Wednesday, 21 December 2011

So close to salvation

Round, and round, and round. Oh, pigs. We're fucking pigs. And this isn't the first time. It's like a curse. It's like a nightmare in a dream factory. But don't get upset. It's only a bit of fun. / I, I can be so close - I am so close - to salvation, if I choose. Oh, it seems but is not: impossible. We all can - we all are, I - if we choose. Let's choose! Have we the wills? You (we!) I, I, I ... gotta make a choice, anytime soon! Sometimes there's ... lots of choices, far too many. / Life or death! Love or hate! Is it true? And ... / Ain't no need for no Jesus. No! And there ain't no need for no priest. We, I, I let go, now, oh, we can! Because this is personal, for us. But not for Him. I have to say, God doesn't have a personality. You'll be glad to hear. I am glad to say it, to write it. God doesn't have a personality. Yes! Can you hear? Can you read? [Can I jump in here? Again, and again, and again ... going round, in, and out ...] Ah ... He doesn't have an ego like the devil ... [ol' red eyes is back!] / uh, devil, we ... are the devil, sometimes. We've got to be aware of the devil. Open your eyes! So blue, an ocean of pain. 'Mine eyes have seen ...' / There are no rules. Only, yes, only the rules we make for ourselves. There are no rules in the sky - up there! Only the rules on earth that we make, not our masters. We are free. Hard to believe, I know, when we see the chains, but they're an illusion - if only we knew. / If only we could really see ...

It's money ... ? /

Money, yes. It is. Afraid so. [So, am I afraid?] Ah. It's a secret. / No! Er ... / Money (is funny, ha, oh) ... it takes, it breaks, no ... it makes - the world go ... round / round / round. / And a ... round / I am a/round in, here, hello, and a/round on, and round with, your dizzy head, so dizzy soul, a/round with you, so ooo into y ooo u - ah! It's so ooo ooo intimate. / [I wrote about the devil again, right here, and it disappeared, I can't remember, er: 'Like the devil, really like the devil' or something, then it disappeared.] (Into the darkness? No, not that dramatically.) [I ...] / So, come on, come dance with me in hell, well? / Oh, it's a confusing time, for sure. And ... all the time, it comes and goooooeees. There's no knowing where it comes from [and I shut my eyes, tight] or where it goes to ooo. I know you see, yes, you know, I, we're round and round, so dizzy, so into each other (and salvation? - if we can get it.) Together, we are, up there, we go, down, we go, round and round, up and up, and we, down and down, and deeper, and lower, and up, oh, we're higher than we've ever been! / No angels here though - way up there(!), that's too high, only for angels, untouchable, unfortunately ... / So, give me the vision, right now, I want ... and not any old vision: I want the vision that changes consciousness and kills all the pain we get, I ... I've paid the price, over and over, I've been isolated, I've cried in the desert, so [Lord?] give me the vision that 'I' deserve. Man, I'm a real outsider, so give me the real outside. / It's like outta space - out there(!), so, I gotta get outta here, all stuffed with demons! (They think they're writers, for Christ's sake!) Let's put it together, this, hungry for ... one vision from fragments, images in my head. Oh, one goddamn clear sight of it, that's all I'm asking for, in the pit, no, not in the pit [my fate?] Just one philosophy from voices in the night, children. We are dancing, yes, it's the time(?), that time, the only time, I ... / And there must be a reason! Surely? Yes? No? Just, oh, like there's a way? We wouldn't have a way without a reason! Ha! That wouldn't make any sense at all. Er ... / [So ...] / Focus! Please. We're going somewhere to escape. This ain't paradise. (Oh, you've noticed?) The awful mess, it's crushing us, and ... we can't breathe, I, there's too much misery, too much fear, too much hassle, we're having the life crushed out of us, like (we are!) dirty pigs in a hole, those cold bodies in a mass grave, already dead, so ... well, it's all gone, then, in that case.

_________________________


Right, that's it for this year. I hope you have a nice Christmas. I'll be back on Tuesday 3rd January.

My New Year’s resolution? I'm going to give up writing - literature - to become one of these c**ting finance professionals I've heard so much about - ha!

No, seriously, I'll be back on the third.

Friday, 16 December 2011

Jaspreet Singh Ahuja isn't fit or proper

According to the FSA, that is.

