Monday, 31 October 2011

Pedro Zevallos will surely kill all the bullshit

Yes, the goddamn bullshit. He's got to, hasn't he? (And we'll help him.) The dull financial scene, oh dear, the absolute misery of it, ugh, the awful greyness, Christ. So, Pedro, The Magnificent Zevallos, with his ... with his lovely, colourful Matador Capital Management - yes, I know it, just know it, and I feel it, too [ooo, tingles, ooo] - and his colourful long-short fund, Matador Latam. It's wonderful! Or, it, it, it will be, so ooo ooo wonderful. I have faith. (Please, give Pedro a chance! It's early days yet.) And I don't know about Pedro. No, just don't know how he feels, I mean; but I am very excited. Oh, not about the fund. No! (Well, I am.) There'll always be funds in the world, sadly. [Why sadly? No reason I can think of. Unless I'm trying to reach out to a different sort of audience. Heaven forbid!] Some old - they never go away, they stick around, don't they? - and some new. It seems that new ones are being launched all the time. Why do they do it, the hedgies? Will they ever stop, ever? We can't get away from them, the funds, or the hedgies. I suppose you've got to be excited. I imagine, that's why they keep going - no doubt! I'm very excited, myself, as you know - I've already said so, haven't I? It's his name, you see, Pedro Zevallos, and his firm, Matador. I can't help it, and I can't stop, I ...

It conjures up ... I see Pedro in his suit of lights! I have a vision of the man. My mind sees ... his red cape! This is what we need. More of this! There is something terribly wrong with the City of London, isn't there? Be honest, dear reader(s). Why do we have men like Terry Smith wandering around in grey suits? If only Terry had this sort of style! (What is Terry's problem, man?! Oh, grey suits for a grey City of London! And Wall Street is no better. Winter is coming. I want to go to Acapulco! Are you coming with me?) Death in the afternoon? Forget about it! We're going to have death, serious death, morning, noon, and night, with Pedro. Are you coming with us? If he doesn't kill all the bullshit, the goddamn bullshit, who will? No one I know. Not in Latin America, or Dallas, anyway. (Do they go in for a lot of bullfighting in Dallas? Rodeo, obviously. I'll do some research - when I can be bothered.) I don't want to go to Dallas. I want to go to Acapulco! This is important. I ain't interested in no rodeo. Actually, I shouldn't be interested in bullfighting. I'm a vegetarian, after all. But we won't be killing bulls. (Sometimes I get so ...) We'll be killing bullshit. That's why we're going to Acapulco with Pedro Zevallos. Pedro will take the lead. We want the sun! Are we clear on this now? (I'm exhausted. And we haven't even started killing the bullshit yet. I'm hoping Pedro will have enough energy to do the deed by himself.) Oh, Pedro! Can you see him? Here he is, in his matador's suit. Pedro, man, take it away! Take us away. The skies are grey. Pedro, my friend, take us!

Friday, 28 October 2011

It's all right for Claus Skrumsager, ain't it?

How do they sleep at night? / Claus Skrumsager has just been promoted or given extra duties or something. That must mean more pay. It's got to mean that! I'm struggling to make ends meet - living on hard street, I'll have you know; while Mr Skrumsager is living on easy street. Now, I'm not normally the envious type, I'm not a big champagne drinker, and I've never voted Labour, but, oh, how I would love to work at Morgan Stanley. A global co-head of debt derivatives?! Jesus! He must be on at least £30,000 a year. He probably gets luncheon vouchers as well. Me, I'm living like a fucking tramp (but in a house, obviously, though you haven't seen the house) and ... never mind. My only consolation is that I'll be immortal one day. Yes, immortality: it makes up for the terrible hours and the lousy pay and the insecurity and the ...

_________________________


I'm all joyful. So, we'll forget about the first paragraph, and we'll forget about Mr Skrumsager. You may not believe this, dear reader(s), but I am feeling so ooo ooo happy to be alive. It's not just that I sense my angel's love across the ocean, pulsing. That would be enough on its own, believe me. No, I have a new attitude now, this last week or so. God knows where it came from! Do thoughts and emotions travel through the great cosmos (like love across an ocean?) with the sole purpose of infiltrating our minds, and our hearts? Probably not. I don't know what's going on! But I'm not complaining, I'm making hay while the sun shines.

_________________________


Does the sun shine at night? It must do, somewhere. / How do I sleep at night? With the light in my mind, and all those incredible dreams, it's not a real rest. Oh, how I envy the people with no dreams! It must be very peaceful, like death.

What's the eternal joy of death? Sleeping forever in astral landscapes you’ve made for yourself? Possibly. A sort of heaven. 'Are you aware, as in dreams?' Why are you asking me? What do I know? I'm still with the living, thankfully.

Astral landscapes? Aren't they banned? Ha! The people I'm thinking of don't make anything, anyway. I should think these "people" are heading straight for hell. Satan has beds ready for them, I'm sure. Beds of red-hot nails. It's not something that excites me, particularly. I've just got the truth-telling bug.

_________________________


I'm all joyful. [The more I say it, the more convinced I become.] I'm all joyful. So, I'll forget about the last three paragraphs, and I'll forget about death. But you won't - if you know what's good for you. The "people" are animals. You're reading this, my child. You either know something "they" will never know, or you are learning something "they" will never have enough soul to learn.

As for Mr Skrumsager, I haven't forgotten him - yet. Let's pray for him. I will not hold his promotion against him, if that's what it is. He doesn't know any better. He was hardly going to refuse, was he? 'Stuff it, Raj Dhanda, sir! I don't give a FIG! It's not for me. I've got the future of my soul to consider.' Oh, hardly.

Thursday, 27 October 2011

What do we actually know about Adam Zimbler?

