Wednesday, 31 August 2011

FSA decides to fine Swift Trade £8 million for market abuse

Just decides, out of the blue. 'Let's pick on Swift Trade today.' It's absolutely disgraceful. And I was under the impression the FSA had died a long time ago. I thought Damien Hirst had pickled the regulator and put it on display. Well, he had, of course. But The Dead Shark That Refuses To Believe In Death is still swimming around looking for financial firms to take a bite out of. An astral shark, I presume. (I hadn't considered that possibility - until now.) Even though I have banned all astral activities. Maybe I should fine the FSA. Yes! A taste of its own medicine, as it were. I'd love to see their faces. And the face of the dead shark, with eyes that have always been dead. (Are they actually inside the shark, all the FSA's employees? Dear reader, I can sense you're starting to think I haven't thought this through properly.)

Here's the dead shark on Swift Trade: 'In the FSA's opinion, between 1 January 2007 and 4 January 2008, Swift Trade's manipulative trading caused a succession of small price movements in a wide range of individual shares on the London Stock Exchange (LSE) from which Swift Trade made substantial profits. It has not been possible to measure Swift Trade's profits precisely; however, they were in excess of £1.75m.' More, than is healthy.

'In the FSA's opinion ...' Well, we all know what Clint Eastwood said about opinions. 'Opinions are like assholes, everybody has one.' A bit crude, but I think we get the point. (Yes, a reference to popular culture. This so-called "fresh start" of mine hasn't really taken off yet. I live with chaos. You don't know what it's like.) Anyone interested in my opinion? I better not say anything. Clint will be pleased.

O Master, 'It's absolutely disgraceful'?

My child, that was my opinion on the FSA fining Swift Trade £8 million, not on Swift Trade's "manipulative" trading. And aren't you supposed to be dead?

Not dead, exactly. You banished me, I believe.

Well, piss off, then.

Citadel is suing Yihao Ben Pu

And I don't want to call him "Yihao Ben Pu". So "Yihao"? Or "Pu"? No. Let's settle on "Ben". No one by the name of "Ben" could be a criminal. Anyway, this "Ben" is being sued by Citadel because the hedge fund claims he stole massive amounts of highly confidential data and was in talks with Teza Technologies. Oh, not Teza again! Teza Technologies was founded by Mikhail Malyshev - another ex-Citadel man sued by the hedge fund for ... you guessed it, stealing massive amounts of highly confidential data ... probably. I can't remember all the details.

Details aren't important, are they? All we really need to know is that Citadel is totally nuts about Teza Technologies. It's an obsession. A sickness. It's a derangement. (Of all the senses? I wouldn't rule it out. Anything is possible.) I think Citadel should bring me in, as a consultant. I could cure them, for a small fee. The executives, I mean. They must sit around all day - or, more likely, writhe around, on the floor - foaming at the mouth, pulling at their hair, biting their fingers - to the bone! (Not fingernails. I suspect it's far more serious than that.) Just consumed with anger for Teza Technologies! It's irrational. Fortunately, I specialize in the irrational. It's bread and butter to me. And a bit of jam.

Well, it's not hamburgers. It's not dead flesh crying for gold - to quote Rimbaud. I'm a vegetarian. An ex-Krishna freak. (I wasn't a monk. I stayed in their temple one weekend. That was enough for me.) Yes, it's bread and butter. And it is jam. All over my face, like a little boy, without a care in the world. I like it that way. Call me immature, if you want to. It won't bother me. I get results. Citadel? I can stop their writhing, the foaming, everything. I'll give them something terrible to focus on. From hell. It'll burn their minds. They won't worry about Teza Technologies stealing their data. They'll worry about demons stealing their souls. They won't be suing "Ben" or "Mik". They won't be suing anyone. I'll put a stop to all the nonsense. And when it's over, once the flames have died down, they'll have new priorities; maybe even a vision of the future of their beloved hedge fund - I'll charge extra for that.

I reckon Citadel will be on the phone to me any minute now.

Tuesday, 30 August 2011

I ain't superficial about money

Or anything. You won't get loads of charts from me. You won't get loads of figures. Just blood, and bones. Oh, and flesh. Aching for money, aching for anything.

There is nothing. I can offer you it. You can take it. This is the pain, today. And it's nothing. Today, it's the pain. You can have it. In plain fucking English. I'll ram it down your throat. You'll choke. You won't be smiling with the pain I have. There'll be no jokes with the pain I have. It'll be your pain.

Welcome to hell. Take it from me.

[This isn't for everyone. They know who they are.]

Orwell Capital and the Kerdos hedge fund made of solid gold

Orwell Capital has a cunning plan to launch some sort of Kerdos Premium Fund, which - as well as comprising of two sub-funds, The Private Equity Gold Sub-Fund, and The Gold Sub-Fund - will be made of solid gold. Unless I've misunderstood. (I am easily confused.) It doesn't seem to make any sense, does it? Will the manager(s) be made of solid gold, also?