'The Financial Services Authority (FSA) has today banned and fined Jaspreet Singh Ahuja, a former client adviser at UBS AG (UBS), £150,000 for failing to act with integrity, in breach of Principle 1 of its Statements of Principles and Code of Conduct for Approved Persons ("APER") and for not being a fit and proper person. Ahuja is prohibited from performing any function in relation to any regulated activity in the financial services industry.' More, than is healthy.

This is an outrage!

Doesn't the FSA realize that we're only one week away from Christmas? What kind of Christmas is Jaspreet going to have now? I can't believe the heartlessness of it.

_________________________


Dead sharks don't have hearts. They don't have feelings. It's impossible to deal with them. As you know, this one doesn't even believe in death. What are we going to do?

George Sepero and Carmelo Provenzano have been arrested by the FBI

I just thought you should know. You might have money invested in their hedge fund Ponzi scheme. Well, that's what they've been charged with. Wire fraud conspiracy, Ponzi stuff, computer trading, 170 per cent returns, all that sort of thing. The U.S. Attorney for New Jersey, Paul Fishman, reckons Sepero and Provenzano used non-existent companies and imaginary reports to steal millions of dollars from real investors. $3.5 million with a proprietary algorithmic trading system that didn't even exist! The imagination of some people! This was real money, by the way. And they spent it all in the pub (the bar). They must have been very thirsty!

But I'm not going to judge them. Only God can judge them, and even thugs cry.

_________________________


My shoulder is much better now. I'm playing the guitar again. I'm not going to write a Christmas song. I can't be bothered. I'm having enough trouble writing my proper songs.

I might buy a keyboard soon. I miss playing the piano.

Thursday, 15 December 2011

Antonio Horta-Osorio is bushy-tailed and raring to go

Raring to go! Next year, of course, after his holiday. But the good news is that Mr Horta-Osorio isn't a freakin' loon, like many thought he might be. No, the Lloyds chief executive is 100 per cent sane. In fact, he has never felt better. (He was only 90 per cent sane at his old best.) So, how was he transformed from a gibbering wreck (oh, he was a loon for a brief period) to a master of the universe? Did someone help him through his dark night of the soul? Well, I can now reveal that Antonio has been spending a bit of time with me. Yes, I put him up in the spare bedroom a couple of weeks ago. But all good things must come to an end. We're going out for a drink tonight, and then he'll return home.

Everyone knows about my troubles. I've had at least nineteen nervous breakdowns. That's why Antonio (and other stressed-out banker types) can relate to me. It's why Antonio approached me and asked for my help. He knew that if he spoke of visions of heaven and hell, I wouldn't stare at him with an expression of puzzlement mixed with abject fear. Much to my disappointment though, Antonio only spoke of how difficult it was at Lloyds - you know, boring bank stuff, sleepless nights, the hard work. No angels or demons! I was gutted. I almost kicked him out at one point. (He was talking about mortgages. Fucking mortgages!) So, this, er "dark night of the soul" was actually rather light. Compared to the shit I've been through anyway. Never mind. I still like him.

Wednesday, 14 December 2011

Steve Cohen is vague about the rules of insider trading

And practically everything else. It's the only way to be - if you want to keep your sanity. Life is so confusing, ain't it? / It must be hard being the big man at SAC Capital Advisors. Consider the strain of making billions of dollars. Yeah? And with the SEC sticking its nose into everything. Oh, it doesn't bear thinking about. (If a regulator can have a nose, that is. I'm sure a regulator can have a nose. I mean, take a look at the FSA in Britain. The FSA is a dead shark, and sharks - even dead ones that refuse to believe in death - have noses, don't they? Unless degenerate trophy hunters are cutting them off now. I don't know if this happens. It probably doesn't. I know they cut fins off - for fucking soup, the bastards! I'm just glad I'm a vegetarian. Why am I even writing about this?) I, er ...

I'm vague about everything. I have moments of clarity - [indeed, fuck] - like yesterday's moment, but, BUT: most of the time I haven't got a clue. / Don't feel sorry for me. "You" should feel sorry for the poor souls who think they know it all. Ha! / Is there anything to know anyway? Even if you know that two plus two equals four, how does that help you? What does it mean to you - personally? You're still going to die. Jesus! Yes, I can understand why Mr Cohen just sits in a chair all day long, staring at the ceiling, so bloody depressed about everything, really; occasionally glancing at his soft wrists: it must be very tempting. He lets his little monkeys do the trading. And why not? They have all the enthusiasm, apparently. (Are they lucky? Or just young and stupid? Time will tell.) No, I wouldn't want to swap places with Mr Cohen. I'm happy lying on my bed all day long, staring at the ceiling, so fucking depressed about everything, obviously; occasionally glancing at my soft wrists: it is very tempting. But 'I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be'.

