Wednesday, 21 December 2011

So close to salvation

Round, and round, and round. Oh, pigs. We're fucking pigs. And this isn't the first time. It's like a curse. It's like a nightmare in a dream factory. But don't get upset. It's only a bit of fun. / I, I can be so close - I am so close - to salvation, if I choose. Oh, it seems but is not: impossible. We all can - we all are, I - if we choose. Let's choose! Have we the wills? You (we!) I, I, I ... gotta make a choice, anytime soon! Sometimes there's ... lots of choices, far too many. / Life or death! Love or hate! Is it true? And ... / Ain't no need for no Jesus. No! And there ain't no need for no priest. We, I, I let go, now, oh, we can! Because this is personal, for us. But not for Him. I have to say, God doesn't have a personality. You'll be glad to hear. I am glad to say it, to write it. God doesn't have a personality. Yes! Can you hear? Can you read? [Can I jump in here? Again, and again, and again ... going round, in, and out ...] Ah ... He doesn't have an ego like the devil ... [ol' red eyes is back!] / uh, devil, we ... are the devil, sometimes. We've got to be aware of the devil. Open your eyes! So blue, an ocean of pain. 'Mine eyes have seen ...' / There are no rules. Only, yes, only the rules we make for ourselves. There are no rules in the sky - up there! Only the rules on earth that we make, not our masters. We are free. Hard to believe, I know, when we see the chains, but they're an illusion - if only we knew. / If only we could really see ...

It's money ... ? /

Money, yes. It is. Afraid so. [So, am I afraid?] Ah. It's a secret. / No! Er ... / Money (is funny, ha, oh) ... it takes, it breaks, no ... it makes - the world go ... round / round / round. / And a ... round / I am a/round in, here, hello, and a/round on, and round with, your dizzy head, so dizzy soul, a/round with you, so ooo into y ooo u - ah! It's so ooo ooo intimate. / [I wrote about the devil again, right here, and it disappeared, I can't remember, er: 'Like the devil, really like the devil' or something, then it disappeared.] (Into the darkness? No, not that dramatically.) [I ...] / So, come on, come dance with me in hell, well? / Oh, it's a confusing time, for sure. And ... all the time, it comes and goooooeees. There's no knowing where it comes from [and I shut my eyes, tight] or where it goes to ooo. I know you see, yes, you know, I, we're round and round, so dizzy, so into each other (and salvation? - if we can get it.) Together, we are, up there, we go, down, we go, round and round, up and up, and we, down and down, and deeper, and lower, and up, oh, we're higher than we've ever been! / No angels here though - way up there(!), that's too high, only for angels, untouchable, unfortunately ... / So, give me the vision, right now, I want ... and not any old vision: I want the vision that changes consciousness and kills all the pain we get, I ... I've paid the price, over and over, I've been isolated, I've cried in the desert, so [Lord?] give me the vision that 'I' deserve. Man, I'm a real outsider, so give me the real outside. / It's like outta space - out there(!), so, I gotta get outta here, all stuffed with demons! (They think they're writers, for Christ's sake!) Let's put it together, this, hungry for ... one vision from fragments, images in my head. Oh, one goddamn clear sight of it, that's all I'm asking for, in the pit, no, not in the pit [my fate?] Just one philosophy from voices in the night, children. We are dancing, yes, it's the time(?), that time, the only time, I ... / And there must be a reason! Surely? Yes? No? Just, oh, like there's a way? We wouldn't have a way without a reason! Ha! That wouldn't make any sense at all. Er ... / [So ...] / Focus! Please. We're going somewhere to escape. This ain't paradise. (Oh, you've noticed?) The awful mess, it's crushing us, and ... we can't breathe, I, there's too much misery, too much fear, too much hassle, we're having the life crushed out of us, like (we are!) dirty pigs in a hole, those cold bodies in a mass grave, already dead, so ... well, it's all gone, then, in that case.

_________________________


Right, that's it for this year. I hope you have a nice Christmas. I'll be back on Tuesday 3rd January.

My New Year’s resolution? I'm going to give up writing - literature - to become one of these c**ting finance professionals I've heard so much about - ha!

No, seriously, I'll be back on the third.

Friday, 16 December 2011

Jaspreet Singh Ahuja isn't fit or proper

According to the FSA, that is.

'The Financial Services Authority (FSA) has today banned and fined Jaspreet Singh Ahuja, a former client adviser at UBS AG (UBS), £150,000 for failing to act with integrity, in breach of Principle 1 of its Statements of Principles and Code of Conduct for Approved Persons ("APER") and for not being a fit and proper person. Ahuja is prohibited from performing any function in relation to any regulated activity in the financial services industry.' More, than is healthy.

This is an outrage!

Doesn't the FSA realize that we're only one week away from Christmas? What kind of Christmas is Jaspreet going to have now? I can't believe the heartlessness of it.

_________________________


Dead sharks don't have hearts. They don't have feelings. It's impossible to deal with them. As you know, this one doesn't even believe in death. What are we going to do?

George Sepero and Carmelo Provenzano have been arrested by the FBI

I just thought you should know. You might have money invested in their hedge fund Ponzi scheme. Well, that's what they've been charged with. Wire fraud conspiracy, Ponzi stuff, computer trading, 170 per cent returns, all that sort of thing. The U.S. Attorney for New Jersey, Paul Fishman, reckons Sepero and Provenzano used non-existent companies and imaginary reports to steal millions of dollars from real investors. $3.5 million with a proprietary algorithmic trading system that didn't even exist! The imagination of some people! This was real money, by the way. And they spent it all in the pub (the bar). They must have been very thirsty!

But I'm not going to judge them. Only God can judge them, and even thugs cry.

_________________________


My shoulder is much better now. I'm playing the guitar again. I'm not going to write a Christmas song. I can't be bothered. I'm having enough trouble writing my proper songs.

I might buy a keyboard soon. I miss playing the piano.

Thursday, 15 December 2011

Antonio Horta-Osorio is bushy-tailed and raring to go

Raring to go! Next year, of course, after his holiday. But the good news is that Mr Horta-Osorio isn't a freakin' loon, like many thought he might be. No, the Lloyds chief executive is 100 per cent sane. In fact, he has never felt better. (He was only 90 per cent sane at his old best.) So, how was he transformed from a gibbering wreck (oh, he was a loon for a brief period) to a master of the universe? Did someone help him through his dark night of the soul? Well, I can now reveal that Antonio has been spending a bit of time with me. Yes, I put him up in the spare bedroom a couple of weeks ago. But all good things must come to an end. We're going out for a drink tonight, and then he'll return home.

Everyone knows about my troubles. I've had at least nineteen nervous breakdowns. That's why Antonio (and other stressed-out banker types) can relate to me. It's why Antonio approached me and asked for my help. He knew that if he spoke of visions of heaven and hell, I wouldn't stare at him with an expression of puzzlement mixed with abject fear. Much to my disappointment though, Antonio only spoke of how difficult it was at Lloyds - you know, boring bank stuff, sleepless nights, the hard work. No angels or demons! I was gutted. I almost kicked him out at one point. (He was talking about mortgages. Fucking mortgages!) So, this, er "dark night of the soul" was actually rather light. Compared to the shit I've been through anyway. Never mind. I still like him.

Wednesday, 14 December 2011

Steve Cohen is vague about the rules of insider trading

And practically everything else. It's the only way to be - if you want to keep your sanity. Life is so confusing, ain't it? / It must be hard being the big man at SAC Capital Advisors. Consider the strain of making billions of dollars. Yeah? And with the SEC sticking its nose into everything. Oh, it doesn't bear thinking about. (If a regulator can have a nose, that is. I'm sure a regulator can have a nose. I mean, take a look at the FSA in Britain. The FSA is a dead shark, and sharks - even dead ones that refuse to believe in death - have noses, don't they? Unless degenerate trophy hunters are cutting them off now. I don't know if this happens. It probably doesn't. I know they cut fins off - for fucking soup, the bastards! I'm just glad I'm a vegetarian. Why am I even writing about this?) I, er ...

I'm vague about everything. I have moments of clarity - [indeed, fuck] - like yesterday's moment, but, BUT: most of the time I haven't got a clue. / Don't feel sorry for me. "You" should feel sorry for the poor souls who think they know it all. Ha! / Is there anything to know anyway? Even if you know that two plus two equals four, how does that help you? What does it mean to you - personally? You're still going to die. Jesus! Yes, I can understand why Mr Cohen just sits in a chair all day long, staring at the ceiling, so bloody depressed about everything, really; occasionally glancing at his soft wrists: it must be very tempting. He lets his little monkeys do the trading. And why not? They have all the enthusiasm, apparently. (Are they lucky? Or just young and stupid? Time will tell.) No, I wouldn't want to swap places with Mr Cohen. I'm happy lying on my bed all day long, staring at the ceiling, so fucking depressed about everything, obviously; occasionally glancing at my soft wrists: it is very tempting. But 'I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be'.

I, er ... will snap out of this despair, this mood, this lifestyle, as soon as I've got my shit together. I'm a believer. / I, I believe there's a better life with no grief, no hassle, no frenemies, no money worries, no ***** sexual fantasies, no obstacles, no fractured collarbones, no ... I've had a vision of it, my whole, er, I, I / I can touch it - and be clean, and calm, and happy, and ... Steve knows what I'm talking about. / I don't want to roll in the dirt that dirty FUCKERS have put down for me. Let them ... I mean, it's their dirt! Why do I have to live like a pig just because they are PIGS? It is totally unacceptable! / I wish Steve were here, Mr Cohen. I, er ...

it doesn't matter
it doesn't matter
it doesn't matter
it doesn't matter

Forget this post, reader(s). I won't delete it. (My blog, my rules.) But please forget (for your health) or else ... I'll find you, I will, and you'll wish ... I, er ... oh, you don't want to know. Seriously.

I / fuck

Tuesday, 13 December 2011

Freedom is more important than money and influence [or: notes for the weak and gullible]

Would you sell your soul to the devil if he paid enough? No? What if he offered you influence and the chance to make decisions in hell? Would that entice you?

If you were at the centre of hell, driving debate forward, would that ease the pain of an empty head? We can't all be intelligent. Fools are needed too.

Are you strong enough to be isolated? It's true that things would be so much easier if you were in the company of demons. They would take responsibility for your life - such as it is.

Does comfortable slavery seem more appealing than tough and challenging freedom? If so, self-respect must be pretty low down on your list of priorities.

