Tuesday, 31 May 2011

Harbor Drive Asset Management talks to me (and it's driving me crazy)

In talks, with me, it reckons. Please, you must understand, this: I AM NOT IN TALKS WITH HARBOR DRIVE ASSET MANAGEMENT. I don't want to be its strategic partner. However, the hedge fund's founders - [Mikey Vaughn, Billy Ullman] - keep pestering me, with their awful, sickening words, in my wild enough, already, aching head. If only I could have a blackout! I try my best to ignore them but they are so incredibly persistent. They are like two big bumblebees, buzzing all day and all night. If you were to look into my eyes, dear reader, you would see them, I'm sure.

Strategic partner? Oh - ha, and hoo! Harbor Drive is looking for investors as well. Presently, it has $20 million in assets under management, which is nothing, really, when you think on, and on, and on, seriously, hardly. It's just pathetic chump change. But it wants $2 billion! I guess these two hedgies, this ... Vaughn, and this ... Ullman, are buzzing in a lot of people's heads / right now, trying to get that money. I wish them all the luck in the world. [I beg you: leave me alone!] I have no idea how soft it can be. I would like to imagine. Maybe I will, if I get a spare year or two, later on today, or maybe ... tomorrow, if it comes, like all the others.

_________________________


I'm not in the mood for writing. Nothing's flowing. I keep thinking about St Ives. It's that time of year again. I can't afford it though. Well, I can take a holiday or I can buy a Tascam.

I once wrote a three-act play about St Ives, in the style of Noel Coward. It was called St Ives. What a great title! I wrote it in five weeks because Michael Codron wanted to read it. But it was rubbish. Nonsense from another life. I'm glad that's all over and done with. I hate the fucking theatre.

Update: I am going to Cornwall, next week. And I’ll get the Tascam, too. Sod it! You only live once.

Thursday, 26 May 2011

What does the FSA know about Royal Bank of Scotland ...

... that we don't know, but would like to know, because we're right nosy bastards ... no[!], it's our money, we imagine, our bank, in our dreams, and nightmares, well ... your money, your bank, I'm not exactly / one / of the / biggest taxpayers / around, I'm ashamed to say ... but I'm trying to do my bit, seeing as we're all in this together, on a one-way trip to hell ... and it's raining in our hearts, and we'll never be free, and we'll be in debt forever, which is the way 'they' like it, even / though / I've never seen 'them' and / so / haven't the slightest idea who 'they' are, which is probably a blessing, as 'they' are no doubt extremely evil ... as we know, 'they' control the world, and you don't get to control the world without ... being a real nasty piece of work, or a lizard, and the lizards are nasty by their very nature, because they're animals, just like us, which suggests we're just as nasty, meaning we're obviously, genuinely, all in this together ... yes, we are the 'they' everyone is so scared of, we are the animals, we are the people, we are the scum ... sadly, we got ourselves into this, and now there's no way out, no escape, no salvation, oh, surely not ... no, that must be a mistake ... [it is!] ... we're all going to be saved, I'm praying for it, big time, God is on my side, a great personal friend of mine, so keep in with me, I'm soooooo ... oooooo ... well-connected, like a mystic Paris Hilton, but ... with less morals ... He'll get us out of this mess, if He exists, I'm hoping for the best ... £45 billion, of our fucking money[!!!], your money, for a commie bank, plus the state loans, guarantees, Christ knows what else, I'll have to ask him, not that we're on friendly terms, I prefer his father, I think it's jealousy on his part, I couldn't give a shit, David Icke had the same problem, then got crucified in the media, a terribly sad affair, it won't / happen / to me ... yes, had a breakdown, poor thing, poor little wannabe Jesus, it won't / happen / to me, I'm made of sterner stuff, I am a rock, I / am / an ... soooooo ... oooooo ... what does the FSA know that we don't know, where's that goddamn report?

Laurent Dupeyron: other opportunities

You've got to admire Laurent Dupeyron, leaving his fund of hedge funds, Olympia Group, of hedge funds, for other opportunities. He was the chief executive of this fund of funds of fund, after all. So, what 'other opportunities' could there be for a peculiar man like Laurent? Any OPPORTUNITIES would have to be very special, right out of the ordinary, far removed, way off, on the outside of normal reality, to entice a strange man like me. Is Laurent a strange man like me? I wouldn't like to say. [Yes, I would.]

There are so many opportunities. Laurent and I are looking for the sort that will keep us in touch with our bodies on earth. Readers, we all know, one day, each of us will leave this life for 'other' opportunities. Of course, there's no rush. In the meantime, we should make do with journeys in our heads. Mystical capitalism IS: internal, personal, invisible, our secret. It has nothing to do with where we work or how much we earn. Consider all this before making any big decisions. Maybe, dear reader(s), you work at BarCap and would like to work at Goldman; is that possible? Not the move, the DESIRE. Is your desire possible? If it is, you need to make it impossible. Close your eyes. Where are you? Child, you are NOWHERE. Open your eyes. Look at your colleagues, trapped at their desks, stuck in a miserable reality. They are SOMEWHERE and it stinks of DEATH. And not the good kind.

Wednesday, 25 May 2011

Samuel Kahn will never abuse the market again

The FSA has seen to that. Like a dead shark that refuses to believe in death, an immortal monster, lurking in the depths of our souls, the FSA is still around. But what of its big hairy bearbug: does it live on, fatter than it has ever been? [That won't make sense to anyone.] Oh, it does. So incredibly and unbelievably, it has struck once more! (With the FSA as shark.) [I've lost control.] Mr Kahn has been bitten, twice, by the bug and the shark, fined £1,094,900, for being abusive. That is a lot of money. Probably his life savings. Now it's all gone. Just so the FSA can have more champagne, and more caviar. I hate this world. The FSA has also obtained a High Court injunction restraining Sammy from committing further market abuse. Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel?