Forget all the myths, the rumours, the lies. What do we actually know about Adam Zimbler? Any square could tell you that he was a trader at Goldman Sachs, and that he's (somehow!) set up this SLZ Capital Management - a firm with small-cap hedge funds: SLZ Capital Master Fund, SLZ Capital Partners, SLZ Capital Offshore Fund, all launched recently. Amazingly, he has even managed (somehow!) to drag Marc Diagonale into his little fantasy. However, it wouldn't be satisfying, would it, (no!) if any square were to tell us all this? Are we passive, and submissive, idiots, waiting, maybe begging, snivelling slags, rotten beggars(?!), for news, and facts, to come to us, helplessly, at the mercy of, on the whim of, all lost at sea with, I, er ...

It doesn't really matter. There's nothing we can know about Adam Zimbler that we can't imagine, so feverishly. Yes, I'm talking fevered imaginings! I'm afraid we all have them, whether we want them or not, and there's nothing to be afraid of. No one ever lost their mind by letting it drift a bit. Of course, I realize, and truly understand - seriously, I do - that some of you lack confidence. Why this should be, I have no idea. Are you men or mice? Are you women or ... whatever? / To be honest with you, I'm not even sure we're talking fevered imaginings. Aren't we intending to create our very own Adam Zimbler? Surely, that's the level of our ambition. We don't want to imagine what this hedge fund manager is like. Where's the fun in that? We want to bring him into existence in a form that appeals to us, yes? Well, speaking for myself, that's what I would like to do. Some people think I'm sick. That's their problem. They can fuck off.

Adam Zimbler, Zimbler, Zimbler! I'm getting a vibration, deep down. It's a mystic trip, and I'm taking everyone with me. (Where are you?) Wow! It's a shaker! Images bubbling up, my mouth, and out - look! There they go. I breathe them out the way Vishnu breathes out universes! Can you see Mr Zimbler(s)? Oh dear! Yes, there's more than one. What have I done? Enough is never enough with me, is it? Different colours as well! Blue Zimbler, miserable man, wondering if his funds will shine. Yellow Zimbler, full of cosmic love, oh, happy man! And the demonic man, obsessed with money, so greedy. Red Zimbler, a demon trader, demon hedgie.

I'll let them float off. They seem ... familiar. Am I the father of these colourful image men, these thought-forms? I must be, and I must be a super(sha)man, an aeronaut of the spirit. / And where were you, dear reader(s)? If you don't step up to the plate soon, we're going to have a falling out. This is how it is done. If I can do it, you can do it too. Don't you want to become a financial sha/man? I can't believe you're content to remain a mystic child.

Wednesday, 26 October 2011

Ray Dalio's running from the mob

No, not the mafia. The situation isn't that serious. He hasn't fallen foul of the Gambino crew, thank God! They're stone killers, man! No, I'm saying that Ray Dalio, hedgie, founder of Bridgewater Associates, spiritual adviser, mentor to his staff, transcendental meditator, and all-round mentalist, is running scared from the People, the greasy and unwashed ones, the (h)armless? mob - ain't got guns yet but maybe pitchforks, I'll look into it - because they're angry and they want the blood of bankers and hedge fund managers and anyone else who gets in the way, maybe even broke bloggers like myself who ain't never done no harm to nobody, just wanted to have a bit of a laugh. 'I ain't got no money, no gold. Oh, spare me, mob! I have a few tins of baked beans, a few thousand, truth be told. I'll share them with you. We're all in this together.' They're quite peaceful, at heart.

When everything's being deleveraged, when we're out of ammo, ain't even got no guns, when some vampire is biting your neck, some wild monster of the People, what are you going to do? (We're all getting our necks bitten. Don't you feel it?) Basically, that's what Ray wants to know. Not even meditation will help at a time like this. You can't even fly high at a time like this. Honestly, my opinion? There's nowhere to run to. We're all going to be tested, and Ray will have to stand and fight like the rest of us when the mob turns up at our door - or our gate(s). (They aren't that peaceful. Have you seen them?) How much is this guy worth, billions? $6 billion or something? Yeah, I think so. A lifetime devoted to the pursuit of money. Well, it was fun while it lasted. I mean, he's had a good life. But the party will soon be over. At least he has given something back. (Maybe God will smile at him, the way He smiles at me.) Ray's been a spiritual adviser; done it rather amateurishly, of course, I'm afraid to reveal. He ain't no shaman, that's for sure. I would have seen him in the desert of our love when the desert was my thing, and yours. But Ray has to face the truth. / Oh, maybe it's serious, yes it's very serious, after all. Like angina. Or an infected vagina. / You see, here's the thing, child(ren), Bridgewater's unique results are a product of its unique culture. Yes, indeed. Truth and excellence are valued above all else. Oh, indeed. In order to be excellent they need to know what's true, especially those things that they would rather not be true, so that they can decide how best to deal with them. They want logic and reason to be the basis for making decisions. It is through this striving to be excellent by being radically truthful and transparent that they build meaningful work and meaningful relationships. Yes, indeed. / So, let's have some truth, eh? We've underestimated the mob. If the People ever get to Connecticut, Bridgewater Associates will most probably find itself in a world of shit. It's going to be a death or glory situation - for my money, and I ain't got any. Ray Dalio hasn't said it, but he knows this truth. He knows it in his head, intellectually. And he feels it in his gut, physically. I don't have to say a word to him about it. He knows he can't keep running. Or meditating. It's time to stand and fight. Yes! If Ray has the guts, he'll come out now, and he will say: 'Capitalists of the world unite! We're not pussies, so let's fight!' Er, well ... I don't know.

Tuesday, 25 October 2011

Ignis is on fire!

It's all flamed up or sparked up or something of that nature. Clearly, I'm talking about Ignis Asset Management and its new logo. What else would I be talking about? But I don't really understand. All I can see is / are / that / those / blue dots. Ma, where's the fire in the blue dots?! I don't have a problem with blue dots. My eyes! But where's the fire in the blue dots, man? It's a reasonable question to ask. I'm not trying to stir up trouble. I'm not an anarchist. And I appreciate the effort Ignis has gone to but ...