Do you need to be supported, or can you stand alone? Why not choose independence? Yes, it's a simple choice, and that is all. No one's asking you to fight.

Notes for the weak and gullible. / Did I mention treacherous? There are people who paid a heavy price for your freedom. It cost them everything, their flesh and bones. (Oh, they had to fight.) Will you sell it for a mess of pottage?

Or even give it away?

Monday, 12 December 2011

Goldman Sachs is giving Todd Edgar $150 million!

At least. / At least that much. It could be ... / For his new hedge fund ... which doesn't even have a fucking name yet. Goldman might give him as much $200 million. [Two hundred million dollars!] I / I'm going to have to speak to Lloyd about this. Seriously, I mean. Please. Don't get me wrong now. No! Todd is a dear friend, a personal friend of mine, and I wish him all the best, BUT Lloyd never ever paid me anywhere near this amount AND: Goldman's success over the last few years has been down to me (mostly). [What I've done for the bank!] I was the one who introduced Goldman Sachs to mystical capitalism (or should it be: introduced mystical capitalism to Goldman Sachs? Does it matter?) Me! I / I didn't get hundreds of millions of dollars, did I? No, I didn't get hundreds of millions of dollars, no. It's not fair.

But life isn't fair. / How fair would it be if I snatched Todd Edgar's consciousness and threw it into the pit? (I wouldn't do this, obviously. He's a dear friend, a personal friend. Why would I hurt him?) Or put a curse on him? It wouldn't be fair at all. Todd should be careful. I'm not saying I would snatch his consciousness and throw it into the pit, or put a curse on him, but someone might. Maybe one of my followers, one of my mad admirers, someone with shamanic ability, who may just think that I've been treated badly by Lloyd. [Fucker.] Might snatch Lloyd's consciousness as well, or put a curse on him. I don't know. This is all fantasy at the moment. I haven't given the order yet. Not that I would give any order to one of my underlings. What sort of sha/man do you take me for? Lloyd and Todd are dear friends, personal friends of mine. I don't hurt my friends. Oh, I know I assassinated Big Herb in the astral night, but he was more of a business associate. Lloyd and Todd are friends. (Though I did do a lot of business with Lloyd, so ...) I like Lloyd and Todd. That doesn't mean I could protect them if some lunatic decided to put a curse on them ... or something, snatch their consciousness nesses ness; HOWEVER, I would try my best to take an interest in whatever was happening, unless I was busy ... maybe washing my hair or cutting my toenails.

BUT do you know what? If I were Lloyd or Todd, I would want peace of mind - before it's taken forever. Yes, I would want to get on the phone (soon) to the world's foremost financial shaman (me) and say: 'Mikey, we're going to give you 10 per cent of the money. Fifteen to twenty million dollars. There's enough for everyone. It's Christmas, for Christ's sake!' NOW, that would be a classy thing to do. I would appreciate an offer like that. I probably wouldn't accept it - I was actually thinking of 20 per cent - but it would be a good way for them to open negotiations. I feel pretty confident that I could get them up to 20 per cent. How? How would I / I ... listen, I would just show them a picture of Big Herb with his throat cut. Not very subtle, no, but ... I'm an animal!

Friday, 9 December 2011

Jeremy Podger is taking control of the Fidelity Global Special Situations fund

Well, someone's got to, now that Jorma Korhonen has done a runner. (Maybe he's had a vision of future times. Off to the cave!) / So, Fidelity is bringing Podger in from Threadneedle. 'Will it work out?' I don't know. Why are you asking me? Podger won't even arrive at Fidelity until March. Anything could happen before then. The whole financial system could collapse. If that happens - and I reckon it's fifty-fifty - Podger won't be managing any sort of fund. He'll be under the arches with the rest of us. And he won't be eating out in posh restaurants. No, he'll be in the soup kitchens with the rest of us. He won't ... ah, forget it. You / "you" understand, don't you? Yes, I'm absolutely convinced that "you" understand. You're a part of "us". You know what we'll be facing. I can't say I'm too worried about it, myself. It's not as if I have anything to lose. I was never all that keen on civilization anyway. A lot of big nothing, if you ask me. 'All is vanity.' / Life will go on.

It's the champagne socialists I feel sorry for. They're not tough enough to cope with hard/dark times. (You gotta have that wild animal thing. I got it!) They're the ones who wanted this European Union nonsense. Now it's all fucked up in their faces. (I can't believe that useless tosser, Cameron, got something right for once.) What did they think was going to happen? (Of course, you need a brain to think.) And how are these soft prats going to deal with the roaming mobs, the cold-eyed killers? 'Please don't hurt me, I'm a poor soul, just like you.' Yeah, right. That won't save them. The underclass will roll right over them. / But I'll be ready. My friend(s), my child(ren), you better be ready too. (Ready to rock and roll.) Let's hope for the worst. It'll be exciting. We might even get the impression that we're really alive.

Wouldn't that be nice? I want to feel alive. Out on the earth, cold and hungry. Korhonen as well. Side by side. In it together. It might be quite an adventure. Like that Picasso painting of the two brothers. No clothes. No money. No objects. No scenery. So primitive / a million years ago, or a million years in the future / or next month. /

animal /

It's a sad thing to be, a dull, doll, being human, but I'll leave it all behind, I'll let go, just instinct and desire, teeth and flesh, red eyes flashing in the dark of a new age like a very old one /

predator /

On second thoughts, if Korhonen's in that cave, he better stay there. I can't see him making it in the open wild. Best to hide from my sort. / It's going to be a nightmare for the weak -

And Podger? / There won't even be arches. There won't even be soup kitchens. It'll be an (almost) empty world for the animals to fight over. / We'll start again.

Wednesday, 7 December 2011

Random stuff

I can't find anything to write about. I'm afraid nothing is happening in the world of finance. I know you don't believe me, dear reader(s), but it's true. Nothing is happening. And: nothing ever happens. I merely pretend that it does. I know you're shocked.

So, I'm just going to write about random stuff. My discipline seems to have gone. Well, it's nearly Christmas, give me a break. Reader, you expect too much of me. I may be superhuman, but that doesn't mean I can write for years on end without losing my grip occasionally. / Martin Amis says he writes for two hours a day, and that's enough. Ha! He should try being a blogger. No, let him stick to the zombie novel. It's a dead parrot, actually. But no one's told him or his friends. What a shame! It's like James Joyce never existed! Never mind. I'm not the literary police. Let them do what they want. What do I care? They'll find out - when it's too late.

I'm feeling very tired. It could be the pills. Or the pain keeping me awake at night. A quarter of my chest is yellow. I'm going to the hospital tomorrow, fracture clinic. I think I'm getting better. Well, I hope I am. Gotta stay positive. I know I'm getting better.

I'm listening to Elvis Costello. I don't know why. He seems a great songwriter, but also quite superficial compared to guys like Bob Dylan and Van Morrison. Probably more clever than great. The lyrics are overcooked like he's desperately trying to surpass Dylan. Well, that ain't gonna happen. / I'm glad I'm not into serious songwriting (like I used to be). It's a lot of hassle for something which is still going to be a part of popular culture whatever you do. No, it's commercial pop songs for me. I want to have fun and make money. Yes, I'm embracing popular culture! But I really should leave it out of my blog. Well, I will. I promise (myself). After Christmas.

I'm listening to Amy Winehouse now. This is more like it. 'Black ... black ... black.' Marvellous!

I, er ... laters. Coney Island Baby.

Tracy Postert has got a job at John Thomas Financial!

Oh, wonderful! Congratulations to Tracy Postert! This just shows what you can achieve if you have the right attitude. One minute you can be a mad hippie living in a tent with a bunch of bums, the next minute you can be a junior analyst at a Wall Street bank. Only in America!

Well, maybe in England, too. Maybe. / I'm going to dress up like a disgusting freak one of these days and march around the City of London, really aggressively, shouting: 'Give me a fucking job, you capitalist scumbags, or I'll burn your offices down with all of you inside!' Then I'll hand out copies of my CV with bogeys stuck to them. (I won't care. It's what the greedy bankers deserve.) I'll have a "Let's get rid of Thatcher" placard because she's still the prime minister, ain't she? But on the reverse side it will say something like, er – "Please, please, please, give me a job, please, I want to be your slave. I've got bills to pay, after all." Yes, really submissive. Yes! I'm sure some mug will be impressed with that. I reckon I could end up as chief executive of Barclays. Forget Bobby D! I'm the better man.

Tuesday, 6 December 2011

Jonathan Polin has bought 0.74 per cent of Ashcourt Rowan Group

So he's really been splashing out then. Jonathan is the chief executive of Ashcourt Rowan now. I knew he would end up somewhere, different. I couldn't see him stranded at nowhere for long. (Yes, he gave it a go.) Of course, I advised him to stick with nowhere, after leaving the old somewhere. These people don't listen to me. I may as well be writing this stuff for myself. You can't save everyone. Not everyone wants to be saved. They don't want to join the brotherhood, with a few sisters thrown in for good measure, no. A lot of them think they're better off at a fast-growing wealth management organization. They imagine they make a difference for people who want to make their money work harder, but don't have the expertise, time nor perhaps inclination, to do it well. / It's, er, very depressing.

I'm trying not to give in to dark thoughts. I, er, I, I / I don't want to be depressed. Maybe I, er, I should just accept the fact/[theory] that these wretched puppets have "lives" of their own. [Ha!] Oh, it's hard to believe, but that's what I've been told. They tell me, incredibly 'Mr Fowke, I'm a real man, a real hedge fund manager. I, er, I have a wife, and children.' Pathetic. How can they delude themselves? They only exist because I exist. I am the one who gives them life. I am the one, I

I have taken full control of the financial world. This was always my destiny. The people who don't listen? I, er, they are the dead. They do not exist. / I have a soft spot for Jonathan Polin, so I've written about him today. However, I'm not sure I'll be writing about him again. If [I] he were nowhere, it would be different. But he is somewhere, and that / that somewhere sickens me because it is not real. Somewhere is an illusion. Fools are happy with their somewheres. I just thought [I] Jonathan was better than that, that's / that is all. It's that /

I / I am alive / And I must please myself for there is no one else. I [I] can't hear voices that can't be heard. [I] I, er, I can't, can't see bodies that can't be seen. Impossible. There is a limit. There is, I have reached it. / We (?) understand, I ... / At the end of visions there are words for a big nothing. / Right at the

Jonathan, if you are here, cry out to me. We are nowhere, if you are here. Or am I on my own, totally, alone?