_________________________


Do we need these regulators with their hellish regulations? If only we could live, really live, free and easy, dancing in sunshine days, full of love for everyone and everything. Is that too much to dream of? I'll never stop dreaming. And I'll never stop writing - in dreams! I'm after smaller fish than the regulators. Forget the FSA, and the SEC. Look at those creatures scribbling and crawling and shivering in the dark! All the cold ones must be taken down with words beyond their capabilities. They know who they are. They think we can't see them. It has become my obsession. Paranoid, here I am, floating in my space, physically alone, and mentally/spiritually isolated, surrounded by enemies, cretins, and other supporters. Am I afraid? No! They're afraid. They know I can't be beaten. I am a ghost in their lives. I can pop up anywhere, and at any time. It's a sickness, this. It's so hard, working without voices. I am a voice. It's me! Me on my own, frustrated, sure, but not dead inside. I get cold, myself, sometimes. Then it shuts down. Like this. [Edited, to be cryptic, my despair, my terrible thoughts.] Like this. Where's the fire, a little spark? They take advantage of me when I'm weak. [I hate this. It shouldn't be posted.] But I keep fighting. I am the ghost, paralysed in their lives. Twitching a bit, I'm searching for a burning. I am the ghost of their future, hanging in their air. They breathe. They take me in. I'll infect them. I'll fuck up their work. They'll get the sack. No one will blame me. No one imagines that I even exist. It's not an ideal situation. But I'll take it. As long as I get the result I'm after. I know this ain't good. I ain't good. Something better save me.

Tuesday, 24 May 2011

Who has ever heard of Saguenay Strathmore Capital?

I've heard of it. Saguenay Strathmore Capital is a fund of funds manager from the future. It's my business to hear of such things. I've even seen it - New York, London, and Toronto!

There are finance people in my visions, burning brightly. It's the fire of my passion. With a storm of images, and sounds, I get to know someone like Brian Walsh. He's the chairman and chief investment officer of Saguenay Strathmore Capital. I've seen him in his office. I've touched him - with my mind, I insist you understand. It wasn't anything sordid. There's no need for the authorities to get involved. Stephen Harper? That man is the chief executive. I've seen him in the future, too. I'm actually watching him now. Isn't it exciting? Don't you wish you had my powers?

Well, some of you (almost) do, of course. Thanks to me. I'm the one (me!) who dragged you out/in to the physical/astral desert, and then - after a number of years - dragged you kicking and screaming back to the cities, yes, kicking and screaming, because you didn't want to leave all that wonderful sand behind, did ya? (There's no way we could have rolled there forever, like silly little children. We are sha/men and sha/women - [[women, a few, not enough!]]. Business is business, after all.) I'm the one who made you (you!) what you are. You can stop reading this post, if none of this applies to / to / to you / you / you. If you're just some passing square (maybe you have your own blog, I don't know, maybe your prose style is a sixth-former's idea of what literature should be [Not that it is literature, my advice? stick to what you know, finance, do you see me writing about finance? no, I don't write about anything, it's all in the words, the mystic reality, there is no subject, it's a way in, and a revolution, excuse my arrogance, but I am the expert {my other astrologer, in the paper, says I've got to know what I'm doing, I know what I'm doing!!!}, I've only sacrificed my whole fucking life to it - 'hence a feeling of bitterness rather than gratification', forgive me! but it's understandable, ain't it?], how the heaven would I know? I can only see so much, I have limited energy, to watch) who found my blog by mistake, you can leave right now. There's the back button - up there! But if you stay, you stay on my terms. You surrender, to me! It won't be long before I'll be asking for 10 per cent of your salary. All the others are going to pay. What, you think you're special? You ain't special. I'll make you my slave. That's the best way to get free, believe me. I've been reading the Bible. I killed all the old gods or sent them into exile (and I truly loved that elephant), like I was told to. I have AUTHORITY. I worked hard for it! It's my way or the highway, ladies and gentleman.

_________________________


Layer upon layer, I get deeper. And heavier. And I feel further away. Will I ever be loved by 'human' men and women for what I have seen, or will I have to move on, and take my place on God's wall of trophies? None of this would matter if I had my angel.

It is a life of despair. We lose ourselves in our chosen fields. Not a life of flowers in the sun. It is a life of mud, at night. To be lost and cold without love is the worst thing imaginable. Very few of us have to imagine it. It is our experience. So, we want compensation. Money, or glory, or respect. Maybe all three of these phantoms. In the end, there will only be dust and ashes for children to gawp at. Where will we be, and what will we possess?

Monday, 23 May 2011

Elena Ambrosiadou should have come to me

Why didn't Elena Ambrosiadou come to me? She should have come to me. I would have helped her delve into the private lives of her degenerate ex-employees. I'll help any financial femme fatale in need - as long as she's reasonably open to my suggestions/advances. I don't seek payment. Just love and affection. Maybe a little cuddle after a few whiskies. That's enough for any hard-boiled shaman in this cold world of ours.

For those who don't know and may not even care because they're (you're?!) so wrapped up in themselves (yourself?!) and hardly take an interest in anything that goes on, Elena Ambrosiadou, chief executive of hedge fund Ikos, has been accused of espionage. Certain ex-employees of hers (who will remain nameless because they sicken me and I can't bear to mention their wretched names) were involved in activities outside the magical reality of finance, such as we have come to know it. Obviously, this couldn't stand. They had to be investigated by someone like Sam Spade. And so the ruthless and cynical (but old-fashioned, let's face it) Mr Bogart gathered all the evidence, presented it to the lovely yet dangerous Elena, and the rest is history.

