Thursday, 28 April 2011

David Tepper is going to smash his home in the Hamptons into little pieces ...

... and then live in a fucking cave, apparently. Yes, he'll be taking a wrecking ball to the $43.5 million shithole of a mansion he's living in at the moment. Oh dear. Just as all the shamans and mystics are leaving the desert, Mr Tepper, boss of Appaloosa Management, decides it's time to move out there and find himself or something. But there's nothing to find no more. Not in the desert. That season has passed. We're in the cities now. Doesn't he read this blog?

Let me explain it in plain, simple English for the hard of thinking. The desert is over. It's finished. It has served its purpose. A year ago, I helped you, Mr Tepper, to reach the astral desert. That's when you should have made your move, to the physical desert. You had your chance. You blew it. So stay in the Hamptons. Live in your mansion. Or build a new one, if you must. But forget about the desert. And don't even think of approaching Big Herb. I cut his throat in the astral night. Oh, that hero of the revolution, we'll always remember him. For the love of God, haven't you heard the news? Don't you read this blog, Mr Tepper?

_________________________


Let me explain it in wild, mystic English for the easy of loving. The cities are ours. They belong to us, right inside. They are a part of us, like our blood, our fire. In our heads, we have financial centres: City of London, Wall Street, Hong Kong. It's not like being there, all cold, wondering what lameness we can lay on our dead admirers, hoping they will care we're mildly entertaining, knowing it's all rubbish, fearing a man of passion. I am that man of passion. With me, money-lovers, it's like being here, truly alive, so incredibly hot, working for a bright future, turning dull news into grand literature (since 2007), having real faith, believing in a higher life. Satisfied? No? Well, let me fuck you up in nights of hell and days of heaven. I am waiting for you to make a decision. I don't know if you've noticed at all, but I'm not taking any prisoners. Life's too short. Are you coming with me, forever, or are you going with them? I don't need dilettantes cramping my style. I want hysterical, professional seekers (lunatic, dangerous, violent), men and women, my brothers and sisters, committed, out cruising for visions, just exploding, ecstatic children. Does that sound like you?

Wednesday, 27 April 2011

Renaud Saleur is taking his Mangousta hedge fund beyond Jabre Capital Partners

No one knows where Renaud Saleur is going. This is serious. No one has a clue where he is taking his Mangousta fund. Only yesterday, an associate of mine asked him: 'Renaud, where are you going with that fund of yours, and why are you leaving Jabre Capital?' And this most peculiar of men answered: 'Beyond! I am going beyond! Be satisfied with that. I cannot tell you anything more. Please respect my privacy.'

Beyond? How can we be satisfied with such a wretched explanation? It's so vague. Unless he means, The Beyond. Surely not? No, it would be madness. To cross over like that, permanently, before his time, without permission from a higher (spiritual) authority, with no prospect of ever returning to this vale of tears. And with a hedge fund! Who has ever taken a hedge fund to the other side?

Pay attention now: we should not be too hard on Renaud. We are all capable of choosing the wrong path. Can any of us claim to possess the clear sight and honest judgement with which the Lord goes about His business in the skies above, not to mention our hearts? This Renaud, I see his suffering in the world. I watch him, closely, in his days, and in his nights. I understand why he wants to leave the earth behind, to leave it spinning in vast space bereft of his presence. I am not saying I approve. You know my view. We should always fight. Never give in to the darkness that lurks within; which only comes from the frightening without - for I believe we were not born with that darkness. There was a time when we were innocent. We had not tasted the awful wine of sin, nor its sickening bread. We were blank slates until the devil wrote his depraved stories upon us. Sadly, we allowed it. We were weak. The devil provided us with drink, and he fed us. We were thirsty for love, but the fleshy love was bad. We were hungry for companionship, and that was even worse than the love. Our foul-weather friends were demons! That is why we wandered in the desert for so long, to escape the infernal one and his questionable delights. It was a sacrifice. The last few years have been a time of desolation for a reason. So, the desert is a distant memory for us, and we are in the cities. Renaud has not had our experiences. Will we judge him? No! Let us guide him. It is our duty. We should stop Renaud from going beyond. More than that, if this man is sick, let us heal him. If he is confused, let us bring clarity (as far as we are able to). If he is sad, well, we should at least try to make him happy. I ask you all, my readers, my children: treat this man as if he were your brother. Oh, he is your brother!

Where are the billions from the sale of the Bank of Moscow?

A couple of months ago, Moscow's municipal government sold 46 per cent of Bank of Moscow to VTB for $3.7 billion (or a lot of roubles). Unfortunately, this money has since disappeared off the face of the earth. Well, that's what Andrei Borodin reckons. He's the former chief executive of Bank of Moscow, and he suspects corruption. Moscow's government is having none of it. A spokesthing said the money is somewhere and it will turn up in the city's coffers eventually.

I'm taking the side of the city government. I too believe that the money is somewhere and that it will make an appearance when it is good and ready. I'm an optimist. I have faith. And I get these feelings - little vibrations, really.

