It's been so exciting this week ...

... and I haven't written a word. Goldman. Greece. But so what? It's not as if I'm a professional, is it?

I'll be back next Tuesday/Wednesday. It will all be running smoothly by Thursday.

O Master, what will be running smoothly?

My twenty-four hour mystical financial news service.

Oh, you're having a laugh!

No.

Kenneth Marsh and Gryphon Holdings Inc: charged by the SEC!

Yes. Another day, another charge. I am absolutely convinced that the SEC and the FSA intend to charge everyone. Even you! So watch out!

Anyway. Kenneth E. Marsh. What do we know about him? Well, according to the SEC, Ken and his compadres were charging investors up to $250,000 for securities recommendations that they falsely claimed were based on 'sound research and successful strategies of trading experts with superior knowledge.' The SEC reckons these 'experts' did not exist. The full shit is here.

But you can see the problem, can't you? You can see why the cold earth wanderers at the SEC are so confused. Ken and the gang were obviously getting these tips from the ghosts of the dead financiers. Of course the SEC is going to say they don't exist! What does the SEC know about the other side?

Ken, mate, if you need any help in court, get in touch, yeah?

Lehman Brothers - Lamco!

O Master, is that Lame-co?

No, my child, it's Lamco. A new asset management company to be formed by Lehman Brothers.

Lehman Brothers? Aren't they dead?

That's what I thought. I thought they had died a long, long time ago.

But now they walk the earth again!

They never know when to give up.

It's like when Big Herb died. Everyone thought he had gone forever.

But he was wandering Scrutton Street, as a ghost.

Then he got away from Scrutton Street.

As I did, myself.

And he became a money god on the astral plane.

The money god we all know and love.

And he ain't lame.

He's our brother.

Who is Fabrice Tourre?

Who is he? Who is Fabrice Tourre? He will tell you!

Fabrice Tourre is the man at Goldman Sachs with the terrible loneliness of an exhausted soul that has burned too brightly and now just smoulders in a corner of the office. No one sees him. No one sees Mr Tourre. But I am here - waiting to be released! I will escape, with the help of my mystical friends. Mr Fowke will help me. Keith will help me. I will touch the astral sky. I am Fabrice. Remember me!

I'll never forget you, Fabrice. Never.

ABACUS 2007-AC1

I don't want anyone getting upset about ABACUS 2007-AC1. Do you understand me?

Goldman Sachs is not a collection of amateurs or crooks. They know what they are doing.

I am behind them all the way. To the end of the line. So is Big Herb.

Morgan Stanley Real Estate fund (MSREF VI) may lose $5.4 billion!

Bad investments, ain't it? It's an $8.8 billion fund. It might lose two-thirds of its money. Two-thirds! It might lose $5.4 billion!

Almost two-thirds.

But I wouldn't worry about it. I wouldn't. I wouldn't worry. Money comes. Money goes. But it goes around, and it comes back. Let money be free!

How much money do you have in your wallet? Right now. How much do you have?

Open your wallet. Let the money fly away. Open your purse - if you have one. All sorts read this blog. I don't mind.

Let the money fly! Up, up and away! Let it touch the sky. Your money, your love, will come back to you. With interest.

David Baker and Richard Barclay fined by the FSA

Another day, another fine. At least they weren't arrested in the Tottenham Court Road. Yes, David Baker, former deputy chief executive of Northern Rock, and Richard Barclay, former managing credit director at Northern Rock, have been fined £504,000 and £140,000 respectively.

I can't be bothered to discuss why they were fined. Bad record-keeping or something. The details are here, if you're really all that interested.

In their defence, I just want to say that maybe Dave and Rich were busy with other activities, and that maybe they didn't have the will or the inclination to keep accurate records. I mean, you know what it's like. How many of us, when we come back from a mad, burning session on the astral plane, have the energy or the enthusiasm to deal with paperwork and reports and all the other inconsequential shit that demands our attention on this cold earth? I'm not saying Dave and Rich are personal friends of mine because they're not. I hardly know them. But I have seen them in the mystical desert of our love, and I do know that they are decent men. They tried their best with Northern Rock. My one criticism is that they never employed any financial shamans at the bank. They were burning it up on the plane almost every night, and yet they never thought that it might be a good idea to apply what they had learnt to the running of Northern Rock. But never mind. We all make mistakes.

I know there are people at the FSA who read this blog. Is there any chance now that the fines will be cancelled? Come on, FSA. Do the right thing for once.

Lady Nina Bracewell-Smith is selling her stake in Arsenal

Yes, Lady Nina owns 15.9 per cent of Arsenal Football Club, but she doesn't want it no more, so she has hired Blackstone to find a buyer.

Now, I don't really know anything about football. I'm not interested in football. Although I used to support QPR when I was but a child. Maybe that explains it. I once saw them play Chelsea (two all, 26-12-1984). I saw Gerry Francis play as well - in the late Seventies! That's how old I am. But I digress. Let's concentrate on business. And they had a great song. Super Hoops something or other. Well, it wasn't great, but -

O Master, you're not concentrating on business, are you? You’re not even concentrating on Arsenal. This is just a load of shit about your childhood and QPR. Get a grip! And where's all the mystical stuff, man?