'Mikey!'

What? What was that? I heard a voice call my name. Jonathan! Is that you? Where are you?

/ Silence /

Jesus! I'm hearing voices - again. Let me see a body, too. / I can't see a thing. That wasn't a voice. It

Silence / I imagine it is, silence

Monday, 5 December 2011

Michael Balboa and Gilles De Charsonville have been charged by the SEC

And Michael Balboa has been arrested in London, charged with fraud and conspiracy. I have no idea who these men are. They are just names to me. Their lives haven't touched mine. And yet I feel compelled to write about them. What is wrong with me? Maybe it's the ibuprofen. 400 mg! No, I'm always writing about strangers. So it can't be the drugs.

Michael Balboa invested in illiquid bonds in Nigeria and Uruguay. This is against the law. Well, it's not. I think inflating their value is. Balboa worked at Millennium Global Investments. Now he's on leave from ARAM Global. / I didn't even know that the SEC could arrest people in London. Maybe he was arrested somewhere else. Or ... I don't know. It's nearly Christmas and I've got a smashed-up shoulder. I can't ... / Gilles De Charsonville (of BCP Securities). That's a nice name, isn't it? Probably too nice. He'll be pleased that he hasn't been arrested. I wouldn't fancy his chances inside with a name like that. I mean, you wouldn't want to hang around the showers too long with a name like that. Not unless you were into cock. Oh, I don't want to get too graphic! This is a family blog, after all. / It's that ibuprofen! It's the pain! I'm not in my right mind this morning/afternoon.

I don't even feel mystical. I feel cold, detached. / I reckon I'll be back on the guitar soon. I'm not wearing a sling. Everything's going to be okay. This isn't like Rimbaud with his leg. I'm not going to have anything amputated. This isn't the end, beautiful friend. / I'm listening to the new Amy Winehouse album. There's one great original song on it, Between The Cheats. / I'm glad this isn't like Rimbaud with his leg. Thank you, God! I seem to be getting through it. / That skeleton? My skeleton? I don't want to talk about my skeleton. If it were someone else's skeleton - like Rimbaud's - I would make a joke about it. But I'm not going to joke about my own skeleton, for fuck's sake!

Thursday, 1 December 2011

If you haven't got your health, what have you got?

Don't take me to no hospital, please. Fuckin' emergency rooms don't save nobody. Son of a bitches always pop you at midnight when all they got is a Chinese intern with a dull spoon. - Carlito Brigante

If you ain't got your health, what you got? Not a lot. I'm going to be working on this post all day long to take my mind off the pain. I might have to go to the doctor about my shoulder. I don't know yet. I know what Humphrey Bogart would do. He would just call up some dame and crack open a bottle of whisky. I know what Ernest Hemingway would do. But I don't have a shotgun. / Oh, I'm going for the whisky. Here's looking at you, kid.

Life is a mixture of good fortune and bad fortune. Not many people have it all good or all bad. If only you could choose. 'Yes, I'll take the minor heart attack, as long as I can have a promotion at work.' Think of Papillon. Given life in prison for a murder he didn't commit, he escapes and becomes a millionaire nightclub owner in Venezuela. Then an earthquake ruins him, so he decides to write a book. The book becomes an international bestseller. Four years later he dies of cancer. Who can make sense of it? I know I can't.

And poor Amy Winehouse. Her death convinced me to give music another try. You only live once. But I can't play my guitar. I've got songs to write. Time is running out. I haven't got all the time in the world.

Don't we all waste so much time on absolute nonsense? Most of our activities are just foam in water or smoke in the air. 'Now is the time to rouse yourself, the master said, for sitting on a cushion is not the way to fame, nor staying in bed.'

The pavement that hit me was my Benny Blanco. 'Remember me, slab of concrete from the Bronx?' Who set me up for that? Who knew I was going to Holland and Barrett? Ironic, really, when you think about it.

Only three weeks to Christmas. I hope I make it. I need a rest. I need mince pies.

When I sit still, the pain isn't so bad. I watched The Big Lebowski again last night, completely still. I left my awful reality for two hours. I wish I had a friend like Walter Sobchak. (His smile when he hears about the twenty thousand dollars. And: 'This was a valued rug?') I wish I knew people like Jackie Treehorn. That's a real escape. / This sort of writing isn't an escape, you know. It's a confrontation. / There's no hiding place here.

Like the world ... / Don't go away. When you're gone, no one will remember. You better stay. Well, for as long as you can.

Just called the doctor, and I'm seeing him tomorrow. I've got a bad feeling I won't be able to play my guitar for a couple of months. That would be a disaster. Gilly Marie may be a simple song, but it's a great simple song like Louie, Louie or Sugar, Sugar. I want people to hear it. And I want to make some money. This is a desperate situation. But I believe in God. There must be a reason. And I'm not at all religious. I'm spiritual. There's a big difference. / At least I have a basic recording of my new piece of music. It means I'll be able to write the lyrics for it without touching the guitar. / Why am I such a pessimist? Experience of life? I don't know.

It says on the internet that I might only have to wear a sling for a week or two. But I'm crazy! I haven't even seen the doctor yet. There's probably nothing wrong with me. / By the way, two yobs laughed at me in the street when I fell over yesterday, but when I got up and stared them out they soon shut up. I'm not a natural victim. I'm a predator. You can't be weak where I live.

So, take me down to the paradise city, where the grass is green ...


Update (Sunday, 9.30am)

I went to the hospital yesterday and had an X-ray. It turns out I've got a small fracture. A couple of doctors there actually tried to talk me out of the X-ray because they didn't believe that any man could be so tough as to walk around for three days without painkillers. 'You would be in real pain if you had a fracture.' Well, now they understand. I'm like Lee Marvin or something.

Wednesday, 30 November 2011

Brandon Lacoff, Tim Davidson, and Gregory Skidmore: natural born winners!

Well, this has cheered me up. I was feeling a bit depressed. I fell over in the street today and hurt my shoulder. I have no idea how it will affect my guitar playing. I'll have to wait and see. I really don't need this. And that's not all. I'm getting nutjobs, now, asking me all kinds of absurd questions. Like: where do I work? For Christ's sake, I'll spell it out for the intellectually challenged: I am the world's foremost financial shaman. I work in the world and in the cosmos. I used to work in the physical desert, in my cave. I spent a lot of time on the astral plane, the astral desert in my head, dealing with dead financiers and money gods, yeah? Oh, I was a consultant to Lloyd Blankfein for a while, but I couldn't cope with his vulgarity. He's still a personal friend of mine though. And - anyone - don't even think about fucking with me. That Viniar, a genuine animal, a stone killer, is also a personal friend of mine, and he'll do anything for me. Goldman Sachs? These guys are harder than the Gambinos, you dig? I'm still connected. (I would harm you myself. But I'm not Jack Pickles any more. I can't be that man any more. What would my angel say? She's sensitive, and civilized. She ain't got no time for the thug life. You know I fell so in love and love changed me. Give me a break.) / Then there was my time with Bobby D, that goddamn punk. (Lloyd was right about him.) Of course, it didn't last. The bastard still hasn't paid me. / Then ... then it all got a bit crazy, I'm afraid. I / I / [was it me?] assassinated Big Herb. Yes, I, I cut his throat in the astral night. I fucking had to, man! What else was I going to do? I'm not the submissive type. It was him or me. Only God can judge ... Oh, I'm not 2Pac. Now ... now, I'm in the cities, everywhere, all earthbound, but not cold. Burning it up, having fun as usual. Not working for any firm, not trading. I'm on the mystical side anyway. I don't know anything about trading or whatever. Ask me about chakras. I'll tell you about chakras. Don't ask me about trading.

So, what's the deal with Brandon Lacoff, Tim Davidson, and Gregory Skidmore? / Right, let's get down to business. These three guys are hedgies at Belpointe Capital in Connecticut in the US of A, and they have just won $254 million on the lottery. Amazing! Doesn't that make you feel good? It makes me feel good. This is the proof. There are people in the world who are natural born winners, and we can join them anytime we choose. Have you got the will? Don't come to me with your dreams, motherfucker. HAVE YOU GOT THE WILL?

Here's what I suggest you do. Forget your dreams. You need to succeed the Michael Fowke way. Lie down on the floor. (Man, I don't give a shit if you're in the office. Your colleagues are squares. You care what they think? Grow a pair!) Close your eyes. (Well, later, after reading this.) You know what I look like. Picture my face. See it blue. See it yellow. See it red. See me smiling - even when I'm blue or angry. Can you feel my love? (Can you feel my pain? I hope I haven't broken something. My shoulder is killing me. The other week I was joking about Rimbaud with his leg, now this!) Right, I've got to stop. (But I won't be stopped for long! The founder of Krishna Consciousness had two heart attacks on his first sea journey to America. He was sixty-nine years old. He had some rice. He had about nine dollars in his pocket. He didn't even know anyone in America! Twelve years later he had an empire. Nothing stopped him. Nothing's going to stop me. Hare Krishna!) Yes, Hare Krishna!

Tuesday, 29 November 2011

Vinculum

Vinculum? What the hell is "Vinculum" when it's at home? Well, let me tell you. (You won't believe this.) Vinculum is a new asset management company that Nigel Legge has set up. I don't know whether to laugh or cry.

Apparently, Nige is going to be launching some IM Vinculum Global Equity fund. Yes, early next year. January, I think. God give me strength!

He's talking fifty globally-listed stocks. Yeah, right. Whatever. An annual operating charge of 0.25% of funds under management? I'll believe it when I see it.

And get this: Douglas Thursby-Pelham is involved! Oh, I feel so much better!

Unbelievable.

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Right, I've just received an email from Vinay Abrol. He wants me to stop writing about Nigel Legge. 'Why are you giving him the oxygen of publicity, Mikey? He's a cold earth wanderer.' All right, I'll give it a rest. / How Vinay knew I was writing about Nige though, well ... you work it out, dear reader.

What am I going to write about now?

My Christmas song? No, I don't know if I'll be doing a Christmas song for this blog. I probably won't have the time.

To be honest, I'm finding it hard to concentrate on blogging at the moment. But I think it's been a good year. Eighteen (out of twenty-five) of my "selected posts" were written this year. I'm definitely getting better. Not that any of the squares have noticed. Well, fuck them. They'll have to notice when I'm number one on the hit parade.

