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.
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.
