Monday, 31 January 2011

Not writing today

I need to think about things, mainly the style of this blog. I'm considering writing in just one voice, one consistent style, with more control. I tried it last year for about a week, but found it boring. I might try again though because my present chaotic style is making me ill. It's [often] enjoyable to write, but reading through it makes me really ill, mentally.

I might go around the shops in London today, treat myself to a book or two, or a DVD, or something. I feel restless.


O Master, see you later.

I'll be getting rid of you, my child.

Yeah. Good luck with that, arsehole.

Thursday, 27 January 2011

Rolling in the desert with Thanos Ballos

He does so much, this Thanos Ballos. Such a busy man. He is a founding partner of Strategic Investments Group, managing director of SIG (Deutschland), a director of Permal Strategic Funds, and chairman of Strategic Active Trading Funds. But in his spare time he likes to relax. And I don't blame him. There's nothing he likes more than to roll around in the astral desert. That's something we can all relate to, isn't it?

Rolling, Thanos, keep rolling. This is time we hang on to him blood pouring from our eyes and ears he goes rolling off we hang on to him with our smashed faces our smashed teeth he keeps rolling and we roll with him forever let's roll the pain away let's roll death away look into his heart this is what he wants pumping blood out into the sand mixed with our teeth our sick bodies decayed in sunlight and moonlight we will do anything to escape with Thanos so keep rolling boy keep rolling until you are just a big ball of flesh with bones sticking out we can't get more satisfaction this is the best we can hope for you would I would be happy now children and you would be happy too love this keep rolling man keep rolling until there is no death no pain they don't know the holes in the ceiling back home with rain coming through they don't know the plaster off the walls so let's keep rolling and then we will forget as well we roll to oblivion we are on our way to nowhere and it feels so good it feels like heaven and we keep on with Thanos because he's the one in front he's the one with the right attitude the desire the intensity to make it happen so we roll rolling with him in sands beautiful soul keeps rolling on and on we go rolling rolling on and on we go and on we go bleeding we go laughing we go on and on Christ on and on and on rolling rolling rolling it is life. Rolling, Thanos, keep rolling.

Uproar in Davos as Goldman's Gary Cohn cries: 'Black is black! I want my baby back!'

And he means to get her back. This is serious. Gary Cohn, president for life of Goldman Sachs, was supposed to be speaking about the drive to impose more regulation on banks and how it could push innocent souls into the arms of evil hedge fund managers. It is feared they will be abused and mutilated, these innocent ones. Instead of that, he went a bit nuts, talking about how the world's most demonic financier, Jack Pickles, stole his baby from under his nose. Journalists present at the meeting in his hotel bathroom immediately accused him of being an hysterical fantasist bent on destroying what remains of Goldman's reputation. At this point, Mr Cohn fell to his knees and cried out: 'Black is black! I want my baby back!' He then cut himself with a razor. Both cheeks of his face. The blood flowed down, staining his naked torso, and the horrified journalists ran from him, as fast as their little legs could carry them.

Then he got straight on the phone to me. 'Mikey, black is black! I want my baby back! (I know, I know, I know.) How do you know? (Gary, mate, I saw the whole thing with my astral eyes. You've just made a right fool of yourself in front of the media.) Can you do anything about it, I mean, keep it out of the papers? (I don't really like talking to journalists, but I suppose I could call in a few favours. See if I can get them to pretend you said "Risk is risk" or something inane like that.) Thanks, Mike. Why don't you like talking to journalists? (It's just a nightmare. Take last week. I was supposed to be doing an interview with ****** magazine. This young prat, **** *****, contacts me via email, says he wants my views on the economy, the markets, et cetera. Wants to go out for a drink, take photographs.) Brilliant, Mike! (No, Gary. Not brilliant. You see, anyone who reads my blog, anyone with more than two brain cells to rub together, should be able to understand that I specialize in mystical capitalism. You know, the desert, the ghosts of the dead financiers, the burnings.) And he wasn't interested, no? (Well, that's the funny thing. He said that he was. But then he said that he would have to clear it with his boss.) Oh. And you never heard from him again. (No, I didn't. Of course, I'm just a blogger. It doesn't matter if you don't get back to a blogger, does it? And it's not as if I'm the vindictive type who would write about it. And it's not as if loads of other financial journalists from Reuters, Bloomberg, etc read my blog. So there's little chance of his being humiliated in any way, is there?) No. (But back to you, Gary. What is wrong with you, man?) Jack Pickles has stolen my baby. Can you sort that out as well? (Gary, I'm not a miracle worker. You just have to hope that she's not too messed up by the time he sends her back to you. He won't want to keep her. He has women coming out of his ears.) Okay. But risk is risk, Mike. Remember that. (I won't forget.) Risk is risk!'