I would have been more subtle. Slug from a .45? No! That's old school. 'Somewheres in life, kid, you got turned around.' I don't care! Me, I would have hovered above the suspects in my astral form. All invisible, like. They wouldn't have known nothing about it. No court cases. No stories in the press. Elena could have avoided so much pain, so much expense. If only she had come to me ...

Thursday, 19 May 2011

Investec Asset Management has £59 billion in assets under management

That's a lot of money. And God give me the strength to write this post because I am unbelievably depressed today. I always knew Hendrik du Toit would rise up closer to getting clean. I knew he would learn to walk on water like another Jesus Christ to save everyone's money. As strange as it sounds, pain makes us better, more human.

The last thing I want anywhere near me is humanity. It's all inflows in a challenging market if you are able to stay positive - which is easier said than done. People like Hendrik du Toit are out of the ordinary in that regard. They genuinely walk on the water of a charmed life. I'm lucky if I get the chance to crawl through broken glass.

Is this the mysticism I've been searching for, a harder mysticism? Yes. I'm on the edge now without voices or ghosts. My mind is a sledgehammer, and reality will crack - eventually. Oh, let's hope there's a big prize. I'll share it with my children. Hendrik du Toit will give away all the assets under management for a little taste? [No, never.]

He's so close to getting clean. But he's not clean. I'll be the first one to make it. It's my detachment. I'm not a demon hungry for everlasting money that can only be ashes. 'Burn it and forget it.' That's my motto. Hendrik du Toit wants to manage money to the highest possible standard. He'll wear himself out. He'll end up drowning.

This could be pet food. It doesn't have to be money. The magic is in the words. When you're in deep enough the subject is of no importance. I chose 'money' because that's what everyone wants. It's the power. It's the glamour. It's the sheer insanity. One day your mind will follow my mind. We'll go from 'money' to ... the big prize.

There's nothing to write about

Not yet there isn't. Maybe there'll be something to write about later on. But not yet. Maybe I'll convince myself. I can tell you that Kenneth Leung has joined Citigroup. Is that anything to write about? Not really. I can tell you that Jonathan Krieger has joined Berkery Noyes. Are you happy now?

You're like me. You're never going to be happy. You're never going to be satisfied. Truth is, it's just names, words, these people, moving around, from one firm to another. And even after the move, they're not satisfied, themselves. They still want more money, more status, more everything.

There's nothing to write about. If only more writers understood that.

I'll tell you what the secret is. You can't be an entertainer. You can't please anyone. Alienating your readers is key. That's on the highest level, of course. It's not something I stick to. I don't have the discipline. I'm hoping one day I will. I think I'm going to need the money first. Let the money come unto me. Then I'll get serious.

I was reading some advice from Jeffrey Archer the other day on how to become a writer. That man has sold more copies of his novels than Samuel Beckett has of his. Think about that for a moment.

Wednesday, 18 May 2011

Goldman Sachs plans to launch some sort of hedge fund seeding vehicle

In this Palace of Lies a truth or two will not hurt you. Your friends are all the dullest dogs I know. They are not beautiful: they are only decorated. They are not clean: they are only shaved and starched. They are not dignified: they are only fashionably dressed. They are not educated: they are only college passmen. They are not religious: they are only pewrenters. They are not moral: they are only conventional. They are not virtuous: they are only cowardly. They are not even vicious: they are only 'frail'. They are not artistic: they are only lascivious. They are not prosperous: they are only rich. They are not loyal, they are only servile; not dutiful, only sheepish; not public spirited, only patriotic; not courageous, only quarrelsome; not determined, only obstinate; not masterful, only domineering; not self-controlled, only obtuse; not self-respecting, only vain; not kind, only sentimental; not social, only gregarious; not considerate, only polite; not intelligent, only opinionated; not progressive, only factious; not imaginative, only superstitious; not just, only vindictive; not generous, only propitiatory; not disciplined, only cowed; and not truthful at all: liars every one of them, to the very backbone of their souls. - George Bernard Shaw

Certainly not about Goldman. And they're not my 'friends'. But the vehicle, I don't know. I didn't read the whatever too carefully. I've got more interesting and ... Goldman has tried it before, and failed, or abandoned it. It'll be a joint venture. Ali Raissi is involved. I'm feeling worse already. I'm going to launch a rocket into space. I'm selling one-way tickets. Anyone want to come? Hedge fund strategies group. That's what they say. And that Petershill fund. I'm sure it'll be fine. A great success. I'm not going to be all phoney. I'm not going to pretend to be friends with people who would rather I didn't exist. They'll compete with Blackstone. I can't concentrate. I don't want to. They'll top Blackstone. This is Goldman we're talking about, after all. If I told lies, would they let me into the country club? If I hated money and hated human nature ...

This has nothing to do with Goldman Sachs. I'm not writing about them. They don't hate money or human nature. It's the other 'them'. I support the bank 100 per cent. There are things on my mind. On my mind, you understand? They better start running, the phoney scum, if they see me coming. I'm not going to tell lies. I'm not going to be a big phoney for them. What do they want? Oh, they would love it, if I were to betray my / my / my principles, ha! These people are living in a dream world. They probably want me to attack Goldman. Well, I won't do it! I'm not going to attack any business that makes money. I'm feeling weak ... but when I get my strength back ... I'll beat them to a pulp with my ... fists. Merely vague words - for now. It's how they get you that's so evil. With lies and fake friendship. I was never going to be their puppet. I possess truths that hurt them. It's a shame they don't know what I'm up to. Actually, I've told them - or at least suggested - many times. I keep on ... but they don't believe me or don't think it's possible, which means THEY STILL DON'T KNOW because to know they would have to believe me first ... or think it's possible. But they wouldn't know 'possible' if it slashed them with a razor and made them lick the razor afterwards.