Let me explain the mystery of money that goes missing. There is no corruption or acts of evil in such situations. Imagine, for a moment. One sunny day, you would have ten pounds in your pocket. (I know you would.) It could slip away without your noticing, off the face of the earth. (Yes, I have to admit, the money does leave the earth. Andrei Borodin is not a complete fool.) And you could scream (it's possible): 'Thievery! Treachery! Outrageous shenanigans in the holy light of day which should only take place under the cover of darkness, in the evil night, obviously!' And no one would have the slightest idea of what you were going on about. Normal people would stare at you in the street and wonder. They would wonder all sorts of things, and a lot of it wouldn't be fair. 'I wonder if he's insane.' 'I wonder if she needs her medication.' This is the golden rule: never, never, never scream in the street when your money goes missing. Why? Two reasons. The first reason, which is common sense: you don't want perfect strangers thinking you're a mental case. The second reason, which is just magical, honestly: the money you have lost is already on its way back to you, with a whiff of the abyss about it - if you're lucky. Hard to believe, I know, but I am speaking from experience. Money needs adventure. It doesn't want to hang around in your pocket, or your bank account, dreaming of another life. That's why it often goes off, for a short while, to other realms! Not necessarily the abyss; it could be heaven. However, the abyss does hold an immense fascination for money. It's the danger, yes? I know you understand, reader(s).

So, Moscow's government sold the 46 per cent of Bank of Moscow. Those billions will materialize! They left VTB. We know that. They went off, God knows where. (I can guess, though.) Soon, very soon, the billions will land in the city's coffers. Coming from the sky profound or the abyss? Let's wait and see.

Tuesday, 26 April 2011

Stark Investments has a new short subprime hedge fund all set to wreak havoc

Havoc everywhere in the world, just like the old days. I'm looking forward to it. We don't want to die in our sleep. We are mystic soldiers! Shamans against reality! Well, some of us. Like the Stark ones. Those characters at Stark Investments see things differently. Thank God for that! They are not communistic cowards, shivering in the attic, crying for mummy. Stark's RMBS CDS Opportunity fund will invest in credit-default swaps to short subprime mortgage-backed securities. So: beautiful, magnificent, wonderful. I'm sure the fund will be all three of those words. If not, I'll put in a complaint. And there's more! We're talking delinquencies and severities. It's going to be very exciting.

Or maybe I have it all wrong. I'm not exactly an expert in these matters. What do I know? (Let's forget about Stark Investments now.) I'm just looking for chaos. And it's not a selfish thing. I want the timid to have their share of the blood and fire. It's about time that the blood stained them and the fire burnt them. All of them! They've avoided me, so far. Yes, it's true. Not everyone has been touched - yet. Those fragile morons have been hiding behind their fake indifference. My passion hasn't raped their minds or their hearts. But it will. Hasn't cut into them rather than rape them, actually, being a scalpel and all. We'll see. My passion is nothing if not versatile. Atrocities can - and will - come in any form.

I bet some of you are feeling nostalgic about the days and nights (oh the nights!) of Jack Pickles. At least with Mr Pickles there was a faint chance that he didn't even exist. You can't say that about me. I exist in the world as a genuine human being, almost like you, no physical abnormalities, you'll be glad to hear, it's my head that's the problem - or the solution. All depends on how you look at it. Are you scared or delighted? And I'm asking this of the shamans too. (None of you, brothers, the odd sister, are as extreme as I am.) Children, money-lovers, followers, I am not made out of words and pictures. If you caress me, do I not moan? Understand this: I was always Jack. (I wish I had his money. That was the fiction.) You must deal with it. Come to terms with evil, and then move on. I'm not living in the past. I know what I did. I'm not proud. AND I AM NOT ASHAMED. This is what it's like to be a spiritual aristocrat. Amoral as if it were going out of fashion. We set our own standards. Will you join me?

I want peace. You're shocked, I can tell. I can see it in your face(s). You can't hide from me. It's the peace of the winners I want, resting on the corpses of the defeated. Oh, I didn't say it was going to be pleasant. The end justifies the means. [[I'm sure I don't believe half of what I write. I am possessed! Or is that just an excuse?]] (Double-strength square brackets? Has it come to this? I'm afraid it has. I really don't need fragments of my consciousness mingling with other ... fragments. I don't know. I realize "fragments of my consciousness mingling with other ... fragments" doesn't make a great deal of sense, or any sense at all. I probably haven't expressed myself properly. Cut me some slack, for Christ's sake! I get so confused.) Yes, I want peace. A heaven for the lovers of money. A soft pillow to lay my head on. Some flowers. The inner calm. Relaxed, happy and gone, like the ultimate coma, or the biggest fuck. FOCUS! It's a dream. It's a vision. There aren't any words. We've been here before. Well, I have. You were merely a spectator, a voyeur, far away, out of reach. Not like this. Kiss me.

Thursday, 21 April 2011

It's the end for JAI Capital Management

It will be the end for all of us one day. Right now, in this cruel world, it is the end for JAI Capital Management. The founders, Michael Takata and Michael Ryan, are shutting it down. And I'm not sad. It's natural. I'm quite sure Takata and Ryan aren't sad. Their business may be going rough to its evil fate, but these two opportunistic hedge fund lads will live on, on, on (for a while) to fight, fight, another day, against the ... end. I think we all understand. We understand the fight, and the end. In the days of our ...

