I want to ruffle Chris Ruffle's feathers, but ...

[This is rough. As rough as it gets.] ... I can't think of anything to say that would piss him off. Oh, what a shame! Never mind, eh? I'm just in a perverse mood this morning. Is he a bird? But that's nothing new. Can he fly? High in the astral sky, which I've banned, as you know. I'm just so in a perverse mood every morning, ain't I?

Chris Ruffle - for those of you who do not know and may not even care because you're arrogant and all wrapped up in your own nonsense - was in another life a veteran of Martin Currie Investment Management and, as a consequence, got the idea in his crazy little head that he should start a new hedge fund with his mate Ke Shifeng. And in this life, before the after. [As a consequence? Well, it sounded good at the time, thirty seconds ago.] My God! Is there anyone who isn't starting a new hedge fund? Now, that would be news!

Ruffle and Shifeng's firm is called Open Door Capital Group, for reasons best known to themselves. And their fund is called the China Absolute Return fund, for other reasons best known to themselves. And no one knows anything else worth knowing. Which is as it should be. If everyone knew everyone's business, 1.5 percent for management, 15 percent for performance, there would be chaos. It's just my personal opinion. (If there is a personal.) I have no proof that there would be chaos. I haven't researched it. I'm far too lazy for that!

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Damn! I seem to have ruffled my own feathers. How on earth did I ... ?!

When you lose control, words can go anywhere. And I never even had any control. Ever.

If I posted once a week, that would be a solution. I've achieved everything I wanted to achieve, here. All I can do now is add to the achievement. (I'll change my opinion about this when my mood changes.)

But music ... I'm not satisfied. I've written one and a half great songs. I need fifty.

After lunch, I'll be playing my guitar for the rest of the day.

Reading through this post, it isn't very polished, I know. But who gives a shit, man?! You don't know my despair. Don't judge me or I'll judge you, and you won't like it.


Update (4.30pm): I've been playing my guitar a bit. But I'm all rusty. It's my fractured shoulder that messed things up. Now I'm back to square one, it seems. Why is nothing ever easy for me? Other people seem to glide through life. With me, it's like wading through treacle, or shit.

If Napoleon III sends his secret police after me, I don't know what I'll do ...

It'll be exciting, I know that. I need some excitement in my life. [Do I?] There's not much chance of it though, except in dreams. I mean, Louis-Napoleon and his thugs. (There might be some other excitement, if I'm lucky.) They're all dead. And Lautreamont's dead, and alive. And Rimbaud (dead, alive) lost a leg, of course. I wonder if he has it in the afterlife. I hope so. He was pissed off with all the hobbling around. You should read his letters. Very depressing!

If I'm lucky, there'll be some other kind of excitement. I need an adventure. [Do I?] I need to get away from my laptop, and my house, and just wander off somewhere. I could walk a million miles. But the further one travels, the less imagination one has - or, I don't know. I should stay at home. [Yes.] Close my eyes, and drift off. See how the other half live, the thought-forms. Oh, but I've seen it all before. The astral plane. Napoleon - the first one, the great one - gave me his telescope to watch angels and demons, fighting. Tens of thousands of them on a battlefield. (He's actually a pretty decent chap.) And I played a game of noughts and crosses with King Arthur. However, you get bored of it after a while. Not the game, the plane. Or maybe I'll fall asleep, and sleep forever. One long dream! What's the difference? Life is one long dream, isn't it? When are we going to wake up? Will we ever touch the ultimate reality? No more dreams! No more visions! Let's get our hands on some reality, yes? Or - 'No!'

No, no, no. Yes? I don't know why I'm getting you involved, dear reader. You're probably into banks and hedge funds and all the other jazz. I can't imagine you have much enthusiasm for touching the ultimate reality. I suppose it all depends on who you are. You're either one of "them" or one of us. I don't even know who's reading any more. You could be a grey banker or a multicoloured mystic child. How would I know? It doesn't really matter. This is personal anyway. You shouldn't be reading this. (And you might be a banker who's a mystic child. There are a few about. More than a few, in fact.) The problem with me is that I'm so open.