'Oh, he's insane!' Yeah, keep telling yourselves that. I bet it helps you sleep at night. That was them, just then. 'Oh, he's insane!' Ignore them, children. (The George Bernard Shaw quote: not all of it applies to them, but most of it does. You couldn't describe them as 'religious' or 'patriotic' or 'masterful' (ha!), could you? By the way, as I've said before, I don't need to quote. I'm not that sad. But I couldn't resist.) I don't know why I started to write about Goldman. Maybe because Goldman is one of their favourite targets. Maybe, maybe. Who knows? I'm an outsider against insiders, I can tell you that. In the existential sense, I mean. I suggest you read Colin Wilson. But maybe also in the ... [] sense ... no, no, no ... who cares, anyway? You probably don't even know who(mmm) I'm talking about, my reader(s). Imaginative ones will imagine, of course. There's nothing I can do to stop the imaginative ones. And I wouldn't want to stop them. I rely on these brave (reckless?) souls to read between the lines. They will become my soldiers, in time. They will go out into the world with a strong and uncontrollable desire to avenge me. They'll do it for Goldman as well, and for all the other banks (and hedge funds) that have been maligned. That'll be justice, if it ever happens. Beautiful justice. Let's see them broken, bloody, and begging for crumbs from our plates of gold. Yes, we'll have plates of gold. That's what we're working towards. Only so we can transcend. One day, the dirt won't touch us. I promise you, my children, that we will get clean. And I'll be free to speak without mysteries. Money will protect me. The transcendence will clean me. Then I'll use new words to destroy 'them'. I won't need my fists. So, be patient. Keep believing. And burn ever so brightly - forever!

Tuesday, 17 May 2011

Carsten Kengeter and all his mystical children

There's been a lot of confusion. I'm going to clear it up. You may have read in a newspaper (or on a newspaper's website) that Carsten Kengeter, investment banking chief at UBS, top financial shaman, and all-round good egg, has been laying into his bankers, accusing them of being 'spoiled children'. Like it's derogatory or something. No, no, no. Let me explain. The people who work for him are his children, his mystical children. It's a term of endearment. And of course he's going to spoil them. Why wouldn't he? It's only natural.

The Wall Street Journal has got it completely wrong. Why don't these amateurs speak to me first? Is it too much trouble to pick up a phone? I'm actually very approachable. Yes, I lose my temper every now and then. Normally with journalists who don't treat me with the proper respect. I am the world's foremost financial shaman. A lot of people forget, you know. And I'm very close to becoming a living god. However, that is something I will have to discuss with The God, the big man ('thing' is better) upstairs. Well, not upstairs. In the spare bedroom? That would be ridiculous. I mean, in the sky. Not exactly in the sky. Everywhere, and all around. Within and without - as the mystics like to say.

Carsten and I go back years. We were in the desert before it was fashionable. We were burning money and dancing naked and conversing with dead financiers before anyone normal had even heard of mystical capitalism. But those burning and dancing days are gone. Oh, it's nothing to be sad about. To every thing there is a season. And there's a time to every purpose under the heaven. King Solomon will tell you that, if you ever bump into him. (I can't say I've seen him about. Maybe you should read Ecclesiastes.) I'm sure Carsten isn't sad. I haven't spoken to him recently. Our lives went in different directions. He became a big noise in investment banking. And I became whatever this is, a trainee god and literary blogger. I don't have any regrets. I know I did the right thing.

Monday, 16 May 2011

Brevan Howard wants to shut its Equity Strategies fund

Why on earth would Brevan Howard want to do that? Well, because the man who has managed the fund, Fabrizio Gallo, is leaving for Bank of America. Utter madness! It's like throwing the baby out with the bath water. Or maybe it's not. No, it's not. Fabrizio is the baby, the big vicious baby who is crawling away in a babygro after a bit of splashing around. The Equity Strategies fund is the bath. Are you still with me, reader(s)? And I'm suggesting to you, in all seriousness, that the $600 million in the fund is the bath water. So, Brevan Howard won't be losing any water at all. It will just be getting rid of the bath. Although there have been redemptions in recent months, apparently, which complicates matters considerably. Maybe there's no water left. Maybe the water evaporated ages ago. That's why the baby threw his toys out of the pram! The pram being the Brevan Howard office. I don't know what the toys could be. His laptop, his mobile?

Forget the baby/bath water analogy, and the fucking pram, and the fucking toys. Let's concentrate on Tom Montag. Tom is a very mystical man. He is also president of global banking and markets at BofA. He's going to be Fabrizio's new boss. He'll whip him into shape, I'm sure. Fabrizio's going to be a co-head of global equities and European global markets. A top position. A lot of responsibility. (Who cares?) He'll have to wear a suit. Tom won't stand for any immature nonsense. He'll want to see Fabrizio behaving like a mature adult. Not necessarily a shaman. Tom will let Fabrizio walk before he learns how to fly. But there'll be no crawling over this cold earth. And no dribbling from the mouth. And no gurgling sounds. We're talking hard work. Playtime will definitely be over, late this summer. Tom is a real taskmaster. You better believe it. Fabrizio better believe it. I better believe it. I'm trying to believe it. I want to believe it. And I want (I NEED) to believe that Tom Montag is a very mystical man. It's important to me. I haven't come this far to lose my faith now. There's going to be mysticism without the desert, and mysticism without the astral plane. Hard to imagine, I know. A stronger life in the cities! A grip on reality like we've never known. Men like Tom Montag will help me, help us. Yes? Oh yes.