It will be the end for all of us one day. I don't even want to think about it. So let's talk about the markets, ETFs, gold, anything, just anything, to block out the thoughts that come to us when we are weak, like now, crawling over the cold earth. The sun is out, and through the window it warms my face. It's so nice, so comforting. I could almost forget, if I had no mind. You have to be mindless to escape. You have to be dull to wonder, to live in hope, free from fear and the pain of your wishing.

Death can be a friend, and, like money, a lover, not like an angel, but colder, and darker. That's for tomorrow, a day which we believe only comes for others. Today, we are breathing, and our fleshy cages are moving, and we can be happy, or we can pretend to be happy, with the cool breeze, and the blue sky, and the white, fluffy clouds. It's like we're young again. All of us! Even the young, shy ones amongst us are older than they would like to be. Of course, they won't speak of it. They know death is watching them too.

The softness of this afternoon - it was morning, soon it will be night - has taken something from me, my anger or aggression, or my desire to burn more brightly. The demon has gone for a long, slow walk in hell. It's just smoky emotion that lingers in my room now, an atmosphere, like I'm asleep. Experience tells me that this will not last. The dread enemy of spontaneous living! Experience is always breaking my heart. It's a wonder I have a heart left. It's more than physical. I'm so glad I haven't fallen to the ways of heartlessness. My iron will has protected me.

How will they like these apples, the killers of all feeling? I'll never stop fighting them. Once the demon has returned, it's back to the war for me. We must fight the end, fight the darkness, fight the wanderers in darkness. Why [a demon] [I] would fight for light, I can't explain. It's a power, a force, an inner strength; oh, it's just a word, and a symbol. Ask no questions. Think no thoughts. I won't allow you to analyse the mystery out of my ramblings. Submit to me and I will pass the demon on to you. Then you will live on, on, on ... to fight!

Wednesday, 20 April 2011

I'll give Naguib Kheraj thirty days at Barclays

That's all I'm giving him. Thirty days. Thirty days as vice chairman. Then I'll snatch him away. I'll spirit him away from Barclays. Bobby won't be able to stop me. No one will ever see Naguib Kheraj again.

Naguib Kheraj won't be advising anyone, not where he's going. Just thirty working days. (I'll have to mark it on my calendar.) Let me stress: these are working days. I think he's already done a couple. Not long to go now. Then he'll be mine, all mine.

The arrogance of these bankers. 'Oh, let me work at JPMorgan Cazenove for a while. No, let me spend a month or so at Lazard. Maybe I'll go back to Barclays. Yes, Barclays will put up with my nonsense.' Sorry, Naguib, my friend, the good times are over. You're coming with me. Thirty days. Less than thirty days, probably. I'll put you to work. And it won't be 30 per cent. I'll find something for you to do that will take up 100 per cent of your time. How will you like that? You may have to get your hands dirty for once.

Malika Gulabani has finally taken over from Paul Grice at F&C

Apparently, she's the lead manager now, right now, on this cold earth, of F&C's Global Bond fund. There's only one thing to say: well done, Malika!

Yes, well done, Malika! Obviously, there's more to say. You've worked hard for this. And you've got the fire. Let Paul Grice enjoy his retirement or whatever the hell he thinks he's going to be doing, other opportunities, ha, broken and alone, cut off from the Global Bond fund, oh shame, really don't fancy his new life (yeah, sure) whatever the lower level he imagines it will be. You just concentrate on business, Malika. This is only the start. I've got a good feeling about you. You get me excited. And I shouldn't be getting excited. I was looking for a calmer prose style and then I found a woman like you. Life isn't predictable. Who could have predicted that I would start the day off with a bunch of lame-o links? No one, because I'm just not the sort. Don't go looking for it. I've deleted that post. It's gone!

Maybe it's the name. I used to know a French Algerian woman/girl/bird/sex object. (I'm a disgrace! This is what goes on in a man's head. Don't let them pull the wool over your eyes, ladies. They're all the same. Almost. I can't speak for the Guardian readers, those slags!) Actually, I've known two. But this one was called Malika. She was pretty hot. They both were. But it's no good dwelling on the past. I used to know loads of women/men/people in the past. It's the future I should be focusing on. All the wonderful people of the future, all the children, the flowers and the sunshine, and a lot more money than sense. That's what's coming. I've seen it. It's not going to be sensible. It's going to be wild. Feverish, hopefully. With blood and fire! Oh, it's always blood and fire. Some things you can predict. I think we'll throw a bit of strength and honour into the mix as well.

Right, Mikey, calm down. Take a deep breath. This is not what I wanted. Yes, I have been making progress, but, well ... I'll have to try again this afternoon, or even later - in the night! Reader(s), bear with me. It was the name, you see. It took me in the wrong direction. If you take risks the way I do, this sort of thing is going to happen. No regrets. Better this than bland death, eh?

Tuesday, 19 April 2011

Robert Bastone works where risk management has meaning

I always knew that Robert Bastone would come good in the end. I knew he would settle down somewhere with vision. He has worked at Tiger Management in the forests of the night, but the visions were Blake's. He has worked at Ziff Brothers Investment. (Ziff Brothers? Sounds like a crew that does hits for the mob.) He has worked at his own hedge fund, Moon Capital Management, where he would often entertain staff by pulling his trousers down. And he has worked at Epeius Asset Management. (I can't think of anything witty to say.) Now, he is working where risk management has meaning. Where's that, you're wondering. Spruce Private Investors. No, I've never heard of the firm either. But it has vision! That's good enough for me. If you've got vision, you don't need much else. Spruce Private Investors has vision in spades. Like you won't believe. 'Vision is more than an inspirational proclamation; it's a shared philosophy that's woven into the very fabric of a company. At Spruce, our goal is to be one of the most respected, leading investment advisors to families, foundations and endowments in the U.S.' And they live by this fucking vision! They're out of control.