I don't know. / There are some people who say that Ignis is seeking to build on its comprehensive fund range to develop new innovative products and services. Well, okay. Er ... / However, is it going to do that with blue dots? Or maybe they're blue circles. But are blue circles any better? I really think not. How peculiar! My God, what the hell is going on?! Has Ignis actually changed its logo? What was the old logo like? It's just blue dots, or blue circles. I can't see any flames. There are no sparks. Are there? Is there something I'm not privy to? Am I being kept in the dark? (It's so cold in the dark and there's no light in the dark because there aren't any flames, I suppose.) Is this any way to treat the world's foremost financial shaman? You would think Ignis would have more respect for a man who has revolutionized the way business is done in these troubled times. And not only that but this - I saved the world! The credit crunch could/would have destroyed everything. C/W/ould have but - / and there's worse to come, I'm sure. Eurozone, as we are aware, yes, but not indeed - no! Ignis should know I'm the one (me!) who's holding everything together with my spirit, my vision, my passion, and, YES, my fire! Is any of this reflected in the new logo? No. We get blue dots, or blue circles. Unless I'm missing something.

Oh my God! I've just seen a spark of flaming fire... No, did I imagine that? I thought I saw a spark flying off the Ignis name. No, hang on. Are those blue dots supposed to be the flames, those blue circles? But I swear I saw a yellowish flame. Christ! I've never been so confused in my life. / And a voice! / Some people say: performance, and the risk taken to achieve it, is at the heart of the business model. [Aaaaaaaaarrrrgghhh! Is there more?] Ignis believes that entrepreneurial teams operating in standalone business units, but at all times within a rigorous risk framework, are best placed to meet, or exceed, clients' performance needs. / Oh, great! [Where in inner space did that come from?!] Am I supposed to feel better now, knowing about performance and the business model? Does Ignis think I was born yesterday? I was born a million years ago - if born at all? (It's a moot point.) They don't know what they're dealing with in me. It's a lack of respect. If I were a bad man, I would hurt them. I would introduce them to pain. Unfortunately, I'm a good man. Or so I would have you believe, dear reader(s).

_________________________


And now I must go, for I have written myself very close to despair, and after the night in the sky last week I promised myself I would ... never mind, it's personal. You can't be privy to everything.

Monday, 24 October 2011

Drew K. "Bo" Brownstein is guilty of insider trading

"Bo" or Drew or "K" or Mr Brownstein says so himself. And I'm not going to argue with him. He told the judge in New York. That's good enough for me. He's guilty, and he's truly sorry. But I will say: 'We're all guilty, son.' Drew, I mean, "Bo" / oh yes / Mr "K", sir. No one say, he's a privileged professional, woefully mistaken. No! Well, no more than anyone else. It's a privilege to be alive, as a professional, or an amateur. I mean, it's a pro-am soul event, am I right? And woefully mistaken like it's going out of style, all of us, yes? But, Mr "Bo", sir: 'We're all guilty, son. No one's leaving this terrible place, this earth, without terrible sin all over them, and inside them, too, more than anywhere else, really. It stains the soul. You were the founder and chief executive of Big 5 Asset Management. And maybe you still are. We ain't taking that away from you, son, that achievement. Securities fraud? Insider trading? I don't know. You made $2.5 million on the Mariner Energy deal. Be proud. Be strong. I ain't judging you. No one with any awareness of the spiritual mysteries can judge you, my friend.'

Yes, you can be aware. (Indulge me. I'm talking about myself, and for myself.) It doesn't mean you have much knowledge. But you can be aware, certainly. I'm hoping for more, more than awareness. Let me be honest: I'm looking for mastery. Complete knowledge, no gaps, total control, a real grip on the mysteries. How would my enemies like them apples? (My enemies? Maybe I'll forgive them. You've got to feel sorry for people with brains like worms, and souls like rats. [Oh, dictator rhetoric! So where's my golden pistol?] I can be a big man, a generous man, a Jesus H. Caesar. Am I - or am I not, or am I - a spiritual aristocrat? I can forgive. It's a matter of willpower. I must reach for my higher self!) And if I had them apples, life would be something else. Not a miserable affair, worrying about money and death. It would be a carnival. Pretty sure I'm close to it now. God is smiling at me. I'm pretty sure about that - now. I'm the son He never had, a Jesus with balls. I ain't dying for anyone's fucking sins.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Where were we? / Drew K. "Bo" Brownstein will be away for three or four years, sewing mailbags. I'll be there with him, in spirit. Amoral like it's going out of style, I'm backing "Bo" to the hilt. I'm with the criminals because they are the ones who have suffered. I live for these men and women. I work hard for them, day and night, in this hell we call the world; this earth that looks so lovely from outer space. They need me. You've got to understand. They are the lost children. I'm the only one who can save them. Remember, I'm the lonely one, the sha/man who was born for it.

Thursday, 20 October 2011

Raffaele Costa, ex-Man/GLG, ex-Goldman Sachs, and now ... ?

There's a rumour going around - oh, these fucking degenerates - that Raffaele Costa will start his own investment firm, focusing on real estate - if you can believe that. I don't believe any of it. Oh, I believe Raffaele exists. I'm willing to believe there is such a man. But I'm not falling for the nonsense of Man/GLG, Goldman, and incredibly now: an investment firm of his own?! Ha! Hoo! Ha! It's too mundane. Raffaele strikes me as the magical sort. He wouldn't work in finance. And I've never met him. I've only heard his name. A voice in my ear, while I was sleeping. But he wouldn't work in finance. (Yes, well, there are magical sorts in finance - look at the shamans, if your eyes can bear seeing them - but not this goddamn magical. And the shamans are mystical rather than magical. It's a subtle point.) I get these feelings about people. I know Raffaele is different.

