Jeff Randall's fond farewell to 30 years of financial journalism To my astonishment, the Sunday paper's City team, including me, was relocated to what had been their lordships" oak-panelled private suite, with framed originals of historic news posters, such as "Mafeking Relieved," and an exquisitely manicured lawn on a balcony overlooking Fleet Street. Fixed to the main wall was a huge, faded map of the world with about a third of the land mass coloured pink. This, of course, reflected British imperial influence at its zenith. To one side was a tired-looking Union flag, a symbolic and cruel reminder for the Berry family of an empire diminished. More bizarre still, the business desk inherited Hartwell's butler, a genial fellow called Roger, who used to serve us refreshments. Even for the City editor, Alex Murray, an old Etonian and no stranger to privilege, the daily ritual of a formally attired servant pushing a tea trolley was a source of wonder. In those days The Telegraph was, in effect, a 1930s-style set-up operating in Thatcher's increasingly meritocratic Britain. It was a spectacular anachronism, sustained in part by the Sunday version's colourful editor, Peregrine Worsthorne, a man for whom the term de haut en bas was a personal guide to dealing with those unfortunate enough not to be royalty. Looking back, I (pictured right when I joined) could hardly have been luckier. My appointment coincided with an explosion of interest in financial news and its elevation to front-page prominence. At the same time, Britain's newspaper industry was being re-energised by the long-overdue introduction of modern technology, which liberated us from the death-grip of print unions. The animal spirits of a bull market were reaching small investors, as the Conservative government continued with its policy of selling state assets at knockdown prices. In 1985, the FTSE 100 rose by 14.7pc. In 1986, eager punters piled in again, driving the blue-chip index 18.9pc higher. Two months after I joined The Sunday Telegraph, the City of London underwent sweeping deregulation, known as "Big Bang," which abolished the distinction between market-makers and stockbrokers, ushered in screen-based trading and allowed foreign banks to buy local firms. Goldman Sachs, Deutsche Bank, UBS, Nomura and others charged through the gates. Venerable City names were gobbled up for ludicrous money, bestowing fabulous riches on outgoing partners. Famous brokers such as Rowe & Pitman, Phillips & Drew and Simon & Coates disappeared. Frenetic action in the Square Mile was matched by a blitz of hostile takeovers in the industrial sector. Some of Britain's best-known corporations came under fire from aggressive conglomerates. The lexicon of business news resembled a war reporter's notebook; it was an era of dawn raids and Pac-Man defences. There was Tiny Rowland's spectacular fight with Mohamed Al Fayed over Harrods, the Saatchi brothers" wild plan to buy Midland Bank, and Guinness's bid for Distillers, involving an illegal share-support scheme which resulted in jail sentences for Ernest Saunders, Guinness's chief executive, Anthony Parnes, a City trader, and Gerald Ronson, a property tycoon. In 2000, the European Court of Human Rights ruled their trial had been unfair because of improper collusion between inspectors from the Department of Trade and Industry and the prosecuting authorities. Much of what I was writing about seemed like a movie script and soon it became one. Oliver Stone put together a stellar cast (Michael Douglas, Charlie Sheen and Daryl Hannah) for his 1987 blockbuster Wall Street, dedicated to the lunch-is-for-wimps traders who weren't interested in corporate fundamentals, only inside information. Tom Wolfe called them "Masters of the Universe" and, until bankruptcy or arrest, they were. As if these blood-and-guts storylines were not enough, on October 19, 1987 we had a stock market crash: share prices in London and New York fell by about 25pc, wiping out many who had bet that the only way was up. It coincided with a spectacular storm in Britain; Mammon, it seemed, was furious. At the time, the British government was in the middle of selling its 30pc stake in BP, but the offer was almost pulled after market turmoil had caused the shares to fall far below the 330p offer price to investors. On information from a broker involved in the deal, I wrote that a well-known Australian businessman, who had agreed verbally to take a big chunk of the BP stock at the asking price, had reneged on his promise. Never mind dictum meum pactum [my word is my bond], he didn't fancy, or perhaps couldn't afford, heavy losses. To my horror, the businessman sued for libel and I was mortified when the broker who had told me the tale said he would not back me up in court. I remember well the roasting I took from an incandescent City editor, as the Telegraph's lugubrious in-house lawyer informed us that the only way out of this mess, without enormous legal fees and possible humiliation, would be if the litigious businessman dropped dead. Some weeks later, he did! In [Joseph] Schumpeter's analysis of