell him.'
'"And if I don't want to leave?"'
'I shook my head. "I'm sorry".'
'To my enormous embarrassment a tear slid down one of the CIO's cheeks. Then another tear slid down the other cheek. I actually felt pretty bad,' writes Ed.
'The CIO got up and went without a word.'
'Wanker', Ed confides to his diary, 'roll on my $25 mill.'