Update (4.20pm): **** ***** has been in touch. Didn't ask me to remove his name, but I'm in a good mood for once, so I thought I would. I don't want to damage his career. Moral of the story? Don't fuck with bloggers. Well, not this one at any rate.

Wednesday, 26 January 2011

George Soros wants me to go to Davos with him

He wants me there, in Davos, by his side. I don't want to go. And I won't go. I don't care how many billionaires are waiting for me. It's not my scene. All that snow? It's too cold. And I don't care how much money they offer me. Louis Bacon says he'll pay me $1 million, just to show my face for an hour or two. He says he'll send his private jet. It means nothing to me.

Henry Kravis wants his aura looking at. I'm afraid I can't do it. His aura could be nasty black, satanic, sucking the life out of him, for all I care. That Nicholas Berggruen character wants to have dinner with me. Well, screw him. I AM NOT INTERESTED. I might have baked beans on toast tonight. I am my own man. I don't come running when I am called. Deal with it, you billionaires of the world!

Jim Goodnight? Oh, he can say goodnight! He'll never see me in Davos. Not even in his dreams. Let them understand what sort of person they're dealing with. I cannot be bought. I won't roll in the snow. I refuse to. I'll be in the desert sands. That's my natural environment. If they want me, they will have to come to me.

Come to me, billionaires! Leave Davos behind. It's old hat. The desert is new hat. I'll teach you how to burn your money. With my method, you won't get covered in ashes. That's my personal guarantee.

Oh dear. I'm afraid they are stuck in their ways. That's great wealth for you. It goes to your head. It makes you think you can do no wrong. So when you're poor, does this mean you think you can do no right?

Raymond Lahaut found floating in the River Thames

With his Longstone long/short real estate equity fund, Raymond Lahaut has been found floating in the River Thames, alive and well, or as alive and well as a thought-form can be. Obviously, we are dealing with a man who does not exist, who has never existed, at least, not in the way a man in the cold world would normally exist, all fleshes and bones, and hairs, and stuffs. So when we see him floating in the dirty water, when we see the water filling his lungs, there is nothing for us to get upset about. It's just a vision. Something we see with our astral eyes. We should be used to it by now.

It is refreshing to find a flickering light of a fund manager who has philosophy. Raymond invests on a fundamental bottom-up basis, like a duck. He is aware of macro and sector drivers. He likes to generate alpha from a long book or a short one. He's not fussy. And he has been doing it for years. I admire him. I think we all do. Imagine finding a shadow that had achieved so much! I only wish that this figment of our imaginations, this creature of our subconsciousness nesses ness, had a reality to call his own. Of course, the more we think about him, the more life he has. Oh, let's think about him all the time! Yes, children, let's make the effort. Mr Lahaut could be our finest creation. If any man deserves to be superior to a puppet in a box or a picture on the wall, then Raymond is that man.

Marcus Phayre-Mudge agrees with me. 'Raymond Lahaut would be a valuable addition to any property team, if only he could be pinned down; if only genuine people - the sort who possess bodies - could believe in him. It's a problem I intend to solve. I know that I would be the toast of the financial community if I could pluck Raymond out of thin air and display him in a glass cabinet in my office, where everyone could gawp, and gasp, "That's almost a human! Mr Phayre-Mudge, you're a fucking magician, you are". I would consider that my life's work.'

Such ambition! Mr Phayre-Mudge has our support, and our love. Yes, he does! However, a time would come when Raymond would have to be coaxed out of the glass cabinet. He would have to walk and talk, and take proper control of his Longstone long/short real estate equity fund. Seriously get to grips with it, while mere mortals faint and fall to the floor, and the smelling salts are passed around.

It's early days yet. All I know is, Raymond Lahaut can be seen floating in the River Thames, any time of the day or night. It's not a satisfactory situation, but neither is it the absolute disgrace that those in the mainstream media consider it to be. Not that they are willing to report the story. But that's why this blog is so popular. I reveal the other side of life.

Tuesday, 25 January 2011

Edward Bramson loves F&C Asset Management so much ...

... that he wants to become its chairman. That is real love. But F&C Asset Management does not love Mr Bramson or Sherborne Investors.

Oh, I know all about unrequited love. I know the torment that Edward must be going through. What does he have to do to make F&C feel his love?


