Thursday, 31 March 2011

David Sokol has resigned from Berkshire Hathaway, but life goes on for everyone

Maybe Todd Combs will take over from Warren Buffett. Who knows, or cares? It's not important. Life goes on for everyone. David Sokol bought shares in Lubrizol. Then he had a bright idea. 'Hey, Warren, why don't you buy Lubrizol? It's a brilliant company, man.' And the rest is/was history. Or it will be history. Not enough time has passed yet. But it will pass. Time is always passing. It is most distressing. It seems only yesterday that I was a twelve-year-old lad winning a Rubik's Cube competition (through sheer hard work, I'll have you know, yes, seven twelve-hour practice sessions) and getting my hands on the prize, a hand-held space invaders machine, courtesy of John Menzies in Uxbridge. Ah, those were the days! I successfully defended my title a year later. Thirty-seven seconds was my best. And I'm not digressing. I'm talking about hard work. I like David Sokol. This is from a book he wrote: 'Early in my career, I recognized that I was not always the smartest individual in the groups that I worked in. I would come in earlier, stay later and do whatever I could to create a better result in whatever I was assigned to do.' Quite impressive, eh? That's how you get ahead. It's how you win Rubik's Cube competitions. And it's how you create great and revolutionary works of literature. Of course, I'm also incredibly smart.

But enough about Michael Fowke. Let's concentrate on Jack Pickles. Life doesn't go on for Jack Pickles because the evil bastard is dead. Someone killed him. Someone very close and dear to my heart. And the Feds are over the moon. 'Well done, Mikey, you got him. Now the world of finance can move forward. Out of the darkness and into the light!' Yeah, right. I don't think they understand. Jack Pickles ... was ... in ... me. Hard to admit. I just killed a part of myself, that's all. It doesn't mean I won't go on to commit atrocities under my own name. However, I will try to control myself, eventually, maybe, if I decide to become all respectable and shit. (Don't hold your breath.) And Big Herb? He's dead too. I cut his throat in the astral night. And the ghosts of the dead financiers? Disappeared. You'll see their photos in the desert, if you can still reach the desert, my children, but you will not see the ghosts. They really have died this time. It's death for real. Ganesh the elephant god? Oh, he's gone into exile. Credit me with some decency. I wouldn't whack a Hindu god, would I?

And so now life goes on, and I am alone. This is a test of my character. Will I be strong enough to cope? Time, terrible time, will tell.

Wednesday, 30 March 2011

Guillaume Rambourg is an innocent man!

I haven't been able to find the statement/press release, but the FSA has cleared him. He is an innocent man. We didn't imagine it. Oh, we don't need statements from the FSA, do we? We're above all that. Let's forgive and forget, that's what I say. It doesn't matter that Gartmore has been wrecked. It doesn't matter that a man has had his good name dragged through the mud. All's well that ends well.

And let's be honest, it is a very good name. Very poetic. I wish I were called Guillaume Rambourg. I wish I were Guillaume Rambourg, in fact. Actually, I think there's a fair chance that I might be him, am him, maybe, if you can believe that. (Suspend your disbelief, you motherfuckers!) Why not? Anything is possible in my head.

Tuesday, 29 March 2011

Philippe Jabre's mistakes are smoke in the air

Philippe Jabre is a notorious hedge fund manager with a love of risk which he manages ever so well. He takes an avalanche of money pain crushing him like death and it is nothing more than smoke in the air to him. It goes off and is forgotten. He lives in beautiful, sunny dreams even when a $300 million loss should put him in the darkness of hellish nightmares. He moves in chaos of markets like a hawk on fire and his wings take the punishment. The mountains of his mind in the mornings and the evenings, growing in size, fill his rivals' inner eyes, and these poor wealthy hedgies find themselves broken and gasping for breath. He is very honest. He tells the truth about himself and his funds to anyone who is willing to listen, and he does it without emotion for he is such a balanced individual. He speaks to his friends, colleagues, and clients all the time, asking absurd questions while waiting for epiphanies that never come. Other people, he challenges with his intensity. They are like ants at his feet. He is always searching. A giant wants giants to share the greatness. He is not a selfish man.

Philippe Jabre is a dangerous hedge fund manager, unpredictable, and wild. But his mistakes are smoke in the air. They do little harm, to him, and are soon forgotten. He walks alone, this financial thing, when he is not flying. Shadow at midnight with a nothing moon and dead street lights has a better chance of existing in the reality of the wretches who want to be with Philippe and know his secrets. He is incredibly honest. He has self-awareness, as well as awareness of the world around, and cosmos ...

We will have to end it here because I am too depressed to continue.

Monday, 28 March 2011

George Sohos is one exasperating letter away from George Soros

(The letter 'r' - if you’re wondering.) But he will never be George Soros. As a result, there is great pain in his life. So, are we absolutely convinced that we want to look into his ... life, such as it is? Wouldn't it be better for us if we were to cold-heartedly turn our backs? No! Let's show the entire world how brave we are. If George Sohos can live the pain, then we can examine the pain, for a short while. (There's no need to get too involved. After all, he is a stranger.)

I think you should know, reader(s), that George Sohos has recently been promoted at Knight Capital Group. He was leading the quantitative teams (up the garden path, I should imagine), but he is now responsible for overseeing the electronic trading group (globally) at Knight. Knight provides equity execution services to over 2,700 institutional and broker-dealer clients, globally. It's all global with these people. That's the way they like it. George Sohos is a part of it, of course, and has been since the year two thousand. Unfortunately, he is not George Soros. There is nothing that can be done about that. If you've been paying attention, you will know that the letter 'r' is the problem. Everyone at night is aware of the problem. We're not on our own, under the moon. It's warm and sunny, as I write. I'm worried about later on. It gets worse.

Everyone at night is concerned. That's when he breaks up. He loses a 'g' or an 's' or God knows which letter. It gets so bad that he is rarely himself, at night. No one blames him for not being George Soros, in the day. But everyone expects him to be himself, George Sohos, at night. And he just can't manage it in the hell of his lonely nights. Fortunately, the Knight people are keeping him together, in the day. That's the insane truth. Without their love, without their support, I'm sure he would lose his name, every letter of it, day or night, forever. Consider this: employment has not enslaved him, the way it enslaves all others. It has quite literally been the making of him. No, it has been the preservation of him. Yes, I prefer that. Far more accurate. Employment has preserved George Sohos. G-E-O-R-G-E S-O-H-O-S.

Sadly, Igor Levin and Yevgeny Shvartsshteyn are in prison (like all of us)

Hedge fund chancers Igor Levin and Yevgeny Shvartsshteyn have each been sentenced to seven years in prison merely for earning a living by defrauding investors of $7 million. They ran A.R. Capital, which many people believed was a hedge fund investing in real estate, oil, and gas. It was nothing of the sort. It was a way for $7 million to disappear into thin air. That's all.

Now, be under no illusions: we are all in prison. The material world is a prison for naughty souls. We must have misbehaved. Can you doubt it? Life is a prison. You, there. Going to work, coming home, eating your dinner, going to bed, waking up. Hello. Yes, I'm speaking to you. You cannot hide. I am pointing my finger at you. I'm trying not to judge. However, you have been accused. And I am with you, in the same boat. It is sinking. Sin was our iceberg.

Maybe there's another way of looking at it. I don't know. My consciousness is a prison. I am trapped, in a cage, my head, locked up with certain ideas, obsessions. I go round and round. My thoughts, wounds and words, images without words, still wounds, just bleeding, all chaos, choke reason. It's thick and dark. There's no light. It's very dark, and it's very confusing. I'm waiting for lightning. A burst of ... you know. I don't need to explain myself to old friends.

