Wednesday, 24 February 2010

F**k the world

(after 2Pac)

How long have you been sleeping, my child? Everyone wants to rape you. They want to kill you. They want to eat your flesh. How can you live in such a world?

O Master, I woke up screaming 'fuck the world!'

How long have you been dying in your endless night? This is thug life. Everyone wants your power. O my child, everyone wants to squeeze your soul. They want the juice of your soul.

O Master, I woke up screaming 'fuck the world!'

We will wake up and go from terror to terror. There is no relief. The devils are everywhere. Killers of the human spirit. Can we ever be awake enough?

O Master, I woke up screaming 'fuck the world!'

The Universal Spirit can open our eyes, but can it be reached? We need to escape this corruption, this evil. We need to touch the ultimate reality. O my child, what do you say?

O Master, I woke up screaming 'fuck the world!'

Tuesday, 23 February 2010

FSA returning £270,000 to muppets (victims) of share fraud!

I am not sure I like this. The FSA will return £270,000 to various muppets who had their money ripped off by Rothman Capital, Bishop Capital, Bernam Shore, and Investor Relations Corp. Apparently, the muppets were forced to buy shares in a company called Eduvest Plc. And the shares were worthless. Of course, they weren't forced. Someone phoned them up and said 'buy these shares' and they said 'oh, okay'.

But why is the FSA returning the money? Shouldn't this money be allowed to find its own way through life? If it wants to remain in the bank account of a dodgy broker, why should the FSA interfere? I believe that money knows the way. Every banknote, every coin, has a destiny. Money is smart. People are stupid. Money knows the darkness. Money knows the light. Money knows fear, knows insanity. Money knows joy. People know nothing. Money can reach to heaven. It has been to hell. Money will live forever. You can trust money. You know where you are with money. Money feels good. Have you ever stuffed a burning banknote into your mouth? Have you ever given yourself that pleasure? Oh, you have not lived! You don't know. You don't know. You don't know. But money knows. Money knows. Money knows. Yes. Yes. Yes.

Monday, 22 February 2010

Antigone Loudiadis: is she close to Zeus?

That's what everyone wants to know. Does Antigone Loudiadis have an intimate relationship with Zeus?

O Master, I doubt very much that Ms Loudiadis has had any contact at all with Zeus.

Well, my child, when she was European head of sales for the fixed-income, currencies and commodities unit at Goldman Sachs she did a deal that helped hide all this Greek debt stuff. She's obviously well-connected.

Maybe. But not with Zeus. He's dead.

I beg your pardon?

Zeus is dead. No one worships him any more.

Okay. So who was I having dinner with just the other night?

Antigone?!

No, Zeus! Zeus is a thought-form on the astral plane, or don't you know that?

Ah. That's not quite the same thing.

It's good enough.

Not really. A thought-form is a very poor substitute for a genuine god.

O my child, you can't be too fussy. Not in this day and age.

So what are you saying, O Master, that this thought-form of Zeus helped Ms Loudiadis with the Greek deal?

I'm saying, foolish one, that he has helped her with her whole career. She's the chief executive of Rothesay Life now. How do you think she got that job?

Through hard work! Come on, boss. Don't take the piss.

'A feast of flesh for keen-eyed carrion birds'!

Eh?

Don't worry about it.

Thursday, 18 February 2010

The ignorant

Not knowing, not seeing, not feeling, safe in their offices, safe in their positions, safe in their bodies, even safer in their dull minds. Not burnt by words, not burnt by visions. Not fucked out of shape by improper emotions.

Not living in shit. Not living in poverty. Not struggling in any way whatsoever. They have not reached the extremes of human life. They have not been stretched. Dead inside. They feel alive. But that is an illusion.

Impressed by blandness. Impressed by superficiality. Impressed by phoniness. Impressed by civility. Impressed by convention. Impressed by spiritual death. They are the dead.

Not just the ignorant. These people are the dead. Not just the cold. These people are colder than death. Not just the dead. They are deader than dead.

Tuesday, 16 February 2010

Mehmet Sepil (£967,005!), Murat Ozgul (£105,240!), and Levent Akca (£94,062!)

What the fuck is the FSA up to now? Fining these three wonderful guys: Mehmet (chief executive of Genel Enerji), Murat, and Levent. All personal friends of mine. For what?

Insider trading! Oh, big deal! Whatever. Who cares? It happens all the time on the astral plane. So they made a bit of money out of Heritage Oil. Good luck to them!