I haven't got the willpower for this, this post. I set my alarm for seven this, this morning. Later than I normally would. But I couldn't get out of bed until nine. I was paralysed. Not physically, of course. Just mentally or spiritually.

This is just broken pieces now. I won't even edit this. I haven't got the energy.

No. See you tomorrow. I'll be better tomorrow. I promise.

Monday, 24 January 2011

A2+B Wealth

What's this? Some sort of test? If A2 added to B equals Wealth, then I don't know or care. No, A2+B Wealth is a new wealth management business launched by two Scottish blokes and their friends at AAB.

Zzzzzzzz. E=MC Square. FAB. The two Scottish blokes responsible for making my mood even darker are Paul Lothian and Jonathan Gibson. They founded Verus Chartered Financial Planners, somewhere in Dundee, in August 2005. Yes, in summer. They should have been on holiday. Instead they were starting up a financial firm in Dundee. In case you're wondering, Verus delivers financial planning and advice that helps clients to achieve and maintain their desired lifestyle through the proper management of their finances and investments.

I wish someone would help me achieve my desired lifestyle, through the proper management of my consciousness. That's the only way I can be helped. Forget the money. It's my mind I'm having trouble with. It's my goddamn soul.

How are Paul and Jonathan going to help me? Verus is Latin for true, real, proper and right. How does that help me? Listening to me is their pleasure. They can hear my voice. Knowing what I get up to in my dreams is their passion. Not leaving me [lonely] in the cold is their promise. Exceeding my expectations is their plan. (They've been thinking about me.) Helping me recover my wits is their purpose in life. It's all they live for. Yet I still feel so BAD.

I feel so LOST. It's my mind. It's my soul. That's where all the trouble is. More about death, less about money. This will pass. It has got to. I remember the old days, last week, when I was reasonably happy.

[I found something on the net yesterday. A piece of information that I had been looking for. Now I wish I could go back to a state of ignorance. Knowledge is pain. I wish I could get it out of my head. It will be there forever, I fear. I will not be able to forget. I want to forget. {I'm too old to join the French Foreign Legion. (I was going to join, a few years ago. I wish I had.)} Now it's just all this, with knowledge I wanted but ...]

Yes, we need to bring out the square brackets for something like that. It's all broken up; my thoughts and my writing. But I go on. I am incorrigible. There is something terribly wrong with me. Or something superhumanly right. I can't decide. My self-awareness has deserted me.

I can't even say it, what I want to say. This is like hell. I reckon I will have to delay my new work schedule until February. There is no way I can function with my emotions all over the shop. I suppose I could try again tomorrow. There is always tomorrow.

[There is one thing I am happy about. No other financial blog has this sort of emotional depth. Name one other financial blogger who is constantly on the verge of a nervous breakdown. You can't.]

Emerging markets not all they're cracked up to be, says Reuters

Emerging markets are finished now. There's going to be growth in Europe or something. That's what Reuters reckons. What, you don't believe me? Go and have a look for yourself then.

"The emerging market story has got a long, long way to go ... (but) in the short term, some of the valuations might be a little bit generous. With the prospects of recovery in Europe, it's going to be less of a short-term theme," a London-based fund manager, who declined to be identified, said.

Who is this know-it-all bastard who declined to be identified? Giving his opinion to all and sundry while standing in the shadows waiting for death to take him away from all the pain and the misery refusing to step out of the shadows into the light where we can see his face.

It is going to be one of those days.

It's cold and it's grey in London. My heart, that is. And the weather. My heart is cold. My heart is grey. What’s the weather like in China or India or Brazil? Why should I care? I'm stuck here. Brentford is only a few miles away. Julius Caesar fought a battle there. (Two thousand years ago, of course, not recently.) It's comforting to think that one of my heroes has been so close to me. He could have popped in for a cup of tea and some biscuits, if I had been alive two thousand years ago. Another missed opportunity. Never mind. I could always go looking for him on the astral plane. I think I will, later. After this ... work.

Oh God. I can't go on like this.

Thursday, 20 January 2011

FSA fines City Index £490,000 for transaction reporting failures

I'm worn out, so I'm going to write this post over the next three/four hours or so, and I'm going to play a bit of music, and we'll see what happens, yeah?

I think the best thing you can do is go over to the FSA's website and see what it has to say about City Index.

'Between November 2007 and September 2009, City Index failed to submit accurate transaction reports in respect of approximately 2 million transactions, representing nearly 60% of its reportable transactions. It failed to report approximately 55,000 transactions and reported approximately 1,970,000 transactions with one or more data fields completed improperly.'