I know. Yes, I know. How about that? Ain't it impressive? It's got to be more than a feeling if I actually know, obviously. In my heart, in my soul, I feel, but, let's not forget, it's my head that matters; because that's where all the action is, my head. You won't get far in this world with just heart and soul. Idiots have tried it and they have failed. They end up in the gutter, forsaken, with people spitting at them, and pissing on them. I apologize for being so graphic, but that's the reality. I'm not going to hide the truth from anyone, let alone a much-loved reader. So why should I apologize?! No, I take it back. Live with reality. Live with it, child! It's about time you stood on your own two feet. And I can't keep spoon-feeding you this stuff. There's a whole cosmos out there, a rather big one. Go and have a look at all the realities, with mystic eyes. (They'll need to be mystic.) You'll thank me one day.

And I'm going to thank myself, right now, just for staying alive and getting this far. I once told everyone: love is a dying star heavier than the sun, and maybe that's true, but (look!) the sun is shining, our star is not dying, right now, and I'm happy to be alive, with or without love. Raffaele knows the feeling. When he's out, out, out, on the sea, sailing his yacht, Raffaele's fully alive and the man he wants to be. It's emotional. It's psychological. And it's physical, for our feelings and thoughts get into our bones, and our fleshes. We are elevated animals when we're hot and ecstatic like that. Like this. Yes, I'm feeling it now. I'm thinking it - now! You can change your state from deathly bag of bones to burning miracle soul. It's like money doesn't exist, politics doesn't exist, work is unknown. Only fun, pleasure. If this ain't the way, there is no way.

Oh, electric rumbles! It doesn't get any better. I'm talking fingers with sparks, and eyes of fire, and teeth like knives. And a gutful of gold, too, and mirrors all around. That? It's some heavenly light. I'm spinning up to the daytime sky / [I mean, this time] / I'm spoilt for choice! (Me so fixed, so stuck, abnormally, yes?) It's pure delirium, and the way, the crazy way, the way it's supposed to be. I'm actually shaking spasms of words right here, and there: watch out! As a mystic warrior, I'll strike, yes, strike you, dear reader/stranger, strike you, and dreamer, with my weapons. I'll strike right at the core of your being, whatever, wherever. They'll go through you, believe me. My thought-bullets, my emotion-bombs. Seriously, one hit is all it takes, and you can get a mind-storm in a situation like this. I've got to be careful. Or maybe not. You'll catch my disease. Yes, I've got the bug if you want it. Open your mouth. Kiss me. You know you want it. You've been dreaming of it in peculiar ways. We've come so far together, and we are still alive, and fully alive in this moment, this time - like Raffaele Costa at his best. So, we shall surrender to electric rumbles, mind-storms, the flashes of colour, / light/dark, day/night / , and, and, ... ha, ha, ha / oooooooooh ... / It's a bit of a giggle, ain't it, once you've discovered yourself (truly) and the meaning of your life?

Goo goo ga ga goo goo

This is what Raffaele Costa has done to me, done for me. / Thank you, Raffaele! You have inspired me. You can sail away, Raffaele, oh, sail away now, knowing that you have 'touched' the shaman - and maybe a reader or two, through me. It's such a rare thing. I hope you tell your grandchildren.

Wednesday, 19 October 2011

Steve Eisman and his new hedge fund, Emrys Partners

Is it just my imagination or are there loads of new hedge funds being launched at the moment, I mean, more than any reasonable person would normally expect?

Steve Eisman is at it now, with his friends: Jon Kalikow, Ed Cabral, and Mark Weiner. It's going to be a long-short fund, this Emrys Partners, that will invest in all kinds of stocks and bonds. In January, in January, next year, next year, not now, not right at this moment.

[Oh, by the way, it's two in the morning and I can't get to sleep, so I'm going to work on this post until about five. I might go off at a few tangents, even more than abnormal, because the night affects me in strange ways. Not in Broadmoor. No, in strange ways.]

Anyone remember Chip Skowron? I'm sure Steve Eisman does, though he may want to forget. This is from November last year: 'O my child, your research is worthless! He manages health care hedge funds - so what?! FrontPoint has placed him on leave - who cares?! And there is a rabbi involved. But these are just[[?!]] mere facts. What is a man? A quintessence of dust? No! He must be something more than that, something that is beyond the intellect [intellect, ha!] of a mystical child.' Remember him now? Steve won't thank me for bringing Chip up from the depths of his subconscious - and ours, our subconscious ness nesses, eh? Maybe we should all forget. Let's forget Chip! I should imagine even Chip wants to forget Chip. And that's what the French Foreign Legion is for. I see Chip marching through the desert, with the devil marching alongside him. However, we don't mention the desert any more, do we? So let's forget the desert too. In fact, let's forget everything. Let ...

Let us lose ourselves in the night. Or will it be the morning, when you get around to reading it - this? I hope not. Join me, now, now, now. Let's dance, our faces against the sky, or in the sky, or on the moon. Moon-faced lovers for all eternity! It'll be so much fun, we'll never want the days again. Those sickening days. Days for slaves! Not for free men and women. You'll be in the office, a few hours from now, now, now. Then you'll be sick, wondering: 'What did I miss?' Hating yourself, your life. 'Mikey was out there, in the night sky. And I was in my bed, dead to the world. Damn!'

What would Lord Byron say?

So, dear reader, we'll go no more a-roving, so late into the night, though the heart be still as loving, and the moon be still as bright. For the sword outwears its sheath, and the soul wears out the breast, and the heart must pause to breathe, and love itself have rest. Though the night was made for loving, and the day returns too soon, yet we'll go no more a-roving, by the light of the moon.

Yes, very romantic, but not the positive attitude I'm looking for.

Tuesday, 18 October 2011

Marcel Duchamp and objective artistic achievement

Duchamp is one of those rare personalities whose influence directly altered the course of history, in this case art history, dividing it into a before and an after.

That's from a book I have on Marcel Duchamp. It has always bothered me that all art (literature and music as well) is subjective. But there are some objective achievements. Duchamp did divide art history into a before and an after. That is objectively a great achievement, regardless of what anyone thinks of his work.

This realization has cheered me up considerably.