Maybe Franco Mignemi will enlighten us. 'I am (or will be - after the launch) the manager of the Kerdos Premium Fund. I am not made of solid gold, and neither is Kerdos. But I spray myself gold in the privacy of my own home, just to get in the mood. And I often dance around the living room, chanting: "Kerdos, Kerdos, you are my golden fund, you are my natural hedge on inflation". Maybe that is what you are referring to, Mr Fowke. Maybe someone - some sick bastard informer, one of my enemies, a spy, so perverted, so depraved - was peeking through a gap in the curtains. This degenerate must have seen me naked, with the gold spray. That's the only explanation I can think of. It's how rumours start. The next thing you know, everyone is saying you're the manager of a fund of solid gold, and that you are solid gold, yourself. I have no idea what motivates these people.'

That was Franco, speaking to me a few seconds ago, in my head. And I have to agree with him, these people are sick. Death to all chivatos!

Brevan Howard is one of those rare hedge funds that has been making money lately

Brevan Howard is a global alternative asset manager, managing significant institutional assets across a number of diversified strategies. And it's a big macro thing, apparently. But the less said about that, the better.

The last few weeks have been quite bad for many hedge funds. While Brevan Howard has been making way, way, way over a billion dollars, others have been losing dollars, millions and billions of them. Idiots will say Brevan Howard was positioned for a global slowdown. Geniuses will say it had help from mystical forces.

I'm not saying anything. As a genius, I should be saying that Brevan Howard had help from mystical forces. However, I'm tired of saying things, of making statements.

And now I have found a way in. I was a little worried at the beginning. As anyone who's been reading(?) this post will recall, I started off with: 'Brevan Howard is a global alternative asset manager, managing significant institutional assets across a number of diversified strategies.' Lifted from the firm's website, such as it is. It was not a promising start. It made me feel dead. So I was a little worried ... at the beginning. But now I am alive!!! I mean, I feel alive. I am "breathing", so intensely, so magnificently, and I am enthusiastic. I have a theme. It's not the "dead" theme of a rare hedge fund making money. Or other hedge funds losing money. It is the theme of the stupidity of saying things, of making statements. Even geniuses get it wrong, sometimes. No one should say that Brevan Howard had help from mystical forces. [I never said it!] Yes, it's true. But no one should say it. It doesn't mean anything ... ... ... As a vegetarian, I don't eat hamburgers. And I don't want pictures of them. I want pictures of my angel, my Gillian. But none of this means anything. All of it, I suppose, means nothing. And it's too personal, to boot, such nothingness. This is my fresh start. I am a new man. I am desperate to make progress. I'll be taking it one post at a time. I woke up yesterday morning with a melody in my head. A very good sign. It was a gift from God, I reckon.

You can't keep the "personal" out of something like this. After all, I am not a fictional character. I wish I were a fictional character. But I am not. If you cut me, do I not bleed? All over you, and your computer screen, and not just the blood. I'm sure the blood - on its own - would be bearable. It's the emotions that scare you to death. I know. Yes, I know ... ... ... You are not as anonymous as you think you are. You cannot hide from me. I know you're out there. I can smell you. You're an animal. Join the club.

I'm not saying anything. I'm tired of saying things, of making statements. S t a t e m e n t s. You see? There's something there. [Oh, those sickening spaces!] It will never go away. I'll have to learn to live with it. And so will you.

Friday, 26 August 2011

It was you who said there won't be tomorrow

'It was you who said there won't be tomorrow.' Maybe that will be my last reference to popular culture because I've got to try to get serious now. A stupid life can be exhausting. Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow. Oh, there will be plenty of tomorrows. But I better cut the literary quotes as well. I need discipline. [I need compartments.]

_________________________


You can't control what people are thinking. Or what they are doing. You have to focus on yourself. You have to control yourself. One step at a time. One thought at a time. One action. One word. You want clarity. Power. The truth. Your truth. Simplicity. Honesty. Vision.

You can't enter their lives. It's their responsibility. Their choices. Nothing will touch them. Nothing you have. Unless they are willing to let go. They hold on to fear. And bad ideas. You are not at fault. Ignore them. They cannot hurt you.

_________________________


I'm writing this for myself, but anyone is welcome to read it. I mean, I can't stop anyone reading it. I can't call the internet cops.

This is the last post until my "fresh start" next Tuesday. I am at the end of my tether, so it needs to happen. I hope to work on my songs for at least thirty hours a week. And forty hours here. That's around seventy hours a week of creative work. I may do more, if I can. I need to improve my guitar playing. I may learn the piano again. I'm pretty proud of the fact that there was a time when I could play [warning: popular culture!] Bowie's Life on Mars? Not as well as Rick Wakeman, but well enough. (I've mentioned this before, haven't I? Never mind.) And The Jean Genie. There isn't actually any piano on Bowie's recording of the song, but it sounds great with a piano. By the way, I once wrote a song called Strings of Thought. I recorded two versions of it. (1987, and 1989.) The second version sounded a lot like Bowie. Unfortunately, I only have the song on cassette. I would put it on YouTube if I could. I hired a brilliant session musician to play on the demo (two on the first demo) but I can't remember his name.

I wasn't much of a singer. I'm going to leave the singing to others now. And that was my astrologer's original advice, anyway.

_________________________


This personal writing has got to stop. And I will stop it. In two or three years time, it will all be lost in the archive. Only fanatics will go looking for it.

You can be personal without being personal. It's transformations I'm after. Transmutations! The baseness of my life will become the gold of literature. [I will crack up if I don't do this.] The immortal words of a mortal man ... is personal without being personal. I need more writing of that sort. And I need to be consistent.

Remember The Three Cs. Control. Consistency. Concentration.