So what? Is it the end of the world? Does the FSA need to know everything? Can't it trust anyone? I'm sure the City Index guys aren't that bad, really. Oh, I don't know. At least the FSA won't be interfering with our subconsciousnesses ness nesses any time soon. Maybe we should be grateful for that. I mean, they tried it. But the astral plane was just too scary for them, man. We won't see them floating around again. Not in this lifetime. It'll all be over soon anyway. Some day this war's gonna end.

Right, it's gotta be 'off at a tangent' time, ain't it? This is the last post of the week. Cut me some slack, reader(s).


Hot thing, can't wait to get u home. U got the look. I could never take the place of your man.

Oh, I can't think of anything to write about. Quoting random Prince lyrics won't do, will it?

Sometimes I trip on how happy we could be. Er ... I remember when I met u, baby, u were on your way 2 be wed. U were such a sexy thing, I loved the way -

Oi! Big Herb has warned you about that!

Sorry! Christ, this is my blog, you know.

Could u be the most beautiful girl in the world?

That's better. Let's keep it clean. And I'm just a voice.

Yes, you keep saying. I wasn't talking to you. Now clear off!



More than this, nothing.

Who is the investor who took over $1 billion out of Man Group?

Just wait until I get my hands on the bastard. Some bloody lunatic has taken out more that $1 billion (£625 million) of his money from a Man Group fund. This means that Man has now seen its ninth straight quarter of client outflows. All because of the selfish action of one man (I think a woman would have been more considerate).

I have no idea who he is. I've been on the astral plane. I've asked around. The ghosts of the dead financiers couldn't tell me. Big Herb isn't speaking to me at the moment. But don't worry, I'll find out who he is. Man Group is going through a hard time. It needs unfaithful investors like it needs a bag on its hip.

O Master, Man only has itself to blame.

O my child, what do you know about it? You're hardly an expert on these matters.

Man Group hasn't been using its GLG shamans and mystics. Manny and Noam have been sidelined. Well, that's what I suspect.

Surely not?!

I think you should check it out.

Oh, I will. I'll be seeing Pierre Lagrange in the desert this weekend. I'll ask him.

Really? Astral or physical?

Probably a bit of both, if I can spare the time. It's going to be tough getting out to the physical desert every week; you know, with my new schedule and everything.

Yeah. How's Pierre getting on with the mystical life now?

He's a changed man.


Oh yeah. I was with Arthur Simmons before Christmas, burning it up on the plane. Nothing out of the ordinary. Then Arthur says to me, 'Who's that over there, with his eyes full of love and flowers in his hair?' I had to look twice. You could have knocked me over with a feather.

It was Pierre Lagrange?!


Amazing! Flowers as well?

The flowers were a bit much, I thought. But -

He's still learning.

Of course he is.

Do you think he'll make it as a financial shaman then?

With Manny and Noam behind him? Why not? The cosmos is his oyster.

Wednesday, 19 January 2011

Why was Kevin Connors sacked by Goldman Sachs?

Update (6.20pm): This is a terrible post, but I won't delete it. You need to know the truth about me. I am a sinner. I've had my soup. Now I have a killer migraine. Will my troubles ever end?


It's a good question. And it's one that deserves an answer. Kevin Connors was the co-head of global foreign exchange at Goldman. He was a partner at the bank. He was looking forward to his bonus. Now, it's all ashes in his mouth. A kiss from the mouth of Satan. That is all it takes. It could happen to any of us.

I'm in a bit of a grim mood today, to be honest. Normally, I wouldn't write in such a mood. I would go for a walk in the park, or go around the shops, or listen to some depressing music, or stand and watch 'the frigid wind tousling the clouds'. Actually, I am listening to some depressing music, by Elliott Smith. He's the one who stabbed himself to death. Between The Bars is so beautiful. An awesome song. Though not the sort of song I'll be writing. I need MONEY. Sad fact of life. My life, anyway. I won't be able to defeat my enemies without it. And once I've made my 'fuck off' money, then we'll have some fun. Some people are going to be pissed at me. (And they thought they were already.) Oh dear. Never mind. I've just got a real mean streak in me, haven't I? And I don't even want to get rid of it. I must be a bad person. What other explanation could there be?

Yes, a depressing day. BUT I'M STILL WRITING! Is this a triumph of the will? Looks like it, doesn't it? But it's not. You don't need willpower if you attach massive pain to not writing. It's a psychological trick. Thank goodness for Anthony Robbins! Yes, I know he's very American, with his teeth and all. Don't let that put you off. He's changed my attitude.