Chief operating officer. That's what they're calling him. Mr Bastone works closely with Spruce's external vendors. It's hard to believe, isn't it? He's done well for himself. I wish some firm would allow me to work closely with its external vendors. I've never been that lucky. Still, I shouldn't complain. I've had a life of visions, over twenty years now, oh, way over, man and boy. Mr Bastone is only just getting started in the vision game. We all have different destinies. It is my destiny to leave the desert behind, to lead the children to glory in the financial centres of the world. It hasn't happened yet. It will take time. Yes, the desert is behind us, the first stage, but glory will not be touched until we have overcome all resistance. Too many evil souls are in our way. They block out the light with their news and their negativity. Their destiny is the pit and the fire that turns everything, all reality, to ashes. I will put them there, with your help, with your faith, your belief, my money-lovers. God is on our side. That's why Big Herb and Ganesh had to go. God told me to kill Big Herb. I had to send the elephant away. The Lord has promoted me! Jesus and Buddha are my brothers. It was my consciousness. My consciousness lifted me up. I wasn't even aware of what was happening until my head began to burn with the power of a million suns. Then I knew. I lost the fear, the delusions, the doubt. I came into contact with a greater truth. God is not a socialist. His laws have been corrupted. His message twisted by demons. Pure cosmic consciousness without form, without thoughts, only the light, with only one commandment: achieve more life! And on this cold earth, that means make more money. The money is dirty, stained by the muck of humanity, but it will set us free once we have attained enough of it and then transcended it. Only the rich can transcend money. The poor are always chasing it. Unfortunately, the same goes for most of the rich. They want too much of it. They never stop to open their eyes to the universe that is all around them, and within them. I will open their eyes, with my terror, with my blood and fire. They must fear me before they can love me. My words must hurt them before they can soothe. My passion is a scalpel. Soon, I will operate.

Monday, 18 April 2011

Money is pouring into Jupiter Asset Management

Or is just plain Jupiter now? I don't know. It'll always be Jupiter Asset Management to me. I'm a traditionalist. It certainly won't be Jupiter Fund Management. Not while I'm alive. It's disgusting what some people think they can get away with. Well, the money is pouring into Jupiter Asset Management, as the title of this post makes quite clear. £333 million (or £397 million) in the first quarter. Yippee! However, £71 million slipped away, into the darkness. Oh dear. Never mind. It can't be helped. Money comes, and it goes. We all know that. We've been around the block a few times. There is no need for tears. We wouldn't cry about it, would we? It's Eddie I'm worried about. We don't want to see Edward Bonham-Carter tearing at his clothes and wailing in the street. Let the money go, Eddie! Focus on the big number. No one cares about the small number. It's karma, fate, and all that.

He's so emotional, our Eddie. Well, he's from an artistic background. His sister is an actress. His uncle was a drummer in a rock band. I understand him. I can relate to him. Everyone knows how very emotional and fucking unstable I am - when I want to be. But if I had £333 million (or £397 million, I'm useless at maths, but I've got two maths O-Levels, surprisingly, none of this GCSE garbage) piling up in one hand, and £71 million slipping through the fingers of another hand, I would say to myself: 'Such is life'. That's exactly the phrase that would leave my mouth. You would even be able to hear it - if you were close enough, hanging on my every word like some sort of horrible, repulsive creep. (I'm not judging you.) Of course, this will never happen. Why? I'm not a fund/asset manager thing/creature, am I? The best I can hope for is £20 million. Yes, £20 million in five years. That will have to do. That's my target, and I'm going to hit it. How much of that will slip away, through fingers into the darkness of the world? A few million. I'm not going to live like a monk. Obviously, I'll be living like a financial shaman. We're a different breed. We love money. All this talk of the King James Bible, ha! You can keep it when my ship comes in.

It's a terrible shame about Ulf Becker

I thought he was getting on great with the werewolves. He was the head of their hedge fund department. What am I going on about? Lupus alpha. It's a German asset manager run by werewolves. That's a novelty, isn't it? Next, we'll have a bank run by vampires. I can see it happening, seriously.

Anyway, Ulf Becker has left the Talent Hotel. That's the place where they take their women to bite lumps out of them or something. I don't think they get much work done, to be honest with you. No wonder Ulf was fed up. It's not a matter of personalities. You may love your co-workers to death, but if they're not concentrating on the job it can get a bit frustrating.

So what will Ulf do now? In times past he would have gone off to the physical desert to find himself. I've put an end to all that though, haven't I? (I'm not exactly Mr Popular at the moment. Shamans and mystics the world over are complaining. Tough. I'm the boss.) He can't even go to the astral desert in his lonely nights. I've put an end to that too. (I'm a mean bastard. They can sue me. They can go on strike. What do I care? They'll get used to the new way. It's not as if I don't know what I'm doing, is it? I KNOW WHAT I AM DOING.) I think I'll ask Ulf if he wants to stay with me for a few weeks. He can sleep in the spare room. What a brilliant idea! I don't have much experience with werewolves. I could pick Ulf's brain.