I need a lyric for my second classic. My Gilly Marie lyric really brought the last piece of music to life. However, my new piece is so melodic, it's already alive. The right lyric will ... it doesn't bear thinking about. It really doesn't. I'm getting excited. And a bit nervous. None of the thirty or so songs I wrote in my youth were anything like the new stuff. Maybe because I prided myself on being all "avant-garde" in those days. There's nothing wrong with that, of course. It just doesn't appeal to me now, that's all.

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I'll get back to proper financial news soon. [Got to calm down a bit.] "News"? That's the not the right word, is it? I'm above all that. News?! Ha! Do me a favour!

Sunday, 27 November 2011

Songwriting, demos, music publishers ... oh, I don't know

I've been doing some research online, and it looks a bit of a nightmare. Hardly any music publishers accept unsolicited demos any more. I did find one reasonably well-known publisher that accepts demos, and it's only a fifteen-minute walk away from my house. So maybe I'll try them first after Christmas.

I could put my songs on YouTube, I suppose. But that could be risky. Also, I don't want to be a recording artist. People might get the wrong idea.

I've nearly finished my second song (well, second song after a twenty-year break) and it's sounding like another potential classic. Much better than I had hoped, actually. I thought it might take me a year or two to reach this standard. But it's just been a matter of picking up the guitar and strumming away for a few hours. I'm starting to worry now about how pissed off I'll be if I can't get anyone to listen to my songs. However, it's early days yet. I've got to fight my natural negativity and pessimism and just keep going.


Update (Monday, 10.15am)

In for a penny, in for a pound? My voice seems to have changed/improved over the years. As I mentioned in a previous post, I really do sound like Mick Jagger. Maybe I should try for a recording contract as well. I could record a great modern album like Back to Black and sell ten million copies. Imagine what that would do for my blog stats!

Friday, 25 November 2011

It's past midnight ...

And I don't want to sleep. So I'm going to write this until about five in the morning. And I'm going to listen to Brian Eno's Apollo. And I'm going to write about music, for starters. Why not? There's no harm in it. (What a boring world it would be if we had to discuss finance the whole time. Even my angel likes to write about other stuff every now and then. I think she wrote, er, something about burning her bra recently - ? I, I don't know. Something like that. Each to their own, I suppose. These feminists, eh? I think they take it too far.) By the way, I'll be listening to David Sylvian's Gone to Earth later. Good honest night-time music. I can hear a space cow! Cows in space! (He's quite a character, that Eno.) I still need a bridge for my new piece of music. It's causing me a lot of grief. The melody in the chorus is brilliant though (even if I do say so myself). It's probably the best melody I've ever composed. Better than the melody to Sunset Nausea - if you can believe that. Of course, you haven't heard that particular song. I wrote it in 1989. Imagine Jean-Paul Sartre in a pop band. (Actually, don't.) [I won't be breaking this up into paragraphs. Can't be bothered.] Apollo brings back so many memories. I've been listening to it since I was seventeen. I'm not going to write about those memories. Far too personal. (I remember one cold night. Winter of 1987. I won't say [write] any more.) You've got to get this album! You may have heard quite a bit of it already. It's been used in hundreds of TV programmes. Not to mention Trainspotting. (When Ewan McGregor goes down the toilet. Through the shit to beautiful clean water.) As for Sylvian (coming later), as we know, Sylvian can be a pain in the arse with all his moaning, but ... I've written about this before, Eno and Sylvian, another all-nighter last year, never mind. In a blog this size, you're going to repeat your ... though smaller now, obviously, I've cut thirty thousand or so words. The British Library will still have them. I'm not bothered. The scholars will lap it up in the year 2525, if Man is still alive. / I wish I lived somewhere you could go out late at night, a-roving, without being molested or stabbed or whatever the kids are into these days. I used to lay in fields staring at the stars, like that scene in Fandango on the Giant movie set. Well, I'll tell you, I'm getting out of this fucking town once I've made my money. Off to Cornwall! (I might pop back occasionally to see how the rat-racers are doing.) It won't take long, the big money. I've got a good feeling about next year, oh yes, what with me knocking the (potential) hits out now like Burt Bacharach on speed. I know it's silly, the pop monkey business, but I like it, I ... / What else am I going to do? Earn a dull dull living, living like the dead, the dead? No thank you. I've got the T-shirt. (I feel so alive! That's my problem. Excess spirit! Up high, an aeronaut of ... come, make me smile.) / Starting to struggle. My eyes, so heavy. / I can't believe I've turned my laptop into a recording studio with free software. That would have been unimaginable twenty years ago. / It's going to be random thoughts until ... my eyes, close. / There's so much mess. I add to it, and I take it away. / Chaos, confusion. / I can barely type at this hour. I won't be editing this, just ch / ch / changes as I go. I mean, I've been going, and Sylvian has nearly finished, I need ... Chopin? No! Eno - again? No! Charlie Parker? Maybe. Davis? I've got ten or more Miles Davis albums, but none on my laptop. I could watch the last ten magical minutes of Fandango - or will I just get all melancholic, watching that? I'm willing to risk it. I am! Then I'll get back to the music. It's got to be Charlie Parker with Strings - ! Christ! I feel like I'm in New York in the Fifties, in some smoky dive. That's the power of music, that is! / I've made the right decision. / I used to have a saxophone, and I played it - badly. I wasn't committed though. The saxophone's too much like hard work. Ended up selling it to some brat, bastard. £220! It cost me £500! / Is it bedtime yet? / I had a £300 acoustic guitar as well. Years ago. Sold that for just over a hundred. Now I have a cheap Argos one. Strangely enough, I prefer it. Strange, eh? / Oh, I'm going to bed. Well, I'm already on the bed, but I've decided to get inside and turn out the light. I'm heading for dreamworld! (And a shaman's dreamworld is something to see, believe me.) Wish me luck. / Laters.

Thursday, 24 November 2011

Carrhae Capital

Oh, Carrhae Capital. Ha! They say it's a new hedge fund that will be launched next month. They say Ali Akay is mixed up in it. I would like to believe them, but I don't trust anyone any more. Emerging markets? Maybe. $200 million raised? Oh, I don't know. It would be nice if I could believe the things they say.

It's all fiction. Characters running around getting involved in all kinds of absurd, imaginary shit. When will it end? Sadly, they/they have no understanding of reality. It's a shame. Nothing is real. Nothing exists. Not when I'm in this sort of mood. I'm in control, and if I want to put the kibosh on Akay's plans - or anyone's plans - I will. Who's going to stop me?

Why do I even write about them? Habit? / Do they deserve this sort of attention? I mean, the hedge fund managers, the bankers, and the other they who probably think it's not them I'm referring to. - / I'm so tired. I want to sleep. / But I know they'll wander into my dreams. / 'Leave me alone!' / Jesus! / What have I done to deserve this sort of attention from thought-forms and other trash? /

Those slashes come in when I'm breaking up. I could use ... like Celine. No, I'll stick to the /

Wednesday, 23 November 2011

Sandradee Joseph fined and banned by the FSA!

Oh, not again! Not more fining and banning! What is it with these FSA freaks? Why are they always fining and banning people? They're obsessed! It's Sandradee Joseph's turn now. She was the compliance officer at Dynamic Decisions Capital Management, a hedge fund management company based in London (and Milan, we mustn't forget Milan).

'In the wake of the collapse of Lehman Brothers, the investment strategy adopted by DDCM for the fund it managed resulted in losses totalling approximately 85% of the fund's total assets under management. To conceal the losses, in late 2008, a senior employee at DDCM entered into a number of contracts, on behalf of investment funds managed by DDCM, for the purchase and resale of a bond (the Bond). Various investors raised concerns that the Bond was of doubtful provenance and legitimacy, and DDCM's Prime Broker resigned as a result of its concerns. Joseph failed to consider the reasons for the Prime Broker resigning and despite being aware of the investors' concerns about the Bond she failed to properly investigate those concerns or act upon the information.' More, than is healthy.

My God! Was she supposed to have eyes in the back of her head? How was she supposed to know what the goddamn prime broker was getting up to? And did she really have the time to investigate stuff or act upon information? Life's too short for that shit, surely? Investors? Don't get me started on investors. They're always concerned about something, aren't they? They're a bloody nuisance, if you ask me.

_________________________


Music update:

It's like shooting fish in a barrel, this songwriting lark. I came up with a new piece of music yesterday. It's not finished yet, but I'm feeling very positive about it. It's more melodic than Gilly Marie. I need a bridge and some lyrics now.

I have to say that my pride is starting to kick in a bit, and this is becoming about more than just making money. I've set myself a target. (Yes, I like targets.) I want to write fifty pop songs within the next ten years. And: no album tracks. Hits or nothing! Death or glory! Eh? No! Hits or nothing! For fuck's sake, it's not a matter of life and death. This blog is a matter of life and death.

Anyway, no more updates!

Tuesday, 22 November 2011

Michael Heseltine says Britain will join the euro

Me? Do you know what I say? I say the moon will turn into a lump of cheese. Seriously, I can see it happening, because - just like Heseltine - I'm a bit of a seer.

Apparently, Heseltine is an adviser to David Cameron on economic growth. / An adviser? Brilliant! I'll have some of that. I'm going to advise Dave about the moon. In fact, I'm going to suggest that he fucks right off to the moon and takes Heseltine with him.

These are just the sort of people we need running the country. I feel so secure. Of course, they're better than the last lot of crooks and fantasists, but that's not saying much, is it?

Actually, I might head for the moon, myself. Stop the world, I want to get off!

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Right, this subject and these characters are beneath me. (Beneath everyone, let's be honest.) I, er ... sod it! I'm going to play my guitar. Laters.

Monday, 21 November 2011

Garfield M. Taylor charged by the SEC with conducting a multi-million dollar Ponzi scheme

These Ponzi schemes, eh? Will there ever be an end to them?

'The SEC alleges that Garfield M. Taylor lured primarily middle-class residents in his community with little to no investing experience to invest in promissory notes issued by his two companies that engaged in purportedly low-risk options trading. Taylor urged investors to refinance their homes and use any available means to invest, including their personal savings and retirement funds. He promised returns as high as 20 percent per year and falsely assured investors that their investments would be protected by a "reserve account" or that he would employ a "covered call" trading strategy that would not touch the principal amount of their investment.' More, than is healthy.