Thursday, 24 March 2011

Sir Martin Sorrell and WPP can get to f**k

That's a radical idea, ain't it? Let's tell Sir Martin Sorrell: 'You had your chance, pal, but you blew it. We don't want your tax money. Stick it where the sun don't shine'. You see, he thinks he can come crawling back now. Corporation tax is being cut. Marty reckons he's looked at the small print and the releases. He said: "Subject to draft legislation and enactment we will recommend a return to U.K. to board and shareowners". Well, there's no rush, son. Take as long as you like. Actually, why don't you stay in Ireland? We'll survive without you. You're not all that. Don't do us any fucking favours, will you?

_________________________


I'm in a devilish mood. I feel that things have slipped a bit the last couple of days. I'll have to make one of my infamous fresh starts next week. I'll tell you what's difficult. Isolating yourself from dumb humanity is difficult. We all have it inside us. You see something in the news, like this Sorrell prick, and you get all fired up. Or maybe a **** on a **** has annoyed you. So you lose your focus. But I'm not giving up. I'm going to do what I said I would do: reach for the Kafka/Beckett level. Right on the mountain top. That would be the final victory. Don't you see? No one would be able to touch such an achievement because standards are so degraded in today's world. There aren't any writers any more. Just a bunch of cretins and whores. Someone's got to make a stand. Someone's got to say: 'This is serious'. Someone's got to risk everything for glory, rather than settle for a comfortable grave to lie down in unto death. I'm sick of reality. Even words make me sick. Where are the blank spaces to soothe me? Where are the silences to take away my pain? Where is my ... I could forget it all in my angel's arms. (That's not on the cards, is it?) Warning: high consciousness can kill you. Ain't that the truth! But I'm still breathing. I'm a walking miracle. And I am the burning shaman. I live the illusion. I've made it real. I believe in it because you've got to believe in something. A little transcendence. Not too much to ask. I want to wash away my sins. Yes, I'll do it myself.

_________________________


[- ---- -- ---- ---, -------. - ---- -- ---- --- -- ---. - ---- ---. ---- -- - ------. --- --- -- -----. - -- -------. ---- -- --- - ----. - ---- --- -- ---- --. ----- ---- --. - ---- --- -- ---- --. - ----- -- -- ----- --------. -------, - ---- ---. --- --- -- -----. ---- -- --. ----- ---- -------. ----- ---. - ---- -- ----- ---.]

Vincent McCrudden is misunderstood

Someone has to defend this guy. It may as well be me.

Vincent McCrudden is a hedge fund manager in jail. He's not accused of running a Ponzi scheme, which makes a refreshing change. No, he is accused of making death threats against fifty or so US government officials: regulators and the like. Is this a crime now?

Mr McCrudden is proud of the fact that he's never had a customer complaint. Will the judge at his trial take this into account? Probably not. It's a crazy world we're living in. Vincent has a reputation for being abusive. (Well, he's a punk from the street.) He likes to tell middle-class types that they are the motherfuckers du jour. Wounding, yes. (I'm not saying I approve.) But surely not a crime. This is a man who needs love.

Vinny is a man after my own heart. I can relate to him. He's fiery and emotional, and he doesn't take any shit. He has a mad lust for money. He's done hundreds of billions of dollars of deals with a burning inside and an emptiness that aches for satisfaction. He's sensitive. Vinny can feel it in his bones, the roaring cosmos. It shakes his bones. He's a wild animal. How can they keep a man like this locked up in a cage? Spirits call him. He hears their voices. Vinny must obey. They tell him what he has to do to be a man, and a sha sha shaman. There are drums in his head, which push out his eyes while snakes slip from his nostrils. That's on a good day. Vinny at his best. Vinny on a roll. Vinny up with the gods. Savage. Demonic. Man.

Wednesday, 23 March 2011

Edward Bramson has a hard-on for F&C Asset Management

It's not enough being chairman, you know, for some characters. They have to buy millions of shares as well. Edward Bramson has acquired more than one million shares in F&C in the last week or so. The man is insatiable! Everyone else is selling. The chief executive, Alain Grisay, has sold a shedload. So has Charlie Porter. Sold more shares than Grisay, in fact. What the hell is going on? What does Eddie know that Alain and Charlie don't? Or maybe it's the other way round. Maybe there's something Eddie doesn't know.

Maybe there's something I don't know. That would explain a lot. I don't understand half of what goes on. But there's no shame in that. It's not my area, after all. Ask me about dead financiers on the astral plane. Well, no, don't ask me about the ghosts. I'm supposed to be leaving them to rot in my subconscious, aren't I? No one said this was going to be easy. (I have a reference to popular culture lined up, ready to go, concerning a rose garden. But I must resist. You won't believe the tension. If you're a fatty, imagine rejecting a big cream bun. It's a lot like that.) I need monologue, and a lot of it. On my own. The deeper in, the greater I'll get. Just a theory of mine. Like that mole, or whatever it was. Or like the one with no name. I mean, that Beckett voice, not Eastwood. [Shit!] No one said this was going to be easy.

O Master, I never promised you a rose garden.

Right, that's it! CONTROL. CONSISTENCY. CONCENTRATION. Read this: Edward Bramson knows a thing or two. Alain Grisay and Charlie Porter are afraid. (And I had such high hopes for Charlie. He's let me down. He's let himself down.) I don't know what Eddie is up to, but I trust him. And he has to trust me. I'm taking Eddie deeper. Right now. Why put it off? We need less entertainment. Narrow path. Do I have the courage to isolate myself further? I hope so. This is not popular fiction. This is not popular anything. It's unpopular reality. It's real, and it's here. And I am with you. And Edward Bramson is with you. And you are here. This is here. Don't float off back to a life where no one cares. No one else is doing this. There's no money in it. But there's life (and death) in it. There's blood and fire, in it. I'm trying to convince you. Give it a chance. What have you got to lose? Oh, your sanity. That's what you’re worried about. Don't be silly. Look at me. I'm all right, ain't I?

Zain Fancy was being probed and so now he's suing Och-Ziff

Who's ever heard of a fancy man being probed? It seems that anything is possible in the world of finance. Zain Fancy used to work at hedge fund Och-Ziff Capital Management in Singapore (actually, Och-Ziff Real Estate Singapore Pte, for those who really need to know, like it's important or something, fuck off). Then Och-Ziff sacked him. Why? He was being probed by one of his admirers at the SEC. Fancy claims he was unaware of the probing. 'Is this likely?' Why are you asking me? I don't mix in those circles.

Basically, Mr Fancy wants his money. He alleges Och-Ziff is withholding $7.9 million in pay and stock. I suggest we put the rather sordid probing to one side and concentrate on the money. We know where we are with money, don't we? We're on safe ground.

$7.9 million is a lot of dough. But my view is that Och-Ziff has enough money. Too much, even. It can afford to pay off Mr Fancy. So it should. You have to let money go free. If you love it, set it free. It will come back to you. That's just simple mystical capitalism. How come so few people understand? It was one of the first things I learnt in the desert of my head. A lot of people refuse to learn. Ignorance turns them on, in the darkness of their days. The desert sun can shine all it wants, but there are souls it cannot reach. I am that sun, when you think about it, or maybe it's best not to think. My mystic rays can touch you, in your heart, if you are open for them. Get naked for me, and I'll burn you. Don't crawl in darkness, on your hands and knees, begging for salvation from some god that ain't interested in your suffering. And don't tell me that everything is just fine and dandy. Everyone suffers. The men and women at Och-Ziff suffer. Mr Fancy used to suffer with them. Now he suffers alone. But I am here for him, and all the sufferers. My painful experiences have qualified me. I am the light. Come to me, readers. Oh, you know I'm confused. How can I be the light in hell? It's a mystery.