Excitement is overrated. At least, my sort is. Did I really enjoy those nights of chaos in my youth with a spinning head and shaking bones? Or was I scared out of my massive mind? Visions of hell! What do you think?! Thank God for my astrologer! That's all I'll say. (Well, not all.) He did the healing. Told me I was playing with fire. Where would I be without him - today? In the shit, no doubt. Exactly where I am now. Today! Where will I be: tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow? Who knows?! Character is destiny. But he described my angel to a tee! What am I supposed to think? And what am I supposed to do? He wasn't even fazed by the swastika on the palm of my hand. Well, he's a Hindu. Why would he have been put off by a swastika? It means good fortune. I was a Hindu for a time. I'd recommend it to anyone. A lovely selection of gods. Gods for all occasions!

I don't know if I'll ever get my mystical hands on any of that ultimate reality. It's very elusive stuff, you know. Maybe I should be content with the cold, dirty world. 'You're having a laugh, ain't ya?' No, dear reader, I can assure you I'm not. If I were a warrior in the world, no one and nothing would ever be able to stop me. Obviously, I'd need an iron will unencumbered by the words and images in my head. 'Oh, I don't like the sound of this!' Will you stop worrying?! Please! I haven't made a decision yet.

The question is: will I ever make a decision? Or will I just float on the waters of life, on, on, on, blown around by idiot winds?

Everyone's got it in for Fletcher Asset Management

Well, not everyone. Three pension funds in Louisiana. That's about it. Oh, and the SEC is investigating, but I'm not sure we should be worried about that. If the SEC is anything like The Dead Shark That Refuses To Believe In Death it's just being nosy.

The rest is ... not silence, exactly. Nothingness, I suppose.

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I've been in a funny mood all week, haven't I? I can't concentrate on hedge funds and banks and God knows what else. Remember all my talk of fresh starts? What a joke! I have no self-control. I'm like a big blog monster. Does that make any sense?

This is nothing

Get used to it. Live with nothing. I'll rub your nose in it. I was looking for another (oh, another!) new hedge fund to write about, then I heard a voice: 'Mikey, be brave. Write about nothing!' So this is it. This is nothing, and not for the first time. But you have to be brave each time. It doesn't get any easier.

I'll let you in to a little secret, and not for the first time: everything is nothing. Everything! Nothing! And you don't have to be all that brave either. I was just trying to make it seem daring. But there's nothing daring about it. So, everything is nothing. If only they knew, all the others who imagine they're writing about something. Ha! What a comedy! You have to feel sorry for them, don't you?

Not too sorry though because they're fucking idiots, let's be frank. I'm not going to sugar-coat anything for these winners. Notice I didn't call them losers. You have to believe to win, and they believe. They think it's all worthwhile. Dear oh dear. If only they knew: there's nothing to win. We're all playing a losing game. So, they are losers, after all. I hope you're taking notes, dear reader(s). There's going to be a test later. Much later - when you're dead.

Frere Hall Capital Management

Oh, how exciting! There's another new hedge fund. This one is called Frere Hall Capital Management (obviously) and has been founded by Taimur Hassan. It's an energy commodities fund thing, oil and that, I don't know. It hasn't actually launched yet. We'll have to wait until the summer for the real excitement to begin.

I'm wondering though, seriously wondering. Does Taimur Hassan know Gilbert Saiz? Gilbert (Gil, really) was an oil trader at Goldman Sachs, and so was Taimur. Are they friends? This is important because Gil and I are bosom buddies, but he has never mentioned Taimur to me. Is there something going on behind my back? You would think Gil would mention a new hedge fund being set up by a friend.

You can't trust anyone these days. Maybe I'd be better off in my cave, alone. My blanket and the baked beans. The end is coming. Gil and Taimur and their sort will be swept away. I'm not saying that's what I want to happen, but it's inevitable.

A square can never be a circle

And it's so bad, so hopeless, I feel I'm going insane. There's nothing more I can do to convince them.

They'll never go round and round. / Or maybe ...

You can give a dog a bone, but if the dog is dead ...

I'm waiting for time to pass. Fifty years would suit me fine.

They love what they know.

I want to be with my living friends, who aren't even alive. But not dead dogs. No, they are not dead dogs.

One day, I'll look back and be like a stranger to my(old)self, unless ...