Friday, 13 May 2011

The terrors of God do NOT set themselves in array against me

I would know if they did. I would have nightmares, like the ones of the sweaty nights years ago. Instead, I have lovely dreams. She came to me again last night. It's the only chance I get to be with her.

God has plans for me. I must listen. My astrologer once told me that he could hear voices in the early morning, his family in Calcutta.

Before the chaos, a thought-form gave me a book of pictures of the future and asked me if I was happy. I said I was, and I was.

It's nice to see the future just as easily as you can remember the past. I am waiting for the moments and watching for the signs.

I'll give the demons a wide berth from now on. Their voices are insignificant. Their words do not fly. Their works are pathetic. My godless enemies!

I am awake. There is blood in me, and on me. There is fire in me, and on me. Beware of the holy warrior. Against my soul there is no protection.

Flesh is weak. I am not a stone. This has to be accepted. It's no use crying. Bodies come and go. I'll be leaving my reality behind. The main thing.

Spring, and summer, and autumn, and winter. I may even return. But there can be no promises. I don't need any. I am a feather, and God is the wind.

Thursday, 12 May 2011

I'm very depressed about RAB Capital

It's all turning to shit. I supported Stephen Couttie through thin and thinner. Then he stabbed me in the back, didn't he? Let me down big time. I've been supporting Charles Kirwan-Taylor since he became chief executive. I thought he was going to turn things around. I feel such a fool. And I'm really depressed now. Don't I have enough problems without worrying about RAB Capital delisting?

Well, I have been speaking to Charlie. I wasn't going to go back to the old style, but I've decided that I should, just once, for old times' sake, so here it is. This is what he said to me earlier this morning: 'Mikey, I don't want you screaming down the phone at me, okay? I know I've fucked up. (Charlie, mate, I ain't got the energy.) You sound really miserable, Mike. (Miserable? Oh yeah, I'm miserable. This is how it is for shamans when it all goes wrong. I believed in RAB Capital, you know?) Yes. I ... I don't know what to say. It's like my aura is black. Like my chakras have stopped whirling. I'm suffering too. (Well, let me tell you, Charlie. Your aura is black. Your chakras have stopped whirling. That's the price you pay. That's the punishment. I did it.) You've turned my aura black?! (Afraid so.) You've stopped my chakras from whirling?! (How else are you going to learn?) But, Mikey, this is absolutely monstrous. I don't deserve this! (Why don't you put in a complaint?) Oh, I will. With Big Herb. (Yeah, good luck. Big Herb is dead. When was the last time you looked at my blog?) Big Herb is dead?! How can a god die? (I cut his throat in the astral night. I'm running things now. Put in a complaint with me. See what happens.) Power has gone to your head! (Well, that's my affair. You just do what you've got to do to get RAB Capital back on track.) Or? (Or that's it for your aura and your chakras. Fucked ... for ... life. You understand me, Charlie?) You're a hard man, Mike. (I've got to be.) So Big Herb is dead. Did things just get better, or did they just get worse? Will life in the ...'

He went into a soliloquy about Big Herb and life and death or something at this point, totally ignoring me, so I put the phone down. I ain't going to listen to that crap. I can do my own soliloquies, if I need them.

Wednesday, 11 May 2011

Ingenious Asset Management has more than £1 billion in assets under management

Congratulations are in order, I think. That's quite an achievement. I mean, it has just passed the £1 billion mark. Well, there's a lot of talent at the firm (Ingenious Media). Men like Patrick McKenna and Duncan Reid. I don't know if they work in the asset management department, but they should. I'm a little bit worried about Duncan, to be honest. Not too much. Maybe it's just a bad picture on the website. He looks like an Action Man. Still, it could be worse. He doesn't look like a Barbie doll, you'll be pleased to hear. Imagine that!

But any sort of doll or puppet is going to present problems. I hope it is just a bad picture. At least they don't have to pay him anything. They put him in a chair in the office and let him get on with it, I suppose. I almost envy him. I often speak of my emptiness, but I'm not a doll, or a puppet, or a scarecrow - yet. I have a soul. It may be empty, but it is a soul. If I were a doll, or a puppet, or a scarecrow, I could get a good job, somewhere like Ingenious Media. However, there would be problems. Oh, they wouldn't have to pay me. I could sit in the chair with my hands on a computer keyboard, or maybe I could hold a phone, forever, with a serious expression, like an important person. It would impress casual observers. I'm sure of that. But if anyone spoke to me, I would stare at them blankly. There would be no words to convince anyone of my usefulness to the organization. So should I envy him? I don't even know what I want out of life. Pack me in a box. Put me in a glass cabinet. He doesn't work in the asset management department. Ingenious Investments. Ingenious Ventures. So what? It doesn't matter now. So pack us in boxes. Or put us in glass cabinets, side by side. It could be freedom. No emotions. No pain. No desire. No ambitions. Not moving. Not breathing. Fixed. Unchanging. Stuck. Would that be freedom?

Marc Mezvinsky dreams of one day owning his own hedge fund

When he's finished with all the fucking skiing, of course. I was going to do that. I was going to waste my precious time on a ski slope, for months, years even. Then I was going to call a couple of my Goldman mates. I was going to trick them into starting a hedge fund with me. Then I woke up and realized I wasn't married to some well-connected Essex bimbo by the name of Chantelle or Chardonnay or whatever the fuck they're ....

Sorry. I'm just in a bad and bitter mood today. It always winds me up when I hear about rich people going skiing. Can't they be more original than that? What really makes me laugh though are all the semi-rich/vaguely-posh people who go skiing. There's nothing sadder, in my book. They want to be seen by the rich people. 'Oh, look at me. I'm here with you, on equal terms, almost.' Yeah, right. Fuck off and die, all of you. I mean that, sincerely, from the bottom of my dark and twisted heart.