Bank of England determined to push inflation up

Oh, determined! It is absolutely determined. Have they gone insane at the Bank of England?! Inflation is already up to 5.2 per cent. Yes, the consumer price index, whatever. But still the Bank of England insists that it must print more money. More, more, more! Have they lost their minds? This isn't pre-war Germany. We don't want gangs of paramilitary thugs roaming the streets, waving flags and burning books. This has got to stop! [I know the Nazi nutjobs came later, but that's where it all starts - inflation!] Gold will hit $10,000 an ounce. That's my prediction.

We can't trust what anyone is telling us. Anyone and everyone's a liar. The real inflation figure must be 10 to 20 per cent. However, I'm not worried. I have thousands of tins of baked beans stored in my spare room. Actually, they can burn the books. What do I care? I'm a man of the future. As long as they don't burn the blogs, I'll be all right.

_________________________


It's so easy to get carried away. I look out of my window. There’s no chaos, no mayhem. And the sun is shining. I'm such a drama queen.

But that's what they want at the Bank of England. Those demons have arranged the sunshine. I know it. Nice autumn sunshine. No one will care. No one will panic.

Things will look different tonight. Though I could be in one of my moods, psychotic. It's so hard to tell. Does reality change, or do I change?

Damien Bombell wants $200 million for his hedge fund

Damien Bombell has a fast lifestyle. He has it all. Girls on tap, the lot. When his career brings him to London, he falls in love with the quintessentially English Chantelle Houghton. Life seems perfect, until he uncovers a clue to the biggest financial scandal ever to rock the international markets. Suddenly thrust into a world where he can trust almost no one, where his enemies seem to know his next move before he does ... No, I've got it all wrong. My apologies. I don't know what comes over me sometimes. Maybe I've been reading too much cheap fiction. No, Damien Bombell is an ex-JPMorgan Chase trader who has launched a Swiss-based hedge fund, Strand Asset Management - [has he?] And there's this Strand Global Macro fund [yes!] which he wants $200 million for. Assets under management, you know the deal. Apparently, Damien has a penchant for trade metals, grains, and energy.

[There seems to be some confusion about where Damien Bombell is, physically, and where his hedge fund is based. But the confusion is in my mind only. The Strand Global Macro fund is not the same thing as Strand Asset Management (something to do with a portfolio or a family of hedge funds) so it might not be in Switzerland. It might be in London, for all I know. So it's quite possible that Damien is involved with this Chantelle woman. And he could have enemies who are out to get him. Does life seem perfect?]

You can't have a perfect life. I should know. Is Damien arrogant enough to believe he can have one? I want to give him the benefit of the doubt. My advice for Damien? He should focus on his work and forget about the women. Forget about his enemies, too. He needs that $200 million. I'm sure he'll get it. 'If you will it, it is no dream.'

Saturday, 15 October 2011

Wake up, Mr Fowke, you still have work to do

I've just discovered a blog which is a few years older than this one, and which is very close to being a work of literature. Fortunately - for me - the author has made a couple of tragic mistakes. Firstly, he has published a novel based on the blog. That, I'm afraid, invalidates his blog: it's not a work of literature but merely notes for a novel. Secondly, the author continually introduces non-literary elements that ruin the effect his best writing creates. This is something I do occasionally (like stupid fucking film reviews) and I've got to stop doing it. And I will.

Also, the quality of his best posts is nowhere near the quality of my best, and he seems quite conventional in his literary technique and subject matter. One more thing: he writes about other authors far too much. A lot of his posts are really critical essays with literary touches.

So, a bit of a shock then; but not a disaster. I'll still be able to sleep nights knowing that I don't have a serious rival who started before me.

[I won't change the title. I like it.]

Friday, 14 October 2011

The Big Lebowski

I think I've seen this film a dozen times in the last month or so, and it gets better with every viewing. I never thought that any film could challenge my love of Fandango, but it's getting close, real close.

The Big Lebowski just has so much depth, and it's very funny as well. The characters are wonderful. Jackie Treehorn. Jesus Quintana. The Stranger. And, of course, The Dude, Walter Sobchak, and "shut the fuck up" Donny.

There are so many beautiful scenes. The scattering of the ashes at the end. Jackie Treehorn's beach party. The Dude's dancing to Just Dropped In. The way Jesus Quintana laughs in his final scene. The way the black cop stares at the Dude. Maude Lebowski's eyes when the Dude tells her about the Seattle Seven.

And there are so many classic lines. 'Like an Irish monk?' / 'Three thousand years of beautiful tradition from Moses to Sandy Koufax.' / 'Or the Creedence.' / 'My art has been commended as being strongly vaginal.' / 'I did not watch my buddies die face down in the muck so ...' / 'Saturday, Donny, is Shabbos, the Jewish day of rest. That means that I don't work, I don't drive a car, I don't fucking ride in a car, I don't handle money, I don't turn on the oven, and I sure as shit don't fucking roll!'

Finally, if the Dude and Maude can get together, there's got to be hope for me and the angel, hasn't there? Or maybe real life isn't like the movies.

Thursday, 13 October 2011

Thoughts, statements, questions ...

I'm trying to break through to another reality. It can be entertaining, though it's not necessarily supposed to be.

Who would write hundreds of thousands of words like this for years on end with very little reward, unless he had a serious purpose?

I could have chosen any gate, any way in. It was finance that appealed to me.

How do you avoid being whimsical, and superficial?

I get tired. I get frustrated. However, I'll not stop. It's a matter of honour.

Who is strong enough to be isolated, as a conscious choice? To achieve something different, something revolutionary, you have to be so isolated, so remote.

Who is John A. Thaler?

I think John A. Thaler might be the one who's mixed up in all that JAT Capital Management hedge fund stuff that has been doing so well lately. Up 31 per cent in a year or something. It's all longs and shorts things, apparently. The long stuff was a mess. The short stuff, though, was all right. What a way to make a living! I'm glad I'm not involved in any of it.