Unless I keep going, unless I refuse to become discouraged. My friends know ...

They have seen it. And half the time it doesn't exist. My "they". (R, L, P, D.) I don't mean the squares ("they"s) that will never go round and round, all dizzy and delirious because it's new.

Dead dogs lie still. You can give them bones. Yes, but bones mean nothing to them. They are beyond bones.

I'm waiting for time to pass. I'm waiting for this to become old. When it's old, maybe they'll ...

You can lead a horse to water, and you can drown it. You can scare it first, then you can drown it. You can confuse it - if you like. Then you can watch it drown.

They love what they know. They're afraid the unknown will hurt them. (Will they drown in something new?) It's a shame that what they presently know is worthless.

One hundred years? Oh, by then they'll know what I've given them. And they'll love it.

Of course, that's not what I want. It's no use loving a one-hundred-year-old dead thing. What's the point?

It may even take two hundred years. God forbid! I have no faith. Can I speak to the living, please?

As Moody's threatens to downgrade UK ...

Michael Fowke says: 'Fuck this shit, man!'

The end is near. There's not much hope. It's every man for himself now. Every woman, too. And if it's not bad enough that Moody's is threatening to take away the UK's triple A rating, Warren Buffett has picked this moment to tell everyone that gold has no value. What a - I mean, if he wasn't such a nice old man, I would have some strong words for him. Fortunately, I've put all my money into baked beans.

And then there's Greece as well ... What a depressing world, eh? I think we need another Burt Bacharach song, don't you?

Great popular songwriters in the club

No, not pregnant. / I'm too depressed to write about finance today, so it's going to have to be music, I'm afraid.

I've been listening to Burt Bacharach a lot lately. I reckon he's written the music for roughly thirty classic pop hits. Which means he's in The Twenty to Thirty Club. I have a theory that nearly all great popular songwriters have written between twenty and thirty classics. In my opinion, if you can't write at least twenty you're not a great songwriter. And I think it's almost impossible for any great songwriter to write more than thirty. Only John Lennon and Paul McCartney have gone beyond this figure. I would put them on fifty classic songs each (working together and alone).

Songwriters in The Twenty to Thirty Club? This is according to me, remember: Burt Bacharach (with Hal David), Paul Simon, Elton John, Noel Gallagher, Prince, Jeff Lynne, David Bowie, Jagger/Richards, Ray Davies, Brian Wilson, Stevie Wonder, Neil Diamond, Holland/Dozier/Holland, Goffin/King. / Oh, and there's U2, Bee Gees, ABBA. Probably a few others.

Neil Young, Elvis Costello, Van Morrison, and Leonard Cohen are obviously great songwriters, but I wouldn't really classify them as "popular". Bob Dylan is the greatest of them all. He has written around a hundred classic songs, but only a handful could be considered popular, like Knockin' on Heaven's Door and Lay Lady Lay. It's Alright, Ma (I'm Only Bleeding) is an awesome song, but you can't really hum along to it, can you?

No one's heard of me (yet), but I would put myself in The One and a Half Club. So, I've got a long way to go ... However, I'm gunning for Lennon and McCartney.

It's Valentine’s Day tomorrow! Here's another Burt Bacharach one for my angel.


Related post: The 20 greatest pop songs of all time

Halfway to paradise

I could be halfway to paradise. I wouldn't even know it in this hell. To wait for love is just to waste your life away.

This blog is a hell that no one understands. I should write those songs. All love songs - because I'm quite a romantic guy, really.

I'm not waiting until Valentine's Day. I live by my own rules. So here's a melancholic Burt Bacharach classic for my angel.

Stephen Hester: 'I'm an animal for the burning, and money does not drive me on.'

I've been speaking to Stephen Hester, chief executive of Royal Bank of Scotland - as if you didn't know. What, do you live in a cave?