Important: this is not a socialist rant. As if. I'm just saying that skiing is so incredibly naff. It's like driving a Rolls-Royce. Or wearing a Rolex watch. If rich people really want to know how to conduct themselves they should take a good look at the (later) life of Picasso. He wore simple, unflashy clothes, avoided the high life, owned a big house that was hardly decorated at all. Why? Because he knew that being 'Picasso' was enough. In today's money, he was worth billions, but nothing could top the name 'Picasso'. So that's what I'm saying. BE SOMETHING. Something impressive.

I apologize if I've upset anyone, but it's far better that this comes from a friend rather than from some God-awful lefty scumbag.

Tuesday, 10 May 2011

Colin Lunnon and Bish Limbu have run out of ideas

A bit embarrassing, really. But it happens. It happens to the best of them, not to mention the worst. So they have had to bring their old friend Simon Reynolds to the multi manager team at Octopus Investments to help out. I know Simon quite well. He's a veteran of the desert, the physical, and the astral. (Never forget the astral!) He'll have plenty of ideas, most of them unsuitable, but who cares? It's far better to have sick and demented ideas in your head than no ideas at all. And Simon is the sort you want inside the tent pissing out, rather than outside the tent with his mind working overtime. He has a demonic edge to him, which you sometimes need as a financial shaman. How many atrocities did I commit when I was gallivanting around the world as Jack Pickles? I've lost count. I'm not saying Simon is as bad as I was (and maybe still am) but he has been known to dance with the devil.

Dear reader(s), has an octopus with a dream ever promised you anything? 'I have two priorities: generating positive returns, and controlling risk. Whatever investment you choose, I'll never take unnecessary risks with your money. You can be sure of that because I look to invest my own money alongside yours.' That was him on the phone this morning. And I thought he was dead - the fake, radioactive octopus that Guy Myles beat the shit out of last September. I get so confused. No, it must have been the real octopus, the one that runs things at the firm. Would you trust an octopus with your money? Maybe Simon has some ideas about how to make the whole concept more attractive to investors. I mean, he's also a veteran of the astral sea. (Not the physical.) Oh, it's all becoming clear now. Lunnon and Limbu aren't as dumb as they look. (Yes, I have seen them, in visions.) Simon will definitely help them to redefine the industry, and to change the way people think about investment companies - well, this one, at any rate.

Monday, 9 May 2011

Clive Capital lost $400 million last week

Clive Capital is a private fund management company with a penchant for commodities, and all commodity groups are traded, including: global energies, base metals, precious metals, grains, vegetable oils, agricultural products, soft commodities, meats, and exotics. Unfortunately, it had (has?) money in oil. As we all know, oil crashed like a madman last week. That's why Clive Capital lost $400 million. Maybe more than that. The firm isn't speaking to journalists.

Clive Capital won't even speak to me. Not that I care. I can read people's minds. No one has to speak when I'm around. And I'm always around, somewhere, watching, listening in. See that shadow on the wall? That's me, that is. Feel that soft breeze(?) on your skin? What do you think it is? It ain't the wind, my friend. But don't be alarmed. It's not a haunting. I'm not a ghost. It's an out-of-body experience. It won't last. I'll be off bothering someone else in a minute.

Earlier this morning, I was floating around town, Charles II Street, bothering the Clive Capital folk. Well, to tell you the truth, they didn't notice me. They were too wrapped up in their grief. Lost in it, they were. Which I couldn't understand. And I knew Tony Robbins wouldn't approve, so I tried to change their state. Shadow and breeze, up close. No effect whatsoever. They were like zombies. You can't help some people. You've got to want to change.

I'm trying to change, myself. It's difficult. I've left the desert for good. I rarely hit the astral plane now. I'm trying to be more physical in the world. I'll have to cut down on the floating around. Old habits die hard. And I'm trying to be more positive. Got to stop worrying about death and disaster. There's money to be made. There are blog posts to be written, and songs. Life is worth living. It's beautiful, and sunny, outside. Obviously, not inside. I think I need a holiday. St Ives again, if I can afford it. I have a relation there, a famous ceramicist, Tate Gallery and all that. I've never met him. Francis Bacon stayed in St Ives for a few months, believe it or not, in the late Fifties. It's the light. I've been five times. It's my favourite place in the world. Apologies for the telegram style. Nothing's flowing today. Not even the blood.

No one will ever know about all the female financial journalists I've had affairs with

Because I've just taken out a super-duper-injunction to protect myself (and them, I'm concerned about them, I'm a gentleman). You can't speak about this, losers. Actually, you can't even read this post. You'll never know what I got up to with ***** *******. What about *****-***** *******? Oh, you'll never know!

Freedom of speech? No, I don't believe in it. I'm entitled to my privacy. And I don't want any trouble. The last thing I need is inadequate male financial journalists getting all jealous about my time with ******** ********.

I bet you're dying to know how good **** ******** ** ** ****** ********. *'** ****** *** ***** ** ***** *****. *** ***** ** ****.

Don't think badly of me. Wouldn't you do the same in my position?

Friday, 6 May 2011

There's a Goldman Sachs AGM today ...

And a lot of sad people are getting excited about it. They think Lloyd Blankfein is going to rip all his clothes off, and roll around on the floor, and cut himself, and shout and holler, because that's how freedom affects bankers who have been at one bank for so very long. Maybe the meeting will be over by the time I've written this post - who knows? But Lloyd won't be free. He's staying at Goldman Sachs for a while yet.