Wasn't I supposed to be writing about Kevin Connors? Well, he's been kissed by Satan. Do we need to know anything else? It wasn't an internal compliance thing. Maybe he knows how I feel now. (I mean, feeling down. I've never been kissed by Satan.) Who can remember my manic high, my Steve Jobs post? How do I get back to that? Why am I feeling like this? I'm in a pit with a man who has been kissed by Satan. Not exactly a laugh a minute. I don't want to write about Kevin Connors. He's making me feel worse.

O Master, you're the Antichrist!!! This is the Antiblog!!!

Oh, I was wondering when you would pipe up. Who have you been talking to? Hello? He's gone. What a twat! Didn't even stop to explain himself. 'His calmness, like that of the old Zen teacher, suggests that all this hysteria about the impulses is senseless and unintelligent: the essence of right life is this - when you are hungry, eat; when you are tired, sleep. The book then is morally at odds with a great deal of Western literature, and it is incompatible with most European moral literature. Hunger blew much moralistic work of the time, like Ibsen's, apart.' So, the mystic child should calm down a bit. That was Robert Bly on Knut Hamsun's Hunger. There is no point in getting upset about things you consider demonic. Antichrist? Antiblog? Piss off!

Oh, by the way, would you like some tips on good blogging? I only have one (if you're interested): DO WHATEVER YOU FEEL LIKE DOING. Don't listen to all these bedwetters who say you shouldn't monetize your blog, or you shouldn't be on, or you should join a network of blogs, or you should s**k the c**k of the MSM. It's your life, my friend. Remember that. DO WHATEVER YOU FEEL LIKE DOING.

I'm perking up a bit. I'm perking up a bit! I might have vegetable soup for dinner. And some bread.

A man passes a doorway at the Bank of England in the City of London

A blur. Just a blur. Where is he going?

The Bank of England will have to raise interest rates soon. Does he know? Does he care? He has a nice suit, an umbrella, black gloves. He has an aching head, maybe an aching heart. Two lions above him, holding keys. The significance of this? I do not know. And I am sure he does not know. He does not even notice them. 'Hear now this, O foolish people, and without understanding; which have eyes, and see not; which have ears, and hear not.' Can he hear anything, frozen in time, as he is? I doubt it.

And that Bible quote, it could apply to so many people. In fact, I am sure it does. Open your eyes, my children! Open your ears! God is standing before you, and he speaks. Invisible silence! Oh, go back to sleep, then. There is money to be made. There are sheep to be sheared. There are slaves to be whipped. I cannot save the world. I cannot save myself.

Will one lion open the door to hell? Will another lion open the door to heaven? How would I know? I am limited. We all are. Images on a door. Oh, if only they were alive! Would they bestow more life upon us, or would they snatch our lives away?

What are you doing? If I could stop you, I would. The stories you tell yourselves are very comforting. Death does not exist in your narratives. You are moving on, moving away; children, you keep on keeping on! I want you to be still. I want you to be silent. This is my sadness. I fear you will not stop until the very end, by which time it will be too late.

You are a blur. All of you. Where are you going?

Tuesday, 18 January 2011

Albert Edwards doesn't know if he's too bearish or too bullish

A confused man. And I don't know what he is, this man, this Albert Edwards. I have heard his name mentioned in various places. There is a rumour that he is an analyst at Societe Generale. Associates of mine have seen him in the desert, lurking, not burning.

They say he is a writer of pornographic 'notes' as well. A sort of Henry Miller for the financial community, I suppose. 'The sellside and buyside are locked in a steamy embrace, with the sweet scent of optimism acting like a most potent aphrodisiac.' That is just a small sample of the filth that swirls around in his decadent mind.

O Master, you can talk!

Oh, Big Herb wants a word with you later on. He's not at all pleased with your attempt to seduce your female readers.

I give my readers what they want. You should see some of the emails I get from sex-starved journalists.

What, ladies?

Obviously. What do you think?

I don't know, do I?

Anyway, midnight, the astral plane, be there.


Midnight, the astral plane. Yeah, I'll be there. I might have to drag Albert along for moral support.

You don't mind, Albert, do you, if I come for you at midnight? Well, half ten/eleven would be better.

I hope Big Herb doesn't give me a hard time. I'm not in the mood.

Been thinking a lot today about the future of this blog. I don't want to be like Lautreamont. I can't wait that long.