'On 4 May 2009, Sepil, Ozgul and Akca flew to London together to attend a series of meetings. They also discussed the positive test results. The next day, they all contacted their brokers and purchased shares in Heritage.' Ah, that's from the FSA's website - here. They flew to London. That was their mistake. I mean, I presume Mehmet, Murat, and Levent (we're on first name terms) flew by airplane. If they had come over in their astral bodies and conducted their business the way shamans and mystics do, there wouldn't have been a problem. The FSA would have been completely in the dark. But get this: 'Three months after the trading Sepil, Ozgul and Akca voluntarily contacted the FSA expressing remorse and made certain admissions concerning the basis for their trading. At an early stage, all three individuals offered disgorgement of the profits they had made. The FSA recognises that none of the executives set out to commit market abuse. Their co-operation and early offer of disgorgement were also taken into account in determining the appropriate outcome.' Fuck me! That's how honest these guys are! I've seen a different side to them. And the FSA was in the dark all along, despite my Turkish friends' foolish disregard for the astral plane.

The moral of this story? The FSA needs to get a grip. And it definitely needs to discover what lies beyond. O Master, within? Yeah, or within. Of course, I wouldn't want that. Long may the FSA remain the home of cold earth wanderers.

Monday, 15 February 2010

Laurent Chevallier moves to Eurofin Capital like a shadow across the sun

Like a ghost gliding along a passageway, or like a snake looking for someone to bite, Laurent Chevallier has sneakily left Unigestion and joined Eurofin Capital as some sort of violent head full of screamings for alternative research. He screams inside his aching head. Yes, he does. I know him. You see, this man believes in alternative realities, and those animals at Eurofin have asked him - no, they've demanded that he put his soul on the line to research these realities. Yes, he believes. No, he has not been trained. He is not a financial shaman. He is not a mystic. Just an ordinary man. A simple man.

O Master, is this job too big for an ordinary man, a simple man?

O my child, yes! Yes, it is too big. But we will help him. We will make him complicated and extraordinary. A true child of the astral plane!

How will we help him, O glorious one, Master of all the shamans?

We will take him, and break him, break him down into little pieces. Then we will remake him. We will put sand in his mouth. Yes, he will choke, and he will hate it - maybe even rue the day he was born - but he will survive. We will show him things, wonders beyond the dreams of any cold soul.

We will warm him up! But is it true, O Master, that Mr Chevallier gets off on client-centric philosophy?

FUCK THAT SHIT!!! Fuck the clients! That is where Laurent has gone wrong in the past. And Eurofin has gone wrong. I blame James Edwards. I do. You have to think of yourself first in this game, if you want to get anywhere. All my lonely years wandering in the desert, did I give a toss about any clients? Squares who don't know nothing about nothing. They just want you to make money for them. Make money! Oh, money! They don't care about the burnings. They don't care about the love. They don't know that every time you open yourself up to the cosmos there is a danger that you won't be touched by Big Herb or Ganesh, you won't have dead financiers dancing around you, enticing you, teasing you; there is a danger, yes, a real danger, yes, yes, that you could be blown away. Your soul could be blasted out of your body, and that would be the end of you. The end of your journey through life, through many lives. Finished!

Jesus!

Jesus has nothing to do with it. I am Jesus. I am Jesus for all our people. I am the light of the world. UNDERSTAND ME BEFORE I LOSE MY TEMPER.

O Master, no one understands you! How are you supposed to help Mr Chevallier? If he sees you coming with demonic eyes and flames out of your mouth, like this, just like this, he will run a mile. You won't be able to rock him on the water, drown him in astral sands or oceans. He won't let you near him. And then he will never know about the alternatives.

Oh, the alternatives. I WILL FUCKING SHOW HIM! He will not be able to escape me. I will give him oceans of pain. Deserts of misery! I will take him to hell before I go off floating at the stars. Set sail for oblivion! That's me. Him? Terror in the Shadowlands! That's the alternative he will get. An alternative to life lived in comfort. An alternative to fine wines and expensive meals in fancy restaurants. It's all coming to an end! Let him eat camel dung! Let him! Let him see the -

Please, Master, this is too much!

Oh, you fool! This is the derangement I have been building up to. Do I care? Do I fucking care now? Do you have any idea how frustrating it is in this straitjacket of a financial blog? Who am I? Felix Nutjob? Or the Epicurean Slag? Why is this my destiny? I MUST FIGHT IT! I will tear my shirt off tomorrow, yes, tomorrow, and crawl around the City of London, drenched in the blood of innocent bankers, and I will laugh with a sick expression on my face, and I will howl with tears streaming down. Let them deal with that! LET THEM HAVE IT! This is what I want! I want to live like this. I will jump in the Thames! They won't be able to find me.

Who will write your blog?

FUCK THE BLOG!