I, er ... will snap out of this despair, this mood, this lifestyle, as soon as I've got my shit together. I'm a believer. / I, I believe there's a better life with no grief, no hassle, no frenemies, no money worries, no ***** sexual fantasies, no obstacles, no fractured collarbones, no ... I've had a vision of it, my whole, er, I, I / I can touch it - and be clean, and calm, and happy, and ... Steve knows what I'm talking about. / I don't want to roll in the dirt that dirty FUCKERS have put down for me. Let them ... I mean, it's their dirt! Why do I have to live like a pig just because they are PIGS? It is totally unacceptable! / I wish Steve were here, Mr Cohen. I, er ...

it doesn't matter
it doesn't matter
it doesn't matter
it doesn't matter

Forget this post, reader(s). I won't delete it. (My blog, my rules.) But please forget (for your health) or else ... I'll find you, I will, and you'll wish ... I, er ... oh, you don't want to know. Seriously.

I / fuck

Tuesday, 13 December 2011

Freedom is more important than money and influence [or: notes for the weak and gullible]

Would you sell your soul to the devil if he paid enough? No? What if he offered you influence and the chance to make decisions in hell? Would that entice you?

If you were at the centre of hell, driving debate forward, would that ease the pain of an empty head? We can't all be intelligent. Fools are needed too.

Are you strong enough to be isolated? It's true that things would be so much easier if you were in the company of demons. They would take responsibility for your life - such as it is.

Does comfortable slavery seem more appealing than tough and challenging freedom? If so, self-respect must be pretty low down on your list of priorities.

Do you need to be supported, or can you stand alone? Why not choose independence? Yes, it's a simple choice, and that is all. No one's asking you to fight.

Notes for the weak and gullible. / Did I mention treacherous? There are people who paid a heavy price for your freedom. It cost them everything, their flesh and bones. (Oh, they had to fight.) Will you sell it for a mess of pottage?

Or even give it away?

Monday, 12 December 2011

Goldman Sachs is giving Todd Edgar $150 million!

At least. / At least that much. It could be ... / For his new hedge fund ... which doesn't even have a fucking name yet. Goldman might give him as much $200 million. [Two hundred million dollars!] I / I'm going to have to speak to Lloyd about this. Seriously, I mean. Please. Don't get me wrong now. No! Todd is a dear friend, a personal friend of mine, and I wish him all the best, BUT Lloyd never ever paid me anywhere near this amount AND: Goldman's success over the last few years has been down to me (mostly). [What I've done for the bank!] I was the one who introduced Goldman Sachs to mystical capitalism (or should it be: introduced mystical capitalism to Goldman Sachs? Does it matter?) Me! I / I didn't get hundreds of millions of dollars, did I? No, I didn't get hundreds of millions of dollars, no. It's not fair.

But life isn't fair. / How fair would it be if I snatched Todd Edgar's consciousness and threw it into the pit? (I wouldn't do this, obviously. He's a dear friend, a personal friend. Why would I hurt him?) Or put a curse on him? It wouldn't be fair at all. Todd should be careful. I'm not saying I would snatch his consciousness and throw it into the pit, or put a curse on him, but someone might. Maybe one of my followers, one of my mad admirers, someone with shamanic ability, who may just think that I've been treated badly by Lloyd. [Fucker.] Might snatch Lloyd's consciousness as well, or put a curse on him. I don't know. This is all fantasy at the moment. I haven't given the order yet. Not that I would give any order to one of my underlings. What sort of sha/man do you take me for? Lloyd and Todd are dear friends, personal friends of mine. I don't hurt my friends. Oh, I know I assassinated Big Herb in the astral night, but he was more of a business associate. Lloyd and Todd are friends. (Though I did do a lot of business with Lloyd, so ...) I like Lloyd and Todd. That doesn't mean I could protect them if some lunatic decided to put a curse on them ... or something, snatch their consciousness nesses ness; HOWEVER, I would try my best to take an interest in whatever was happening, unless I was busy ... maybe washing my hair or cutting my toenails.