This is what was spoken between us: 'Mikey, you're an animal. (Well, thanks, Stephen. That's a great way to start off.) Oh, don't get upset. You know what I mean. You're like me. (You're an animal?) Yeah. A commercial animal. I'm an animal for the burning, and money does not drive me on. You can dig that, can't you? (I suppose. It's why you're at RBS, and not some hedge fund. But -) Exactly. And it's why you're writing that half-arsed blog of yours. We're different, Michael. (Different from each other, maybe.) No, the others. We're different from them. (Well, I am.) Me too! (That's not how I remember it.) What do you mean? (That time you came to the desert. You were just like them, the others.) As I recall, I was burning. I had the animal thing. (You were pretty good at faking it. Ganesh said to me: "He's only interested in the money. He's not like us. He's like the others.") Ganesh? (The elephant god.) Oh yes. Whatever happened to him? (Retired. Sort of.) He was an animal, that elephant! (Obviously. Stephen, mate, we don't even burn that much any more. We've left the desert behind. Things are different now.) Was that Big Herb's decision? (No.) How is Big Herb? (Dead.) Oh. Things have changed. How does a god die? (A razor in the astral night. It's easily done. You've just got to have the will, and the ambition. I did it.) Oh. Are you a god now, then, a money god? (I'm working on it.) Jesus. And I thought - (And you thought you were an animal like me. A wild one. A creature for the magic that exists beyond money. No, Stephen, you're not like me. You're like them. You're like all the others. So go and get a job in a fucking hedge fund. You're not proving anything at RBS.) You're a hard man, Mikey, I mean, Mr Fowke, sir.'

I've got to be a hard man. No one knows the troubles I've seen. Yet I go on, and on, and on. I believe in the green light, the orgiastic future that year by year recedes before us. A lot of good it does me. Why must I suffer so, when lesser men are living on easy street? It's a mystery. It really is!

John Paulson has a pop at The Hartford

Oh. "The Hartford". Yes. Whatever the fuck that is. Well, my intern tells me it's one of the biggest insurers in the US of A: The Hartford Financial Services Group - if you can imagine that. (Can you imagine? Ha! It's a funny old world.) And Liam McGee is the chief executive. Our John had a go at him yesterday. Really put the boot in. And I don't even have a fucking intern. Let's have it right. Do I look like a slave driver, the sort of monstrous employer who would get a soppy middle-class kid (straight out of the LSE like all the other c**ts, no doubt) working for nothing? I'm a humanitarian, and I'll break the legs of anyone who says any different.

There was a time ... when the world was young, and not quite so funny. Ah, the apple trees. / Believe me, I used to like John Paulson. Seriously. Used to like John Paulson a lot because he was a man who made a lot of money. Now, unfortunately, he's a man who loses a lot of money, and I'm not sure I like that. So, am I saying I hate John Paulson's guts? Oh, have I turned against him? No, no, no. I am willing to give John another chance. However, he's not going to solve his problems by attacking Liam McGee. Our Liam is like a helpless child, a baby. The Hartford may need to be split up, may not, I don't know. There are "significant challenges". Well, that's business. But our Liam is a baby. No, he's a dove. Well, he's soft, actually, like a teddy bear. You wouldn't kick a teddy bear in the face when it was down, would you? Of course you wouldn't! You wouldn't set fire to a dove's wings. You wouldn't mess with a baby's toys. 'Yes!' Oh, well. What is wrong with you?! Are you sick? More to the point: is John Paulson sick?!

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You probably think I'm sick, dear reader(s), for writing like this. Well, I'm sorry but it is my duty to drag you out of the jam of the awful reality you find yourself in. Not that you're aware of the jam. It would be more accurate to say that I found you ... in it. Just like Lautreamont! God has given me a great consciousness. What am I supposed to do? Waste it on the unexamined life?

Atwater Capital is closing down

Atwater Capital is/was a hedge fund founded by Lee Pollock and Kris Green. I wonder if they're having a closing down sale. There might be some cheap money on offer. It's unlikely though. Lee and Kris will probably return any money to investors. That's what normally happens in these situations.

It's a sad time, but I think the guys will move on from this and become successful somewhere else. Hedge funds are born and then they die. To every thing there is a season.

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Music update:

No, nothing happening. Just nothing happening. It's hard to work on two things at once. Duchamp gave up art to concentrate on chess. Maybe I should take a leaf out of his book. Of course, he worked on Given in secret for twenty years. Time well spent, I say, because Given is off the fucking hook as a piece of art. You won't hear any art critics expressing themselves in such a fashion, but it's true! I reckon Damien Hirst would agree with me.