_________________________


Fragments, again. Not good enough!

Thursday, 25 August 2011

Hawker Capital has launched a global macro fund

Oh dear. What is the deal with these global macro funds? Why do so many people have a hard-on for them at the moment? This latest one is called the Vulcan Global Macro fund, if you can believe that. It's being managed by Mr Spock. No, Jan Szilagyi. Whoever he is. I give up. Honestly, I give up. Do me a favour, anyone thinking of getting into this global macro nonsense: go and see Lee Robinson. He'll show you the scars.

_________________________


Bloody horrible day. It's pissing down. This is the end of summer. The perfect time to listen to my favourite album, Dennis Wilson's Pacific Ocean Blue. I haven't listened to it since my holiday in Cornwall in June - when I was seriously considering drowning myself in the sea. But that dark moment passed, as all dark moments pass, to be replaced by light moments, and even more dark moments. It goes on forever? I'll get back to you on that.

Daryl Easlea's review: 'Pacific Ocean Blue is the amusement arcade with the paint peeling, the carnie clown's cracked make-up fading as they pack away their act after another late September weekend of half-full applause and bitter tears. The other side of summer.'

Wednesday, 24 August 2011

Jonathan Sorrell is leaving Goldman Sachs to join Man Group

[Back earlier than I thought I would be.]

I'm not sure this is the smartest thing he's ever done. (Has he done it?) But it's probably too late to stop him. (Is Jonathan there now, as head of strategy? It doesn't bear thinking about.) Of course, he will have to give up being one of the Guardians of the Mystic Candle.

I blame the parents. We all know how little time I have for Martin Sorrell. (Well, I know, obviously. How could I not know?) I have no time for Martin Sorrell. And I'm not calling him "Sir". I don't care how many queens he's friendly with.

Man Group. I can't believe it. Of all the firms. All Jonathan had to do was speak to the GLG boys. They would have told him everything. It's probably too late.

_________________________


I'm not feeling any better. I don't want to write the way I was writing this morning. If I can't get this shit out of my system by the time of my fresh start next week I might ... well, use your imagination. And this post? Oh, this post may look okay on the surface, but there's something terrible beneath the words, no, no, no - or rather in the spaces between the words. Between the lines? No, it's worse than that. Can't you read? I wrote: the s p a c e s. Even the spaces, very small spaces, between letters, even. Yes, e v e n. You see? What's wrong with you? Are you sick in the head?

Why am I taking it out on you? I apologize. You don't deserve this. And now I have devil faces in the curtains, caused by the sunshine. I deserve this? No, I don't. Life isn’t fair. We're all suffering, aren't we? I certainly hope so. I don't want to be the only one.

Ratio Asset Management is closing its flagship hedge fund

All because some selfish bastard investors insisted on redemption. How absolutely absurd! There ain't no redemption. Not for their sort. I'm spitting blood. This is the evil that men do, this is. Although there could be females mixed up in it. I don't have all the details yet. I don't think I ever will. It's not as if I [do] any sort of research or investigating, is it? I just open my mind up and let everything in, like a whale with plankton. (The mind is a mouth. But you knew that. And what the fuck is krill?) Of course, I have to select the shit that appeals to me. (Well, I don't have to.) Could I devour all the news? Yes, if I wanted to, but I'm not greedy. Right now, this post now, it's the Ratio Asset Management debacle that interests me. (Debacle? Is that the right word? Who cares? I quite / like / it. Honestly, I love "debacle"!) Tomorrow, or maybe later today, who knows? Maybe I'll lose all interest in stories. Maybe I'll be waxing lyrical about the most beautiful journalist in the world. She doesn't have a lot of competition. There's Stacy-Marie, I suppose.

Oh, in case you haven't got [got, got, FUCKING got] the foggiest idea, Ratio Asset Management is an alternative investment manager. They seek to deliver consistent and attractive returns for investors, whilst controlling risk and preserving capital. However, they don't get any thanks from anyone. It's a miserable business. So they have decided to close the Ratio European fund and return all assets to investors. As we(I) know, redemptions are to blame, from two of their biggest investors. But Jonathan Sharpe will be all right. He's the big chief executive. I know he won't sink into depression. I know he won't go out and get drunk, then return to the office, smash his hand into a mirror in the lavatory/[[toilet]], smear the blood all over his face, and God knows what else, and then just cry his little eyes out. That's what I would do. I don't have Jonathan's self-control. My emotions are animals, crawling around my head - my heart? If I don't kill them, I feeling, sensing it, they're going to kill me. If I don't hunt them down, my life will be destroyed by these animals not even in words and images, beyond are these monsters that feel disgusting like there's no words or images at all, it's an ache, an itch ... I could scratch and get rid of pain, I could dissolve myself, them, this ...

I will never get calm. I need to be calm, and clear, to do what I want to do. Only a few days left to fuck the animals to pieces. I might as well stop here. I am not achieving anything. See you later, crocodiles. (No, you're not crocodiles. You're my friends.) I'll try again this evening.

Tuesday, 23 August 2011

Sutesh Sharma is leaving Citigroup for Portman Square Capital

Portman Square Capital? Perhaps no one has ever heard of it. Could it be? Yes! It's a hedge fund that doesn't even exist. Imagine that! Sutesh Sharma is such a visionary. And so courageous. How many proprietary traders will have the guts, one day, [one day!], to leave a cushy job for a hedge fund that doesn't even exist? Quite a lot will, if they are given half a chance, or even less. Actually, they're all at it, already. They have been for some time. Did you know? Oh, I'm sure you did.