But it's nice work if you can get it, I suppose. No, it's not for me, but I know a lot of people like this hedging stuff. Well, most of the people I've written about over the years. I'm not knocking it, but I'll stick to the songwriting - if I can ever get started, that is. Some good news: I won't have to spend £200 (or more) on a Tascam portable recording studio now. I downloaded some free software last night which will enable me to record on my laptop. I need to buy a USB microphone, £40 or so, but that's it, or will be it, I'll be sorted.

I know I've been losing my grip on the financial news lately, but I'll get back to it properly, soon. I'm going through a funny phase at the moment. You'll have to bear with me. (We've got all the time in the world, haven't we?) Making a living from finance/banking is one thing, but the pain and sheer fucking tedium of writing about it is something else. I don't want to be like all those squares who just go on day after day after fucking day. Charts, figures, whatever. Do you understand? And that's why I'm getting back into songwriting, after twenty years, because I need the money. (I could have signed a deal with the old songs, and they were wack. Well, not wack, just not commercial.) The money will set me free, in my general life, yes, but in my writing too. I'm serious about those billboards, you know. It all depends on how much I can make from my songs, but ideally I would like to put about £500,000 into marketing this blog. For starters, anyway. I'm serious! This isn't a joke. It's going to take time, yes, but no longer than five years. Let's be honest, people only respect power. No one actually wants you to succeed. Do you think Pompey was happy when his "friend" Julius Caesar invaded Gaul with his [Pompey's] legions and massively expanded the Roman empire? Of course he wasn't! Later on there was that civil war. The squares back in Rome couldn't resist testing Caesar. So Pompey got smashed all over Pharsalos. 'This is what they wanted; after such great deeds I, Gaius Caesar, would have been condemned had I not sought the help of my army.' It was his army by then. You see? And don't think, dear reader, that none of this applies to you. I'm talking about human nature here, you understand? Human fucking nature. And it isn't a laughing matter. Your boss doesn't want you to succeed. And the lovely character sitting next to you at work doesn't want you to succeed. Maybe I'm too fucking cynical, but I've lived a life. So have you - I hope. Come on, man, you know all this, surely? I don't have stupid readers. But maybe I'm fucked up. Maybe I'm sick. It's money that fucks you up, that makes you sick. You can have too much, or too little. Even enough is not enough.

Oh, one more thing: obviously, I want my angel to be editor of the whole shebang. But you really have to love someone to want the best for them like that. Everyone else, forget about it. They can all get to fuck. I'm sick of it. Laters.

Wednesday, 12 October 2011

Brian Gallagher has left UBS to look for 'other opportunities'

Well, I'll give him a job on this blog. I need an intern, someone with great financial knowledge to complement my utter ignorance.

Brian has been managing the UBS UK Equity Income fund. A £22 million portfolio - if you can believe that.

Here are some of the highlights of his career:

At UBS, he successfully raised £50 million for a new fund; requiring the frequent and intensive marketing to quickly establish the credentials of UBS and himself in a demanding and competitive retail space. [£50 million? Okay.]

At Gartmore, he won three beauty parades in the first three months of his arrival in the face of very aggressive competition. [Eh?]

At Murray Johnstone, he took Unit trust (Murray Equity Income £50 million) from bottom decile to top quartile in six months. [Fuck me! That is impressive.]

A lot more, than is healthy.

Oh, there is one thing that does concern me. Brian only has six O levels. I have eight O levels, and three CSEs. Yes, it is a worry.

Longacre Fund Management is closing its big hedge funds ...

... and devoting itself to the smaller funds it manages. I think that's a good idea, in the present climate. Small is beautiful, after all. Sometimes I dream of being so small and - no, invisible is better. If only John Brecker, Vladimir Jelisavcic, and Steven Weissman could make themselves invisible. That would be something to see. I'd join them. Yes, I've been invisible in my astral body before. But in your physical body! That would be something to see.

They say that Longacre uses fundamental research and analysis to identify attractively priced investments of companies that have filed for bankruptcy or are under severe financial stress. I wouldn't know about that, of course. All I know is, if no one could see Longacre doing what it does, it would be something to see. Not that anyone ...

Only in a vision would anyone have any idea. Oh, I hope the Longacre boys leave the world behind. They can walk through it, yes, touching people, occasionally, but, well, they would be here and not here. It's hard to explain. No! They must leave their physical bodies! Physical invisibility is not enough! [Is this a return to astral values? I don't know. I'm torn between two realities.] No. No. No. Let's forget the whole thing. Let's start making sense, if we can. Small is beautiful. There is no need for the funds to be invisible. Just small.

_________________________


I feel sick. I should have avoided this story. And the astral plane. The astral plane makes me fucking puke! Why did I mention it? Why am I always going back into the past?

This post means nothing. So it means as much as anything else written about Longacre Fund Management.

And Iain Duncan Smith wants to force millions of people ...

... into jobs that don't exist.

Workfare for everyone?

Pretty soon in this country we're going to have rich twats like IDS at the top, and then just slaves, slaves, slaves, and more slaves.

Tuesday, 11 October 2011

Pretend you're dead to get ahead

It's quite simple. Just pretend you're dead to get ahead. You're not suffering. You have no life. You're not connected to anything. It's beautiful. Now you're free. You can do all the things you've always wanted to do.

No one can touch you. They're scared to get too close anyway. There are no consequences if you decide it's all over. Be so empty. Let them look you in your eyes. See through them while they try to find you. Fly high while they wriggle in the jam.

John Paulson's Advantage Plus fund down 47 per cent on the year

All of his other funds are down as well. That's the bad news. The good news is that Mr Paulson isn't having to sing a redemption song like the late, great Bob Marley because most of his investors are sticking with him. So, are these investors demented, or do they genuinely believe Mr Paulson - and Paulson & Co - will be able to turn things around?

What do I know? I used to have faith in John, but times have changed. Well, I'm not saying I've lost my faith. I'm a bit confused these days, that's all. And I can hardly look at the news - news of John, or any news. Reality hurts. It really hurts.