Tuesday, 22 March 2011

Man Group sells BlueCrest Capital to itself for $633 million

Don't get upset. I'll explain it to you. Man Group owned 25.5 per cent of BlueCrest. No more than that. BlueCrest owned the rest of itself, except for a stake that Bill Reeves was holding on to, for reasons best known to himself. BlueCrest bought him out as well. So, if I'm not confused, this should mean that BlueCrest now owns 100 per cent of itself, or at least the partners do, the partners that work there. Bill Reeves is retired. He doesn't work at BlueCrest.

Why has Man Group sold? It's because Mike Platt, the chief executive of BlueCrest, has fallen under my spell, at last. Why did it take so long for him to succumb to my charms? I couldn't tell you. (Neither then nor ... now, in the past, or in the present. I'll see you in the future. I may have an answer.) You will have to ask him, if you can find him. And Man Group doesn't like it. Man Group doesn't like anything I do. And it hates the power I have over the GLG guys. It sees me as Rasputin. Crazy, I know. Or Aleister Crowley. Madness! I'm as harmless as a kitten. The most delightful man in the world. Man Group's fear is irrational. Of course, Jack Pickles has disappeared. That makes the Man freaks even more paranoid. 'It's him. It’s Michael Fowke. He's the evil one.' Absolutely absurd. I don't deny there's a demonic side to my personality, BUT I HAVE NEVER BEEN ANYWHERE NEAR THE CAYMAN ISLANDS. You could show me the Cayman Islands on a map. I wouldn't have a clue.

Man Group may as well accuse me of being Big Herb or Ganesh the elephant god. It would make just as much sense. I HAVE GOT RID OF THE CHARACTERS. It's me, me, me, on my own. Easy to understand, surely? One voice, my voice. Alone. Me against the world. Anyone got a problem with that?

I'm still getting overexcited. Early days yet. Let's take it one step at a time. Old habits die hard, don't they?

Lloyd Blankfein and Gary Cohn together forever with a hedge fund?

It's not impossible. They could leave Goldman Sachs together and then be together forever with their own hedge fund. It'd be something they could share. And the money they raised would spin around in their heads. It would feel a whole lot different. Not the same as Goldman money. A new experience. I'm not saying I want them to leave. But maybe their work is done. I'm not saying their work is done. Just trying to understand. They are emotional men. Love can slash them like a razor. I've seen it happen. I've seen the blood, and the cuts to their faces. It's a loss of control. Writing about it / is / dangerous. It could infect me. My thoughts, my ideas, might even / touch / you. That's you, reader, on the floor, if you want it. A boot in the stomach. A smack to your mouth. Then your teeth dancing on the linoleum. We get worked up! Lloyd, Gary, this soul that I am, or seem to be, when I'm strong. You're aching to get involved. I know you. Roll, roll, roll, with me, and the lads, on the floor. I'm waiting. I'm seeing this like it's really happening. It is the fantasy you came here for, you little slag. Be honest. This story of Lloyd Blankfein and Gary Cohn was never going to satisfy you. Why can't you be honest with me, and yourself?

You wanted more than a story about Lloyd Blankfein and Gary Cohn leaving Goldman Sachs to start their own hedge fund. Do I look like Charlie Gasparino to you? Do I look like any of the dull ones? I'm blue, yellow, and red. That's real pain, real love, real evil. Get used to it. (You should be used to it by now.) I'm here all week, and next week, and the week after. I'm committed. This is my season in the world of finance. Four years! A long time. Who knows when the end will come?! When I'm bored? I'm already bored. I'm making my own entertainment. I can't be stopped! This is a nightmare, for the professionals. 'Oh, it's a serious thing. You can't talk like this. Please go away.' But there isn't anything serious in their reality. They only imagined it! Can you believe how stupid some people are? Never mind. I look at the stars. Like last night, with that supermoon. That's when I calm down. That's when I forget. And it's when I remember, all the important stuff.

_________________________


I keep promising myself that I will calm down. Maybe I should only write at night. Maybe I should leave London. I would like to live in Cornwall, with -------. That would be the perfect life. Right now, nothing is the way I want it to be. I live in hell. That's where the chaos is. That's where the voices and the characters come from. The first paragraph of this post is sickening to me. I will not change it. The best thing would be to move forward, into the light. But I'm not kidding myself. It will take years. Ten years into the future, like you don't believe. However, I believe. I can see the future. Forget stars and supermoons. Think of the sun. Imagine its warmth. And the blue sky. And the blue sea. [- ---- ---, -------.]

Monday, 21 March 2011

A risky Tony Marsh character joins Barclays Wealth

I'm taking a bit of a gamble with this one, this Tony Marsh, because I have no idea who anyone thinks he is. Picture the scene, earlier. I was stuck for something to write about. The day's financial news was boring me to tears. I was getting desperate. Then (after at least twenty minutes of intense anguish, seriously) I discovered that someone by the name of Tony Marsh had left Full Circle Asset Management to join Barclays Wealth as a wealth adviser. Naturally, I was intrigued. Also, a little scared. What if this Tony Marsh doll/puppet/whatever turned out to be a psychopath? I had my reputation to consider. Still do, in fact.

Well, I've committed myself now. Let's make the most of it. You have to learn to trust people. Otherwise, what's the point in breathing? You may as well dig your grave, if that's your attitude, this: having no faith in the human race. And as for the day's financial news boring me to tears, that's not exactly a rare event for any of us, is it? Are we dead souls? Are we really like those poor creatures who spend their deaths in newsrooms, dreaming of life? No, we are not! There is blood in your veins. There is blood in mine. There is air in our lungs. There is a thought or two in our heads. We are lucky. We are alive. Smile, for me. Do it. Smile, for the Lord. Make it patently clear that you appreciate the gift of life. God is watching. And so am I.

Enough of that. I'm not turning into a religious nut. There is money to be made, after all. And I don't want to anger the desert gods. Or the astral ghosts. (There is a danger they could come back and ruin my new style.) Money is our religion, eh? That's where all the love is. I'm sure Tony Marsh - if he could speak - would agree with me. This thing oversees and offers wealth planning advice to high net worth individuals. We have to believe that. If Barclays Wealth says it's true, are we going to argue? No.

Let's trust Barclays Wealth. And let's believe in Tony Marsh.

Friday, 18 March 2011

It's because Gilbert Saiz is a former Goldman Sachs specimen that he does so well

Gilbert Saiz is the big man at Vector Commodity Management, and he is Gil Saiz to friends, of which he has many. I want to be his friend. I get so lonely. Especially now all the voices have gone. I shouldn't have written 'specimen'. That won't win his heart. 'Fuel oil trader' would have been better. It would have been much better. You live and learn, don't you?

Anyway, Gil is on a roll at the moment. His hedge fund returned 8.2 per cent last month. That's six times the industry average. The man's a godlike genius. I sincerely believe that. So, whom should we thank? Should we thank God, for letting him walk amongst us? Or should we thank all those wise souls at Goldman Sachs, for taking a boy and making a man? Oh, Goldman, Goldman, Goldman! It's got to be Goldman. My title makes it clear. Didn't you read it? It's because Gilbert Saiz is a former Goldman Sachs FUEL OIL TRADER that he does so well. I only wish he was my friend. Then I wouldn't feel so wretched.

