If I were Dracula for a day ...

Oh, don't worry, I'm not actually going to write on this subject. I just wanted a crazy title. But what would I do? Well, during the day I'd get a bit of kip in my coffin. Then in the night I'd go out looking for women to bite. So, nothing out of the ordinary, really. Basically, I can't think of anything to write about.

I'm listening to Japan's Exorcising Ghosts. It's decent stuff, but my main complaint against David Sylvian has always been that he doesn't have a sense of humour. The album should have been called Exercising Ghosts. You know, ghosts doing sit-ups, star jumps, and the like. A missed opportunity, I think. Such a shame! Never mind. I will say that Sylvian is a neglected songwriter. Night Porter is off the fucking hook, to use a vulgar expression. Yes, so vulgar. But my words won't bother Sylvian. Remember, this is Dave Batt from Catford we're talking about. He's not as arty-farty as he makes out.

OutKast now. Even better! This is more like it. (Sorry, Dave, mate. I can only take so much musical misery when I'm down already.) There's a Dracula song, too!

As Fred Goodwin is stripped of his knighthood ...

Michael Fowke says: 'Let's strip ALL the bankers of everything they have. Let's take away their honours, their bonuses, their salaries, their houses, their cars, their nice suits, their watches, their wives, their husbands (eh?), their girlfriends, their boyfriends (whatever), and even their children. Then we can all live in North Korea and fucking starve to death.'

Michael ... Oh, me. I'm Michael Fowke, the world's foremost financial shaman. It is I? Well, obviously. / Let's get another thing straight. I'm certainly no fan of Fred Goodwin. He wrecked a perfectly good bank. However, he hasn't been charged with any criminal offence. The Dead Shark That Refuses To Believe In Death - the FSA, for those of you who aren't familiar with my absurd use of language - hasn't banned or fined him. Yes, Mr Goodwin is an arrogant fool. But, dear reader, can you name one knight who isn't?

Ex-knight, now. / So, what does the future hold for Fred? Who cares?! Maybe he'll fade into obscurity with his money. It'll still be wine, women, and song. That's how the other half live even when they're disgraced. But if Fred wants to redeem himself, I suggest he goes into exile like Lord Byron. He could die fighting for Greek independence. Against the Germans, though. Not the Turks.

I've had my lunch

Cheese and onion rolls. (Like sausage rolls for vegetarians.) Crisps. Yoghurt. A can of coke. None of that diet muck. I'm still depressed, and a bit angry. Charlie's chakras? Oh, Charles Kirwan-Taylor won't have any fucking chakras by the time I've finished with him! Remember when I stopped them whirling? That was nothing.

The last post of the month. I haven't been too literary this year - yet. I don't give a shit. My blog, my rules. I'm too unsettled. Depressed, and angry. I don't feel like a smooth poet. I feel like a rough killer. A monster. You should never trust a vegetarian.

I was in a very bad mood on Sunday. I meant what I said about the work/suicide stuff, but not about my angel. She'll always matter, whatever her attitude is. I don't want to upset her. She means so much to me. This world is a horror show. She's the only good thing in it.

If I were God, I wouldn't have any dealings with the Earth. And I don't think He does. I mean, look at all the wars and disasters. All those people praying to Him and He just wants to be left alone, I'm sure. 'It was a mistake. Don't they understand, the cretins? A mistake!'

Charles Kirwan-Taylor has left RAB Capital now!!!

And I don't even care, so I don't know why I'm using the exclamation marks. All I know is that it's bad news for Charlie's aura and his chakras.

I tried my best to help these people. Charlie gave me his word of honour that he wouldn't leave RAB Capital. But then so did Stephen Couttie.

I'm not speaking to them, any of them. Michael Alen-Buckley phoned me a couple of hours ago. I put the phone down on him. I'm just not interested.

_________________________

Let's write about something else. (Well, I'll do the writing - if you don't mind. You can do the reading.) If another chief executive lets me down, I'll ... forget it!