(Those songs are absolutely essential now. I can't do without them. Some of you will be thinking that there's no money in music any more. Oh, there is. Even with HMV on the verge of going out of business. A hit song can generate a lot of money from radio and television. A classic song will bring the money in for decades. The Righteous Brothers' You've Lost That Lovin' Feeling has been played over ten million times on US radio alone. So, short record companies. Go long music publishers.)

If I start doing a lot more writing over the next few months, it will be because I've successfully linked massive pain to doing nothing. A little trick I've picked up from Anthony Robbins. I hope it works. I wasn't going to write this post tonight, but then the thought of watching TV instead almost made me physically sick. I want to be as active as I possibly can. Monday to Thursday, blogwriting. Friday to Sunday, songwriting. I'll take Saturday nights off. I'll squeeze the astral plane in where I can. I'll read in bed.

We better start pathworking soon, if we want to get there by midnight. Albert, mate, are you ready?

FSA fines Barclays £7.7 million for investment advice shenanigans

Well, 'failings'; that's the word the FSA has used. Yes, shockingly, the FSA is still in business. It's like one of those Hollywood films. The bad guy has been shot, stabbed, hit on the head with an ashtray, and hung, drawn and quartered, and drowned. You relax a bit. The next thing you know, his lifeless body has sprung to, er, life, and there's another five minutes or so to go until Daniel Craig or Bruce Willis (or someone of that kidney) finishes him off with an atom bomb. And, as I recently intimated, even an atom bomb wouldn't settle the FSA's hash.


Let's calm down, everyone. This is the chill-out after last night's rave up. We're not going to think about the FSA. The sky is quite blue, and very clear. A beautiful winter afternoon. Take a deep breath. Undo a few buttons on your shirt. If you're a lady, undo them all. I'm a man of the world. I won't blush. Close your eyes. If you're in the office, forget about your co-workers. They do not exist. Actually, if you're a man, I suggest you go back to work. Open your eyes. Your co-workers do exist, the rotters. I want to be left alone with the ladies.

Are you wearing a skirt? Now, I want you to take your hand and -

O Master, what the hell is going on?

Do you mind? I was having an intimate moment with my female fans.

I'll be speaking to Big Herb about this.

O my child -


Damn! Okay, I'm sorry to disappoint, but I think we better end it here.

Karim Samii and his new troublemaking PCM fund

Field Marshal Dr Karim Samii, VC, DSO, MC, the founder, president for life, and chief investment officer of Pardus Capital, is planning to launch a new fund, PCM, which will wreak merry havoc in companies all over Europe. Of course, Mr Samii is based in New York, so he won't have to face any of the carnage himself.

Well, I have been speaking to this extraordinary man. This is what he told me: 'Mr Fowke, the world's foremost financial shaman unto death, let me just say - (You can call me Mikey, Field Marshal.) And you can call me Karim, Mikey. I have a feeling we're going to come to an understanding. (Stranger things have happened at sea.) And I was a submarine commander, as you know. (Yes.) Mikey, I'm an activist, always have been. Why are you getting so upset about my new PCM fund? It won't harm you in any way, or your ghostly friends. Live and let live, Mikey. Remember when you were young and your heart was an open book. (Those days are gone, Karim.) What does it matter to you? You've got your job, shaman of the world. Let me do mine. (No, it doesn't affect me, personally, but I'm worried about the state of your soul. I don't like to see any of God's creatures suffering.) Who said I was suffering? (Are you familiar with the concept of unconscious despair?) No. (Well, you've got a bad case of it. Happy men do not go around trying to win seats on the boards of perfectly well-run companies.) That's just your personal view, Mr Fowke. (Karim, listen to me. You've got to make changes in your life. Put this PCM nonsense on ice.) Then what? (Come with me into the desert, one of these nights.) No, no, no. I've heard what goes on. All this homoerotic bonding in the moonlight, men naked, the dancing! Satanic visions in the flames of the campfire! Not my cup of tea at all, I'm afraid. (That's absurd! Where do you get your information from?) A friend of mine went to one of your weekend workshops. (Who?) Just a friend. (Yeah, right. That's bullshit, Karim.) I'm only telling you what he told me. (Well, no one's ever asked me for a refund, so ... I think your friend enjoyed it a little bit more than he's been letting on.) I'm not going out into the desert, Michael. Not with you. Not with anyone. (But you're from a Middle Eastern background, aren't you?!) So? You're a Londoner. Do you go up the apples and pears, cor blimey, guv'nor, eating jellied eels every five minutes?'

Well, I put the phone down. You can't talk to people like that. I mean, what's the point?