Returns as high as 20 per cent? Some of these people must have been living in a dream world. 20 per cent! In their dreams 20 per cent! But that’s the American dream - no, it's a worldwide dream, an international dream: easy money! / Dear reader(s), there isn't any easy money, not anywhere. I should know, I've looked for it. In the desert, rolling in those mystic sands. Up, up, high in the sky, floating. In the depths of hell, really suffering. And, oh, in my heart, aching. In my subconscious, too, wandering, even! (The first place anyone should look, frankly.) I still haven't got two pennies to rub together. But I live in hope, just like all those lovely middle-class souls who were allegedly ripped off by Mr Taylor.

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The dream. Do you know that Colonel Sanders didn't get started on his dream until his was sixty-five years old? It's true. He spent two years travelling around America trying to get restaurants interested in his chicken recipe, and he was turned down 1,009 times before someone accepted the deal he was offering. Now, that's hard!

[So, pretend you're dead to get ahead. Imagine you have nothing left to lose. You're a machine. Yes, you are a monster, a killer. Oh, what can stop you? Nothing can stop you! You are Scarface. / Those smug little commie pricks with very comfortable lives? No problem. They can't touch you. They don't know what a dream is! Everything has been handed to them on a plate by their rich parents. So fuck them - in their ears. You're the fortunate one. You are the one who has to struggle. You are the one who has to go from nothing to something. One day it will all make sense. You must not be afraid. You must not give in. Your unfair advantage is your spirit. Think of Joan of Arc! If a teenage peasant girl can lead her country's army to victory in battle, anyone with a dream, a vision, can do anything!]

Thursday, 17 November 2011

The 20 greatest pop songs of all time

According to me, that is. I've excluded songs that are too soulful, too long, too complicated, too intellectual, or just not "poppy" enough. So, nothing too "rocky" then. (I may have bent these rules a little bit.)


[20] - Fire Brigade (The Move)

The lyrics are absolutely ridiculous, but pop lyrics are allowed to be ridiculous. I've put this in twentieth place because of the brilliant melody. Try and find the song on YouTube. The best moment is around 1.25-1.40. (I get incredibly excited at this point. I won't say any more.)

[19] - Don't Worry Baby (The Beach Boys)

What's amazing about this song is the quality of the production. It's so smooth. (Compare it to the roughness of The Beatles' recordings around 1964.) Nice rhythm guitar. Sublime vocals.

[18] - Big Sur (The Thrills)

A massively neglected band (even by me, I only have their first album: the beautiful So Much For The City) The Thrills are/were an Irish band who were dropped by EMI after the poor performance of their Teenager album. They messed with their sound, which is a shame because Big Sur is pure Californian pop magic/genius/whatever.

[17] - Borderline (Madonna)

I've no time for Madonna. It's like Margaret Thatcher decided to become a pop star. But this is a brilliant song. It's quite melancholic, which can work well in pop songs. Other examples: Airport by The Motors, and Another Nail In My Heart by Squeeze.

[16] - Mrs Robinson (Simon and Garfunkel)

Folk music? I don't think so. This is a pop song. It has brilliant pop melody and rhythm. Goo goo g' joob.

[15] - Dancing Queen (Abba)

Influenced by Rock Your Baby, this is Abba's best song. Dodgy lyrics, but never mind. It's the melody and rhythm that matter. And the great piano part was an influence on Elvis Costello's Oliver's Army.

[14] - Maybe I Know (Lesley Gore)

I don't know anything about Lesley Gore. I just know I love this song. Jeff Barry was involved in the writing of it. More of him later. Some nice handclaps. Handclaps are always good.

[13] - Baby Love (The Supremes)

Not a personal favourite of mine, but it can't be kept off the list. A lot of Motown songs could be put on the list, of course. More handclaps.

[12] - Sunshine Superman (Donovan)

I could have chosen Mellow Yellow or Hurdy Gurdy Man (too "rocky"?) but I chose Sunshine Superman. Very cool. I bet Donovan wore shades when he was recording it. (By the way, I can't listen to Atlantis without seeing Robert De Niro stamping on someone's head.)

[11] - I Want To Hold Your Hand (The Beatles)

I didn't want to clog the list up with Beatles songs. This song is The Beatles at their most joyful. (And don't forget She Loves You.)

[10] - Friday On My Mind (The Easybeats)

An Australian pop band, which is unusual, I suppose. (Men at Work?) The best lyrics of any song on the list. A protest against the tedium of nine-to-five life.

[9] - All The Young Dudes (Mott The Hoople)

Bowie wasn't exactly a superstar when he decided to give this song away to Mott the Hoople. He's either a lovely guy or freakin' mad! My money's on freakin' mad.

[8] - Jukebox Jive (The Rubettes)

I'm not a fan of The Rubettes. But this is a wonderful song. Haunting melody and great feeling in the main riff.

[7] - Rock Your Baby (George McCrae)

A simple, groovy song - written by the guys behind KC And The Sunshine Band.

[6] - Suicide Is Painless (The Mash)

Is this a pop song? I think so - just about. Amazing melody. Quite emotional recording.

[5] - I'm Not Your Steppin' Stone (The Monkees)

Some might say this is a rock song. I say it's a pop song and a great one. So great that even The Sex Pistols wanted to record it.

[4] - I'm A Believer (The Monkees)

This was Neil Diamond trying his best to match The Beatles, and probably surpassing them in pure pop terms. As John Robb says in his book on The Stone Roses, the Monkees may have been a manufactured band but they had some of the best songs of the Sixties.

[3] - Be My Baby (The Ronettes)

Jeff Barry (again) had a hand in writing this, but it's really all about Phil Spector working at the height of his powers before he lost his mind and started pointing guns at people. Brian Wilson almost crashed his car when he heard it on the radio for the first time.

[2] - Louie, Louie (The Kingsmen)

The lyrics are so obscene, they had to be slurred. A total classic though. Hard to say why it's a classic. It has a coolness that exists beyond the words and music. Yes, that's why.

[1] - Sugar, Sugar (The Archies)

The ultimate pop song. (The Monkees turned it down, the fools!) It's pure, unadulterated pop. Simple music, simple lyrics, but there's something magical about it. Well done Jeff Barry (again) and Andy Kim!

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There's no room for The Human League's Don’t You Want Me. What about Soft Cell's Tainted Love? Or Donna Summer's I Feel Love? Damn!

Or OutKast's Hey Ya!?


Related posts

The 20 greatest Burt Bacharach/Hal David songs

The 20 greatest Lennon and McCartney "pure" pop songs

Greg Coffey's had enough of that MEM fund nonsense

He's leaving it all behind. And I don't blame him. Why did he ever get involved in it? It's Moore Capital's emerging markets fund, and it's rubbish. My mate Greg is going to concentrate on his GC Macro fund now. Oh dear. Out of the frying pan into the fire, eh? I don't like these macro funds. Never mind. It's his life. I'm not going to tell Greg how he should live his life. He's a top financial shaman, a veteran of the desert. He should have more sense than this. But what can you do? What can I do? I can't do anything. He's not a kid any more.

God knows I've made enough mistakes in my life. I guess I'm a bit more mature than Greg, more worldly-wise, but you only get that way by making mistakes, by being foolish. What did Blake say? 'Tyger feet. I really love your Tyger feet.' No! He said: 'If the fool would persist in his folly he would become wise.' He also said: 'Energy is an eternal delight, and he who desires, but acts not, breeds pestilence.' Which reminds me, I really must get on with writing those new songs. Oh, I know I wasn't going to mention music again, but I'm becoming obsessed. Fuck it, I am obsessed! In one song, Gilly Marie, I've discovered a transcendence I haven't been able to reach with over 1,400 blog posts. How? Why? Because the song is pure joy. It doesn't come from my personal problems, fears, nightmares, existential worries, and all the rest of it. It's because Gilly Marie is a pop song. The thirty or so songs I wrote in my youth were just like my blog posts - tortured. Also, to be honest, I must admit that the prospect of making some decent money for a change has cheered me up. Why should I suffer like Van Gogh? Do I really want the misery and death of Rimbaud: a tumour, then hobbling around on one leg, waiting for the end? 'So I'm back to the crutches. What difficulty, what a bother, what disappointment, when I think of all my travelling, and how active I was only five months ago! What happened to my trips across mountains, on horseback, walking, across deserts, rivers, and oceans? And now I'm a basket case! And I'm beginning to understand that crutches, wooden legs, and artificial legs are all a bunch of jokes, and all that stuff gets you is to drag yourself around like a cripple and never be able to do anything. And just when I had decided to come back to France this summer to get married! Farewell marriage, farewell family, farewell future! My life is over, all I am now is a motionless stump.' No thank you! I can do without that if you don't mind.

Wednesday, 16 November 2011

Lone Pine Capital has been having a rough time of it

'Of what, exactly?' Well, of "it". Can't you understand plain English? Let's move on. Please. Let's discuss Stephen Mandel. He's a strange one. (I think so, anyway.) "They" say that Mr Mandel is the founder, president, and managing director of Lone Pine Capital. Also, a portfolio manager at the hedge fund. All very impressive you might think - if you're the kind of person who's easily impressed. But I just have one question: why isn't Stephen Mandel the chief executive of Lone Pine Capital? What the hell is going on?! How can you be a founder, a president, a goddamn managing director (of all things), a fucking portfolio manager (if you can believe that), and not be the chief executive as well - to put the cherry on the cake, as it were? Or, or, or ... maybe, maybe, listen: he is the CEO, but he just hasn't told anyone, eh? Now, that would be clever. I can see how that would work. I mean, think about it. Lone Pine's funds have been having a rough time of "it" lately, the last quarter. The Lonely Dragon Pine fund lost 25.1 per cent! The Lone Cascade fund lost 14.3 per cent. And Lone Cypress is down 9.8 per cent, and Lone Kauri down 8 per cent. So, what do you do when angry investors come to your office with the obligatory pitchforks and torches? You say: 'Oh, sorry, the chief executive is out at the moment. Can you come back tomorrow?' And it's no use their asking who the chief might be. 'Oh, er, it's ... er, Mr Smith you want. No, uh, Mr Jones. Yes, Mr Jones. He'll be in tomorrow.' But of course tomorrow is another day. The outrage, the passion, dies. The investors wander back to their bedsits or trailers or whatever. Ha! You've got to take your hat off to Mr Mandel. He hasn't lasted this long in business by being a fool, has he?

