Monday, 1 November 2010

John McIntyre has been hired by Royal Bank of Scotland

As we can all imagine, John McIntyre was a banker who sued Commerzbank for not paying the bonus that Dresdner Kleinwort had promised him.

O Master, that's ridiculous! Who would do such a thing? Mr McIntyre, obviously. But imagine you worked at Goldman Sachs and sued the bank just because another bank, say, Barclays Capital, had promised you some money. These people are out of control! I'm starting to think Vince Cable isn't such an idiot after all.

O my child, Commerzbank bought Dresdner Kleinwort. If you haven't got anything sensible to say, keep your mouth shut.

I haven't got a mouth. I'm just a voice.

Mr McIntyre is going to be head of corporate finance in Europe, the Middle East and Africa. God knows how much RBS is going to pay him. Actually, we'll be paying, all the taxpayers of Great Britain. I hate these goddamn commie banks. But I don't hate Mr McIntyre. As you can no doubt believe, dear reader, Johnny is a personal friend of mine.

You and your personal friends! Is anyone a stranger, an enemy?

I'm glad you asked me that. Robert Tchenguiz is a stranger. Not to Johnny, but to me he is.

Bobby Tchenguiz, a stranger to the world's foremost financial shaman?! O Master, that's a lie. I can recall you having a conversation with him, a couple of years ago, when he lost all that money. £1 billion in twenty-four hours! Remember?


Come on, man. He was being all philosophical about it. And he told you about his love for that big elephant. And Big Herb.

O my child, you must be getting me mixed up with someone else. Robert Tchenguiz is a stranger to me. Oh, not to Johnny, but to me he is.

You've had a falling out!

No. Robert Tchenguiz is a stranger. He's just some Joseph looking for a manger. Dear reader, it's true that all the men you knew were dealers who said they were through with dealing every time you gave them shelter. Mr Tchenguiz is that kind of man.

You're talking shit!

O my child, that's Lenny, not me.

Lenny? Another stranger?

Another stranger? Yes. Now another stranger seems to want you to ignore his dreams as though they were the burden of some other. Oh, you've seen that man before, his golden arm dispatching cards, but now it's rusted from the elbow to the finger.


O my child, how did we get lost like this? How did we slip so far away from Johnny McIntyre?

One day we'll slip so far, we won't be able to get back.

Yes, maybe. Maybe we'll reach the Absolute. Maybe we won't want to get back, after reaching the Absolute.

O Master, is that really possible?

I have to believe it's possible. Post after post, hundreds of posts, hundreds of thousands of words! Like a river to the sea of God. One day, one glorious tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, I'll be clean. The dirt of life will be washed from me. No other living writer in the world thinks like this. A handful of dead ones on the plane, perhaps. No other (conventional) writer with an editor and a publisher would be allowed to get away with it. But this is the way of the shaman. Through stories of money I'll make it to the ultimate reality. The fire of that reality will probably destroy me though, or ...

Or give you a new life.

Yes, or give us a new life, a higher life.


Yes. Yes. Yes. We are the stranger.