Monday, 17 January 2011

Steve Jobs takes third medical leave ...

... and Apple shares fall by 8 per cent in Europe. Right, let's rip this motherfucker. No, not Jobs. I mean, the story. I have so much fire in me tonight. I've just seen something that has made me incredibly angry and elated at the same time. No, not the Jobs story. Something else. The Jobs story was the next thing I saw, and I thought to myself: 'I'll write about it!' And I will! In a minute or two, a paragraph or two. The thing that made me angry (and elated) confirmed my worst suspicions of certain characters. It made me angry because I finally saw them for what they are. And at the same time I felt elated because knowing what they are has set me free from doubt. I always thought: 'No, I'm being too mean-spirited'. Or some shit like that. But I wasn't, children. I wasn't being a bad person. It makes me more determined. To do exactly what I told you I'm planning to do. (See the earlier 'FSA' post.) I don't even want to go to bed tonight. Fuck it! Bed is for squares and losers!

Second paragraph. Steve Jobs! The man is a visionary genius. I'm sure he'll bounce back. Why is everyone wetting their pants? We have got to believe in our geniuses. There are so few of us about.

I don't want to write about Jobs no more. (Not that I have been writing about him, really.) I'm not into tech stuff. This is just going to be a free-form rave up until I get bored or run out of steam. We could be here all night!

All right. All right. All right. I'm not stupid. I am aware that this is a manic high. Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, I'll probably be suicidal. But let's make hay while the sun shines! Late on a January night. That doesn't make any sense. But what does? Let's be honest. What does?

I wish I could feel like this all the time. Sure, it would be exhausting, but you can really live life when you get the fire I'm getting right now. It's in me. It's in my head. God is fire in the head! One of my favourite quotes. That Nijinsky was no fool. Oh, he knew a thing or two!

Here's something else. I really don't give a fuck if I'm the only one who's reading this post tomorrow, tomorrow, (and) tomorrow morning. Do you have any idea how liberating that is? In the morning, it could just be me, and that will be okay. I am willing to share these experiences with my children. Yes, I am! But I don't need to. Not in this mood. This is not a bitter mood. Not even an angry mood now. The anger has gone. I am a free man! Free from envy. Free from fear. Free from any negative emotion. I am love. Please understand. I am love.

Down with the atheists! Down with the socialists! Down with the life-deniers, the killers of the human spirit! Down with the sneering elite! Down with the apes! It's all love. Don't get me wrong. This is a party. Just put OutKast on, by the way. I'm feeling even better now. Speakerboxxx!

Oh, I can't believe this lyric: 'Ghosts and goblins run amok in the caverns of rhine, slinging petty corruption, the seventh sign!' Goblins!

Will this last? Going, going, gone.

I'll be back!

RWC Partners and its Ucits III Enhanced Absolute Rate and Currency fund

Haven't I written about this already? Surely this isn't new news? It must be old news. Never mind. RWC has launched the fund for Peter Allwright and Stuart Frost. That's nice.

You would expect me to talk to one of them, wouldn't you? When I hear about a new fund being launched I invariably get so excited that I have to get straight on the blower to the manager(s) who will be managing. But not today.

Today, I did something unusual. I spoke to Mike Corcell at RWC. (He's not even involved!) Now, am I crazy, or am I crazy? Or maybe just a little eccentric?

This is what was spoken between us: 'Mikey, I'm pissed at you, man. (What's wrong, Mikey?) Call me Mike, please. I presume this is going in your blog. We don't want to confuse your readers. (Okay. What's up, Mike?) All this nonsense you wrote about me. You told the whole world that RWC keeps me in a cage. (That's what Peter Allwright told me.) And you believed him?! (Yeah. It sounded plausible.) Mikey, Peter Allwright is a fantasist. (Can I quote you on that?) Yes, certainly. I'm not an animal, you know. (Prove it.) How can I prove it? You'll just have to take my word. (Not sure I can. You see, I know that people have been bitten, Mike. Why don't you come clean? I want to help you. I could be a good friend to you - if only you would let me in.) Let you in?! You must think I was born yesterday. If you imagine, for one moment, that I'm going to allow you to rampage through my consciousness, causing God knows what damage, you are very much mistaken, Mr Fowke. (Oh, Mike, what damage could I do that hasn't already been done?) This is ridiculous! (Shall we talk about the new fund?) No. Nothing to do with me. (How's your diet?) My diet? What, you want to know if I've eaten any analysts lately? (I wasn't thinking anything like that. Are you looking after yourself? That's what I meant.) Yes. I eat in all the best restaurants. (Really? Do you get out much, at night, then?) Oh, what's this now? (What do you mean?) I do read your blog, you know. Do I get out much, at night? Oh yes, I'm always prowling the streets, looking for my next meal. (I'm sorry, Mike. I've got to ask you these questions. I may not be the biggest noise on the astral plane, but I'm responsible for everything that happens on earth; and if a werewolf or a vampire is -) Mikey, what is this werewolf/vampire rubbish? (Well, that's Pete’s theory. I'm not saying I subscribe to it. It's just that -) Peter is a fantasist! Aren't you listening to me? (Oh God! Who'd be a shaman, eh? Maybe I should let you sort it out amongst yourselves. Life's too short.) I'll have a word with Allwright. Don't worry about that. (Okay, Mike, one thing.) What? (I'm not saying it's you ...) Right. (But I don't want to hear any more reports of people being attacked, at night.) Attacked? Muggings, you mean? (You know exactly what I mean.) Mikey, come on. (No, you come on, Mike. Exercise some self-control. See a doctor. I don't know what. Just sort yourself out. I don't want to speak to you about this again.) Wait till I get my hands on that Allwright.'