Of course, it's hard to trust people. There are so many filthy degenerates around. They let you down. They lie to you. And they flatter. These people can't even spell the word 'honour'. But I can spell it. Judge for yourself.

I must walk out of the blood and the guts into freedom. I want to leave all pain behind. I'm taking Gil with me. He's going to be my friend, whether he likes it or not. I don't care about his feelings. Half of these people don't even have feelings. They are God's robots. Goldman took a robot and trained it up, but God created the robot. Can anyone doubt it? Who's going to tell me I'm wrong? No one. No one wants to challenge me. Everyone's worried I'll turn nasty. Well, I'm going to be more forceful, that's for sure. 'They' say you can't make people love you. 'They' are wrong. 'They' are going to love me too. I'll find them. I cannot be stopped. There is no end to my desire. I want everything I see. And I want the Invisible! [The biggest prize.] If it exists, I'm sure it will change me. I'm stretching my mind, my soul, for it. God is just a word. Universal consciousness? It could be anything. But I know it's there.

One more thing: if love is impossible, there is always money. That is this world for you. Can you understand why I want to get away?

Wednesday, 16 March 2011

RAB Capital lost over £20 million last year

It's not good, is it? RAB Capital should be making money, not losing it. I blame Stephen Couttie. But that's another story. One I won't tell. I have faith in Charles Kirwan-Taylor. He's RAB Capital’s latest chief executive. He hasn't resigned yet. I'm very impressed. He's been in the job longer than a week. It's impressive, eh?

Yes, it is. Making money isn't easy. I don't need to tell anyone that, least of all you, like we're friends. Sticking to a job when everyone wants you to suffer isn't easy. I don't need to draw anyone a picture. I don't need to plant an image in anyone's mind. That's not my business. But think of a hole in the ground. I'm making it my business. Put money it in. Let's be honest, it's my business. Set fire to the money. You get the idea. It can be your business. You don't need me to hold your hand. You're doing great all by yourself. And I'm still addressing you, like a friend. It's a charmed life you lead. I wish I had a friend like me.

Do you ever get the impression that I'm trying to destroy reality with my words? Maybe I want to replace the financial world with something more to my liking. Like a circus, with clowns. Like a brothel, with whores. Like a sewer, with rats. 'Boy, you're sick!' You don't need to tell me I'm sick. This is my therapy. They're letting me out next month, next year, in another life. The doctor tells me that he is God. I have to believe him. What choice do I have? 'It's all a pack of lies!' Oh, you're clever. I'll give you that. You're not stupid.

That was a fantasy. I merely imagined the things you might say. And I don't have a doctor, and I don't have a god. I'm on my own. It's why I write the way I do. I'm falling, and no one and no thing can catch me. There is no one to catch me. There is no ... thing. Funnily enough, the same applies to you. You're just not aware. I think Charles Kirwan-Taylor is aware. Stephen Couttie was definitely aware. That's why he cracked up. The abyss, my reader(s). The emptiness. And you don't have to fall. You can rise as well. It's all around us. Think of a Sunday afternoon in summer. We'll be there soon. Four o'clock. That sickness. The light. The heat. The aching for something. What will it be, for you? I don't know. But you will not be able to have it. It will be different for each of us. I know what I'll be aching for.

So, RAB Capital lost £20 million last year. Roughly. Pre-tax. I wouldn't get upset about it. That's just me. I know that things could have been far worse. The RAB people are still breathing. Money isn't everything.

Goldman Sachs can keep its 10 per cent voting stake in Avenue Financial Holdings

I'm glad. It's nice to have some good news for a change. Goldman Sachs Investment Partners (an opportunistic multi-disciplinary hedge fund) holds the stake. Avenue Financial Holdings owns Avenue Bank, which is what everyone was worried about (I mean, Goldman's stake in the bank). The Federal Reserve has given its blessing. And I am calm. I am relaxed. My mind is undisturbed.

I'm not even taking phone calls from Lloyd Blankfein. He can set that thug, Viniar, on me. What do I care? I haven't fallen out with Lloyd. And I wish him all the best. But he has to understand: I have moved on. It's not a question of money. It doesn't mean I'm tight with Bob Diamond. I am elevated now. The silence is unbelievable. I can sense God, thinking. This is what Lloyd and Bob have to understand. And they can follow me, if they want to. Anyone can.

A lot of people will choose not to. The literal ones. They are scared. They think I will drag them into a pit of insanity. Something happened to them when they were children. Or maybe nothing happened. That’s more likely. Yes, nothing happened to them! They were brought up in comfort. Everything was provided. They didn't have to struggle. But today, they suffer. Maybe without knowing. Inside, they are dead. Now, they have no feelings. They cannot imagine. That's the worst of it. They cannot imagine.

I'm not even taking them seriously. They can stick to their scenes. What do I care? I wish them enlightenment. But they have to understand: I have moved on. It's not a question of bitterness. And I am not looking for their support. I am closer to the life I want. The visions are unrecordable. It feels like God is letting me in on a secret. This is what Jesus and Buddha have to understand, this: I am their brother. And they can give me hugs, if they want to. Anyone equal to me can.

This is important. If you're not on my wavelength, my insights will make you ill. I can't help that. I've got to be selfish in this matter. Who's looking out for me? I am. I'm hovering between life and death. The life I want? It's there! The death I'm trying to escape? Well, I actually believe that I will escape it. I've grown in confidence. The desert is becoming a distant memory. I can have fleshes and bones on Square Mile streets whenever I like. One day, I'll hit Wall Street, with my body. It's my blood and my fire got me where I am. I always had the passion. God has just recognized it, that's all.

Tuesday, 15 March 2011

I wish someone would tell me who Todd Kata is

Then I could sleep nights. It's no use saying: 'Todd Kata is a senior analyst on the equities team within hedge fund research at Man Group. Oh, and he reports to Robin Lowe'. What could that possibly mean to one such as I? A man is not his job. Let me spell it out for the hard of thinking. Todd Kata is NOT a senior analyst on the equities team within hedge fund research at Man Group. He does not report to Robin Lowe. (Robin Lowe is NOT the head of equities.) Are we making progress? Are we seeing the light?

And I suppose it's only a matter of time. Yes, it's only a matter of time before someone pipes up: 'Todd is responsible for the sourcing, monitoring and ongoing due diligence of long/short equity funds. You'll find him in New York, if you look hard enough'. No, I won't. I'm afraid I won't be going anywhere near New York - even though my angel is there. (Let her come to me. I refuse to crawl to these women. Even the angelic ones.) What a life! Who would choose to spend his or her time like this? Only a lunatic.

I am not a lunatic. I have chosen to investigate Mr Kata for the sake of my health. I don't care about Man Group. My diving into the core of his being is important. If I can smash the mystery of Todd Kata into a billion pieces and present him as a member of the human race in front of us, right here, right now, or over there, later, in front of the Man people, I know I'll be able to sleep again. 'Here he is. Here is a man. There is nothing more to say.' That's my dream. It's Man Group's nightmare. Man Group is going to hate me if I manage to reveal the essence of Todd Kata. In their faces! Why? Well, what do you think the effect on his colleagues will be? If they saw Todd for the first time in all his raw humanity, naked as a newborn babe, without a job, without an employer, without a name, it would be devastating. The domino effect. Imagine! Even 'Todd Kata' would be stripped away. Everyone at Man Group (the slaves, I mean) would rise from their desks. Clothes would be torn off. Identities would be lost in a mess of singing and dancing and fucking. It would be total chaos. And I would be there, in spirit, a shadow in the corner, grinning maniacally before floating off home for a well-deserved rest, no, a sleep, a long sleep, the sort of which you normally only associate with a corpse in a grave. Dead to the physical cosmos! But alive in dreamworld!