Having written all that, I feel pretty confident that Lone Pine will recover. Every firm, every person, has a rough time of "it" every now and then. I'm speaking from experience. It can be a psychological thing. You can get trapped in a negative personality you've invented for yourself. (I've got the T-shirt.) But it's important you understand that you can reinvent yourself. You can go from being Prince Hamlet to Scarface - in an instant! It may be different with hedge funds, I don't know. However, I'm sure Mr Mandel will find a way without having to rely on the CEO trick - as ingenious as it is. (I'm still smiling to myself about it. What a character!) I am worried about the lonely dragon though. It's terrible being lonely. I'm writing from experience. Nobody loves you when you're down 25 per cent and almost out. But dragons are very resilient, aren't they? 'Are they? I didn't even know they existed.' Oh, they do in my reality, reader. The astral ... I won't go into it. I shouldn't, er ... / Remember this from 2010: 'The point I'm making is, these diamond dragons will find a way into the cold physical world; and they will be doing a damn sight more than advising. I mean, they're dragons! What do you think is going to happen? And they breathe fire. It's a fucking crazy idea!' - ? No? Well, it doesn't matter.

Finally, is there anything sadder than a lonely dragon? Probably not.

Tuesday, 15 November 2011

John Pottage wants his £100,000 back

John Pottage used to be UBS's UK head of wealth management - once upon a time, as they say. / Anyway, everything was beautiful. He had an exciting and rewarding career. (Maybe he still has, I don't know.) The sun was shining on his life. Birds were singing in the trees outside his house. Probably outside his office window, too. And I'm sure he had a nice wife or a girlfriend. (Maybe he still has, unless he's into boys now, I don't know, and I won't judge.) But that was before the FSA rained on his parade. Yes, that was before the FSA thought it could steal his money! (Well, it was a fine. The FSA fined him. It's a technical point.) We're talking £100,000. That's a lot, ain't it? It certainly isn't chump change.

So, why did the FSA fine him? Well, you won't believe this. The FSA reckons that as a senior manager he should have been supervising the people beneath him. Er, er ... er ... / Oh my God! It's outrageous! Ah, absolutely, I mean ... / Apparently, listen, if you can hear me in your head, John's underlings - his slaves, basically - were getting up to all sorts without his knowledge. Oh - oh, was he supposed to have eyes in the back of his head then? Jesus! Has anyone at the FSA ever had a real job? You know, a job where you need to get results and make money. I give up with these people, I really do. Christ! I'm the world's foremost financial shaman. Do I know what every other financial shaman (and money mystic) in the world is doing right now? Well, yes, I do actually because of my powers, the great powers I possess. But you can't compare John Pottage to me. (You'd be mad to try. Honestly.) John is an ordinary man, and a mere banker. I'm practically a god these days, a serious force in the cosmos. John may have been a senior manager but how would he have known that his little monkeys were trading in an unauthorized manner?

Well, I'm sure it'll all come out in the wash, at the tribunal, I mean.

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Music update:

I was never much of a singer. However, my voice seems to have changed. Rather alarmingly, I sound like Mick Jagger on my recent rough demo. Never mind. I suppose it could be worse.

I played my guitar for a few hours yesterday. I didn't write any new songs. I learnt to play In the Summertime by Mungo Jerry though. It's not much of a consolation. I'm worried it may take quite a while to write two more songs of the quality of Gilly Marie. But it better not. I need them before Christmas, so I can start approaching music publishers after the holidays.

I'm hoping to surpass Gilly Marie - eventually. If you look carefully at my blog, you'll see that I've raised my game year on year. That's because I'm never satisfied. If I spend the next five years working on new songs I know my life will be transformed by the end of that period.

This will probably be the last update. I shouldn't really mix music with whatever this is ... . / Maybe you'll hear a song of mine on the radio soon. So, er ... watch this space. No, er, listen to that space, over there -

Monday, 14 November 2011

Democracy abandoned in Italy

Right, a bit of politics. Someone by the name of Mario Monti is taking over as prime minister of Italy, in a sort of technocratic coup d'etat. There are some idiots who think this is a good idea. But this sort of thing is never a good idea and there will be consequences, I'm sure.

Will it spread? Are we all to become slaves in a wonderful new Europe, a communist/fascist paradise? Well, it's not for me. Yes, you can count me out. I guess I've just got too much spirit, too much personality, too much colour. The people in favour of "this sort of thing" all seem incredibly dull and grey, don't they? Wouldn't chaos - and even war - be better? At least you would feel alive. Or am I coming over all macho and Hemingway now?

I'll get me coat ...

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I'm still here. / Let me write about something a bit more cheerful. No, not finance. (Fuck off!) I mean: music.

Gilly Marie. I've listened to my new song close to a hundred times and I haven't been able to find anything wrong with it. It is - or will be - a total pop classic. I'm convinced this is a turning point in my life.

Okay ... I'm going to spend the rest of the day playing my guitar. See if I can come up with something else. Banks and hedge funds will have to wait until tomorrow. Laters, child(ren).

Sunday, 13 November 2011

So, I'm famous in Sweden ...

First Sweden, then the cosmos!

"Dessa heroiska norska day traders kämpade mot maskinerna och slog dem i deras eget spel. De besegrade Timber Hills automatiska handelssystem. Priset de betalade var att åtalas och dömas för att ha manipulerat marknaden. Jag hoppas att Christian Stenberg får sova på natten. Han är den norske åklagaren som tog maskinernas sida mot den mänskligheten. Hans namn kommer att leva i skam!" skrev bland andra Michael Fowke på sin blogg Money is the way.

Well, I'm sure it makes sense to someone.

Hello, Sweden, welcome to my world ...

Thursday, 10 November 2011

Bunga, bunga

It's all going bunga, bunga in Italy, whatever that's supposed to mean (or maybe the situation has got better, or worse - how would I know?) I'm all bunga, bunga, myself, at the moment. Bunga, bunga, all over the shop, truth be told, but I'm not complaining.

Italian bond yields are rising, and falling. Up, and down. No one knows what will happen. Or why it will happen. The "experts" know nothing, and I know nothing. Well, no, no, no, I know: BUNGA, BUNGA. So give me some credit, I know something. When all else fails, we have bunga, bunga, don't we? Well, I do, RIGHT NOW. I can't speak for you, dear reader. I would like to speak for you. Actually, I would like to speak through you. Have you ever considered a career as a shaman's dummy? There's not much pay. The hours are terrible. But I can promise you "satisfaction". I can certainly promise you bunga, bunga - if you know what I mean. (I'm afraid I don't.)

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Why am I so bunga, bunga? Well, I've just finished writing my first song in twenty years and it's a classic - seriously. It's called Gilly Marie, and it's my tribute to the two fittest birds in finance. (Yes, I put their names together to make one name. I'm clever like that. Oh, and I only love one of them, as you know.) In fact, the song is so good that I'm considering slowing down on my blog (for a while) so I can put all my energy into writing more songs. I mean, why am I living in poverty, earning pennies from a blog, when I could be living the high life as a millionaire songwriter? And will someone please explain to me WHAT THE FUCK I've been doing for the last twenty years! Have I been in a coma?

Writing classic pop songs is only half the battle though. Apparently, not many music publishers accept unsolicited material these days. But where there's a will, there's a way, eh? 'If you will it, it is no dream.'

Holy Jesus! I'll tell you what I feel like right now. I feel like Scarface staring at that Pan Am blimp just after he's whacked Frank Lopez and Mel Bernstein. 'Maybe you can handle yourself one of them first-class tickets to the resurrection.' That's what I'll be telling anyone who crosses me from now on - including the demons in my soul. Talk about fired up! Christ! I'm fired up! Talk about bunga, bunga! Bloody hell! I've got bunga, bunga coming out of my ears.

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I feel good. Child, everything's going to be okay. Hopefully, the euro will burn, and the European Union will collapse - BUT everything will be okay. Trust me, everything will be bunga, bunga, in the positive sense of the phrase.

Bunga, bunga
Bunga, bunga
Bunga, bunga
Bunga, bunga

Is there a bunga, bunga song? There should be.

Bunga, bunga
Bunga, bunga
Bunga, bunga
Bunga, bunga
Can't get enough

Bunga, bunga
Bunga, bunga
Bunga, bunga
Bunga, bunga
Gonna bunga till I drop

Tuesday, 8 November 2011

Galena Asset Management's expanding

Just like the universe. Or a big expanding sun within the universe. A big red one. (That makes more sense, to me.) / Cosmic. Absolutely. It'll be a giant. / Galena. - This commodity hedge fund is doubling its assets under management, and increasing the size of its current funds, and launching new funds; it's er ... / Nothing can stop Galena Asset Management. Nothing!

It's like expanding consciousness. / Seriously, it's easily done. You just have to open yourself up to the possibilities of life. Try it. / Hopefully, you'll ignore/avoid the black holes. / Galena is, , , : What Galena is doing - besides leveraging the unparalleled commodities knowledge within Trafigura to deliver absolute returns for hedge fund investors - we can do. / Actually, I, I, I ... do it all the time. I - I can't speak for you - (wouldn't want to, frankly); no one knows what you get up to - and no one's interested, believe me / I'm not lying. . . > (Did I mention that Galena is a subsidiary of the Trafigura Group, one of the world's largest independent commodities traders?) < [of course I did! / just then ] - Galena is expanding. / How BIG will it become? As BIG as it wants to. We've got to have a positive attitude. We must ignore/avoid the black holes. - Do you imagine Galena is heading for a black hole? - Yes? You're crazy! You're fucking crazy for imagining that! Haven't you learnt anything? - 'No, but, oh, it will expand, and explode.' - It won't fucking explode, you lunatic! / Jeremy Weir isn't an amateur. He wouldn't let Galena explode. The things you think of!

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The things I think of! / I wish I didn't have to think of them. But I have to think of them.

