If you were in need of more reasons to dislike bankers, read The Wolf of Wall Street. Just don’t buy it, or you’ll be adding to the already substantial coffers of this repellent individual. Jordan Belfort has got to be one of the least appealing narrators I have ever come across. In fact, everyone in the book is pretty odious, which prevents it from being a particularly engaging read.

Belfort made huge amounts of money from, well, breaking the law. He constantly refers to how brilliant and gifted he was, but it’s hard to understand exactly what he did that was so brilliant. It was just illegal. His explanation of the financial wizardry involved is not terribly clear. Nick Leeson’s Rogue Trader, for example, explains the futures market pretty well, even if it is just another ludicrous attempt to make money out of nothing. Leeson also creates real tension over the financial situation and the ups and downs of the stock market. In contrast, Belfort just keeps on making money and taking drugs. As noted in a previous blog, reading about people’s exploits on drugs, however extravagant, eventually gets boring.

Belfort’s narrative style is also quite irksome. The constant reference to ‘loamy loins’ began to make me feel ill. His British aunt’s use of the word ‘love’ at the beginning and end of every sentence was excruciating. He had clearly been influenced by The Bonfire of the Vanities and this came through in some of his observations, particularly relating to his family: his descriptions of his wife’s career aspirations; his references to his daughter; and the constant totting up of what his wife spent on interior décor. However, he is certainly no Wolfe of Wall Street.

I got to the point where I only carried on reading so that I could enjoy Belfort’s comeuppance. Sadly, this was very unsatisfying: a short stint in rehab (where, of course, he charmed everyone and easily conquered his drug addiction), and a paltry jail sentence in return for co-operating with the FBI. He claims he only co-operated to save his wife from being indicted, but I’m not sure I believe him. Throughout the book there’s a lot of macho nonsense from his partners in crime about loyalty and never giving anyone up; funnily enough, by the end they all roll over and wag their tails for the Feds.

What is quite breathtaking is Belfort’s complete lack of remorse or sense of personal responsibility for both his criminal and morally reprehensible behaviour. The blame is laid squarely at the door of his drug addiction, which in turn is blamed on his chronic back pain, and his ‘enablers’ – his wife, P.A. and housemaid who didn’t stop him taking drugs.

In conclusion, a top-dollar a$$hole.