Maybe I should calm down a bit. I promised myself that I wouldn't get this excited again. The skull of a man, with no flesh, is coming up, bubbling to the surface. The awful things I see! Once you have opened the gate, you cannot close it without a titanic struggle. I don't know if I have the strength. Oh yes I do! This is the new me, remember? Not the old one, sad and broken in a pile of rubbish, but the new one, sailing on and on and on, to happiness!

Independent Franchise Partners does not want your money

It has too much money. It has $5 billion. That is far too much, isn't it? (No.) All raised in two years! Hassan Elmasry must be some sort of genius. That is the only explanation. Mr Elmasry is the founder of Independent Franchise Partners. He used to be one of those heads at Morgan Stanley. But he has grown since then. Gone beyond mere headness to find a torso, and arms, and legs. He has achieved so much. He even has a soul. I believe that Mr Elmasry is one of these financial characters we can believe in. He has a few partners, as you might expect. Michael Allison, Paras Dodhia, John Kelly-Jones, Jayson Vowles. They are all happy and smiling men, and they are all committed to delivering attractive long-term returns while focusing on the absolute risks inherent in equity investment. Who could ask for more? It's a beautiful state of affairs. It must be like paradise on earth over at their offices.

So why do I feel so uneasy? I guess I'm a man who can ask for more. Enough is never enough for the world's foremost financial shaman. I always want more. It's the story of my life. I want more money, more blood, and more fire. In short, I want more life. And not just for myself. Wanting more life for every soul in the universe is the story of my life. I want Hassan, Michael, Paras, John, and Jayson to have more life. I want to see these men push themselves beyond their limits. Mr Elmasry had the right idea, initially, reaching out beyond mere headness. But why stop there? He has achieved a full and convincing reality in this world, and raised $5 billion, and congratulations are certainly in order, but he must stretch his hands out now. With his fingertips, he must touch the sky. (Oh, touch those white clouds, Mr Elmasry! Then everything will be within your grasp.) It is the way of the shaman. The way of the dissatisfied man. Satisfaction is death. That's the terrible truth. We weren't taught it in school, but it is the truth.

Not too many people like the truth. Yes, I understand. A lot of people actively hate it. Why make yourself uncomfortable? Why stare in the mirror and see the horrors of existence? Why torture yourself with dreams of a better tomorrow, knowing that today is hell? All good questions. And I have more. But now is not the time for asking questions. It is not even the time for supplying answers to the weak and useless. Hassan, Michael, Paras, John, and Jayson are wanting (with such desperation) to be lifted out of themselves. I feel responsible for them. Don't ask me why. It's ridiculous. I haven't signed a contract. No money has exchanged hands. Only love. (No hands. A spiritual thing. Brotherhood. There was no physical contact.) I love these men. And they love me. And it is more respectable than you can imagine. I will lift them up. I will carry them if I have to. (Mr Elmasry, put those hands away, fingertips and all. I am here to save you.) I feel just like Jesus Christ sometimes.

Monday, 14 March 2011

Mikhail Malyshev freed on $100,000 bond

And that's the way it should be. We don't want to keep a man like this Mikhail locked up. Not a man like him. That wouldn't be fair. It's the most recent news. Mikhail Malyshev has been charged with perjury. And the old news? He was the head of high-frequency trading at Citadel. Then he founded Teza Technologies. Somewhere along the line he got involved with Sergey Aleynikov. And now, all the dancing in the world won't save him. [Yes it will! Let's stay positive. Oh, this is a note to myself. Not an intruding voice, if that's what you're thinking.] It didn't save Sergey, after all. They met at a ballroom dancing competition. They fell in love, with money.

But that's not the truth. I'm being hopelessly romantic. It's a major failing of mine. Let's forget about Sergey. Let's consider Mikhail in our minds while feeling him in our hearts. Like all decent, God-fearing capitalists, Mikhail Malyshev has always loved money. In the womb, he loved money. In the tomb, one day, he will love it. I'm cut from the same cloth. I can understand Mikhail Malyshev and all the men and all the women who are like him. So I'm sympathetic, you might say. Or pathetic, depending on your politics. I know a lot of commies read me. They get hard (or wet) reading me. It's exciting to see how the other half live, in luxury. But that's not me, myself. I am one, unfortunately, who lives in shit. And there are a lot like me, just like me. But I am looking for a way out. You can say that I am an optimist. Say it. Convince me.

I need to be convinced because I get so down sometimes. If I weren't using a laptop, posts like this would be written in blood. Serious, eh? Obviously. And not my blood, seriously. Do you think I'm stupid? I'm still addressing you, dear reader. It's like we're in a relationship. It's intimate, isn't it? Speak to me! I'm still approachable, for the time being. It won't last. Or maybe it will. The changes are coming thick and fast. I'm pleased with my progress. Mikhail is drawing me to another Mikhail. But I promised: no literary quotes! It's so tempting. I am displaying superhuman strength, aren't I? I'm very proud of myself. This is an achievement. This can't be dismissed. And it will pile up. It will not be ignored. Control. Consistency. Is there another one? It would be nice to call them The Three Cs, wouldn't it? I'll have to put my thinking cap on. Do you have any ideas?

Blue sky and sunny. Nearly forty-two. It is close. Things will be different. Ten years. Twenty years. Thirty years. There are futures you cannot imagine. This is for one of you. I know you are reading. It is changing for you as well. My astrologer told me everything. You know it. I know it. You cannot fight it. Why would you want to? You will have to be brave. I think you have what it takes. Your colleagues will be shocked. You will have to ignore them. Pay attention to me. I am God. I am God. I am God. And you can quote him on that. Picasso, I mean.

Update: Concentration!

Friday, 11 March 2011

What can we say about Sir Fred Goodwin?

I try my best to defend these morons. But they don't make it easy, do they?

How are we going to get around this super-injunction of his? For once in my life, I'm lost for words. Well, almost. Almost lost for words. I'm sure I'll find a solution. But I can't mention ***. And I can't call Sir Fred a ******. Even though he clearly is one. This is a bloody nightmare!

_________________________


Let me see if I can reach him. I want to change his attitude. I want to touch him in places that will open him up. I want to take his face in my hands. There was a banker. He was the boss. A long time ago. And here he is. This is not that man, as he was. The man has been damaged. It is a lonely soul I am dealing with. I am fully aware. And I will be gentle. He lives in darkness. Like so many before him, and many to come. How many right now? They cannot be counted. You cannot even see them. (And they cannot see each other.) But you can feel them. I touch them. They are grateful. I bring joy into their miserable lives. The money they have hurts them. They are not at peace. This is what happens when you leave a bank. When you leave that life, it all goes, it all slips away. The passion. The energy. The will. Then you lose your mind. Anything is possible after that. Strange thoughts enter your head. Strange desires enter your heart. People become shadows. Nothing is real when you are that lost. He spends the whole day in his pyjamas, every day. The curtains are drawn. Wretched banker, what did they do to you? And what did you do to yourself?

_________________________


That's enough. I don't want to pry any further. And I advise you not to, dear reader. It's a sensitive issue, and he could lash out at any moment. It's best if we leave him alone.