O my child, you want mystical stuff?

Yes. That's why we're here.

You little twat! I don't know whether you've noticed or not but there are over 900 posts in this blog, all dealing with 'mystical stuff'. Today, I want to write about QPR. And I want to write about my childhood. QPR are my local team. I might start going again. Terry Venables was the manager when they played Chelsea, you know.

I don't give a shit.

And one of the friends I went to that match with is a managing director now at a German bank.

So?

Well, this is a financial blog. I'm trying to stay on topic. I never saw Stan Bowles though.

Whatever. And Venables was at Barcelona.

Ravi Sinha and the phantom fees

Yet again, the FSA is fucking with one of my mates. I am convinced it is something personal against me. But the FSA knows it can't touch a man as powerful as I am, so it goes after my friends.

Ravi Sinha is the latest. He is being investigated by the FSA over claims that he skimmed money off the top - like some sort of Mafia hood, like Moe Greene - when he was working at the private equity firm JC Flowers. £1.3 million of phantom fees! From a company owned by his fund!

But those are just the mundane details. The FSA's problem is that it does not understand what phantom fees actually are.

When you are a mystic financier, an astral trader, an other-worldly dealer, a cosmic banker, an inner space cowboy, you quite often come face to face with the ghosts of the dead financiers. You will not always have to deal with them. Unless you are an established shaman like myself, they can be rather snooty. They are not as friendly as I often make them seem. It depends on the mood they are in. We all have our moods, don't we? A lot of the time, you will find them staring down at you, with a look of utter contempt on their pale faces, because they think they are all that and you a mere worm. And they are right. They are all that. They are special. You most probably are a worm. Not in your everyday life, of course. You could be a very successful hedge fund manager in your earthly wanderings. But that would mean nothing to the ghosts if they bumped into you in the astral sky, one warm night at the beginning of summer - we are almost there - as you looked dreamily at the desert sands, not seeing them dancing all around. And the point is, if you did meet them, they would question you about your latest deals, and they would want a taste. Yes, they would want their phantom fees! And there would be nothing that you could do about it. You could not refuse the ghosts. That would mean certain death. So you would pay them.

O my children, my brothers, my sisters, if you see the ghosts, pay them! There is nothing corrupt about it. That's the way business is done in our reality.

The FSA will never understand.

What was Ali Hedayat?

Oh, Ali Hedayat has left the Goldman Sachs Principal Strategies unit or group or whatever it is. He is no longer a managing director and a co-head. So what will he become? And what was he, really? If we had a clear idea of what he used to be, it would help us understand the man who will surely be reborn now. And later we will have to understand that. I mean, the rebirth.

Fortunately, Ali is here, and he wants to speak to us -

Ali Hedayat was a man you could look at and your eyes would just water because you would be so happy to see him. Yes, there would be tears of joy! And these tears would roll down your cheeks and fall from your face into the sand. A cactus would suck up the tears, and then this cactus would become a giant astral cactus covered in banknotes, like something out of a Mickey Clark fantasy.

Ali Hedayat was a man you could listen to all the astral night long as he whispered bitter words into your ear regarding the ghosts of certain financiers who were mad for money even though they had neither flesh nor bones and so could not enjoy their wealth in quite the same way as we mortals could. Ali hated the ghosts, which was unusual, as most mystics loved them. But you still listened! That was the power and the charm of a man like Ali. No, not like him. It was him.

Ali Hedayat was a man you could sense all around you. He may not have been there with you, physically, but you were always a little suspicious, fearing that maybe he was spying on you, floating above you in his astral body. And if you didn't have your astral eyes in, you wouldn't have seen him, would you? But you would have sensed him. And that would have been unsettling. I am sorry if he alarmed you, this Ali.

Thank you, Ali. Maybe I’ll invite you back after your rebirth.

Update: I've been re-reading Ali's ramblings. He seems very confused. One minute we see him, the next minute we don't. He hates the ghosts (no flesh, no bones), and yet he doesn't seem to mind floating around in his astral body. He's a mysterious man!

Update II: No, he's just been in touch. He hated the ghosts - in the past. But not any more. Because he is preparing to be reborn. Oh, I'm confused!

The SEC wants to track high-speed trades!

For fuck's sake! Can't they leave anything alone? Does everything have to be regulated? The US Securities and Exchange Commission wants to give high-frequency trading firms unique identifiers.

They'll be following traders into the toilet next. And the FSA will want to get involved. Someone will be arrested in the Tottenham Court Road. For his problems. For the way he feels. But it's society's crime!

It's so different on the astral plane, in the astral desert, in the astral sea, in the astral sky, flying high.

We all fly high in the astral sky. Traders can be free!

Dear reader, have you ever read Erich Fromm's The Fear of Freedom? And that's not a mystic child talking, you understand. I just put the title of the book in italics.