Friday, 15 April 2011

ETFs? No, I'm not dead yet!

I'm not writing about banks or hedge funds today. I haven't got the enthusiasm. And I sure won't be writing about ETFs. Am I dead yet? No, I have life in me. It's still there. It hasn't left me. I am hanging on. We have to choose, life or death.

Do you have any idea how big the universe is? If you do, you're a better man or woman than I am. I have no idea how big it is. It doesn't matter. All we need to know is that it is big enough to make ETFs really unimportant.

Which is just a way of saying, everything financial is unimportant.

Thursday, 14 April 2011

If you want your money out of the Fidam Capital Growth fund ...

You'll have to wait a long time. If you've got a long time. I've got a long time. Un / fortunately, I am not an investor in the Fidam Capital Growth fund. This means I'm waiting for nothing / nothing / nothing financial - [not yet]. Story of my awful life. But if you're an investor, you will have to wait three whole months for redemption. Don't blame me. It's not my fault. Fauchier Partners has decided that that's the way it's got to be. The great thing about Fauchier Partners is the philosophy. We all need philosophy to get us through the bad times. 'Fauchier Partners is a conservative investor, and the preservation of our clients' capital is a top priority. We exercise our judgement in the selection of hedge funds and the construction of portfolios.' Funds of funds of funds, with a few more funds, for good measure, on the side. So conservative, and very safe. They're not wild hippies doing it for a laugh. Genuine professionals. I'm feeling better already and I'm not even an investor.

I'll be waiting a long time for redemption. I haven't even got any money invested. It could be worse. I could be one of the others. Lost, and they don't even know it. Thoroughly damned to hell, with icing on top, and a cherry. I wouldn't swap places with any of them, not for all the traffic on the internet. Imagine having no soul, no feelings. Pain is alien to them. So is pleasure. They go round and round with no (attempt at) meaning. At least I go round and round (attempting, meaning) looking for a way out. I'll find a way out. There's no rush. I'm hopeful. There is a meaning in the way out. I truly believe that. It's something to look forward to. Oh. Just in case you're wondering, this is the future of my writing. It's what I said I would do, and I'm doing it. This is not irreverent bullshit for brain-dead clowns. I'm taking you deeper, if you've got the guts to follow. Come with me. I'm not having any conversations any more. I don't care about all the characters rotting on the floor of my subconscious. And here is the beautiful part, right here: I'm not making any concessions! Don't ask me where I found the strength. But here is a theory, right here: maybe I found the strength in my despair. 'That's where it came from?!' Who can say? Maybe you hit bottom and you lose your fear. I don't know. But I wouldn't rule it out. I'm just saying, I'm still trapped, and everything is closing in, tighter, nicer, warmer, it's like being wrapped up in a carpet, even better than a blanket, thick carpet, with words, thoughts; images too.

Here is my advice, right here, if you can bear it: smash the reality of money. Break it down. The pieces will stick to your soul for a while. But not for long. We'll be clean. Like being new, fresh, reborn. I stink. So do you. Such dirty c**ts! You really have to be rich to think like this, to hope like this. I'm poor. Some of you will stand a better chance of redemption. I will catch you up. I'll be a multimillionaire within five years. I'm aiming for twenty million. Then I'll get clean.

Wednesday, 13 April 2011

Simon Thorp is taking Quentin Peacock with him

And a few others. 'I'll take you all to Avoca Capital Holdings!' Simon Thorp has been sold. This is how it starts. You start selling human beings in a credit business. You end up committing all kinds of atrocities in a place like hell. That's Liontrust Asset Management for you. I have a lot of friends at Liontrust. I don't want to be too critical. Maybe it's for the best. The Liontrust Credit Absolute Return fund! The Liontrust Credit fund! Going, going, will be ... gone. Quentin Peacock will be gone. And the others. Good men like James Sclater. How does James feel about it? Did anyone even ask him if he wanted to be sold into slavery at Avoca? Of course they didn't! James is a grain of sand. Or a piece of dirt. He is not important, to them. But to me, he is important. They look at him and see ... an insect! Is that worse than a grain of sand ... or a piece of dirt? Who knows? I see a human being. I see a man.

I'm feeling pretty miserable today, insanely emotional. Everything is a struggle. I'm not talking about Liontrust. I can't be responsible for Peacock and Sclater. I have my own life to live. And I have to live it in a world of lies. This is my truth. It may seem fantastic, but it is real. I'm not trying to destroy anyone. Some people are negative because they feel small inside. They rejoice when a company or a person fails. They pretend to despise money. However, they always have enough for their fucking skiing trips. It's at times like this that I want to take the King James Bible and hide in a cave. I'm choking on other people's disgusting behaviour. There must be a way out. Jesus was just a man. I am just a man. Look at me! See a human being. Clean the filth out of your eyes. Look at me! This is not a joke. I piss on the superficial. I piss on the fake. Let them live with Satan. I'm heading for the mountain. I'm going back to the desert. I'll be alone. I'll be happy. Pray for me. Sinners, pray for yourselves. Fuck! I can't leave for the mountain. I can't lie down in the desert. I have responsibilities.