/

The things I think of Oh sometimes I have to think of the things I hate No I'm not joking The things I want to destroy The things I want to humiliate The things I want to drag to my personal hell Because I'm confused when I leave them alone So I have to bring them inside They are the animals I need in my mind But they make me ill They make me angry Those people are objects I suppose They are lonely with their pain However I try to make their pain a pleasure Actually I do more than try The truth is I succeed It's strange experiences they're after They want to be attacked They want to be broken into small pieces And that's good surely It must be good It's got to be good They come to the right person It's when I'm off the subject I do the most damage They know I want to fuck their world They know I despise them That's why they get so excited when they see me coming Their pains become pleasures Their crying turns to laughter They begin to see the comedy in everything

Thursday, 3 November 2011

Mark Bristow's in the gold space, (and it's nice)

Oh, it's very nice, indeed. Yes, it's very nice, to be: in a big safe haven cosmic gold head space when all the shit is going down in the markets. / There's no mystery. / Mark's no clown. / He won't back down. (No, he's no fool.) You see, uh, Mark knows the truth. And, er ... he knows what everyone's thinking. Ah ... supernatural[?] ! Yes! Oh, just like my, my, my, beautiful, gorgeous, sexy: ANGEL! But - no, no, no ... it's no, no, no, fool's gold, it's Randgold's gold, baby! / Ah, I, I, [Something, I, oh, Steve?] ... 'It's a barometer of just how bad the world economy is - and it's good for us.' (I might get some gold. And why not?) Let's see, er, Randgold Resources's [sss] share price up seven per cent yesterday. (God knows how much today, what with the mayhem and darkness - all over us, and in us.) Profits up, five times the last profits - I mean, the last quarter? / Very interesting! It's certainly worth considering. We'll join him, our wonderful Mark. / Gold will hit $10,000 an ounce. It's got to! I predicted it, three months ago. / But the unbelievers didn't listen to me. They should listen to me ... and start believing, the fools / are cold ... / dead flesh, dead bones, dead hearts, dead minds ... / just not appealing at all, so ... / Forget them! Move on! / Are you with me?

Right ... NOW, are you ready? (Not yet, eh?) / I, I - want (we want, be honest) gold space - at $2,000 an ounce! Yes? Then, ha! We'll go for it, all hungry for glory: $3,000, $4,000, up to $5,000, up, and up to $6,000, up, $7,000, higher, and higher, $8,000, higher, we'll touch the ... - $9,000, up, ah, and higher, $10,000! / Too far? We'll be right on top of our inner head spaces - truly fucked out of them?! No! Well ... / Will our minds cope? I, I ... don't know. How ... ? I'm not a doctor, child(ren). I'm an aeronaut of the spirit! / Surely, we'll be: cracked and laughing/crying, hysterically, in gold space at $10,000 an ounce; but isn't that what we want? YES! We want the gold at $10,000 so, so, so that our minds (all the words, the images, the thoughts, the emotions) will be set loose! Free at last! / Crazy like mad lovers for the first time! / Isn't that the dream? / The Dream, [?], my friend(s). (Are[n't] you understanding me?) Or, at least, one of them, for we have so many dreams, it's hard to keep count? / If [dreams] were ... never mind. If they were ... I'm not even prepared to - I, I ... need a hit of hot gold space ...

So ooo, are you with me? I mean, are you ready? / Is Mark around? I - I can't see him. I - / Oh, we ain't done nothing yet! So, get, get, get your cash out. / My coin jar - / How much? That's, er, it's, er - whatever the price, we'll pay. - Just over $1,750! (That'll do, for starters. We'll push -) It's a bargain! / We can invest in this space, and push it up - up! The world's failing, it's, uh, crashing, burning, just falling apart. And we're in a position to make things worse. - What can go wrong? / Am I a fool? Are you a fool, child(ren)? Er ... we're in bad company, I'll tell you that. Look! - Everyone's coming on now. Every bum alive wants a piece of the quaking cosmic gold head space! They're following us but, oh, we're not their freakin' steppin' stones, man! - they'll have to work for it. / Run! / Stop! / - They can't catch us, so, so, so ... let's hide in mystic night. / The morons! Just watch them. There they go, chasing phantoms, ha! / Good luck, losers! / We are in gold. $10,000 - and higher? Yes! Ah well, you, you ... never know. My theory? There's no stopping the fever once you're into it like this - ? And it's true what they say, it's so nice. / - Wow, our faces! - / Golden, golden, golden - that's us. / Unbelievable, and I, right here, we are, look! ... see the opening of the -, it can't -, I ... top of our - Jesus! / - Is that a million suns, that light?

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(Forget my theory.) / Let's leave the gold space alone, before we do ourselves some serious damage, eh? Or is it too late to avoid damage?

Wednesday, 2 November 2011

MF Global: "There was never any money that never was."

As official statements go, it's a corker! / Unbelievably, there are people who genuinely like to believe that $700 million of customer money is missing from MF Global, the futures broker that filed for bankruptcy recently. / Dear reader(s), maybe you've heard about it, (yes or - no?) It's a very popular story. (It is being covered by all the websites, apparently.) It's almost as popular as the Greek tragedy/eurozone nightmare. Me, myself, (it's me!) ... I've certainly heard about it. But I am not worried. Strangely, I have no concerns. / Why? / I'll tell you: I know money, I know money does not exist. - Shocking?! - Jon Corzine knows this as well. That's why we're such happy men. We have a lightness of spirit. Our minds float off - up, up and away, to the sky. Nothing can get them down, uh, our minds, er, our spirits, yes, our consciousness / ness / nesses. / And the customers? Dear oh dear [!] No, no, no. The customers are down in the dark, way down, down, down. And it can't be easy for them. No, it can't. / Yes, a question: is it better to believe in money that doesn't exist, or to not believe in money that doesn't exist? Er ... one for the philosophers, I suppose, to work out intellectually, in their big fucking heads. / I know how I feel about the matter. (I try not to think.) / But I think, this, and feel it, the ... the people of the world will soon wake from a dream. So, things will become clear for MF Global's customers - and for everyone. Let's wait a while. [Oh, for clarity, for truth.] / Please [!] / Obviously, if I were a customer of the broker, I wouldn't be so sanguine. / I have a few quid stashed away in a savings account. And if some absurd little clerk at my building society were to tell me that my money didn't exist, I'm not sure I would see the humour in it. But you've got to laugh. I mean, you've got to try to laugh. That is today's lesson, my child(ren). It is very difficult to laugh when the financial system is on the verge of collapse, but what else are you going to do - cry?

Dear reader, you're not going to cry? Oh, stop crying! / I know I call you 'child' but you're a grown man or a grown woman or maybe a bit of both. I ain't - really ain't, no [!] - judging you, I just want you to stop crying. Please, stop crying! / If only you could understand: we have nothing to lose! Are we the warriors of mystic night, out and about in the days of the slaves? Yes! So why are you crying?! This is an opportunity. / When it all falls apart - as it will - we'll be the ones in power because: we are the ones with the power already inside of us. / It's all psychological, yes? Spiritual? Yes! We have it, right now. The soul power. /

Raging fire,

/ We possess a great reality superior to all the world's pathetic realities. Banks will burn. Countries will burn. What do we care? / I don't know (I can find out, open your soul to me) how long, and hard, you've been committed. If you've been with me, so loyal, child [!], since the early days - oh blood and fire - the desert days, you'll not care for the passing of a vulgar age. / Money, it never was. We've been lied to - by snakes and rats! Everyone's dreaming of an impossible life. Now, we must destroy. Destruction will set us free. / Well, uh, boiling blood ... / This soul power, I have it, in spades. More than you; but what did you expect? I've suffered more than you. That's why I'm the leader. And no one wanted the responsibility, anyway. I had to take it. There was so much fear. However, I was not afraid. / So, dry your eyes, child. / AND / Keep on, on! / on! / following your Master. Paradise is waiting for us. Yes, I know the way.

Tuesday, 1 November 2011

Oh, er ... what's going on with Nicola Horlick's bees, and her honey?

I, I, well, I ... oh dear, uh, it's / ... fragmentation, chaos, and ... I blame the ... it's ... again(?!), I wish - I'm holding on for dear life, frankly - I knew, I ... my, I, she ... the thing is, I've always considered ... her, Nicola Horlick, the bee's knees ... (are they hairy?) ... no particular bee, no, I'm not ... any bee, really ... and: a bit of a honey ... all over me, ha, dripping, sticky in my mouth, yes, yes, ah ... and a close friend, but not of the angelic ... we've become - spiritually, mystically - quite close ... over the years ... in a platonic way, of course ... we've kept it professional ... it's all ... mutual respect, with us ... I admire, her, ff/financial ... whatever, and she admires mine ... so, you can imagine, I know you can ... you've got it in you ... how pleased I was ... when I discovered (help me out, reader(s), I'm struggling, drowning in these words!) ... that she was planning to launch ... er, an online fund supermarket or ... for British retail investors, as if ... they deserve it, no! ... helping them touch the fund managers, I ... who will touch them back ... by the name of beesandhoney.com ... please, some clarity, love of Christ! ... which I only discovered ... this morning - she didn't tell me herself, but I'm not upset - and ... I was very pleased ... for a while ... before I got upset ... yes ... my pleasure ... lasted all of five minutes ... until I discovered ... something else: the fund supermarket might not ... be going ahead, after all ... so, why not? I ... er, oh ... / those FSA ... bastards ... have a policy that could mess ... the whole thing up, it's like ... they've forgotten ... that I, me, this is ... I, me, I(!) protect my friends ... and destroy, destroy, burn, I ... burn, actually, the enemies ... of my friends, and ... even, uh, friends of friends, their enemies, even ... I enjoy it ... I, er ... it's a passion! ... I don't expect anything ... in return, for fighting ... an evil dead shark that refuses - simply refuses - to believe in death! ... like a, when will it ever learn? ... you can't, you cannot, keep ... keep biting ... bankers and fund managers, willy-nilly[?] ... without ... oh, a dead shark can't learn nothing, you kill it, and ... it insists on breathing! ... all, all the same ... incorrigible, it's just swimming ... through the waters of fucking money! ... Jesus, it ... it won't accept death, I'm ... it's, I, it's a nightmare, a fucking, yes, what ... ? / It might go ahead ... the bees, the honey, I,

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I, er ... all nervous and confused with these City women. I mean, the excitement gets too much. My brain goes haywire. My consciousness breaks down. I lose my grip. It has never been this bad though. (And Nicola is an old friend. Bizarre! Absolutely bizarre!) Let's chalk it up to experience, eh?

Monday, 31 October 2011

Pedro Zevallos will surely kill all the bullshit

Yes, the goddamn bullshit. He's got to, hasn't he? (And we'll help him.) The dull financial scene, oh dear, the absolute misery of it, ugh, the awful greyness, Christ. So, Pedro, The Magnificent Zevallos, with his ... with his lovely, colourful Matador Capital Management - yes, I know it, just know it, and I feel it, too [ooo, tingles, ooo] - and his colourful long-short fund, Matador Latam. It's wonderful! Or, it, it, it will be, so ooo ooo wonderful. I have faith. (Please, give Pedro a chance! It's early days yet.) And I don't know about Pedro. No, just don't know how he feels, I mean; but I am very excited. Oh, not about the fund. No! (Well, I am.) There'll always be funds in the world, sadly. [Why sadly? No reason I can think of. Unless I'm trying to reach out to a different sort of audience. Heaven forbid!] Some old - they never go away, they stick around, don't they? - and some new. It seems that new ones are being launched all the time. Why do they do it, the hedgies? Will they ever stop, ever? We can't get away from them, the funds, or the hedgies. I suppose you've got to be excited. I imagine, that's why they keep going - no doubt! I'm very excited, myself, as you know - I've already said so, haven't I? It's his name, you see, Pedro Zevallos, and his firm, Matador. I can't help it, and I can't stop, I ...