I know Lloyd. I know all the top guys. None of them need an excuse to rip their clothes off, and roll around, and reach for the razor or the scalpel. It's the culture there. I'm the one who instilled it. It's difficult to be serious and straight all the time. You have to relieve the pressure. And there's a lot of pressure at Goldman Sachs. Like you wouldn't believe. They work a hundred hours a week, you know. They never see the physical sun. And the astral sun has gone.

A hundred hours? Almost in my league. Well, next week. Yes, next week. Another one of my infamous fresh starts. How many is that now? I've lost count. I need someone to discipline me, and not just in my work. If only someone would rip my clothes off, and roll me on the floor, and then slash me with a razor! It would be a good start. We've all got to start somewhere. Rome wasn't built in a day. A long journey is taken with a small step, I think.

What do you want? Why are you reading this? Would you like me to come and see you, naked? Home or office? I'll bring the razor, or the scalpel. You'll just have to lie there, on the carpet. Or rather, roll there, with the blood and the fibres from the carpet all mingled. I know you want it. It will make you better, or make you so ill that you won't care any more. Either way, it will be a massive result for you.

You must believe I'm a sadist, or a masochist (I insist). I want to share the love. Let's get rid of the tension. The oblivion of pleasure is waiting for us. All we've got to do is dive in. And I hope you understand that I didn't want to write any of this. However, I must obey my subconscious. That's the way to greatness. I'm not one of these scaredy-cats, writing my way to bland death. So, feel more alive, reading me ... not them.

Nat Rothschild is the wealthiest hedge fund manager in Britain

Even though he lives in Switzerland. And I'm not sure he owns a hedge fund any more. Or maybe he does. (Yes, Attara Capital.) Let's take Reuters' word for it. Oh, my beautiful angel, my Gillian, my one true love, has ETFs on her mind. She has even written about them. I forgive her. We can't control these women. They have to do what they have to do. But back to business: the carrot-red hair and freckles haven't held Nat back. I'm so glad. He has overcome terrible adversity. You've got to take your hat off to him.

'Attara Capital LP is a privately owned hedge fund sponsor. It manages a series of hedge funds for its clients. The firm invests in hedging markets. Attara Capital LP is based in New York, New York.' Well, if you can make it there, you can make it anywhere. However, it's a long way from Switzerland. It just shows Nat's commitment. Imagine commuting like that every day! I couldn't do it.

'A rather scruffy and unpredictable boy with a rebellious streak, who you would never have tipped to make a big success of his life.' Well, after Eton and Oxford and the Bullingdon Club (the homosexual drinking society), it's going to be hard, ain't it? Eton, Oxford, Bullingdon, carrot-red hair, freckles, dear oh dear. I'm surprised Nat's not a bum on the street, with puke and piss all over him. How did he ever manage to make anything of himself?

Maybe Nat spent time in the desert. I can't recall seeing him. There were a lot of souls, in the old days. Ah, the old days! They won't come again. What do we care? We're looking forward to the new days.

Thursday, 5 May 2011

Lucidus Capital Partners has sold a little bit of itself

Sold a little bit of itself, yes, to Credit Suisse's Asset Management Finance. I don't know how much of itself it sold, and I don't know (nor) how much money changed hands. (And) I don't even know whose hands were involved in the deal. It's all a ridiculous mystery to me. And I'm breaking up. I despise the smoothness of the smug elite. I would laugh if I were not so terribly sad. I have no idea who Darryl Green and Geoffrey Sherry think they are. I've never even heard of Christon Burrows. It's a terribly sad state of affairs, being this ignorant, this much in the dark, without a candle, without a flicker. I (me) could be worse, I suppose. I could be one of those monsters of superficiality who like to think they know it all. (Indeed.) Their laughter annoys me. Their opinions are worthless. Their souls? I dread to think! This is for them: fuck off and die, and burn in hell.

I'm not coming with you. I'm staying out of hell. I'm hanging on to this world by my fingernails. My sanity is slipping. My blood, my fire. All I have! I've been perusing the King James Bible. That's why I'm so late, and so angry, and so terribly sad. Crazy words! 'Put away the strange gods that are among you, and be clean.' Oh, I've done that! I cut Big Herb to ribbons. His throat was all gory for glory. And I sent the elephant into exile. I'm still not clean! Now, food. Where's the drink? 'So I opened my mouth, and he caused me to eat that roll.' I had cheese rolls Tuesday, not today. Sex with a devil god? I don't know. I can't keep up! 'Thou shalt not let any of thy seed (children or ... seed?) pass through the fire to Molech.' Well, that's my weekend ruined then. I was looking forward to that. It's not as if I have anything better to do in my cell. And I could go on, but I won't. It doesn't make any sense. Surely, this can't be spiritual life, or any sort of life?

What are we searching for? Did we leave the desert for this? We have sold bits of ourselves, over and over again. (Did God buy? Or was it Satan?) I want the paradise we deserve. And AMF? What did it get? A slice of a long/short credit hedge fund with $1.8 billion in assets under management may be some people's idea of heaven, but it is not ours. AMF could buy more, over and over again, with raging fire, and awful lust, until only the ashes of money smouldered in the hands of Green and Sherry, and still there would be hunger and dissatisfaction. This is all hunger, all dissatisfaction. You are in the wrong place for joy, my children. Maybe I won't stay out of hell, after all. I can feel it from here. Can you feel it? Hot enough for you? I'm sha/man enough to cope. There is hell in words. Not many people realize. I feel sorry for the dull writers who are oblivious. I pity the cowards who will not look within. They never risk anything. How can they hope to achieve? They are the dead.