Wednesday, 10 February 2010

Hector Sants resigns

Yes, he has resigned to live forever in eternity! Oh, he is no longer the chief executive of the dreaded FSA, and he says he has no particular plans, but oh, I have particular plans for him.

O Master, are you going to drag him to eternity?

Yes, my child, I will take him beyond this world. I will drown him in the sands of our mystic desert. There he will learn new ways. WE WILL TEACH HIM.

O Master, what will we teach him?

We will teach him corruption and death and evil!

Eh?

Listen, my child, the time for silly games is over. The honest, the sane, the safe, the petty, the right-on, the politically correct, the obedient, the bland, the unimaginative, the conventional, the grey, the totally fucking annoying scum - they have all had their time in the sun, and what have they achieved? Nothing! Well, they have made life unbearable for anyone with a bit of spirit. Yes, they have achieved that. But the times they are a-changin'. WE WILL SHOW THEM THE TERROR! And we will start with Hector!

O Master, about fucking time! This is what I have been waiting for. All my whisperings in your head while you slept had some effect after all. WE WILL BURN THEM! NO PRISONERS!

No prisoners! Come with me, Hector. Be the first. Come and see how the other half live.


Update
: Big Herb has contacted me. Someone complained, apparently. Anyway, he is not at all pleased about this move towards corruption and evil. Oh, dear reader, I was only joking. You know that, don't you?

Monday, 8 February 2010

Lautreamont said (I'm in heaven when you bleed)

Far more demonic than Rimbaud, two or three years in front, and thirty or forty years behind. He really is in heaven when I bleed all over you, dear reader. Emotional bleeding. Intellectual bleeding. Physical bleeding? Yes! Blood on the screen! Your screen! We can only hope. Surely, it is only a matter of time. And a matter of taking it further.

'Here is something that excites me to the point of delirium.' We have not reached that point yet, but we will. This is my heart of darkness. He can't envy me. Avant-garde literature before a mass audience, courtesy of Google. Derangements given to grey souls. Bewildering words, sick visions, emotions beyond reason. I'm sure he would prefer a limited edition for the discerning reader. Or maybe not. I'll ask him next time.

'One must be absolutely modern.' That is so true. But it can be painful. How do you cut yourself off from the old forms, the literatures that people understand and appreciate? How do you cut yourself off from barbaric society and create your own sophisticated, civilized society? Oh, you must be strong. That goes without saying. But you need more than strength. You need to have faith in the future. You must accept that everyone around you is a ghost in the time that you will be understood.

I have faith in the future.

Peter Hancock: a new powerful man, almost a f***ing god!

This is how it goes. One minute you are inventing credit derivatives. The next minute, which could be years away, you are working for AIG, as a new powerful man, in a new powerful role, almost a fucking god - as they say.

O Master, as who say?

You know who. And you know why. WE ARE COVERED IN BLOOD. Sand sticking to our bloody faces. Pete is joining us. He knows it is for the best.

Almost a god! At this rate, the astral plane will be stuffed with gods and mystic men who are almost gods. But where are all the goddesses?

O my child, Gillian's time will come. She will join us. Big Herb is watching her.

O Master, what about the priestess of the holy cash? Will she -

Become a goddess? It is not impossible.

Anything is possible.

Yes. Yes. Yes. Anything is possible.

EDHEC-Risk Institute: private clients matter ...

If you think that achieving a client's long-term goals should not depend upon the vagaries of the market ...

Then we ought to talk.

But I ain't talking to them. I ain't talking to no squares ever again. BUT THEY BETTER READ THIS!

If you think that integrating a client's aversion to risk means taking into account the risk of not achieving their objectives ...

ENOUGH ALREADY!

It's the same everywhere you go. Everywhere you look. Firms, institutes, websites, newspapers. They all know what is best for you. They want to brainwash you.

THIS MUST STOP!

Why no mention of the desert? What are these people so scared of?

Why no mention of the love that burns forever? Are they sick?

THEY ARE SICK.

Brevan Howard: Geneva but not the desert

A voice came in my head. Brevan Howard, Europe's largest hedge fund, is going to open an office in Geneva. Staff from London will be able to relocate there, if they choose. To escape mad taxes, mad regulations. That's if they choose. Geneva but not the desert.

O Master, shouldn't they just leave the earth?

They should. They should wander the astral sands of the desert of our dreams. There are no taxes at all. No regulations. No FSA. No SEC. No government.

O Master, there is Big Herb.

Yes, my child, there is Big Herb. There are the ghosts of the dead financiers. And I will be there. Waiting.

Waiting with open arms?

Of course. With an open soul as well. I will take the Brevan Howard boys and girls into my soul. They will merge. One.