Thursday, 10 March 2011

The disintegration of someone who is not Felix Salmon

He was never Felix Salmon. That's what they couldn't understand. He wasn't even a man. For a while I tried to convince myself (and others) that he was a scarecrow. My consciousness couldn't support that fanciful notion for long. And so he collapsed to the cold ground, and he disintegrated. It's just lumps, bits and pieces now. That is all we have. There is an eye that will not stop staring. Am I being accused of something? There is half a mouth and a slice of tongue. Whatever terrible things I may have done, this thing's silence cannot judge me. Oh, it can try, but it will not succeed. I am not responsible for the tragedy. I was somewhere else. The blood in my mouth? That's my blood, not his. It just fell apart, disintegrated, I say. Felix Salmon had a chance. We can't even call him that. It had a chance to make something of itself. His fate was in his own hands. Where are his hands? This is awful. It was never a man. That's my only consolation.

It was never a man. I know what a man is. I've seen them about. I am one myself. And I've seen those women. They're a part of this. We must try to suspend our disbelief. You wouldn't find me in a field, fighting off crows. However, one day, I will disintegrate. It happens to the best of them. It will happen to you. Felix Salmon never lived, never breathed the way we have been known to breathe. That's true. No one's denying it. But let his story be a warning. We are running out of time! That leg, well, part of a leg, it looks like it, a leg bit. That could belong to any one of us in the coming future, which will come, as all futures come. Or rather, not belong any more. Detached, adrift in an uncaring world. A dog could find it. Then where would we be? Everywhere and nowhere. That's the short answer. The long answer is ... a matter of belief, as you would expect. What do you believe? I believe we are more than flesh and bone. We must leave this 'Felix Salmon' creature out of it. I'm talking about us. What are we? Are we covered skeletons on the way to the grave, where we will be stripped down, then left for centuries, maybe even thousands of years, until some ghoul decides to put us on display? No! We are more than that. We are spirits. Let them take our bodies! Let the dogs gnaw away at our legs! What do we care? We'll be gone.

Felix Salmon has gone. He was never here. I tried my best to imagine him. We all did. But it was to no avail. We have our bits and pieces, at least. Not much comfort, I know. Never mind. Maybe one day a visionary will arrive, with powers beyond mine. He or she will find these lumps and make something new. It wouldn't have to be a human. It wouldn't have to be given a name. (We have to be reasonable. Are we really looking for a miracle?) Just one big lump. That would suffice. If we're still here, we'll be able to watch it roll in the dirt. I don't think we can expect anything more than that. It will have a life. That's the main thing. Something good has to come out of this. We all struggle. We don't know why. That 'man' we wanted, it tried to please us. For us, it came together - for a brief moment. Felix was a flickering candle in the dark. Then it went out because we didn't have faith. We should have helped him with his fate. The failure was ours.

Wednesday, 9 March 2011

BC Partners raises €4 billion to the skies

I can only just make it out. That money is going. Soon it will be gone. It's supposed to be money for a new buy-out fund. I have no idea how anyone will get it down now. Why did BC Partners feel the need to raise it so high, where no one can reach? Well, no one normal. I suppose I could have a word with Big Herb or Ganesh, but I'm trying to leave all that behind. I intend to become a shaman with one voice, with everything I need within me. No desire to go sailing through astral skies with the ghosts of financiers long dead. No desire to roll in desert sands. I am a changing man.

Having said that, I dreamt of the desert last night. I dreamt of blood on rocks where there had been a battle. I cannot remember the rest. Maybe that's a good thing. I have a killer migraine. I thought only women had migraines. I must be changing, seriously. I was sick this morning. Just bile. Is anyone surprised? It's only a matter of time before the room starts spinning around. I am prepared. I'll take it slow. I'll take it easy. I'll try not to think of BC Partners and all those euros. Is there anything wrong with pounds, or are we all communists now? A European private equity group. Oh dear. Never mind. Don't get me wrong, I love continental culture. (But they can stick their government and their shitty little flag where the sun don't shine.) Do you ever hear me praising any English writers? Only very rarely. English culture is bland. I stand out like a living god in this country. I'm not complaining. Someone's got to show the English how it's done.

A bit of politics. That must go as well. Where I have suddenly found this ruthless streak, this incredible discipline? No politics, no references to popular culture, no literary quotes, no feuds, no mad voices, no slang (maybe a bit), no satire (well ...), no Americanisms. [Fuckin' A!] What will be left? One voice, my voice. Pure, and flexible, from thin prose to thick poetics. This is the new way. It is coming soon to a blog near you, this blog. Maybe today, if I can shake off my migraine. Definitely tomorrow. Tomorrow, oh tomorrow. I must fight it. Shakespeare nearly crept in there. Did you notice that? Shakey ain't so bad. The works of Shakespeare and the King James Bible. Lovely. Then it all goes downhill. I blame the middle class. Bunch of wankers. (I've got to control my swearing as well. Is anyone taking notes?) I blame the universities. They don't have this trouble in France, you know. Maybe I should emigrate. If I die soon, can someone just dump me in Pere Lachaise? Thanks.

Tuesday, 8 March 2011

Jonathan Yalmokas and Charlotte Burkeman will follow Stuart Hendel to Bank of America

I have a feeling about these two. Something deep inside. Their boss, Stuart Hendel, has resigned from UBS. He was a global head, a big one, of the Swiss bank's prime brokerage unit. But that wasn't good enough for him. Men like Mr Hendel are never satisfied. So he will be joining Bank of America in June. He will head the American bank's global prime brokerage unit. And then he will be happy for a while. But men like Mr Hendel are never happy for long. I have some insight into his character. I have a feeling about him. In my gut. Or my heart. We could go as far as my head. I wouldn't rule it out, my head. There may even be visions of him up there, not just my feelings and these words. When I think of someone, enough, with enough concentration, I often see them as well. And it spreads to my dreams. I have had two marvellous conversations with my angel recently, while I was sleeping. She is very warm, and very caring. I don't know if I will dream of Mr Hendel any time soon. I hope not. I want to keep the space free. It's no reflection on Mr Hendel. Can I call him Stuart? Of course I can! I don't need permission. It's no reflection on Stuart. I just want to keep the space free. She could come back at any moment, any moment at night.

Jonathan Yalmokas and Charlotte Burkeman interest me greatly. They resigned with Stuart. What are they planning? It's pretty obvious they want to be with Stuart, again, over and over. It will go on. Maybe one day Stuart will leave Bank of America for Goldman or Barclays or God knows which bank, and they will be there too, never leaving his side, stuck to him, obsessed, sick with love, or is it (will it be) hatred? Do they want to ruin his life? It's unlikely. Oh, maybe they were sent from hell! Maybe they are hellhounds. It's not impossible. But it is unlikely. I know hellhounds. Jonathan and Charlotte do not strike me as the sort. I think they love him. I think they want him in ways he would find disturbing, if only he knew, if only he could see. As for hell, I'm trying to leave it behind with all the other stuff. We make our own hell, and our own heaven. This is my reality. Or it will be my reality. Early days yet. You are my witnesses. I'm going to get better. Actually, I'm already better. I'm going to get stronger. You could say that I have been through a classic shaman's sickness. (I didn't realize. This is the second time. Is that common? I don't know. I'll have to do some research.) There is chaos and insanity, and you get close to death, then you recover. New wisdom, new powers! No one will be able to touch me from now on.

I remember the days of chaos. I was young and stupid. How old are Jonathan and Charlotte? I'm not saying they're going through the same thing I went through. I don't know enough about them. I just hope Stuart is being responsible. They look up to him. If he were to put his hand in the fire, he'd walk away unharmed. That's experience. Jonathan and Charlotte, though, would probably ... I don't know these people. They are strangers.

