The Economist has an advert in a newspaper today, saying: If you find rubbish in The Economist it's because there's an extremely interesting story about rubbish.
Whatever. If you find rubbish in my blog one morning, it's because I feel totally fucked after the night before. Take last night. I watched the Champions League final. Nothing wrong with that. I got to bed just before midnight and quickly fell asleep. So far so good. The trouble started at four - always the danger hour. I was attacked by a ghost in my bed. Normally I don't mind. I've had so many ghosts now that I've lost count and it's just routine. But this bastard wouldn't leave me alone. Apparently, he was a dead stockbroker - Edmund Rawlings can tell you about those guys. He kept going on and on, saying buy this stock, buy that stock. I was very polite at first but eventually had to say to the man: Listen, mate, you're dead! It's not your business any more to be pushing stock. Can't you chill out a bit and relax? Surely there are far more interesting things that you could be doing on the astral plane. Get a life!
Well, he left me alone after that. But I woke up feeling guilty this morning. Maybe I was too harsh with him. But that's all part of a financial shaman's life. And that's why I laugh when I hear kids straight out of college talking about the way of the shaman, the glamour and all that. It ain't all it's cracked up to be.