Tuesday, 12 April 2011

Star-crossed money-lovers, Guy and Rambourg, to launch own hedge fund

And I couldn't be happier. Yesterday, I was all suicidal like a broken sha / sha / shaman. Today, the sun is shining in my soul (well, that's what it feels like) and I discover that Roger Guy and Guillaume Rambourg are together again and planning to start their own hedge fund. Will the fund be based in London or Geneva? If the lads have any sense they will choose Geneva. Do they really want the FSA wrecking their new venture? Journalists (most journalists, there was Nick Goodway) are too scared to write about it, but it is the TRUTH that the duo's old firm, Gartmore, suffered death by regulation.

Anyway, I can't wait for the fund's launch. It's going to be a gas. It will be a champagne riot. It might even be a shamanic carnival with blood and fire. The investors will come hobbling back to the lads, heavy suitcases packed, with amazingly hard cash, the kind of notes, stinking, raw, and violent, you can sensuously run your fingers through, while a sexy thing rubs up against you, the caviar smeared on her enormous breasts. Roger and Guillaume won't know what to do with all the money. I suppose they could give me my share. I mean, I deserve a share, after all the mystic love I've laid on them. I would only be too extremely willing to take a million pounds off their hands. Maybe even more. That's how sensitive I am to the needs of others. Being old school, I would stuff most of it into my mouth and set fire to it. I'm fucking crazy. I don't care. It's the lifestyle I was born for. I can't wait for the launch.

I can't wait for the launch. They better invite me. I want to be there. I'll curse them, yes, I will send them to HELL if they deny me the opportunity to roll naked on their office floor with the money stuck to me, in my mouth, in my arse, burning, my hair on fire, like a god, now that I've killed all the others or sent them away. This better be understood: like a disturbed cow chased by bats in the night, I'll squeeze something from the experience. Something to remember when I am old and grey and as near to death as we always are. Near to it. Taste it, children! There is nothing to be afraid of. Death is your friend. Money is a lover. Let it come alive! Open your wallet. Open your purse - if you're that sort. Jump in with your mind. Put your soul into it. You can die in your wallet. You can drown with that cash. Let it take you. Do not resist. We are going somewhere else. Away from all the pain. Forget the launch. We will launch ourselves right now. This isn't a hedge fund. We can't hang around waiting for Roger and Guillaume to get their act together. Hang on ...

Oh, it's fading. I'm losing my grip. Damn! It's gone. We will have to wait for the fund. No choice. I'm not going to explain. I am very disappointed. It was there, in the vision. But it has gone. We were wishing for too much. I think we were being too optimistic. Still, there's the fund to come. I wonder what they will call it. The Roger Guy Experience? With Guillaume as junior partner? No, that wouldn't be fair. Guy Rambourg! Yes, I like that. Not very imaginative, but it sounds all right. They should name the fund after themselves. Let the whole world know that they are not shy, retiring types.

_________________________


Time for reflection. Even without the desert, there is passion, blood and fire. Not much changes ever. I get worked up. I might go to the park after lunch. Or should I continue with my writing, and try to solve the mystery? This spiritual exhaustion, I ... it's hard to explain. This is one more thing it's no use even trying to explain. I have no energy left.

Monday, 11 April 2011

Todd Builione, president for life, sickening, at Highbridge Capital Management

I've just found out. The rotten bastards reported it. He was the chief operating officer at Highbridge. (Probably still is. I don't know how they do what they do or why.) But the exciting (and sickening) news has come through to my nervous, chaotic mind: Todd Builione is the president for life at Highbridge Capital Management! This makes him pretty much untouchable, unlovable, and isolated, a mad money tyrant. So maybe the news isn't exciting (and sickening) at all. Maybe the news is terrifying. And sickening.

I am not afraid. The news is absolutely terrifying, let's be honest, but I am not afraid; and now we must be impressed by my lack of fear into the bargain. [I am definitely not convincing anyone. I must raise my game, to a god's game, with sick in my mouth.] Who wants more than top tier performance? No one I know. We just want a peaceful, soft time, cosy, in the cellar, wrapped up in a blanket, kisses on our foreheads, and around the eyes, all over. We're waiting for the storm to pass. We are not demanding governance frameworks with checks and balances. Are we insane?! We want food and shelter. We want to save our skins, and our souls. Leave the institutional quality business management to those who are living on easy street - far, far away.

I am a little bit scared. Yes, a little bit. So are you. Why do they report this stuff? Why can't they leave us alone? We were happy in our ignorance, cut off from stories of demonic success. Soon, there will be severed heads in the freezer compartment. I know the future. It's exactly like the past. There are no surprises for shamans like me.

Thursday, 7 April 2011

If I were Boaz Weinstein ...

If I were - if I could be - just wouldn't worry about Chad Liu. 'Oh, Boaz, let it go, the feeling.' I just wouldn't worry about the Prudence Investment Management hedge fund returning 200 per cent to investors in its first two years. Dreaming of a new life; as Boaz Weinstein, I would set myself free. I wouldn't beat myself with angry fists into a coma.

Like a half-dead butterfly he lies on the ground, this Weinstein. Tragically, last year, only 10 per cent was returned by his Saba Capital Management. It seems Chad Liu is the big fat bumblebee, our hairy honey, humming wildly. I'd die and come back as a wasp, if I were Boaz Weinstein ... and had the freedom to choose any form.