BUT do you know what? If I were Lloyd or Todd, I would want peace of mind - before it's taken forever. Yes, I would want to get on the phone (soon) to the world's foremost financial shaman (me) and say: 'Mikey, we're going to give you 10 per cent of the money. Fifteen to twenty million dollars. There's enough for everyone. It's Christmas, for Christ's sake!' NOW, that would be a classy thing to do. I would appreciate an offer like that. I probably wouldn't accept it - I was actually thinking of 20 per cent - but it would be a good way for them to open negotiations. I feel pretty confident that I could get them up to 20 per cent. How? How would I / I ... listen, I would just show them a picture of Big Herb with his throat cut. Not very subtle, no, but ... I'm an animal!

Friday, 9 December 2011

Jeremy Podger is taking control of the Fidelity Global Special Situations fund

Well, someone's got to, now that Jorma Korhonen has done a runner. (Maybe he's had a vision of future times. Off to the cave!) / So, Fidelity is bringing Podger in from Threadneedle. 'Will it work out?' I don't know. Why are you asking me? Podger won't even arrive at Fidelity until March. Anything could happen before then. The whole financial system could collapse. If that happens - and I reckon it's fifty-fifty - Podger won't be managing any sort of fund. He'll be under the arches with the rest of us. And he won't be eating out in posh restaurants. No, he'll be in the soup kitchens with the rest of us. He won't ... ah, forget it. You / "you" understand, don't you? Yes, I'm absolutely convinced that "you" understand. You're a part of "us". You know what we'll be facing. I can't say I'm too worried about it, myself. It's not as if I have anything to lose. I was never all that keen on civilization anyway. A lot of big nothing, if you ask me. 'All is vanity.' / Life will go on.

It's the champagne socialists I feel sorry for. They're not tough enough to cope with hard/dark times. (You gotta have that wild animal thing. I got it!) They're the ones who wanted this European Union nonsense. Now it's all fucked up in their faces. (I can't believe that useless tosser, Cameron, got something right for once.) What did they think was going to happen? (Of course, you need a brain to think.) And how are these soft prats going to deal with the roaming mobs, the cold-eyed killers? 'Please don't hurt me, I'm a poor soul, just like you.' Yeah, right. That won't save them. The underclass will roll right over them. / But I'll be ready. My friend(s), my child(ren), you better be ready too. (Ready to rock and roll.) Let's hope for the worst. It'll be exciting. We might even get the impression that we're really alive.

Wouldn't that be nice? I want to feel alive. Out on the earth, cold and hungry. Korhonen as well. Side by side. In it together. It might be quite an adventure. Like that Picasso painting of the two brothers. No clothes. No money. No objects. No scenery. So primitive / a million years ago, or a million years in the future / or next month. /

animal /

It's a sad thing to be, a dull, doll, being human, but I'll leave it all behind, I'll let go, just instinct and desire, teeth and flesh, red eyes flashing in the dark of a new age like a very old one /

predator /

On second thoughts, if Korhonen's in that cave, he better stay there. I can't see him making it in the open wild. Best to hide from my sort. / It's going to be a nightmare for the weak -

And Podger? / There won't even be arches. There won't even be soup kitchens. It'll be an (almost) empty world for the animals to fight over. / We'll start again.

Wednesday, 7 December 2011

Random stuff

I can't find anything to write about. I'm afraid nothing is happening in the world of finance. I know you don't believe me, dear reader(s), but it's true. Nothing is happening. And: nothing ever happens. I merely pretend that it does. I know you're shocked.

So, I'm just going to write about random stuff. My discipline seems to have gone. Well, it's nearly Christmas, give me a break. Reader, you expect too much of me. I may be superhuman, but that doesn't mean I can write for years on end without losing my grip occasionally. / Martin Amis says he writes for two hours a day, and that's enough. Ha! He should try being a blogger. No, let him stick to the zombie novel. It's a dead parrot, actually. But no one's told him or his friends. What a shame! It's like James Joyce never existed! Never mind. I'm not the literary police. Let them do what they want. What do I care? They'll find out - when it's too late.

I'm feeling very tired. It could be the pills. Or the pain keeping me awake at night. A quarter of my chest is yellow. I'm going to the hospital tomorrow, fracture clinic. I think I'm getting better. Well, I hope I am. Gotta stay positive. I know I'm getting better.