But,,, this,,, Portman Square Capital. Unfortunately, Toby Lingard is involved in the imaginary hedge fund. No, I don't know anything about him. (I am in the dark.) I'm just unnaturally suspicious of anyone with the name "Toby". It's a prejudice of mine, impure, and reasonably complicated. What can I do? This is the way I feel. [I have feelings too?] I'm sure he's a very nice man. (A vicious psychopath going by the name of "Toby"? No one would be willing to suspend their disbelief. It would be ludicrous.) Sutesh should have a word with him. 'Toby, if we want to be taken seriously, you've got to drop the "Toby". Money's at stake, man!' Something along those lines. "Toby" has all the wrong vibrations. I mean, I'm a shaman. If a shaman (foremost, financial) doesn't know about vibrations, who does?

Let's take a closer look at Sutesh Sharma. If we asked him nicely, do you think he would remove that awful "r" and put an "n" on the end? Would he do that, for us? How attached is he to his surname? Obviously, we are not talking about a "Toby" situation here. It's not that serious. But if he made the "r" and "n" changes, wouldn't that show commitment to the cause, maybe even a deranged passion? - which is what we're looking for in our hedgies, after all. I don't think it's too much to ask. Sutesh either wants to make money or he doesn't. He needs to understand that our way is the best way. Sure, he can make a bit on his own. Chump change, as it were. But in these terrible times you're not going to make BIG MONEY unless you're in tune with the cosmos. Basically, in tune with me. Because I am MR COSMOS. Well, I'm not. Sounds Greek. But you know what I mean. Anyone with any intellect at all knows what I mean. I don't have to keep explaining myself. (Do I?) This is exhausting. Is it lunchtime yet?

Monday, 22 August 2011

Ain't got much to say, today

I'm not even looking at the news. I'm sure it's all very interesting to someone, but I've got bigger fish to fry. No, I haven't found myself a job in a chip shop. I'm talking about my fresh start next week, after the bank holiday. I'm mentally preparing myself for it.

I have a theory. Do you want to hear it? My theory is that if you want to get anywhere in life you have to get rid of all the negative voices in your head. The ones that say: 'Oh, you can't do that. Everyone will laugh at you.' Or: 'Don't waste your time, mate. It'll be a disaster.' Or: 'Kill yourself.' And the best way to get rid of those voices is to be active - CONSTANTLY. Like Bill Gates, working sixteen hours a day, seven days a week, for five years, WITHOUT ONE DAY OFF.

So that's what I'm going to try. I'm going to drown the voices out with work. I'll take Saturday nights off. I'll have small breaks here and there - walks in the park, that sort of thing - but most of the time I'll be working.

God knows if I'll stick to it. I never have done before. But I am sick of my life the way it is. Something's got to change or I'll go insane.

Friday, 19 August 2011

Is someone going to explain to me who Jakob Holm is, and what he is?

Seriously. I want to know - EVERYTHING. And it's no good your coming to me, and saying: 'Mr Fowke, Jakob Holm is a founder of Bullseye Asset Management, along with his friend, William Bales. They used to work together at Janus. They were portfolio managers, apparently. Oh, and they have something called the Bullseye Disciplined Long Short fund. It's a hedge fund! Exciting, eh?' That won't satisfy me.

It won't satisfy me. It will not satisfy me.

I haven't got the energy to investigate him myself. I need people to explain shit to me. Is he more than a finance man? Is Jakob more than dollars and cents? I need to know. They have shamans and mystics at Janus. That's where he comes from. So, does that make him one of us? Maybe. I don't know.

I wish, I wish, I wish ... I knew. Yes, I wish.

I don't know. But I wish I did know. I wish I knew. These people just get in my head. I never asked for this. They just get in my head. (Not Bales. Don't care about him.) I can't sort stuff out until I know. Will I ever know?

Will I ever, ever, ever ... know?

And when you're done explaining the mystery of Jakob Holm, will you get round to me? And yourself. Let me know who you are. (((Are we one(s) of us, or one(s) of them?))) If I had some idea. If I ... who, I

This is not

Thursday, 18 August 2011

Should we be concerned that the SEC has been destroying files?

No, I don't think so. Worse things happen at sea. Darcy Flynn reckons the SEC has been destroying files for almost twenty years. This means all sorts of financial villains have got away with financial murder. I wouldn't worry about it though, if I were you. I am not you, of course. If I were. I am not. If I were. I don't even know who you are. Who are you? And I have no idea who Darcy is, and neither does he. So there's a lot of confusion. We don't even know if any of this is true.

I am in one of those moods. Not one of these moods, over here. One of those moods, over there, beyond the horizon of my 'regular' consciousness. Unusual, for me. (For anyone, if I'm being honest. Am I being honest?) I want to destroy the 'sense' others have worked so hard to attain. I despise their sanity, their rationality. Their pathetic fucking 'thoughts', their writing. To read this is to dive into hell. We are going down? Well, I am. This is the ultimate news. It is the truth they try to hide. I am not afraid to write it. Are you afraid to read it? The best of you will follow me, I am sure of that. The worst of you will close your minds. Yes, it's a test. Have you got the balls, and the spirit, to pass it?

