Dear oh dear. I hope he knows what he's doing. I mean, I hope he can find a position somewhere else. Julian Metherell, Goldman's head of UK investment banking, is leaving in the summer. He's sick of it, the chasing after money. 'No?!' Oh, yes. I don't think he's even looking for a new position. He wants to be a poet. A painter, maybe. An artist. For Christ's sake. And I know what will happen. He'll only end up writing about money, or painting pictures ... of money. Once you've been touched, there's no escape. Once money has burnt you, you're a contaminated man (or a contaminated woman) for ever and ever and ever.
Julian Metherell needs to pull himself together. He needs to find the energy within or without. I'll be honest with you, reader(s), it's probably going to be without. The world has beaten Jules down, beaten him to a bloody pulp - if you like, if that's not overdoing it just a tad. And I know you like it, the circus show, or the fairground attraction, the man in the tent, then, down even further on his luck, the man in the gutter, black eyes, bruised, bloody, torn clothes, spittle, fleas, the degradation of it all, the squalor, and the desperation. It's the drink that ruins them. Not just the burning love. Oh, they can't handle the love, so they turn to the drink. Julian isn't there yet! That's why I'm stepping in. I'll save this man from disaster. I'll save him from himself; at least, the worst part of himself. Because I have been there. Jack Pickles tried to fuck me in hell. It's no secret. And what happened to him? He's dead now. I killed him. So this is what I'm saying to Julian: 'Jules, you can fight your demons. You can kill them. You've got to believe in yourself, Jules. Believe in your abilities, son. You deserve happiness. No man is defeated until he gives up.'
I hope he reads this. And I hope he understands. Maybe he'll find work at an investment firm, a new one, under the sun. Maybe someone will be willing to give him another chance. He only wants another chance, for the love all that is holy, before the fucking light goes out! Reader(s), if you can offer Julian a bit of work, send me an email and I'll pass the details of your offer on to him, with my mind, to his mind, as I don't have his email address. We don't care about the sort of work at this stage. Changing light bulbs? Fine. Sweeping up? No problem. We've just got to keep him active. I know he's not leaving Goldman until the summer, but the rot has already set in. I can see him (with my astral eyes, still in good condition, one careful owner, but they're not for sale) in the Goldman office, twiddling his thumbs, alone, as melancholic as a troubadour after singing many songs of courtly love; surely, rueing his decision now, surely. And his co-workers, they know he's going. No one wants to be near him no more. It's terrible. It's tragic. It's madness, is what it is. Children, you should never leave Goldman Sachs. If you're that lucky, that chosen, why turn your back on it? It's the act of a desperado, a criminal, a degenerate, a vampire! Still, it's his choice. Julian Metherell knows my feelings on the subject now. I am here for him. The ball's in his court.
Julian Metherell needs to pull himself together. He needs to find the energy within or without. I'll be honest with you, reader(s), it's probably going to be without. The world has beaten Jules down, beaten him to a bloody pulp - if you like, if that's not overdoing it just a tad. And I know you like it, the circus show, or the fairground attraction, the man in the tent, then, down even further on his luck, the man in the gutter, black eyes, bruised, bloody, torn clothes, spittle, fleas, the degradation of it all, the squalor, and the desperation. It's the drink that ruins them. Not just the burning love. Oh, they can't handle the love, so they turn to the drink. Julian isn't there yet! That's why I'm stepping in. I'll save this man from disaster. I'll save him from himself; at least, the worst part of himself. Because I have been there. Jack Pickles tried to fuck me in hell. It's no secret. And what happened to him? He's dead now. I killed him. So this is what I'm saying to Julian: 'Jules, you can fight your demons. You can kill them. You've got to believe in yourself, Jules. Believe in your abilities, son. You deserve happiness. No man is defeated until he gives up.'
I hope he reads this. And I hope he understands. Maybe he'll find work at an investment firm, a new one, under the sun. Maybe someone will be willing to give him another chance. He only wants another chance, for the love all that is holy, before the fucking light goes out! Reader(s), if you can offer Julian a bit of work, send me an email and I'll pass the details of your offer on to him, with my mind, to his mind, as I don't have his email address. We don't care about the sort of work at this stage. Changing light bulbs? Fine. Sweeping up? No problem. We've just got to keep him active. I know he's not leaving Goldman until the summer, but the rot has already set in. I can see him (with my astral eyes, still in good condition, one careful owner, but they're not for sale) in the Goldman office, twiddling his thumbs, alone, as melancholic as a troubadour after singing many songs of courtly love; surely, rueing his decision now, surely. And his co-workers, they know he's going. No one wants to be near him no more. It's terrible. It's tragic. It's madness, is what it is. Children, you should never leave Goldman Sachs. If you're that lucky, that chosen, why turn your back on it? It's the act of a desperado, a criminal, a degenerate, a vampire! Still, it's his choice. Julian Metherell knows my feelings on the subject now. I am here for him. The ball's in his court.