It conjures up ... I see Pedro in his suit of lights! I have a vision of the man. My mind sees ... his red cape! This is what we need. More of this! There is something terribly wrong with the City of London, isn't there? Be honest, dear reader(s). Why do we have men like Terry Smith wandering around in grey suits? If only Terry had this sort of style! (What is Terry's problem, man?! Oh, grey suits for a grey City of London! And Wall Street is no better. Winter is coming. I want to go to Acapulco! Are you coming with me?) Death in the afternoon? Forget about it! We're going to have death, serious death, morning, noon, and night, with Pedro. Are you coming with us? If he doesn't kill all the bullshit, the goddamn bullshit, who will? No one I know. Not in Latin America, or Dallas, anyway. (Do they go in for a lot of bullfighting in Dallas? Rodeo, obviously. I'll do some research - when I can be bothered.) I don't want to go to Dallas. I want to go to Acapulco! This is important. I ain't interested in no rodeo. Actually, I shouldn't be interested in bullfighting. I'm a vegetarian, after all. But we won't be killing bulls. (Sometimes I get so ...) We'll be killing bullshit. That's why we're going to Acapulco with Pedro Zevallos. Pedro will take the lead. We want the sun! Are we clear on this now? (I'm exhausted. And we haven't even started killing the bullshit yet. I'm hoping Pedro will have enough energy to do the deed by himself.) Oh, Pedro! Can you see him? Here he is, in his matador's suit. Pedro, man, take it away! Take us away. The skies are grey. Pedro, my friend, take us!

Friday, 28 October 2011

It's all right for Claus Skrumsager, ain't it?

How do they sleep at night? / Claus Skrumsager has just been promoted or given extra duties or something. That must mean more pay. It's got to mean that! I'm struggling to make ends meet - living on hard street, I'll have you know; while Mr Skrumsager is living on easy street. Now, I'm not normally the envious type, I'm not a big champagne drinker, and I've never voted Labour, but, oh, how I would love to work at Morgan Stanley. A global co-head of debt derivatives?! Jesus! He must be on at least £30,000 a year. He probably gets luncheon vouchers as well. Me, I'm living like a fucking tramp (but in a house, obviously, though you haven't seen the house) and ... never mind. My only consolation is that I'll be immortal one day. Yes, immortality: it makes up for the terrible hours and the lousy pay and the insecurity and the ...

_________________________


I'm all joyful. So, we'll forget about the first paragraph, and we'll forget about Mr Skrumsager. You may not believe this, dear reader(s), but I am feeling so ooo ooo happy to be alive. It's not just that I sense my angel's love across the ocean, pulsing. That would be enough on its own, believe me. No, I have a new attitude now, this last week or so. God knows where it came from! Do thoughts and emotions travel through the great cosmos (like love across an ocean?) with the sole purpose of infiltrating our minds, and our hearts? Probably not. I don't know what's going on! But I'm not complaining, I'm making hay while the sun shines.

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Does the sun shine at night? It must do, somewhere. / How do I sleep at night? With the light in my mind, and all those incredible dreams, it's not a real rest. Oh, how I envy the people with no dreams! It must be very peaceful, like death.

What's the eternal joy of death? Sleeping forever in astral landscapes you’ve made for yourself? Possibly. A sort of heaven. 'Are you aware, as in dreams?' Why are you asking me? What do I know? I'm still with the living, thankfully.

Astral landscapes? Aren't they banned? Ha! The people I'm thinking of don't make anything, anyway. I should think these "people" are heading straight for hell. Satan has beds ready for them, I'm sure. Beds of red-hot nails. It's not something that excites me, particularly. I've just got the truth-telling bug.

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I'm all joyful. [The more I say it, the more convinced I become.] I'm all joyful. So, I'll forget about the last three paragraphs, and I'll forget about death. But you won't - if you know what's good for you. The "people" are animals. You're reading this, my child. You either know something "they" will never know, or you are learning something "they" will never have enough soul to learn.

As for Mr Skrumsager, I haven't forgotten him - yet. Let's pray for him. I will not hold his promotion against him, if that's what it is. He doesn't know any better. He was hardly going to refuse, was he? 'Stuff it, Raj Dhanda, sir! I don't give a FIG! It's not for me. I've got the future of my soul to consider.' Oh, hardly.

Thursday, 27 October 2011

What do we actually know about Adam Zimbler?

Forget all the myths, the rumours, the lies. What do we actually know about Adam Zimbler? Any square could tell you that he was a trader at Goldman Sachs, and that he's (somehow!) set up this SLZ Capital Management - a firm with small-cap hedge funds: SLZ Capital Master Fund, SLZ Capital Partners, SLZ Capital Offshore Fund, all launched recently. Amazingly, he has even managed (somehow!) to drag Marc Diagonale into his little fantasy. However, it wouldn't be satisfying, would it, (no!) if any square were to tell us all this? Are we passive, and submissive, idiots, waiting, maybe begging, snivelling slags, rotten beggars(?!), for news, and facts, to come to us, helplessly, at the mercy of, on the whim of, all lost at sea with, I, er ...

It doesn't really matter. There's nothing we can know about Adam Zimbler that we can't imagine, so feverishly. Yes, I'm talking fevered imaginings! I'm afraid we all have them, whether we want them or not, and there's nothing to be afraid of. No one ever lost their mind by letting it drift a bit. Of course, I realize, and truly understand - seriously, I do - that some of you lack confidence. Why this should be, I have no idea. Are you men or mice? Are you women or ... whatever? / To be honest with you, I'm not even sure we're talking fevered imaginings. Aren't we intending to create our very own Adam Zimbler? Surely, that's the level of our ambition. We don't want to imagine what this hedge fund manager is like. Where's the fun in that? We want to bring him into existence in a form that appeals to us, yes? Well, speaking for myself, that's what I would like to do. Some people think I'm sick. That's their problem. They can fuck off.

Adam Zimbler, Zimbler, Zimbler! I'm getting a vibration, deep down. It's a mystic trip, and I'm taking everyone with me. (Where are you?) Wow! It's a shaker! Images bubbling up, my mouth, and out - look! There they go. I breathe them out the way Vishnu breathes out universes! Can you see Mr Zimbler(s)? Oh dear! Yes, there's more than one. What have I done? Enough is never enough with me, is it? Different colours as well! Blue Zimbler, miserable man, wondering if his funds will shine. Yellow Zimbler, full of cosmic love, oh, happy man! And the demonic man, obsessed with money, so greedy. Red Zimbler, a demon trader, demon hedgie.

I'll let them float off. They seem ... familiar. Am I the father of these colourful image men, these thought-forms? I must be, and I must be a super(sha)man, an aeronaut of the spirit. / And where were you, dear reader(s)? If you don't step up to the plate soon, we're going to have a falling out. This is how it is done. If I can do it, you can do it too. Don't you want to become a financial sha/man? I can't believe you're content to remain a mystic child.

Wednesday, 26 October 2011

Ray Dalio's running from the mob

No, not the mafia. The situation isn't that serious. He hasn't fallen foul of the Gambino crew, thank God! They're stone killers, man! No, I'm saying that Ray Dalio, hedgie, founder of Bridgewater Associates, spiritual adviser, mentor to his staff, transcendental meditator, and all-round mentalist, is running scared from the People, the greasy and unwashed ones, the (h)armless? mob - ain't got guns yet but maybe pitchforks, I'll look into it - because they're angry and they want the blood of bankers and hedge fund managers and anyone else who gets in the way, maybe even broke bloggers like myself who ain't never done no harm to nobody, just wanted to have a bit of a laugh. 'I ain't got no money, no gold. Oh, spare me, mob! I have a few tins of baked beans, a few thousand, truth be told. I'll share them with you. We're all in this together.' They're quite peaceful, at heart.

When everything's being deleveraged, when we're out of ammo, ain't even got no guns, when some vampire is biting your neck, some wild monster of the People, what are you going to do? (We're all getting our necks bitten. Don't you feel it?) Basically, that's what Ray wants to know. Not even meditation will help at a time like this. You can't even fly high at a time like this. Honestly, my opinion? There's nowhere to run to. We're all going to be tested, and Ray will have to stand and fight like the rest of us when the mob turns up at our door - or our gate(s). (They aren't that peaceful. Have you seen them?) How much is this guy worth, billions? $6 billion or something? Yeah, I think so. A lifetime devoted to the pursuit of money. Well, it was fun while it lasted. I mean, he's had a good life. But the party will soon be over. At least he has given something back. (Maybe God will smile at him, the way He smiles at me.) Ray's been a spiritual adviser; done it rather amateurishly, of course, I'm afraid to reveal. He ain't no shaman, that's for sure. I would have seen him in the desert of our love when the desert was my thing, and yours. But Ray has to face the truth. / Oh, maybe it's serious, yes it's very serious, after all. Like angina. Or an infected vagina. / You see, here's the thing, child(ren), Bridgewater's unique results are a product of its unique culture. Yes, indeed. Truth and excellence are valued above all else. Oh, indeed. In order to be excellent they need to know what's true, especially those things that they would rather not be true, so that they can decide how best to deal with them. They want logic and reason to be the basis for making decisions. It is through this striving to be excellent by being radically truthful and transparent that they build meaningful work and meaningful relationships. Yes, indeed. / So, let's have some truth, eh? We've underestimated the mob. If the People ever get to Connecticut, Bridgewater Associates will most probably find itself in a world of shit. It's going to be a death or glory situation - for my money, and I ain't got any. Ray Dalio hasn't said it, but he knows this truth. He knows it in his head, intellectually. And he feels it in his gut, physically. I don't have to say a word to him about it. He knows he can't keep running. Or meditating. It's time to stand and fight. Yes! If Ray has the guts, he'll come out now, and he will say: 'Capitalists of the world unite! We're not pussies, so let's fight!' Er, well ... I don't know.