I've been thinking I really should get on with writing my songs while there's still a music business left to appreciate them. You can hardly find rare albums any more unless you go to a big shop in central London. There's a small independent shop in Chiswick though. I'm amazed it stays in business. As we all know, illegal downloads are the problem. I reckon music publishing will be okay as long as nothing happens to the radio or TV. Anyway - or whatever - I know for a fact you can make more money from songwriting than blogging. And songwriting is actually easier than blogging - if you're talented like me, that is. Having said that, I still haven't managed to write the lyrics for my second song. It's a lack of will rather than a lack of creativity. I think I fear writing a mediocre lyric to a brilliant piece of music. But I should just get on with it. What have I got to lose?

_________________________

Reader, I know this isn't a music blog, but what do you want from me, eh? What do you expect? Charles Kirwan-Taylor has ... forget it! Just fucking forget it!

I'm going for lunch.

As Stephen Hester gives up his bonus ...

Michael Fowke says: 'Go and get a job in a fucking hedge fund, Stephen, if you want to earn millions and millions and millions of pounds.'

I'm Michael Fowke, by the way, the world's foremost financial shaman. I'm the author of this blog, but I guess you know that.

This Stephen Hester, I spent a couple of days in the desert with him when he first became chief executive of Royal Bank of Scotland. I can't say I warmed to him all that much, even though he was on fire. Burning brightly, as they say. I knew he was only interested in the money. He completely missed the spiritual/mystical side. He paid it lip service, of course, but then a lot of bankers do that, don't they?

I want to earn millions and millions and millions of pounds, myself. But I'm not going to work in a hedge fund. I'd get bored.

Apparently, Stephen spent the weekend in Switzerland, skiing. Ha! That's something I won't be doing after my ship has come in. (Skiing is for middle-class ponces who want to impress their co-workers. A lot of them work in the newspaper business. No offence to anyone reading, like.) And I won't be buying a Rolls-Royce or a Rolex. (Only vulgarians do that.) No, I'll be buying my freedom.

My fucking freedom, as I say.

David Bailey: We'll Take Manhattan

There was a great drama on BBC Four last week about David Bailey, We'll Take Manhattan. Hopefully, the BBC will show it again so I can record it.

It cheered me up and depressed me. Bailey is someone I can relate to. We have the same hero, Picasso.

I don't want to say any more than that.

Except this: I know I've got to sort myself out. Depression is a waste of life. If I could overcome my sense of futility, I'd work all the time. And I'm sick of being fucked around (and over). I've got to be tougher with others, so that nothing matters but the work I'm doing.

I say nothing matters. Death doesn't matter. My angel doesn't matter - unless she changes her attitude.

I'm pissed off with everything. If it's not work, it's got to be suicide. But I don't want it to be suicide, so it's got to be work.

And no fucking prisoners. I mean it.

Philippe Gougenheim with a bizarre Glasnost hedge fund thing now

Isn't it amazing, some of the stuff that goes on? This nutty Philippe Gougenheim character is supposed to be the big boss of hedge funds at Unigestion. But that's not good enough for him, oh no. (No!) Yes, he's running away to start his own hedge fund, this "Glasnost" whatever. Philippe wants to be open and transparent and all liquid - personally, I'm saying/writing. Forget about the hedge fund (it won't be launched until June or may never be launched - if it's an absurd pipe dream, which is entirely possible) this is personal. Philippe wants us to see through him. (Oh dear! Like he's made out of glass?) And he wants us to look inside and see the liquid. (Eh?! Like he's a glass we would drink out of?) And he wants to flow into our mouths like the finest champagne. (My God! Is he fucking sick?!) I can't believe these Swiss twats! Oh, they're all the same, aren't they? I mean, cuckoo clocks? Where do they get their ideas from?

This is why I won't go to Davos. My angel's on her own, I'm afraid. 'Oh, Michael, darling, please come. I need you here with me.' No! I'd do anything for love, but I won't do that!

The FSA has decided to fine David Einhorn £7.2 million

Yesterday. Just decided. Just like that. 'Oh, what shall we do today? I know, let's fine Einhorn £7.2 million. We need some new carpets.' Absolutely outrageous!

'On 9 June 2009, Einhorn was a party to a telephone conference in which it was disclosed to him by a corporate broker acting on behalf of Punch Taverns Plc that Punch was at an advanced stage of the process towards a significant equity fundraising. This was inside information and Einhorn should have appreciated this. A matter of minutes after the telephone conversation had concluded and on the basis of that inside information Einhorn gave instructions to sell all of Greenlight's holding in Punch. At the time these instructions were given Greenlight held 13.3% of Punch's issued equity.' More, than is healthy.