Oh, I wish I could live in dreams (and visions). I had a few dreams last night - if you're interested. In one dream I was at a party which was gatecrashed by a gang of mods. They started causing trouble, so I left. One of them actually pulled a knife. It was like something out of Quadrophenia. In another dream, I was in an army camp during the First World War. Not in the trenches, just in some camp. The funny thing is, I woke up at seven o'clock, fell back to sleep, had the war dream, and then woke up again at seven minutes past seven. That's how quick and easy it is for me to get into a dream state. And, of course, there are the visions during the daytime. My mind drifts off and I see something, for a couple of seconds, then it's back to reality. I'm not complaining. As I said, I wish I could live my whole life in dreams - and visions.

My best/craziest ever dream was when I dreamt I was telling my cousin's fortune with a crystal ball. (This was about fifteen years ago, maybe longer.) We were sitting at a table in his bedroom, and I was staring into the ball. At first, it was all cloudy, but when it cleared I saw the face of Bungle from the children's TV programme Rainbow. I asked my cousin if Bungle meant anything to him. And he said, no, Bungle meant nothing to him. I asked him if he was absolutely certain because Bungle's face was all I could see. My cousin assured me that he had no interest in - or connection to - the absurd bear character or whatever it is. So I said okay and wrapped the crystal ball up. Then just as we were leaving the room I noticed a photograph pinned to a board on the far wall. I went right up to it, and, amazingly, it turned out to be a picture of five or six Bungles all standing together. Angry now, I ripped the photo from the board and waved it accusingly at my cousin, saying something like: 'What is this? Why aren't you being straight with me?' My cousin looked mortified. Unfortunately, the dream ended before he could explain the situation. I was gutted. Obviously, I haven't told my cousin about this dream. I once told some workmates about it, and they advised me not to tell him. They said he wouldn't understand.

Monday, 10 October 2011

'Yeah, well, you know, that's just, like, uh, your opinion, man.'

Thank you, Dude. I couldn't have said it better myself.

My adorable angel rarely gets anything wrong. But she was wrong this weekend about the internet, saying that it's flimsy and faddish.

Dear oh dear. The internet hasn't even got started yet! My one true love is like a theatre actress viewing a Charlie Chaplin film in 1914, and saying: 'It won't last. It's a fad.' I don't know how many times I have to tell everyone BUT: you've got to be a visionary! You've got to be able to look one hundred, two hundred, three hundred years into the future. In the year 2525, if Man is still alive, there'll be no printed books - except the ones in the museum, right next to the monk-handwritten books. There'll be no TV, no cinema, no radio, no newspapers. EVERYTHING WILL BE ON THE INTERNET. And the internet will be nothing like it is today.

And that's, you know, just, like, er, my opinion, man.

Oh, am I worried about my blog disappearing? Well, by the time I move on to the undiscovered country I'm hoping it will be well known enough for "people" to want to look after it. Failing that, there's always the British Library web archive. The British Library won't be going gentle into that good night any time soon.

Friday, 7 October 2011

Why is George Soros even bothering with this insider trading nonsense?

He's just tried to get his conviction quashed, and he has failed. But it was such a long time ago. The 1980s. (Although he wasn't found guilty until 2002.) It's all water under the bridge. We've forgotten about it, haven't we? (Some of us never knew.) Yes, George was convicted of insider shenanigans by the French courts, but no one cares. We've all moved on. I'm sure Lucky Luciano and Meyer Lansky never got upset about trifles like this.

Oh, let it go, Mr Soros. Life is too short.

Niki Marx: asset stripper?

No, I wouldn't say that, but she's certainly a hedge fund manager. Niki Marx runs her own hedge fund, Marx NY Capital. And she didn't go running to Goldman Sachs for seed capital. All it took was a bit of pole dancing. Talk about get-up-and-go!

I've got a good feeling about this girl. She specializes in domestic equities, options, commodities, global commodities including crude, PGMs and precious and base metals, and she's absolutely gorgeous. If only I weren't so devoted to my Gillian ...

Thursday, 6 October 2011

The Bank of England increases QE by £75 billion!

That's £275 billion, now, isn't it, altogether? This quantitative easing is ridiculous. Where will it all end? Has the Bank of England gone crazy?!

I wish there was something I could do to stop it, the QE. Stop the whole world, in fact. I've had enough! I'm sick of existence. It's at times like this that I miss the astral plane. But there can't be any going back. We're stuck here, all of us. Here: it's a wretched reality that's too sticky and too cold to change. I still try, though.

There was a day, one day, years ago, and I thought the chaos would change my mind, but I just got buzzing in the ears, still got it. We're all stuck in this jam. It's on our fingers, and in our hair. We can't escape. I saw one of those humans, a square, well, a picture of one, educated at a slave shop, and I could tell, right then, in that moment, earlier, not too long ago, this morning, I remember, that he had no idea he was alive and sticky, all sticky like a fly, a fly in jam. And we know he'll never stop. I would like him to stop. But he'll continue living in the jam, happily, not even noticing. I feel sick. Sick that I have to share the jam with a man like that. No awareness, none. It should be a crime! No shame. These fucking people should be ashamed! But they're not even aware. We can't stop them. They breed like rabbits, or flies.


Update (6.30pm): I seem to be losing it again. I think maybe I write too much. But I won't delete this post. I mean, I could delete half the blog if I wanted to get rid of all the things that disturb me - and you? Or do you just take it all with a pinch of salt? That's probably best. You know me quite well now. I didn't even need to make this update, really.

Kornelius Klobucar, and I'm sure we have no desire ...

Kornelius Klobucar is starting a global macro hedge fund, Stone Milliner Asset Management, with his Moore Capital associate/compadre, Jens-Peter Stein / and that is it! We have no desire to know any more at all whatsoever. The global macro stuff upsets us, obviously, but there is something else, isn't there?

_________________________


Pretty painful, eh? Let's see if we can forget about Kornelius Klobucar. The last thing we want, at night, is for Kornelius Klobucar to come to us in our dreams - because they won't remain dreams for long, will they?