You're becoming more like a god every day!

Yes. I am becoming more like a god every day. I am not afraid of my destiny. Lost in lonely nights, with no Gillian to comfort me, I sometimes feel as if I am floating off into another existence beyond the flesh and bones of my present one. But it is difficult to get back from such ...

Oh, who would want to get back?!

My child, I still have work to do, here on earth. I must convince people - even the cold earth wanderers.

Even the cold earth wanderers?! Are you serious?

Deadly serious. Brevan Howard must understand there is no profit in Geneva. No glory. No love. This hedge fund is looking in all the wrong places.

Will Brevan Howard ever find the way, O my Master?

The way might find them.

Is that possible?

Anything is possible.

Thursday, 4 February 2010

SEC pesters Paulson & Co for fund information

Okay. First, the good news: I've got a new laptop and I'm all ready to rock on the net again. Or I would be. Because the bad news is I've got swine flu. Or some kinda flu. But I feel like shit. That's the basic point I'm trying to get across to you muthas. So you will have to forgive me if this post doesn't make any sense because I don't know where I am and I don't know what I'm doing. What's new, eh?

The SEC wants some information from John Paulson! Can you believe this shit? John, mate, don't tell them a thing. Who are they to come to you when you're so busy making money? Have they ever had real jobs in their whole lives, any of them? But don't worry, John. Big Herb and I have got your back. We love you, John.

Tuesday, 2 February 2010

SEC charges David Slaine!

Now let's get this clear in our heads. David Slaine was a mole for the government, man. He was helping them in the Galleon case. And now the SEC has the nerve to charge him with insider trading?! He only made a paltry $500,000! What the hell is going on?

More to come. Watch this space ...

Update:

Oh, hang on. He agreed to plead guilty. But why?

Oh, Jack Pickles. Of course. Sorry, everyone. Sorry for the confusion.

Yeah, he was one of the CWs. I must keep up.

Monday, 1 February 2010

Neptune Investment Management: what the f**k?!

The core of Neptune's approach is identifying the best companies in the best industries. At Neptune they invest in sectors they're confident are poised to outperform. They believe the success of their high conviction approach is a result of the painstaking research conducted on the astral plane at macro, sector and stock level.

In other words, they ask the questions that allow them to know what's what.

O Master, this is amazing! But what is what?

O my child, I am glad you asked me that. What is what? When I am off floating in my head of sandy dreams it rarely matters what is what. I can look at someone, a journalist maybe, and say 'What is that?', and I have no idea. I can look at the sun oozing all over the sky staining my eyes red and still not know or care what is what. So what's what?

More to the point, how does Neptune ask the questions to know what's what?

Questions, questions, questions! O my child, I have no idea how they know or what they know or why or when they know. They obviously think it is important. And perhaps it is. After all, that is how they do business. That's how they make money. And there is nothing wrong with making money - as we all know. But I feel they could be missing something. Instead of concentrating on what's what maybe they should turn their thoughts to that's that.

O Master, what's that's that?

That is that. Over there! Can you see it?

What?

That!


This should not be seen as an invitation to buy or sell. The value of an investment and the income from it can fall as well as rise as a result of market movement and you may not get back the amount originally invested. Private investors, if necessary, should contact their independent investment adviser or authorised intermediary before investing.

Neil Barofsky: Witchfinder General

Neil Barofsky, the special Witchfinder General overseeing the US government's financial rescue efforts, is to probe allegations of shamanistic activity among bank executives and their associates.

He phoned me late last night. He wanted to get something off his chest. No, not a succubus. This is what he told me: 'Mr Fowke, you won't want to hear this, but I am going to speak my mind: I'm sick of all this voodoo shit you have unleashed upon the financial world. Everywhere I turn I am faced with the appalling sight of bankers indulging in unnatural practices - praying to some sort of hellish plant, a big herb (maybe even smoking it); conversing with the spirits of dead financiers; and - most disturbingly of all - picking up inside information from the astral plane. Yes, the astral plane! A sinister realm beyond the reach of the government and the SEC! This cannot continue. So I'll tell you what will happen. If I suspect any bankers of being in league with you and your cohorts and this big plant, I will cut them! Yes, I will cut their arms. If they do not bleed, I will know they are Satan's children. I will employ prickers. Oh yes! They will prick the accused with needles. They will look for the mark of the dark one. Yes, Mr Fowke. Just be thankful that I won't be coming to England to tie you to a chair and throw you in the Thames with that familiar of yours.'

Familiar? Oh, he must have meant that urban fox in my garden. The man is insane! He's talking like I'm Jack Pickles or something.