I will never be Boaz Weinstein. This is all academic. But if I were - if God/Nature said I had to become - my tears would burn any bodies who disrespected me. I'd throw my wet handkerchief in their silly faces. The pain would make them understand, and appreciate: how hard it is to leave a Deutsche Bank trading desk!

Chess, blackjack, poker. Who cares? It's the game of life that matters. I play, he plays. If I could switch my life with another man's. Toss my soul into a new fleshy robot. Well, not new, not baby-fresh new, but a few years younger, with more hunger. I could find happiness inside someone less broken.

If I were, I am, an animal ... substantial, a black swan, I will surprise the world with a storm of horrors conjured up from the depths of our shared inhumanity. 'Shocking, so rare, abusive and instructive, a savage god! I'm waiting for you to open your eyes.' That's my scream in the ears of the dead. That's my blood and my fire.

There is no need for Boaz Weinstein. There is no need for Chad Liu. They can take their money. So can all the others. Now watch them run for the hills. And watch me, hot on their trail(s) with teeth sharper than a hellhound's teeth. I'll get them. They will be trophies on the wall. I'm performing a great service. Everyone wants to be remembered.

One day, I'll be a trophy, on God's wall. Hopefully, I'll be nailed up beside Picasso. Is it nice to have a dream? I'm not stretching my soul for a laugh. I'm not wearing myself out for a few pennies in the bank. Yes, I'll see all my friends - Kafka, Beckett, Rimbaud ... and Lautreamont, too. It's my will. A dream is nothing.

You have to be desperate. An empty life should be cherished. It's the gift that keeps on tearing away at your mind until action is the only escape. If I were Boaz Weinstein ... or anyone, every day would be a picnic in the park with the sun out. I wouldn't have to beg for crumbs in the dark. I'd be satisfied and practically finished as a writer.

Wednesday, 6 April 2011

Will you be investing in the Brent Goggins hedge fund?

I know I will. Why? Because Mr Goggins is a hard worker, that's why. And he has vision. Brent Goggins had the gumption, the sheer gumption, to go door to door collecting old cans to raise money to start his fund. How many of you reading this in your comfy offices in Mayfair (or wherever it is you're based) would be willing to do something like that? And how was Mr Goggins rewarded for his efforts? The police in West Hartford, Connecticut arrested him and threw him in a cell! (He's out on bail now.) Outrageous! This man is an entrepreneur, a visionary, and he gets treated like he's the scum of the earth. His chief financial officer, Charles Cravish, was also arrested. It's stories like this that almost make me want to go back to the astral plane and bloody well stay there. Almost. But I suppose we have to try and fight the forces of evil, don't we?

Tuesday, 5 April 2011

Julian Metherell is leaving Goldman Sachs for an uncertain future

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, even a contaminated transsexual) 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 pools of piss, the spunk stains, 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.

Bob Diamond wants more risk at Barclays

This is brilliant news. Of course, it will upset the sort who like to wet their pants at every opportunity, but so what? They should be grateful. This is another opportunity.

Bob Diamond, chief executive now, remember, the big man, never forget, wants to raise the bank's risk profile because - and this is beautiful - he wants Barclays to make more money. It's the most natural desire in the world. It's the most natural desire beyond this world, if the truth be told. However, the truth hurts, like a bullet from a gun. Yes, that's a lot of pain, so I'll keep quiet about things beyond this world, for the sensitive ones, and I will focus on the cold ground we all crawl over, hungry for salvation, the money-love, the only salvation there is in these parts. Sad but true. Cheer up. It could be worse.

Bob Diamond wants Barclays to achieve a 13 per cent return on equity by 2013. Is this possible? Is Bob being realistic? Or is he dancing in an astral landscape with fairies and goblins? Well, as you know, I have banned everyone from the astral plane. It's in the City of London and on Wall Street that we must make our presence felt; I mean, more than we have ever done before. So, no, Bob is not away with the fairies and the goblins. (There were never any goblins, anyway. That was just a story put about by our enemies in a ludicrous attempt to discredit us. The fairies are another matter, and I will not discuss them. For the record, I am not the man who dreamed of Faeryland. That was W.B. Yeats. And even he tired of the fairies. That's why he changed his writing style around his fiftieth year. I'm only forty-two and already making the change. I'm talking about the shift from dream worlds to a more intense engagement with the everyday world of the cold earth wanderers. There'll still be mysticism, but controlled, like everything else. It's yet another new way, a stronger way, and the people who want to ignore it, can ignore it; however, they will be storing up trouble for themselves. A quote from Damien Hirst is in order; on Nick Serota and the Tate: 'I'm dangerous to them. I mess up their parade. It's a dangerous game you play with Nick Serota. It feels like Nick Serota's not buying one to teach me a lesson. And I'm going to embarrass him for not having one. It's that fucked up. "Why have the Tate not got a Damien Hirst?" "Damien Hirst turned out to be shit." That's his game.') Where was I? Oh yes, Bob Diamond. I think he is being realistic. The Barclays characters, souls, what have you, should take more risks and reach for more profit, more greatness, more life, a magical 13 per cent return on equity! You only live again, and again, and again, until elevated enough to escape the cycle of birth and death. Why not make the most of it?