I suggest we stop thinking about him. We are physically safe, at least. Kornelius Klobucar is far, far away. In Switzerland, I believe. Of course, dear reader, you could be reading this in Switzerland. You poor bastard! (If that's the case.) Oh, you poor bastard! (Bitch, if you're a woman?) But you only have yourself to blame. Who made you go and live in Switzerland? You went there for the money, didn't you? Yes, yes. Well, you've made your bed. Now you've got to lie in it.

Wednesday, 5 October 2011

Is this what you were looking for?

I know how you feel, if you're a stranger. I was a stranger once, to all this. It's disorientating - to say the least. But if you're not a stranger, if you were actually looking for me, all I can say is: you've found me, my friend, and my condition is just fine.

I haven't felt this positive for quite a while. I can't really explain it. And I'd be mad to try: maybe my positivity would smash into a thousand bad thoughts. My good states, good moods, are very fragile.

The secret is to let go? I shouldn’t ex -, but ... What do you think? It's possible. I'm always preaching: let go, you fools! But I rarely manage it myself, the slipping away, the not caring, the n o n c h a l a n c e.

You can get fixed in a life others have made for you. Or you can lumber yourself with an image you're trying to live up to. Living BIG is a waste of time, a waste of energy, a waste of breath. Oh my friend, you should live small, like a speck of dust resting gently on God's blazer. Until He takes it - and you - to the cleaners. That is unavoidable, as you know.

Or - are you my stranger?

Yes, are you my stranger, O stranger? You're a long way from home, aren't you? Are you lost?

Give me your mind, and your soul. All my friends submitted, and look at them now. Can you see them? Look at them - now. Open your mind, my stranger, open your soul.

Verrazzano Capital

That's the name he's come up with for his new hedge fund. Dear oh dear. Couldn't Guillaume Rambourg think of anything better than that? Naming a hedge fund after your favourite fucking bridge! I've heard it all now. Why didn't he call me?

And where the hell is Roger Guy? I thought they were bosom buddies. Have they had a falling out?

I'm always the last one to know. I could have sat them down and discussed everything with them. I was only going to charge them £20,000 a day. That's not a lot, is it? Not for men who are literally made of money. I reckon Roger didn't like the name. He would have been happier with The Roger Guy Experience, no doubt. But I could have dreamed up a name that would have pleased both of them.

Well, you go cheap, and you get a name like Verrazzano. So be it.

Tuesday, 4 October 2011

Salida Capital will not collapse

And it won't blow up either. People are getting too, too, too hysterical. So Salida Capital has been having a difficult time in the markets. Big deal. Lots of hedge funds have been having a difficult time in the markets. This is a difficult time. Everybody sees the volatility. Very few bodies see the mystical forces behind the volatility.

The chief executive, Courtenay Wolfe, is quite a nice-looking woman. I am not worried at all. She's well-qualified. And Salida Capital takes an active, opportunistic management style when investing in private, small, mid and large cap resource companies. (Well, you've got to, haven't you?) I'm pretty sure it will all work out. I'm not the sort who panics easily. It's true that everybody sees the volatility. But I see the mystical forces behind the volatility.

I'm just very calm at the moment. I'm hoping I'll be able to stay this way for the rest of the year. I need my intensity to write great posts [obviously!] but I've written enough great posts for now. My astrologer says I'll live to be ninety or so. There's plenty of time. I've got to pace myself. I don't want to burn out. And I don't want to fade away. Courtenay knows what I'm talking about. She says Salida Capital isn't going anywhere. Meaning - I presume - the hedge fund isn't sinking beneath the waves of our reality. She must want it to go somewhere. To grow, and grow, and grow. To reach the heights! To fly high in the friendly sky - to paraphrase Marvin. You've got to be ambitious, or what's the point?

I’m breaking my rules again. The Three Cs. All the other stuff. I don't care. I'm relaxed. This is my New Morning phase. (Dylan.) And talking of music, I'm going to write six classic pop songs before Christmas. That's my target. The best three will go on a demo. It will take it out of me, I know that. I haven't written a song since the early Nineties. However, music was always easy for me, and I have greater word-power now. I just need the energy, and the discipline.

Monday, 3 October 2011

Who is Chris Cummings? What in the name of Christ is all this TheCityUK nonsense?

Has the whole world gone crazy?! I was looking around for news this morning and I found out that there's a man by the name of Chris Cummings who appears to be the chief executive of something called TheCityUK. 'TheCityUK champions the international competitiveness of the financial services industry. Created in 2010, we support the whole of the sector, promoting UK financial services at home and overseas and playing an active role in the regulatory and trade policy debate.' Boring, but true. However, that's not the worst of it. The poor chap says he wants everyone in finance to embrace regulation or whatever. Embrace it! [My words. Or my word. 'Embrace'. I'm being creative.] Madness! Insane fucking madness! Do turkeys vote for Christmas? Does the Pope shit in the woods? No! And there's more. Chris says 'we' lost our reputation in the wilderness - in the desert, I think he means. [He does mean. I've decided.] Well, that is bullshit! Anyone with half a brain knows that we found, or rather earned, our reputation in the wilderness, in the desert.

By the way, I got that Pope line from one of my new favourite films, The Big Lebowski. It’s a wonderful film. (Actually, my second favourite now after Fandango and before American Graffiti. All three films rely on beautiful atmosphere and characters. I'm not a big fan of plot and action.) I lived like The Dude for many years, before I got all ambitious, and it's an admirable lifestyle. We can't all be like Iain Duncan Smith. Or that ridiculous PR man he calls boss these days. And we wouldn't, or shouldn't, want to be like Ed Miliband and his gang of lefties. But I guess fascists and commies never go out of style. I say: a plague on both their houses! Life isn't black and white. The cosmos isn't black and white. And the cosmos isn't grey, if that's what you're thinking. I've seen it: it's multicoloured.

Right, I'm going bowling. Taking it easy for all you sinners. See you tomorrow.