There are so many horrors. I shouldn't really add to them. However, my demonic passion takes me on strange journeys, and I am powerless. I'll let myself drift. Oh, I will. I shut / I stop / I shut myself down for a second and I am gone, for a hour, or two, or three. Blackout! We've been here before. Like all actors before! A million miles from the City of London, and Wall Street. The dead are coming on. Old friends. Old enemies. Faces of love and hate. It's all the same to me. Those red eyes! I've seen them in so many dreams. Bodies, and the fur. (Fur? Some of them.) Killers, of spirit. It's going to be an accident, my getting the words and images I'm after. If only I had more control. Like a radio fading out, I am something untouchable. They don't want you to read this. (You have to find realities like this for yourself.) They won't direct you to it, with their witless [fucking, optional] approval. They don't want you to read this. It's a life they can't approve of, my life. They are scared of my disease. I would never get a job with respectable folk like them, all dead the little lambs, they are. Gentle, civilized, and ever so lucky, imbeciles at their desks, staring at screens, wondering what's it all about and make the bad man go away. 'Please, someone, make the bad man go away. He'll ruin my career. He'll steal my reasons for staying alive even though I'm a dead little lamb and the devil plans to eat me.' They think I'm going to serve them up to the devil. Ha! Well, I might. I just might.

_________________________


Now, that moment has passed, you'll be glad to hear. I'm glad it has passed. I am glad to hear the wonderful news myself, and I am the one who said it was over, all passed into the past. I need to concentrate on the glorious future. With control? In the future, my future?! We can only hope. Here we are. Now. Here / we / are, here / you / are, here / I / am. Slower, and softer, and it's raining - a sort of bonus, I guess. Some summer this is! Some life, too.

Wednesday, 17 August 2011

Todd Edgar is leaving BarCap to start his own hedge fund

No, you didn't hear it here first, but at least Todd is willing to speak to me. He's not willing to speak to anyone else because he thinks they're all scum, and he's right. He likes me though. I'm his favourite. I'm not jealous of his success. I wish him all the best - constantly, even when I'm asleep. I do it in dreams.

Anyway, this is what was spoken between us: 'Mikey, I've finally developed a taste for it. (A taste for what?) Mystical capitalism. I can't wait to get out into the desert with my new hedge fund. I'm so excited! (Oh dear. Todd, mate, we don't do the desert thing no more.) Eh? (That's all over and done with. We have a harder, more realistic mysticism in the cities now.) Oh, Mikey! Why am I always the last one to know? It's my fault, I suppose, for not reading on a regular basis. What about the astral plane? (Yeah, that's gone too.) Damn. Well, if that's what Big Herb wants, who are we to argue, eh, Mike? (It's nothing to do with Big Herb. I had to let him go.) Er ... you had to let a god go?! Why do I get the feeling you're not telling me everything? (I ... I had to ... put an end to his life, Todd. It was the only way. He wouldn't listen to reason, so ... I had to cancel his fucking contract. I'm in charge now, and things are ... different.) Mikey, this is terrible! What about the ghosts? (I had to ... let them go, as well.) What about Ganesh? I loved that crazy fucking elephant. Don't tell me - (He's okay. He's in exile.) So you have some decency then? I had no idea you were so ruthless, Mike. (Don't think badly of me, Todd. I did it for the children. They're the future, after all.) Yes, I suppose so. But I'm still shocked. And I know my team will be shocked. They all think you're some harmless hippie type. (Manson was a hippie, Todd.) Jesus Christ. I can't get my head round this. What about Jack Pickles? (I am - I was, Jack.) Oh, man, you're freaking me out! This is too much. I gotta go, man. I gotta go.'

Don't worry, children, Todd will be all right. I'll phone him back in a couple of days. Let's give him a chance to adjust to the new reality. He's a very sensitive lad, you know.

Tuesday, 16 August 2011

Benjamin Koifman, hedge fund fraudster, goes to prison for five years

More than five years. Because he did terrible things. He admits, himself, that he did terrible things. Koifman ran A.R. Capital Global Fund LP, with a confederate - not on his own. They got roughly seventy investors to invest roughly $20 million in the ARC Global Fund by making false statements about it. Now Benny's in prison. His confederate will join him soon. No one knows where the money is. Well, it has probably been spent.

We all do terrible things. That's the tragedy. If you're breathing, you're doing terrible things. Only the dead are without sin.

Don't you wish you were without sin, dear sinner? It can be arranged. I'm very close to God. All I've got to do is have a word in His ear. And you should see His ear. It's massive. If there's a bigger ear in the entire universe, I'll be very surprised. Extremely surprised. In fact, surprised like I've never been surprised.

You're probably wondering: has he ever been surprised? Unfortunately, nothing surprises me. [I wish "something" did.] So I have never been surprised. A bigger ear than God's ear would surprise me. However, it's unlikely we'll ever find a bigger ear than God's. And He needs His big ear. He's got a lot of people to listen to - moaners and wimps, mainly. He gets the odd spiritual aristocrat, like myself. But that's rare. It's normally weak people who want something from Him. They need a crutch.

