Is BlueCrest Capital moving from London to Geneva? Well, just a little bit. Fifty staff will be doing a runner, to get away from higher taxes, and new European Union hedge fund regulations, and Christ knows what other outrageous commie nonsense that these brave men and women are supposed to put up with. But they won't! They won't put up with it!
Personally, I think the whole operation should be moved to the astral plane. Fuck London! London is as dead as a dodo now. It's like North Korea or something. How can proud, ambitious, money-hungry capitalists be expected to work in such an environment? And Geneva? Geneva ain't bad, financially speaking, but the place is packed to the rafters with cuckoo clock motherfuckers. No, it's got to be the astral plane. Mike Platt should grow a pair and say: That's it! We're going to the astral plane. We're off to see the wizard. Well, not the fucking wizard as such, but we're off to see Michael Fowke, the world's foremost financial shaman. We're going to burn now, with peyote, and flowers in our hair. We will touch the sky! This is going to be just like Haight-Ashbury in the Sixties, man. But with more money! Not that the Beatles and the Stones ever went short. It's all well and good this peace, love and understanding lark, but all anyone ever really wants is money, man! You go back in time to ancient Egypt or you go forward in time to the empires of, er, the future times, yeah? All you will find is people chasing after money. It's the way it's always been. Way it will always be. Ain't nobody changing human nature, man. I don't care how many Guardian readers come out of the fucking woodwork. Anyway, we've got our own love, our new love. The love that Mr Fowke has taught us. And peace! And understanding! In fact, this crazy cat has peace that passeth all understanding. I don't know what the fuck he's going on about half the time. All I know is, Mr Fowke leaves me feeling peaceful, so mellow, after laying his holy shit on me. And who could ask for more? We shouldn't expect too much of him. Asking him to make sense at a time like this, a time of terrible crunching when hardly anything makes sense, would be an imposition. Yes, nothing less than an imposition! So let's leave him be, living his dreams beyond the reach of reason. We love him. He loves us. What else is needed?
THAT'S WHAT MR PLATT SHOULD SAY! If only he had the gumption.
THAT'S WHAT MR PLATT SHOULD SAY! If only he had the gumption.