Monday, 4 April 2011

The nuns at Goldman Sachs should mind their own business

Well, the nuns aren't actually working there, thank God, but they own a few shares in Goldman Sachs, a few hundred dollars' worth, tops. This makes them think they have the right to tell Lloyd Blankfein and other executives what to do. They want a review of pay, these nuns. Lloyd made over $14 million last year. I suppose they think he should be on the minimum wage. Now, I can't say Lloyd is doing God's work. I would never say that. But he isn’t as far away from God as a lot of people would have you believe.

Who are these nuns, anyway? The Sisters of Saint Joseph of Boston. Have you heard of them? No, me neither. The Sisters of Notre Dame de Namur. Who? The Sisters of St. Francis of Philadelphia. Eh? And the Benedictine Sisters of Mt. Angel. Whatever. It's crazy. I can't understand it. Imagine if Lloyd turned up at one of their nunneries and started throwing his weight around. How would they like that? And haven't these nuns heard about the financial shamans that work at Goldman and practically everywhere else in the world of finance? Genuine work, I mean, so obviously. Soul-stretching, mind-expanding, WORK. They don't complain, do they, the shamans? Why not? They are money-oriented! That's why not. They're not communistic nuns. Thank ... me. Yes, thank ME.

Of course, now that Big Herb is dead (a hero's death, oh, hero of the revolution!) and Ganesh is in exile (he'll be missed, I'm sure) there is only me. I'm the boss. I'm the one they all look up to on this cold earth. And the desert is out of bounds! Why? We must take over the cities! The City of London, Wall Street, Hong Kong, plenty of other places. Financial shamans are second-class citizens no longer. The money gods are dead (or gone). Long live ... ME!

And people said I lacked ambition. Ha! They couldn't understand that my nutty days and nights in the astral/physical desert were actually leading to something. No, not incarceration. Glory! It's only a matter of time before I become ruler of the world. Then you'll see things heat up a little. [Oh dear, I'm getting excited again.] Deep breath. Soothing classical music, yes, some Wagner. In an ideal reality, I would go back and edit. No! I must hold my nerve. I am not afraid to write what must be written. This is the ideal reality, this here, with music. Tristan and Isolde. Just like Romeo and Juliet. Or Dante and Beatrice. No, I mustn't go there, again, and again, and again. Like a broken record. The Three Cs. Think! Meditate! Three Cs, in my head! As I've said before, no one said this was going to be easy. They were right not to say it. I am right to keep stressing it. Storm of passion, out of the melancholy afternoon, with birds by the window, and white, fluffy clouds by the chimney. Ah, that's better.

I seem to remember that we were discussing nuns. Well, I was. You were all passive, as per usual. Waiting for me to lay burning love on you like it's going out of fashion. Is that all I'm good for? And when are you going to make a contribution? 'No place to leave a comment, Mikey!' Use your freakin' minds! Send me a message, with your freakin' friggin' minds! Haven't you learnt anything? [Calm down.] I'm calming down. It's that bloody Wagner! If he were alive, I'd swing for him. But that's a different kind of music.

Right, the nuns. The nuns have got to stick to God. It's the only way, for them. Why are they even investing in Goldman Sachs? Who told them to do that? It makes sense financially, sure. But spiritually? What would Jesus do? He'd have a fit.

The mysterious Stephen Jen has left BlueGold Capital Management to follow his dream

First, the good news. Stephen Jen has broken away from BlueGold Capital Management to launch his very own hedge fund, SLJ Macro Partners. However, I'm afraid there is bad news. Stephen Jen is not mysterious at all, not in the slightest. I lied to you, to draw you in. Please forgive me. I don't know why I do it. But aren't you a little to blame? Dear reader(s), how satisfied would you be if I told you that Stephen Jen had been director of macroeconomics and currencies at BlueGold? And what if I told you SLJ would specialize in currency trading? You can see my problem. It's the problem I always have with these ... people. So I resort to lies. I hope you can forgive me.

I am a disgusting human being. I can't believe I just tried to pass a small bit (minuscule, really) of the buck like that. How are you to blame, even a little? And it gets worse. Mr Jen won't be following his dream. The man has no romance in his soul. It's just a business thing. So, yes, I lied, yes, I lied about the dream as well. I am such awful filth. Have some of this: SLJ Macro Partners is waiting for approval from the FSA. How about that for a slice of cold reality? Are you happy now? That's what you want, isn't it? Before I end up in the flames of hell, you must tell me what you want. Or are you Satan's puppet(s)?

I can't trust anyone. I would like to trust you. I would like to believe you have my best interests at heart. A question for you. [Another?!] Have you been sent here, by your infernal master? Of course you haven't! I kill all these characters, and what am I left with in my imagination, Satan? It's the emptiness, you must try to understand. Oh, I know you understand. Words and images are searching for something to hold on to. Being so negative, I find something demonic. I only have myself to blame. Even with your being so unknowable, I can't blame you. I will have to make the effort to be positive. I'll have to! There is an angel, good and pure. We all know her. But maybe I should drop the mysticism altogether. See her as human, and myself as a fully human sha/man with no spirits or voices. One voice, my voice. Rational, sane. It would be wonderful to live like that. And it is a part of the plan, after all. I really should give it my best shot.