Oh, I was weak, once. That time I got all fucked up with nightmares from the chaos. I had to go to bed clutching the Bible and the Bhagavad-gita. But it was my astrologer who cured me. So ... God didn't have anything to do with it. No, that's a lie. Obviously, my astrologer spoke to God on my behalf. That was in the old days, when I wasn't so close to Him.

I'm still a sinner though. Fortunately, God cuts me some slack. It doesn't make sense punishing a spiritual aristocrat for minor infractions of the LAW when there are so many goofballs around who don't even believe in Him.

The worst is yet to come for Benny and his confederate.

Monday, 15 August 2011

I'm very depressed about the economic situation ...

And the political one, and the personal one. I hardly have the enthusiasm to write this post - or any post. Maggots. Maggots in my head. That is all.

I've decided I'm going to make my fresh start after the bank holiday. Then you'll see a new me. A man full of enthusiasm, hopefully. Another fresh start. Can you believe it?

Great Britain. Really? How am I ever going to make any serious money in such a country? Everything seems to be falling apart. At least there's a global market for songs. That's some comfort. If only I had the energy ...

Politics is going nuts right now. Mental. Sick. Pretty soon we'll be living in a fascist state. Maybe I should escape to America. I don't know if things are better over there. Probably not.

The personal is a joke. Don't even want to think about it. All I want is my angel. She would make everything better. Everything better, everything better ...

I don't even have the willpower to shape this post. It's going to be a collection of random thoughts. That's pretty obvious, isn't it? [Why am I asking you? You're not going to speak to me.]

I feel like Martin Sheen at the beginning of Apocalypse Now. I want to go wild and smash things up because I'm sick of lies and the people who tell them. And the people who live them. The worst ones (people) are the ones who think they're just fine. They even think they're doing you a favour when they acknowledge your existence.

Friday, 12 August 2011

Everyone and everything is sick ... except David Cameron

The poor are sick for wanting the lifestyles of the rich and corrupt, the politicians, that is. I mean, they want to steal stuff. The police are sick for allowing the poor to follow the politicians into a life of crime. I am sick, no doubt, for just writing this post and having the audacity to breathe without Cameron's permission. Oh, and social media is sick. Facebook is sick. Twitter is sick. BlackBerries are sick. What else? Telephones are sick. The post office is sick. The whole of reality is sick in this man's opinion.

It's projection, that's all.

This is what goes on, inside:

Monkey grinning faces [it's genuine sickness] howlings dirty insects things with hairs crawling around and those teeth scratches on skin blood fucks loose eyeballs warts night dark shakings such loneliness rivers of semen and shit it has got to stop it cannot stop and a mouth coming eating please go away the wounds the infestations sicker and deeper please help understand and save me I should have stayed at Carlton so out of my depth thumping pains banging beasts fucker fuckers goat's head horns fires ...

Of course, he's not the only one. From time to time, most of us suffer like this. But the trick is to not let it affect your dealings with the outside world. It takes honesty - with yourself. And I'm afraid that Cameron just doesn't have that honesty.

Thursday, 11 August 2011

We live in the Sick Society

There is no need for visions or rhetoric of future times. We are already living the nightmare. There is nothing BIG or clever about it. We live in the Sick Society. Why smash a shop window to get your hands on a mobile phone or pair of trainers, when all you have to do is claim them on expenses?

A duck island for £1,645. Pure greed. It is sick. £4,000 for renovations to a chimney. So sick. We need to bring out the water cannons. £33 for poppy wreaths? Oh, almost. He was caught in the act. A dark brown sofa for £499. Hanging baskets and pot plants for £600. Repairs to a millionaire's home, £680. Do I need to go on?

All stolen from the taxpayer. We should load up with rubber bullets.

Wednesday, 10 August 2011

Paige Capital Management has been ordered to give Randy Lerner his money back

All $40 million of it. I lost my temper. I said to Michele and Chris: 'Listen, you two, Randy has asked me to get his money for him. And you better give it to him. Or I'll pretend to be Jack Pickles again. You won't want that. Do what's right. Don't make me come back here in dreams because they'll be hellish nightmares next time.'

I'm hoping Randy will give me a little taste of it, just to show his gratitude and all. I didn't ask him for any payment. Maybe I should have done. I'm too much of a humanitarian, that's my trouble. It's no way to get rich.

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What's going on today? Anything exciting? I'm glad Cameron pulled his finger out yesterday and put more cops on the street. That's the power of this blog. God knows what will happen with the Olympics. I wonder how many of the rioting kids have tickets for events next year. My guess would be hardly any - or maybe none at all. The Olympics isn't for ordinary people, is it? (Who wanted it, eh?) It's for politicians and their friends in big business, and assorted media twats. As I keep saying, the whole world is corrupt. Is anyone listening?

Tuesday, 9 August 2011

Gold will soon go up to $10,000 an ounce

I can see it happening. It's just over the $1,700 mark at the moment. The world is fucked. There's no money left. The markets are falling. Baked beans will soon cost £10 a tin. AND -

London is burning. Useless politicians are talking utter shit. Like Theresa May. Why is she going on TV to tell us that this is criminal behaviour and thuggery? We know what it is, love. The criminals and thugs, themselves, know what it is. No one needs to be told what it is by a politician in a safe little world, away from all the chaos. WE NEED TO KNOW WHAT YOU ARE GOING TO DO ABOUT IT.

And the Eton prat? Don't even get me started on him. At least he's been able to drag himself away from his villa in Tuscany. What an absolute shower of c**ts!