Whatever. I don't know whom to believe. I'm sick of this saga. Really sick of it. But I'm sure it's not the end.

The FSA and financial promotions

Eh? What's this all about? Let me tell you. The FSA is giving friendly advice to fund managers, basically telling them that they have to be careful when they advertise their wares. [Pots and pans? 'Wares' isn't the right word. I'm leaving it in. I like it.] You know, they can't make any outrageous claims or nothing like that.

I'm just wondering if it applies to me. I don't think it does. I'm not a fund manager. I'm a financial shaman. I'm not trying to persuade anyone to invest in certain funds. I'm not even making predictions, am I? I merely want everyone to open their mind up to the cosmos. I'm sure I won't get in trouble for that.

At some stage, I will be advertising. When my ship comes in, with the songs I'm writing. (I just hope it's not the Mary Celeste.) I'll be putting hundreds of thousands of pounds into billboard campaigns in London and New York. They will be quite simple. Probably just my face and a logo, like Doctor T. J. Eckleburg, staring at people. There'll be some internet ads, of course. But not too many. I want to reach an audience that doesn't necessarily read blogs. Maybe even an audience that is not interested in finance. So I will need some full-page newspaper ads. How much do they cost? £20,000, £40,000, £80,000? I will have to do some research. It's early days yet. I mean, I'm talking two or three years from now. I'm in no position to do it at the moment. As you know, my ship hasn't come in. (I just hope it's not the Titanic.)

The text for the newspaper ads will go something like this -

Did you know that money was the way? Still is, in fact.

Michael Fowke, the world's foremost financial shaman, invites you into a world of spirits and goblins [no, not goblins, I'll have to fix that] where anything is possible. Where the sun always shines, even at night. Where

No, that's crap. But I'm not going to employ a copywriter. I should be able to handle it myself. The sun always shines? Is that from a Prince song?

I'm not inspired this morning. It's pissing down with rain. What a horrible Monday! I'll leave the advert text. There's no rush. It's not as if my ship is anywhere to be seen. (I just hope it's not the Indianapolis.) But it will come in. I have faith.

'Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgiastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that's no matter - tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther ... And one fine morning -'

I've read The Great Gatsby five times [six times, 5/2/11]. If I'm Jay Gatsby, then Gillian is my Daisy. 'He knew that when he kissed this girl, and forever wed his unutterable visions to her perishable breath, his mind would never romp again like the mind of God.' We'll see.

As for my songs, I'm still having trouble with the 'Stacy-Marie' one. When I was seventeen (on my birthday, I think) I wrote five songs in one day. Now (approaching forty-two, Christ, I'm old) I can't write one song in three months. I've got to make a bigger commitment. After my blogging each day, after all my shamanic activities, I've got to work on my music. No lazing around, no watching TV. And I've got to reduce my sleep to four hours a night.

I've been living like a zombie for too long. Forty hours blogging a week? I'll do it! Floating on the astral plane? I'll be there! More reading? Definitely! The only Kafka I haven't read is his America. I'm taking that down next. Playing the guitar? Every spare moment! I may even buy a piano. I was always better on the piano, anyway. Songwriting? I need classics! Commercial tunes! Forget Dylan and Cohen. Think Monkees and Archies!

Anyone who knows me can hold me to this shit. If you see me slipping, have a word. Do it for me. Your love makes me stronger.