I am a master of reality. The dead have no awareness of this achievement. They do not know what it is. They have no idea where I have been. They cannot imagine where I am planning to go next. This is a higher sanity. I slipped into it while they were sleeping. (The sleeping dead? They're not really dead. It's an insult: DEAD.) Does it suit me? They need to look beyond me. They need to read my words, and then understand: I cannot be found within the words. I am neither the actor of despair nor the magician of joy. What touches them, does not belong to me. What infuriates them, doesn't even exist. An illusion has disturbed their minds. I am being as honest as I can be. What more can I do? Confess my sins? I am no good. I am a sinner. I have loved money, and I will continue to love it. Oh, children, God doesn't even want this! Only petty-minded fools could want this, and there are plenty of them, as we know. One day, I'll get calm (and clean). One day, none of this will matter.

Wednesday, 4 May 2011

Julian Treger wants money

Oh, we all want money, son. Why don't you go out and get a job, like we have to? No one gives you anything in this life. You've got to work for it. When I was your age ...

Actually, I'm fooling around, Jules does have a job, of sorts. He's a co-founder and managing partner of Audley Capital. He has this European Opportunities fund that he's opening up to new investors. That's what he needs the money for.

I've got a few hundred quid I could give him. However, I'm going to spend it on a Tascam portable recording studio machine thing. In my youth, I would hire professional musicians to play on my demo tapes, but I can't afford to do that now. Besides, it's unnecessary. I only need simple recordings of songs that I can send publishers. I don't want to be a rock star. Too long in the tooth for all that caper. The game has changed anyway. It wouldn't be no fun. I just need to make some money as a songwriter. We all need to make money. Money is freedom and power - if you have enough of it. Jules knows what I'm talking about.

That's what the socialists don't understand. Freedom and power. They think the poor want to stay poor. Strangely enough, I don't think I've ever met a poor socialist. Well, that's a lie. There's been a few working-class ones. Even in this day and age, you'll find a few working-class ones, worthy of respect, almost. But the majority of them have been of the champagne variety. They wouldn't touch the 'scum' they pretend to love with a bargepole. I wish I could understand them. Maybe it's a form of psychological self-preservation. They need to believe that they are good? I don't know. What do I know? They're alien, to me.

Tuesday, 3 May 2011

That Jamie Augustine has been named by Raymond James as the head of its fixed income department

Not that I care. My mood hasn't improved since this morning. I had a couple of cheese and pickle rolls for lunch. However, no change in my ... state. I still feel terrible. But I'm not going out for a walk in the cool sunshine the way a loser would. I'm going to stay in my room and deal with this Jamie Augustine kid. I want to know why Raymond James Financial/Associates wants this boy to do a man's job as head of its fixed income department, starting in October of this year, the one we're struggling with at the moment. And someone please tell me who Van Sayler is! Haven't I got enough problems?

Is there such a thing as a life well planned? They have a unique culture of independence at Raymond James. They have the freedom to meticulously tailor a long-term plan based solely on the financial well-being of each client and their specific goals. I could weep. Is this what Jamie has got himself mixed up in? I'm starting to feel sorry for the poor lad. Why did he allow it to happen? Why did he let them name him as the head of the fixed income department? I no longer want to know why the Raymond James crew named Jamie Augustine. I'm starting to see their game. I want to know why Jamie allowed himself to get sucked in like this.

And I know I won't get any sleep tonight worrying about the Van Sayler one. He sounds like a real nasty piece of work. Where do they find these people? Surely they can't imagine that our Jamie will be anything like him?

Our Jamie? It's amazing how close you get to people, just thinking about them, and writing about them. But we'll have to leave it here because I'm pissed off.

Ashley Jarvis left UBS because he was so very lonely without David Gray

And Tim Wannenmacher will be next. It makes perfect sense. I wouldn't stick around at UBS, wasting my time, getting involved with some prime brokerage nonsense, with my friends all disappeared. What kind of ... ? It's not any kind of life.

Having said that, there is little in this world that is any kind of life, really. We have to do the best we can with what we have been given. Our brains, our souls. And with what we have made. Our situations, our rotten beds. It can't be much fun for the ones without imagination. I wouldn't swap places with them for anything. And it can't be much fun for the ones with imagination. I should know. But I'm trying not to know. I'm trying not to think, to be honest with you, this early in the morning at the start of another week. What will I prove to myself (or anyone) this week? What will my achievement be? More words, yet more words, even more words, to go with all the others? Oh, wonderful. I'm so happy. I'm so glad I made the right choices in life. Maybe I should have gone for a season in prime brokerage, when I was young and carefree, and had energy and enthusiasm. There are worse things you can do, though I can't think of any at the moment. Just ask David Gray. Ask Ashley Jarvis. And ask Tim Wannenmacher, a couple of months from now. He won't last.

None of us last. We go, running off to the next grave of pleasure, or so we imagine. There's no joy to be had any more. We've squeezed the juice of existence into the earth. It's almost dry. My little desperadoes, put your mouths to the ground and lick the wet dirt, the mud of your lives! I'm trying not to laugh. I can only wish every one of you the best of luck. I know you think it's a worthwhile thing to do. Look, a trickle! Catch it! Are any of you satisfied? You are pathetic, and you're wearing me out. Can't you sit or stand still, just for a minute? Let us wait, for the end, peacefully, not fighting, not even wriggling.

This is one of my moods. It will pass. Try to believe my words while they are here in front of you. There will be other moods, and other words. Maybe I will want to fight, later on. We know there will be other words, and that I will want you to believe them. It can't be easy for you, my ragged (as if) children. You must have moods and words of your own. I wouldn't know, of course. How could I know, faced with your silences, and your blank faces? There's a chill in the air this morning. I'm hoping the day will warm up. I'm hoping I will warm up. And you! Give me your cold hands. We are still alive! Let Gray, Jarvis, and Wannenmacher do what they want to do. We don't even know these people. But we know ourselves, don't we? We are not strangers to ourselves. How goddamn awful would that be?