... but CityUnslicker insisted. Normally, I don't touch these commie twats with a bargepole. Financial journalists are all the same, aren't they? Oh, that's a bit harsh. What the fuck is their problem?
This was Mr Blackhurst yesterday: 'On this page in recent months, I've bemoaned the City folk who fail to give anything back. I make no apology for that - on their heads be it as they wonder why the fat cats of the Square Mile continue to be held in such low esteem by the rest of society.' First, CityUnslicker himself got on the blower to me, 'Mikey, you’ve got to take this c**t down a peg or two.' Then I sprang into action. I smashed into Chris Blackhurst's consciousness. He was in the bath at the time, but he had to take my voice, right in the head, like a diamond bullet. The genius of that! 'Oh, who is this? Am I going insane? Lord have mercy on me! (Calm down, you prick! It's Michael Fowke, the world's foremost financial shaman. I want a word with you.) Never heard of you. How did you get in my head?! (Listen, mate, I love the fat cats. And it ain't just me. Big Herb loves them. Ganesh the elephant god loves them. The ghosts of the dead financiers love them. The mystical children love them. If you want to pick a fight with the fat cats, you'll have to come through us first. Let's see you in the desert, dickhead. Scared and lonely, naked, covered in blood - how are you going to cope? You won't last five minutes.) I'm not scared of you! (You don't even know me. Ask around. Then we'll speak again.) I'm not scared of you!'
Not scared of me. He really must be stupid.
This was Mr Blackhurst yesterday: 'On this page in recent months, I've bemoaned the City folk who fail to give anything back. I make no apology for that - on their heads be it as they wonder why the fat cats of the Square Mile continue to be held in such low esteem by the rest of society.' First, CityUnslicker himself got on the blower to me, 'Mikey, you’ve got to take this c**t down a peg or two.' Then I sprang into action. I smashed into Chris Blackhurst's consciousness. He was in the bath at the time, but he had to take my voice, right in the head, like a diamond bullet. The genius of that! 'Oh, who is this? Am I going insane? Lord have mercy on me! (Calm down, you prick! It's Michael Fowke, the world's foremost financial shaman. I want a word with you.) Never heard of you. How did you get in my head?! (Listen, mate, I love the fat cats. And it ain't just me. Big Herb loves them. Ganesh the elephant god loves them. The ghosts of the dead financiers love them. The mystical children love them. If you want to pick a fight with the fat cats, you'll have to come through us first. Let's see you in the desert, dickhead. Scared and lonely, naked, covered in blood - how are you going to cope? You won't last five minutes.) I'm not scared of you! (You don't even know me. Ask around. Then we'll speak again.) I'm not scared of you!'
Not scared of me. He really must be stupid.