Monday, 8 August 2011

Tim Attias, Santiago Alarco, and Catherine Cripps are being sued by Rubicon Fund Management: shame!

Yes, it's a real shame. These fucking global macro funds cause so much misery. They should be banned! Sata Partners is to blame. It's a new hedge fund, set up by Tim Attias, with all that global macro nonsense, just like the Rubicon Global fund, apparently, and unfortunately. And there's his confederates, Alarco and Cripps. All three of these characters used to work together at Rubicon Fund Management, except Cripps, she worked somewhere else. They were close. Bosom buddies, you could say. And they seemed happy in their work, except Cripps. But then they did a runner. They wanted to do their own global macro thing. The people at Rubicon were gutted. Still are, in fact. Not only have they lost money and 'star' managers but they genuinely admired Tim and Santiago as human beings. I don't know about Catherine. Someone must have admired her, once. So now they want vengeance. Lots of it, sadly.

Actually, both sides want an out-of-court settlement. They want me to settle it, my way. (That's the old way, before I fell so in love and love changed me. Oh, it's deeper than ever!) Rubicon wants me to destroy the three desperadoes, with blood and fire, and the three desperadoes want me to destroy Rubicon, with - you can guess - my blood, my fire: my demonic passion, basically. Hasn't anyone told them the news? I'm not gallivanting around the world as Jack Pickles any more, killing and maiming. It was fun while it lasted, but I've got to think of the future of my soul. They won't listen though. Attias has been on the phone to me. 'Mikey, you're like a mystical Viking or something. You can raid the Rubicon office. Do it for me. Swoop down on them from the astral skies like, er, like a deadly eagle. You understand.' Well, I don't understand, of course. It's not possible to understand such ravings. I can't be a mystical Viking and a deadly eagle, can I? Not at the same time. I don't care how much money Tim has. But it was some moron from Rubicon who phoned me first. 'Mr Fowke, for us, suing these traitors just isn't enough. We want to see them really suffer. Real pain for sham friends! Didn't you once describe yourself as the King of Pain?' No, I didn't. That was Sting. This is the kind of shit I have to put up with. And readers wonder why I get so depressed.

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Is anything going on today? In the markets, I mean; anything exciting? Who cares? Not us! We don't care! Am I right?

I am right. I am always right. Children, we should let the markets fall and smash into a billion pieces. The time is coming when we will take over. I'll be the leader. You'll be the followers. Then the fools will see blood and fire. The power. I still have it. I can feel it. Children, can you feel it? Can you see it? Forget my words. Just look into my eyes.

Friday, 5 August 2011

While the markets have been turning ...

... to shit, I've been making changes to my villanelle. Love and literature are far more important than finance. If only more people understood that.

Thursday, 4 August 2011

Anthony Klatch may have to spend the next 330 years in prison

Still, it could be worse. He could have my life. I'll be spending eternity in hell unless my angel drags me out. A good woman's love is the only salvation.

But you don't want to hear about my problems. Let's see if I can focus on Anthony Klatch for a paragraph or two. He's a hedge fund manager with positive performance since 2004 - for his clients. He was arrested last week. He has been accused of lying to these clients of his and stealing their money, with his TASK Capital Partners. I don't know if he did it or not. I'm not really sure I care, to be honest with you. What did Bob Dylan say/sing? 'To live outside the law you must be honest.' It's not that I'm insensitive to the suffering bank accounts of the investors, it's just that I consider the whole world corrupt. WE NEED TO ESCAPE.

I hope the stars will be out tonight. (I mean, no clouds.) They make me feel good. They remind me there's more to life than being alive, on this cold earth. Not that they're dead, the stars, well ... I'm getting confused again. I haven't read Plotinus, but a friend once told me Plotinus believed the stars were living things. Living things, eh? Oh, I hope so. I fucking hope so. It would be very comforting, wouldn't it?

I can't concentrate on Anthony Klatch. I'm not his lawyer. I'm not going to defend him. And I'm not going to judge him.

Only the stars can judge him.

Wednesday, 3 August 2011

Back to Nylon Capital, ah, happy days!

I remember the old days. NyLon Capital in those days. Nylon Capital was the first financial firm I ever wrote about, along with BarCap, here. Ah, those were the days. Happy days! I was so optimistic, so full of ... life. I hadn't met the snakes, the scumbags, the phoney friends, nor the half-witted philistines with their worthless ... oh, why bother? Aren't they beneath contempt? Of course they are! What have I learnt, since those days? I AM ON MY OWN. So be it. Like Julius Caesar, I'm surrounded by enemies. Like Julius Caesar, I'm superior to all of them. Fuck them. Fuck them in their ears. That's from the heart. Yes, I have a heart.

But it's for my friends that I write, my "children" - if you like. Children, I know you can't help me, but I feel your love. And your love is enough, for me. Readers, you are the children of a savage god. It's true. (Well, I'm getting there.) Now, some of the less-committed amongst you will ask: 'What would Jesus do?' Let me tell you, I don't give two shits what Jesus would do. WHAT WOULD CAESAR DO? Come on! We've got to think big. Or, at least, I've got to. You can just watch from the sidelines, I don't mind. Maybe after the battle, you'll fix me a refreshing drink, or give me a rub-down - if you're a woman, obviously. To soothe me. I'll need soothing. I'll have their blood on me. It won't be a pretty sight. War is hell. (By the way, Krishna always had the better attitude. He told Arjuna to beat the living crap out of his enemies, not love them. What was the deal with Jesus? Was he a stoned hippie or something? It takes all sorts, I suppose. What would Charlie Manson do? Ah, that's more like it! A hippie with a bit of get-up-and-go.)