capitalism, innovation by entrepreneurs is a disruptive force that promotes growth while wiping out established companies. He called it "creative destruction." During my time at The Telegraph, I have witnessed a remarkable culling of industrial giants, not all of which went unlamented. Quite often, obliteration occurred with little or no upside. In 1986, the commanding heights of British commerce were held, inter alia, by Allied-Lyons, Associated Dairies, Bass, Blue Circle, BOC, British & Commonwealth, Cadbury Schweppes, Courtaulds, Ferranti, Grand Metropolitan, GUS, Hanson Trust, ICI, P&O, Rank Organisation, Rowntree-Mackintosh, Scottish & Newcastle, Tarmac, Trafalgar House and Trusthouse Forte. They formed part of the first FTSE-100 cohort when the index was launched in 1984. Today, all are gone, either acquired, bust or broken up. The saddest ending, surely, came at GEC, annihilated after its managing director, Lord Weinstock, retired in 1996. This was once a cash-rich company, a British champion in defence electronics and engineering. Weinstock's successor, Lord Simpson, had big ideas but too few of them good ones. He burnt through the company's money and his own reputation with a series of disastrous acquisitions and diversifications. Weinstock once told me his golden rule for assessing businesses: "When profits are rising but cash is falling, we have learned to become suspicious." It remains an invaluable early warning system, an indicator of companies that in their press releases appear to be prospering but, in fact, are about to falter. Dodging disasters is, however, only half the game. What about spotting the stars of tomorrow? Well, all I can say is that I'm glad the roof above my family's head has not depended on it. On my first day in 1986, if you had told me that the Britain's pioneering successes in the coming quarter of a century would include a mobile telephone company (Vodafone) and a satellite television broadcaster (BSkyB), I would not have understood the proposition. In my very first piece for this newspaper, a preview of the Farnborough Air Show [extract below], I noted that Rolls-Royce, the aero-engine maker, which had been rescued from receivership by Ted Heath, was poised to rejoin the private sector. It did so at 170p a share, since when the price has climbed to £12.40, valuing it at £23bn. From national embarrassment to international acclaim, it's a story that not even the most starry-eyed optimist could have predicted - and a suitably positive note on which to sign off for the last time. Next spring, I will join Babcock International as a non-executive director. After reporting and commenting on corporate life for so many years I will soon, in part, be responsible for a business. I am looking forward to it enormously. How fortunate I have been to enjoy a front-row seat at the theatre of British business over so many years. My heartfelt thanks to Telegraph editors and proprietors who have allowed me this privilege and treated me with such great respect. An extract from Jeff Randall's 1986 Sunday Telegraph debut Two years is a long time in the aerospace business. At the 1984 Farnborough Air Show, most manufacturers were trying to put on a brave face. Huge losses between 1981 and 1983 had forced many international airlines to cancel new aircraft orders. Nowhere were the clouds darker than above aero-engine maker Rolls-Royce, which that year announced a £115m pre-tax loss for 1983, to follow its £93m deficit in 1982. Twenty-four months on all that has changed. Rolls-Royce, flush with this month's £600m order from British Airways, is now poised to join British Aerospace in the private sector. There are high spirits at other British manufacturers, too. Despite the millstone of political and religious strife, Short Brothers of Belfast will this week unveil the hundredth order for its $4.5m 36-seat SD360. British Aerospace has three new aircraft making their Farnborough debut this week. The biggest turn-round of all has been achieved at Airship Industries. Launched on to the FTSE in 1985 at 140p, the company was rescued from bankruptcy one year later by Australian tycoon Alan Bond. Since then, it has been completely overhauled. Bond has reduced his stake to 49pc; Airship shares are trading on the London OTC market at around 23p and the firm is among three front runners to win a possible $2bn order from the United States Navy. With Britain's aerospace industry heading for another record year of sales in 1986, and forecasts from American manufacturer Boeing indicating that the world market for commercial jet airliners between now and the year 2000 will be worth about $250bn, casual observers could be excused for thinking it will be plain sailing for British companies. Sadly, it is not like that. One of their most pressing concerns is the emergence of Japanese companies, like Mitsubishi Heavy Industries and Kawasaki Heavy Industries. British Aerospace must also overcome the British Government's apparent reluctance to provide up to £700m of launch aid for its proposed participation in the European consortium Airbus A330 and A340 programmes.