Five questions answered on RBS’s positive quarterly profit results

Investors react.

The bank that was famously bailed out in the 2008 financial crisis has posted its best quarterly profits for over a year. We answer five questions on RBS’s latest figures.

How much pre-tax profit has the bank made?

The bank has made a pre-tax profit of £826m, this is compared to a £1.5bn loss in the same period in 2012 and a £2.2bn loss in the final quarter of last year.

What has been the bank’s response to these positive results?

In a video statement on the bank’s website, Chairman Sir Philip Hampton said he expects the government to start selling shares in the bank from the middle of 2014, or possibly earlier, so the bank can return to privatisation.

He said any such sale would be "terrific for the country".

The government owns an 82 per cent stake in the bank after it bailed it out in 2008.

What else did Hampton say?

"Our balance sheet is substantially fixed... our operating profitability has come through quite strongly," he said.

"What we want to do is have a business that is performing well... enabling the government to start selling shares from, let's say, the middle of 2014 on - it could be earlier, that's a matter for the government - but certainly we think the recovery process will be substantially complete in about a year or so's time."

If the government sold its shares in the next year or so would they be getting a good deal?

It’s not known how much the government would sell its stake for, but currently, RBS shares are valued at 407 pence a share on the government's accounts. However, the government paid 502 pence a share during the bailout.

According to the BBC’s business editor, Robert Peston, this suggests the Chancellor, George Osborne, could opt to sell at the lower price and still claim to be getting fair value for the 82 per cent taxpayer stake.

This would result in a return to shareholders after the government invested billions in the bank five years ago.

How have investors reacted to the quarterly results?

Despite Hampton’s optimism, investors have reacted negatively, with RBS shares falling more than 4.5 per cent in the first 10 minutes of trading on the London Stock Exchange.

RBS. Photograph: Getty Images

Heidi Vella is a features writer for Nridigital.com

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I can’t follow Marie Kondo's advice – even an empty Wotsits packet “sparks joy” in me

I thought I’d give her loopy, OCD theories a go, but when I held up an empty Wotsits bag I was suffused with so many happy memories of the time we’d spent together that I couldn’t bear to throw it away.

I have been brooding lately on the Japanese tidying freak Marie Kondo. (I forgot her name so I typed “Japanese tidying freak” into Google, and it was a great help.) The “Japanese” bit is excusable in this context, and explains a bit, as I gather Japan is more on the case with the whole “being tidy” thing than Britain, but still.

Apart from telling us that we need to take an enormous amount of care, to the point where we perform origami when we fold our underpants, which is pretty much where she lost me, she advises us to throw away anything that does not, when you hold it, “spark joy”. Perhaps I have too much joy in my life. I thought I’d give her loopy, OCD theories a go, but when I held up an empty Wotsits bag I was suffused with so many happy memories of the time we’d spent together that I couldn’t bear to throw it away.

After a while I gave up on this because I was getting a bit too happy with all the memories, so then I thought to myself, about her: “This is someone who isn’t getting laid enough,” and then I decided that was a crude and ungallant thought, and besides, who am I to wag the finger? At least if she invites someone to her bedroom no one is going to run screaming from it, as they would if I invited anyone to my boudoir. (Etym: from the French “bouder”, to sulk. How very apt in my case.) Marie Kondo – should bizarre circumstance ever conspire to bring her to the threshold – would run screaming from the Hovel before she’d even alighted the stairs from the front door.

I contemplate my bedroom. As I write, the cleaning lady is in it. To say that I have to spend half an hour cleaning out empty Wotsits packets, and indeed wotnot, before I let her in there should give you some idea of how shameful it has got. And even then I have to pay her to do so.

A girlfriend who used to be referred to often in these pages, though I think the term should be a rather less flippant one than “girlfriend”, managed to get round my natural messiness problem by inventing a game called “keep or chuck”.

She even made up a theme song for it, to the tune from the old Spiderman TV show. She would show me some object, which was not really rubbish, but usually a book (it may not surprise you to learn that it is the piles of books that cause most of the clutter here), and say, “Keep or chuck?” in the manner of a high-speed game show host. At one point I vacillated and so she then pointed at herself and said, “Keep or chuck?” I got the message.

These days the chances of a woman getting into the bedroom are remote. For one thing, you can’t just walk down the street and whistle for one much as one would hail a cab, although my daughter is often baffled by my ability to attract females, and suspects I have some kind of “mind ray”. Well, if I ever did it’s on the blink now, and not only that – right now, I’m not even particularly bothered that it’s on the blink. Because, for another thing, I would frankly not care to inflict myself upon anyone else at the moment.

It was all a bit of a giggle eight years ago, when I was wheeled out of the family home and left to my own devices. Of course, when I say “a bit of a giggle”, I mean “terrifying and miserable”, but I had rather fewer miles on the clock than I do now, and a man can, I think, get away with a little bit more scampish behaviour, and entertain a few more illusions about the future and his own plausibility as a character, when he is squarely in his mid-forties than when he is approaching, at speed, his middle fifties.

Death has rather a lot to do with it, I suppose. I had not actually seen, or touched, a dead body until I saw, and touched, my own father’s a few weeks ago. That’s what turns an abstract into a concrete reality. You finally put that to one side and gird up your loins – and then bloody David Bowie snuffs it, and you find yourself watching the videos for “Blackstar” and “Lazarus” over and over again, and reach the inescapable conclusion that death is not only incredibly unpleasant, it is also remorseless and very much nearer than you think.

And would you, dear reader, want to be involved with anyone who kept thinking along those lines? I mean, even if he learned how to fold his undercrackers into an upright cylinder, like a napkin at a fancy restaurant, before putting them in his drawer? When he doesn’t even have a drawer?

Nicholas Lezard is a literary critic for the Guardian and also writes for the Independent. He writes the Down and Out in London column for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 05 February 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Putin's war