O Master, Nylon Capital?

Oh, the mystic child/voice! Whatever. So, Nylon Capital. Yes, Nylon Capital will soon be launching a new global macro hedge fund with all the money it scammed from Barclays. Oh no! Not another global macro fund! Don't these people ever learn? I saw Lee Robinson the other night. (He's only going out at night. He's waiting for the wounds to heal.) He seemed reasonably cheerful. And he thanked me, for telling him what to do. He says the Goldman boys slash with a mean razor. Well, we all knew that, didn't we?

Tuesday, 2 August 2011

Clopton Capital and the hedge fund THAT NEVER LOSES!

Now this is what I'm talking about! This is what we've been waiting for. A hedge fund that never loses money. It's beyond belief! But you better believe it, baby(s). Clopton Capital is a Chicago-based commercial financing services firm and commercial financing products provider. Its portfolio of commercial financing products and commercial financing services benefits your business tremendously - if you have one. You may not have a business. All kinds of losers read this blog. Most of you are probably on welfare. But I'm not judging anyone. You're like 2Pac(s). Only God can judge you. And He's not even interested in judging people half the time. Just a personal theory of mine. You won't get that in the Bible. Just here, with me. It's exclusive. Once in a lifetime opportunity. But about that hedge fund ...

It's a real estate hedge fund that invests in the fractured commercial real-estate market - whatever the hell that's supposed to be. Or it will invest. The fund hasn't even been launched yet. It all sounds like pie in the sky, doesn't it? The beautiful thing is that these Clopton characters intend to seize various properties if they default. Or something. I don't know. But it means investors can't lose money. I think. What do I know? If I were you, I wouldn't take investment advice from a shaman who has been a bit confused in his head lately. Yes, it's a big head. It's a cosmic head with the cosmos in it. But still ... I'm not the sha/man I used to be. It's not that I've lost my confidence. I'm just thinking of other shit. I'm distracted. That's what I am. Nothing less than distracted. Ever since I kissed the desert, astral and physical, goodbye, I've been lost in a cold world, in a cold city. There's no escape from this hellish reality, except in dreams. But I don’t want to live in dreams no more. I want to turn reality into my dreams. Is that too ambitious? Maybe I'm overreaching myself. I have gone too far. Maybe I shouldn't have cut Big Herb's throat in the astral night. Was that a smart move? And where's the mystic child, his voice in my head? He's gone for good, it seems. All I have is an angel I can't touch. It's the Dante and Beatrice situation all over again, and it's pissing me off. Dear reader(s), do you believe in reincarnation? I do, I suppose, a bit. There was a time I was into all that Krishna stuff. Oh, my mad youth! I'm still a vegetarian. Do you believe in astrology? There was a famous guy, killed himself, a little while ago. Well, he was born - in London - just fifty-five minutes before I was. Just fifty-five minutes! That bothers me. We probably have similar charts. Planets in certain houses, and all that. I don't know. I'll have to speak to my astrologer. I haven't seen him in ages, actually. He's so damn expensive. But if you want the best, you have to pay for the best, don't you? He once gave a lecture at the Pentagon. Not about astrology though.

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You want poetry? I got poetry, motherfucker(s).

A crazy shaman writes this shit
For the pleasure and the benefit
Of bankers and hedgies, and journos too -
He ain't got nothin' else to do!

Oh dear.

Monday, 1 August 2011

Carl Huttenlocher wants me to be "The Poacher"

I said okay. Why not? I'll do it - if the money's right. This Carl Huttenlocher, he's setting up his own hedge fund in Hong Kong. It's going to be called Myriad ... I/we imagine should imagine, don't we? [Yes!] And it will be launched into a vast, cold financial space, very soon, next month - they say. Unfortunately, Mr Huttenlocher is NOT allowed to poach any of his former team at Highbridge Capital Management. He used to be a big, big, BIG Asian boss - or something. Well, that's what he tells me. And I want to believe him. I trust people.

He spoke to me, something like this: 'Mr Fowke, I loved your villanelle. That's the first poem you've written in eighteen years or so, isn't it? I have a feeling, that this coming Sunday, that being such a monuMENTAL creative genius, you'll set ten hours aside to write your first song in, oh, nineteen years - or so. But that's not why I'm speaking to you, Mikey, to make your ego even BIGGER, ridiculous!!! No, I need you to steal some people for me. I want you to go to Highbridge. I want you to find my team, MY FUCKING TEAM, my children, Mr Fowke. I need their bodies, and their souls.'

It shouldn't be a problem. It's going to be like the old days. The bodies I used to steal? The souls? Forget about it! I was the best.

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I haven't sorted myself out yet. Still feeling ODD and LOST.

I want a perfect life. I want to be clean. I want a clear head. I want to be strong inside, not broken. I want those wings I was going on about last week. After all, my angel don't wanna hang out in Palookaville. I want to FORGET bad shit. And REMEMBER good shit. I can go back to the way things were. I know I can. My future is in my past.