You should use bold for my voice then.

All right, the child is in bold. But back to Erich. See if you can dig this shit: 'The individual overcomes the feeling of insignificance in comparison with the overwhelming power of the world outside himself either by renouncing his individual integrity, or by destroying others so that the world ceases to be threatening.'

What's that got to do with the SEC?

The people who work at the SEC want to destroy 'others'. In this case, traders.

They feel threatened!

Of course they do. But I say - leave the traders alone!

Renounce your individual integrity instead.

Yes. That's what they should do.

Roger Guy ain't leaving Gartmore

Well, that's a fucking relief! I was saying to Keith last week when it all kicked off with Roger's mate Guillaume Rambourg getting suspended by Gartmore, I was saying, I was saying something along the lines of - oh, Keith, Roger better not get all upset now and have a fit and fall on the floor and start tearing at his clothes and wailing, with spittle out of his mouth, and snot in his hair, his eyes wildly spinning in their sockets, I know that's what we would do, but Roger has got to play it smart, he's got to keep his temper under control, that terrible temper of his, and just stay in the job, because there ain't no one who wants to see him leaving, leaving town, walking down the road like that sad Incredible Hulk prat at the end of each episode of that classic Seventies television show with the corny fucking music. And Keith agreed with me.

And do you know what this Mr Guy guy says? He says he's totally committed to the firm. He has always been totally committed to the firm. And we believe him. Keith and I believe him. And do you know why Keith believes him? It's because - and these are Keith Busby's own words, or near enough - it's because, it is because Keith has seen Roger, I have seen Roger, this million pound for a guy, in all his glory, in all his glorious insanity, burning it up in the astral desert of our ... our subconsciousnessesnesses! Keith has seen. I have seen. Keith knows, I knows, what kind of man Roger is. And I believe him as well, this Roger, because I have also seen him in flames, sand up his nose, all burnt up, mad septum, the lot of it, with voices and ghosts, all sticky with mystic love. And because I have seen, because Keith has seen, we know he is staying. That's why we believe. We believe this guy. We believe in Guy. And we know Guillaume is going to be all right. He will come back stronger than ever. Bigger than ever! Bolder than ever. With an aura that means business! Yes, he will have an aura that means business.

Of course, Guillaume does, he does, travel down life's lonely highway, like Dr David Banner. He has admitted it. That's why he needs Roger. These two men are soulmates. We are not going to stand idly by, no! We will not stand idly by, no! We will not stand by and allow this beautiful friendship to be broken up. These men were born to be together. That's the way Keith and I see it. And that's what we will be telling the bosses at Gartmore.

Keith and I are going to take action! Anyone can write a blog, moaning about this and that. But how many bloggers are prepared to take real action in a situation like this? Hardly any. But I will. And so will Keith. Even though he doesn't have a blog. But that doesn't matter. I am not going to cast the first stone at Keith. There's more to life than blogging, you know.

So we'll be having a word with these Gartmore slags. Oh, more than a word! We will lay into them with our fists if they don't bring Guillaume back into the bosoms of the Gartmore family. We will pound them into astral dust if they don't bring Guillaume in from the cold, to warm himself in the ... in the warmth that emanates from Roger Guy's aura. Yes, it will not come as a surprise, will it? No! It has not come as a surprise for you to learn or not learn that Mr Guy already has an aura that means business. Even more reason to keep the two boys together.

Money sings to me

Money sings to me in dreams and nightmares like an untouchable **** bent on destruction.

Whose voice is that?

I know only the voices. Your voice, my child. Their voices. This hell of money. This heaven of money. Money burns. It burns within. Sand in my mouth. It feels so good. Feels so bad. I dream. You dream. We all dream.

In the desert, O Master?

Yes, in the desert. That is where we dream. Bloodless. Full of blood. It is all there is. Feel it. The sand is burning. Our souls are cracking. It is a beast. The beast. Cosmic energy. This ****.

What is our goal, O Master?

Shut your fucking mouth! Can't you see I'm in a trance? Are you blind? Are you deaf? Are you Death?

I am Death.

Money sings to me. Singing from the mountain. In the cave. The cave of my unsatisfied mind, where Satan is waiting. Satan waits for me. He waits for you. He waits for everyone.

Isn't that so beautiful?

No. No, it is ugly. A stain on my consciousness. And yours. Bleeding. Waiting. Laughing. Screaming.

Crying?

Money sings to me. I cry. I do not want to hear. Keep the singing away from me. Fuck it. Chakras whirling out into space like Catherine wheels on a mystic journey. Fire all over my body. Senses on fire. Nerves on fire. Brain on fire. It burns. Money sings. It burns.

O Master, this is more painful than anything else we could experience, and yet it is beautiful.

Money sings to me. It sings of the pain. The pain in my wallet. Beyond the eyes. In the soul. And the heart. A wallet of love. Empty. And full. Champagne and caviar on a naked body, burning. Burning. It sings.