So, apparently, Mr Einhorn - not "Einhorn", if you don't mind, let's have a bit of respect - didn't realize that it was inside information. The FSA claims he's a clever boy, so he should have realized. Well, maybe. I don't know. Should he have realized, dear reader? And £7.2 million is a lot of money, isn't it? I'm not exactly Mr Einhorn's biggest fan. (He hasn't got any time for mystical capitalism. He never came to the desert in the old days.) However, this doesn't mean I want to see a dead shark biting lumps out of him. It wouldn't be so bad if it believed in death, but this is The Dead Shark That Refuses To Believe In Death.

Actually, I need some new carpets. I might fine someone.

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Yes, I might fine someone. Then jump on a plane to Davos and hang out with my angel. Normally, I wouldn't dream of going to Davos, but when you're in love you do crazy stuff, don't you?

His name is Mudd, Daniel Mudd

And he's just resigned from Fortress Investment Group, where he was the chief executive - of all things! Bloody hell! I'm trying to concentrate on writing about finance here while dealing with all kinds of nonsense. There are literally morons shouting in the street outside my window. There is a cat screeching. (Do cats screech? Maybe it's howling.) Not my cat, thank God. I hate cats. However, I don't hate that three-legged cat that hangs around. If it's him, he can howl all he wants. I mean, he's disabled, ain't he - or it? But about Daniel Mudd. This is the man who had it in for Abraham Lincoln. No, sorry, that's not ... Daniel Mudd has just resigned from Fortress Investment Group [yes, yes] because the SEC is after him, suing him. He says he's innocent, of course. He says he never made false and misleading statements about exposing himself to ... on the subway?! No, Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac to subprime mortgages. Yes. Oh, yes! Clarity at last! Well, no. Almost. Isn't this the dream?

Yes, clarity is the dream. I would sell my soul to the devil for clarity. And control, concentration. The chaos of life? It's killing me. And I have more than the average joe because I notice it, and I let it all in.

I'm listening to Roxy Music's Country Life at the moment. How much did I like Bryan Ferry when I was seventeen? I dyed my hair black! That's how much. I liked David Bowie as well, obviously. It's why I wore those baggy trousers from his Stage tour. And let's leave David Sylvian out of it! I'm not discussing lip gloss.

Lee Marvin. Lee Marvin. Lee Marvin. Let's focus on Lee Marvin. Or maybe Steve McQueen. Bogart! I need Bogart to come to me, like in that Woody Allen film.

Bogart? I should be writing about the man whose name is Mudd, but life is too short.

Lloyd Blankfein calls me out of the blue

Well, he phoned me. I'm not saying he called my name. I'm not saying I heard my name on the wind all the way from New York. That would be fucking ridiculous and I'm surprised you fell for it. Do you believe everything I tell you?

No, he phoned me, late last night, out of the blue. This is what was spoken between us: 'Mikey, how you doing, boy? (What do you want, Lloyd? Who have I got to hit now?) What the f**k is this? Can't I call an old friend? We haven't spoken since the Lee Robinson affair. (No, I phoned you about my intern, remember?) Oh yeah. That freak. (You didn't give him a job, did you?) F**k no! (Good. So who do you want me to hit?) Mikey, Viniar gets all the contracts these days, you know this. You're hurting my feelings. (Lloyd, you haven't got any feelings. I can't imagine you became chief executive of Goldman by having feelings. Jesus.) Okay, Michael, I'll level with you. When are you coming back? I miss you, kid. (I'm not working for you again.) We had some laughs, didn't we? (The people we hurt, they weren't laughing, were they? I feel bad, Lloyd, real bad. I get these nightmares, you know? I see their faces, man.) You know your problem? You've been spending too much time with that little prick, Bobby D. He doesn't even pay you. (I ain't seen Bobby in ages. I ain't got no connection with Barclays any more. I'm on my own now, Lloyd. And that's the way I like it.) How are your songs coming along? (I'm making progress.) You ain't gonna be no Burt f**king Bacharach, Mikey! (What do you know about it?! Just fuck off, Lloyd, all right?) You're a shaman, for Christ's sake! The best there's ever been. (I've got more strings to my bow.) We'll see.'

Can you believe what a pain in the arse this guy is?