That's enough for today. I think I'm making progress.

Monday, 7 March 2011

Bob Diamond's bonus: a miserable £6.5 million

I am not in the mood for speaking to Bob Diamond today. He will only excite me, and I want to remain calm. I am checking my pulse. Everything seems to be in order. This is the life. I am pure. I am clean. There is silence. And the sun is shining.

Bob Diamond is the chief executive of Barclays. He used to be the boss of Barclays Capital. Then he went up in the world. He is a star in my sky. He was expecting £9.5 million. I think we all were. We all hoped he would get that much. I was hoping that half a million would trickle down into my outstretched hand.

I can wait. I have the patience of a saint. I know I will get mine. Mr Diamond is my friend. I speak of him as if he were a real person. He is someone we can believe in. It is either that or a fictional character. Which would you prefer?

Is there anything more miserable than £6.5 million? If Mr Diamond is suffering right now, I do not want to know. I am not heartless. But I have to protect myself. Pain is contagious. I am pure. I am clean. There is no despair. Winter has gone.

I am looking forward. I will play my guitar. Sterile. I would like to bite something. I will not. I would love to get my teeth into flesh. This is agony. I was addicted. I was [am?] ill. Can this be the cure? Or will I return to the days of mad passion?

Soft light through the curtains. They are drawn. Shadow of a pigeon. I wish I were a pigeon. That is the simple life. What do pigeons worry about? Do they need bonuses? Of course they do not. Control. Just a few crumbs. I want crumbs of love.

Here is the truth. I work harder than Bob Diamond. My work corrodes my soul. There is no reward. The only thing I have to look forward to is an early death. I could spend eternity with my Gillian, and it would just be two shadows. Where is the substance?

This is real, and I am not scared. You are more scared than I am.

A bitter note to the haters, with a few words of love for the lovers

I'm supposed to be making a fresh start today, where I cut out (or tone down) the references to popular culture, the literary quotes (I don't need to quote, do I?), the satire, and the feuds with all the haters.

Haters. I can't help you understand or appreciate. And it's not my problem. It's your problem. You're the philistines, the uneducated ones. And even if you went to Oxford or Cambridge, so what? It got you a good job. Big deal! But that's all. You're still uneducated by my standards. Your websites may not link to me. I'm sure I'll survive. The people you support are morons. You are on the wrong side of history. I don't want you visiting this blog any more, all right?

As for the lovers, the people who send me emails full of love (or even just thoughts of love on astral waves), thank you. You get me through the hard times. This is a lonely business. I'm not as strong as I make out. But your love makes me stronger.

I know I've matched the achievements of Rimbaud and Lautreamont - as far as content goes. In form, I have moved beyond them. I need to raise my game to the Kafka/Beckett level. I have touched those heights on occasion, but I have to be consistent now. It's not a matter of form. I have created a new form. It's a matter of content. There will still be a place for humour. However, it will have to be controlled. Everything will have to be controlled. Regular readers will know how I have struggled with my material. Until now anything that has flowed through my consciousness has been up for inclusion in the work. I can't continue like that. Not if I want to raise my game and achieve greater things.

Of course, this post will be deleted at some stage if I find it impossible to stick to the plan. Let's see how it goes. At least I'm trying to change. This is a real struggle.

Thursday, 3 March 2011

Blackstone has given Michael Pearl $125 million

I'm very happy for Michael Pearl with his Harbor Bridge hedge fund he's supposed to be setting up. Why won't anyone give me $125 million? I guess you have to be lucky, or know all the right people. I know all the wrong people. I need to leave them in the dirt, where they belong.

As my title suggests [oh, it does more than suggest] Blackstone Group has given him the money. It's a seed investment. Blackstone has planted a seed in Mr Pearl, and soon more money will come. I suppose he knew all the right people at Duquesne Capital Management. I would not be surprised. Now he knows all the right people at Blackstone. I know all the wrong people, in my head. I'll get rid of them. I have to.

All the dead are going, or have already gone. I need the strength and the discipline to be serious. It's easy for Mr Pearl. It's easy for all the shallow souls who write about him and the people like him, like it's so very important and means something. I am beyond that. I've always been beyond that, but I have not shown it with sufficient seriousness. Goodbye to the phantasmagoria! Is this wishful thinking? We all know how little control I have over my material. [References to popular culture, literary quotes, feuds with nonentities. All must go! (A few quotes can be used, maybe, in moderation; then people will be reassured. 'Oh, he's well read. How lovely! I'm glad he's letting us know. Otherwise we might think he's a c**t.' I need to read La Vita Nuova.)] Oh, time will tell. Let this be the fresh start to end all fresh starts. Or should that be, to begin them?

I want to kill Jack Pickles. Big Herb too. I want to stay silent about the desert in my heart. We all know it's there. It's not as if anyone can miss it. I am so empty. I may keep the mystic child voice. I actually like him/it. I'll definitely keep the angel. She is my life. (No, I'm not joking. And if you don't approve, tough. You don't know me. You don't know her. It's a story that will last. We will live in eternity. Like Dante and Beatrice. All of my thoughts can only speak of love.) And I don't care who reads. Or who doesn't. I don't care who understands. Or who fails to understand. It's all the same to Michael Fowke, whoever he is. [I'm determined to find out. I'm going to make it my mission in life.] It's time to get serious. Men like Mr Pearl will appreciate it. And women. I'll start next week. It's about consistency, deep vision, discipline, seriousness, not being swayed, not being dragged down, or even lifted high. I want to stay straight on my own path.

I'll be a priest, a saint. Untouchable. Undisturbed. Isolated, but without fear. Serene? That would be nice. I'll feel better. I might even get happy. I have a plan. I am the shaman with the plan. Let's see if we can keep the jokes and the satire to a bare minimum, eh? Wit is for the witless, after all. Glory is for the ... deathless. [What?] Money is for the ... I wish I knew. [I need to know.] After so many innovations and all the visions, there is room for more. I must keep on! I am driven. I have demons after me. Hellhounds! How would you feel? This isn't as much fun as it seems. But I am committed. Mr Pearl doesn't know what he's let himself in for. He should have stayed well clear of finance. Let this be a warning to the youngsters. Steer clear, little ones, lest you become immortal in a way you never bargained for. [Actually, I'm sure they haven't been thinking of immortality at all. But that's kids today for you. I blame the parents.]

Wednesday, 2 March 2011

Rajat Gupta charged by the SEC with insider trading

Rajat Gupta. This is a man who was on the board of Goldman Sachs. Now the SEC has charged him with insider trading.

"Gupta was honored with the highest trust of leading public companies, and he betrayed that trust by disclosing their most sensitive and valuable secrets," said Robert Khuzami, Director of the SEC's Division of Enforcement. "Directors who violate the sanctity of board room confidences for private gain will be held to account for their illegal actions." More SEC nuttiness.

It is very depressing. Who can you trust in this world? Can you trust a banker on a board? How about a starving dog in an alleyway? Can you trust the authorities? Not just on earth. The authorities anywhere!

I was checking my Sitemeter records last night. Apparently, this sweet blog o' mine received a visit from The Executive Office of the President of the United States yesterday. So, Barack, mate, if you're reading this, what do you make of the state of the world? Who can we trust?

_________________________


Reader, whoever. We are alone. Can you trust yourself? There is no one else. Just me and my shadow. You and your shadow. Separate. Touch me. Look into my eyes. Yes. Yes. Yes. I almost feel better.

Tuesday, 1 March 2011

My exclusive interview with Charlie Sheen

"People beyond myself are relying on that money to fuel the magic."

That was Charlie Sheen yesterday, speaking to a TV interviewer. Well, I was intrigued, so I used one of my showbiz contacts to get my own interview with the great man. Here it is in all its unedited glory (all rights reserved) -

Mikey: Charlie, first of all, I want to thank you for agreeing to be interviewed like this over the telephone. I know you're very busy, what with the porn stars, the drugs, and everything.

Charlie: Mikey, it's a pleasure. Or it will be a pleasure. I just know it, man. I actually been reading you some time now. I feel like we're kindred spirits. It's like we were gone, yeah, both of us, lost children who got all fucked up, and then we found each other in the Garden of Eden, you know? So when Jake told me you wanted to speak, I thought, yeah, why not? Oh, I'm off the drugs.

Mikey: You're off the drugs?!

Charlie: I'm clean, man.

Mikey: That's amazing. How did you manage that?

Charlie: When you got yourself, when you got life, you don't need nothing else. I'm high on Charlie, me, myself, The Charlie Sheen Machine, you dig? That's me. Don't need no coke, no weed, no peyote. Nothing! And it ain't dull, not for a minute, if that's what you're thinking. I get visions, natural visions, just like you. You've helped me a lot, Mikey. I've trained my mind to go through the pain that those studio devils have been laying on me. Devils, demons, whatnot? I'm surrounded by them! But they'll be fucking dead in the dust one day. They will be dust, while I'm still rolling, you understand?

Mikey: I can relate to that. We are alike in so many ways. It's like when I'm really deep, in myself, cut off from all the squares, in my own zone, so to speak, it's like there ain't nothing that can touch me, and so I don't need anything, and so it is, it is, it is like a drug or something, being a shaman like no man. The peyote can be useful, but you don't need it. Or I find I don't. I can just step into a vision, man, another reality, then BANG! I'm fucking gone and no one can find me.

Charlie: That's what I'm talking about!

Mikey: What's this about the money? I mean, that's what got me interested.

Charlie: I don't have a job. I was the highest paid star on TV. But then I had to deal with maggots and earthworms, then guess what?

Mikey: You got fired, Charlie.

Charlie: Yeah, I got fired. That's why I'm suing everyone. To get the money I'm owed. Warner Brothers and CBS are going to be worshipping me like a god by the time I'm finished with them, and all their fucking money is gonna be in my pocket, where it belongs. What's theirs is mine, and what's mine, who knows or cares? Am I right? I got feet here that ain't been licked. Bree won't touch them. That's what I’m up against. But someone will lick them. Someone will, 'cos I'm out for vengeance like a pissed-off tornado! I got armies, you dig? Of these little invisible fellas, not goblins, you'll be glad to hear. You can see those, can't you?

Mikey: I don't know.

Charlie: I'll be back on top. Don't worry about me. Once I got the money. As you say, money's the way. I'll own Warner Brothers. I'll own them CBS. Those fucks can't fuck, not with someone who's basically been there on the edge like a vampire, but then pulled back, all serene, just looking around now, like the Dalai Lama or ...

Mikey: Or a shaman. A money man financial shaman in the desert.

Charlie: Fuckin' A!

Mikey: You see, Charlie, that's what they don't understand. We ain't normal. I don't mean we're fucking freaks. I ain't saying that. But we ain't normal. That's for sure. What are they dealing with when they deal with us? Because I've had my share. You're not alone in this, Charlie. I've been down, broken, people pissing in my face, thinking I'm finished, but I was up again, charging them in my golden mystic chariot, crushing them like Krishna, well, Arjuna, I don't know how involved the blue guy was, yeah? It's not like I gave up. Did I die or cry with shame and despair?

Charlie: You took the fight to them, Mike. I know. I mean, I don't know everything. I don't know the whole story with you. It sounds crazy that you had these punks taking you for a fool. And I want a chariot. I fucking want one! I hear you talk, I swear to Christ. Who would stop me?

Mikey: No one, man. No one. Oh, Charlie, I got to ask you, who are these people beyond you, out there, presumably, who are trying to fuel the magic?

Charlie: With my fucking money, Mikey! Don't forget that.

Mikey: Who are they?

Charlie: Friends, associates, loved ones, family. I'm taking everyone on a magic carpet ride. Hey, I don't need a chariot! I forgot! It's those drugs that put holes in my head where all the thoughts fall through. Jesus! So, yeah, it takes big money to fill that old carpet up to the brim. I'm taking them with me. Bree, Natalie, even Brooke and the kids. It's gonna be a gas! Because what is life, Mikey?

Mikey: Charlie, you're either living or you're dying.

Charlie: Damn straight.

Mikey: In the final analysis, money is only worth what someone thinks it's worth. So fuel the magic, man, and fly away. I'd be coming with you if I didn't have so many responsibilities here on earth.

Charlie: I wish you could come.

Mikey: Charlie, you know, maybe I will. Maybe I'll go fucking nuts and drop everything, you know?

Charlie: You should.

Mikey: Charlie, man, I'm not gonna take up any more of your time. It's been fucking great!

Charlie: Okay, Mikey. It has certainly been a pleasure.

Mikey: You're a fucking star, Charlie. Don't forget that, man. Take care.

Charlie: See ya, Mike. Give my love to the ghosts, and the angel.

Siris Capital needs $400 million to get started

I'm sure we'll be able to do something. $400 million isn't a lot of money these days. Yes, that's how much cash Siris Capital is hoping to raise. So, Frank Baker, Peter Berger, and Jeffrey Hendren need our help.

O Master, who on earth are these awful puppets of which you speak?

O my child, they are men! Frankie, Pete, and Jeff are the co-founders of Siris Capital. They exist in the world, and they genuinely need our help. Siris Capital isn't phantasmagorical nonsense dragged from the depths of my subconscious.

But that's what the punters want!

Oh, do they? Do they really? Do they want to see Frank Baker wandering in the lonely darkness of my soul, and his soul, the astral area, which we share, as we are connected? And would they be happy if Peter Berger and Jeffrey Hendren could be seen swimming in the waters ... of ... my ... eyes, an illusion, a trick of the light, or something real, it could be quite sinister?

Well ...

Let me explain a few things to you. This isn't a game for me. I have to work very hard just to keep myself under control. Shards of the rock of my consciousness could fly off. I'm always talking: 'I have no control' and so on. That's not the truth. Not the whole truth. I do struggle, that's obvious, but if I really had no control, the entire world would know about it. I would spill out beyond these words. There would be physical actions, and consequences. People would get hurt. Imagine the flesh and the blood. More than twisted names and damaged thought-forms on the plane. It would be the souls in cages, God's robots, the man and woman in the street. Carnage coming to a reality near them! City of London, urban safari, and I would be the hunter. They would be animals, my animals.

Thank God they're in America!

Who?

Frankie, Pete, and Jeff.

They have nothing to fear from me. I want to help them. They need our help, our help, our help. How many more times? $400 million is not a lot of money. We can get it. I mean, my readers can get it for us, and for the Siris guys. There will be a 10 per cent administration fee, of course.

It's only fair you make a bit. You're not a holy saint - yet.

I will have to pass 10 per cent of my end on to Big Herb, and another 10 per cent to the ghosts. I'm looking at $32 million, if it all goes to plan.

O Master, will I get a taste?

You don't need money.

I like to have it though. I find it comforting.

Whatever.