I'm listening to Elvis Costello. I don't know why. He seems a great songwriter, but also quite superficial compared to guys like Bob Dylan and Van Morrison. Probably more clever than great. The lyrics are overcooked like he's desperately trying to surpass Dylan. Well, that ain't gonna happen. / I'm glad I'm not into serious songwriting (like I used to be). It's a lot of hassle for something which is still going to be a part of popular culture whatever you do. No, it's commercial pop songs for me. I want to have fun and make money. Yes, I'm embracing popular culture! But I really should leave it out of my blog. Well, I will. I promise (myself). After Christmas.

I'm listening to Amy Winehouse now. This is more like it. 'Black ... black ... black.' Marvellous!

I, er ... laters. Coney Island Baby.

Tracy Postert has got a job at John Thomas Financial!

Oh, wonderful! Congratulations to Tracy Postert! This just shows what you can achieve if you have the right attitude. One minute you can be a mad hippie living in a tent with a bunch of bums, the next minute you can be a junior analyst at a Wall Street bank. Only in America!

Well, maybe in England, too. Maybe. / I'm going to dress up like a disgusting freak one of these days and march around the City of London, really aggressively, shouting: 'Give me a fucking job, you capitalist scumbags, or I'll burn your offices down with all of you inside!' Then I'll hand out copies of my CV with bogeys stuck to them. (I won't care. It's what the greedy bankers deserve.) I'll have a "Let's get rid of Thatcher" placard because she's still the prime minister, ain't she? But on the reverse side it will say something like, er – "Please, please, please, give me a job, please, I want to be your slave. I've got bills to pay, after all." Yes, really submissive. Yes! I'm sure some mug will be impressed with that. I reckon I could end up as chief executive of Barclays. Forget Bobby D! I'm the better man.

Tuesday, 6 December 2011

Jonathan Polin has bought 0.74 per cent of Ashcourt Rowan Group

So he's really been splashing out then. Jonathan is the chief executive of Ashcourt Rowan now. I knew he would end up somewhere, different. I couldn't see him stranded at nowhere for long. (Yes, he gave it a go.) Of course, I advised him to stick with nowhere, after leaving the old somewhere. These people don't listen to me. I may as well be writing this stuff for myself. You can't save everyone. Not everyone wants to be saved. They don't want to join the brotherhood, with a few sisters thrown in for good measure, no. A lot of them think they're better off at a fast-growing wealth management organization. They imagine they make a difference for people who want to make their money work harder, but don't have the expertise, time nor perhaps inclination, to do it well. / It's, er, very depressing.

I'm trying not to give in to dark thoughts. I, er, I, I / I don't want to be depressed. Maybe I, er, I should just accept the fact/[theory] that these wretched puppets have "lives" of their own. [Ha!] Oh, it's hard to believe, but that's what I've been told. They tell me, incredibly 'Mr Fowke, I'm a real man, a real hedge fund manager. I, er, I have a wife, and children.' Pathetic. How can they delude themselves? They only exist because I exist. I am the one who gives them life. I am the one, I

I have taken full control of the financial world. This was always my destiny. The people who don't listen? I, er, they are the dead. They do not exist. / I have a soft spot for Jonathan Polin, so I've written about him today. However, I'm not sure I'll be writing about him again. If [I] he were nowhere, it would be different. But he is somewhere, and that / that somewhere sickens me because it is not real. Somewhere is an illusion. Fools are happy with their somewheres. I just thought [I] Jonathan was better than that, that's / that is all. It's that /

I / I am alive / And I must please myself for there is no one else. I [I] can't hear voices that can't be heard. [I] I, er, I can't, can't see bodies that can't be seen. Impossible. There is a limit. There is, I have reached it. / We (?) understand, I ... / At the end of visions there are words for a big nothing. / Right at the

Jonathan, if you are here, cry out to me. We are nowhere, if you are here. Or am I on my own, totally, alone?

'Mikey!'

What? What was that? I heard a voice call my name. Jonathan! Is that you? Where are you?

/ Silence /

Jesus! I'm hearing voices - again. Let me see a body, too. / I can't see a thing. That wasn't a voice. It

Silence / I imagine it is, silence

Monday, 5 December 2011

Michael Balboa and Gilles De Charsonville have been charged by the SEC

And Michael Balboa has been arrested in London, charged with fraud and conspiracy. I have no idea who these men are. They are just names to me. Their lives haven't touched mine. And yet I feel compelled to write about them. What is wrong with me? Maybe it's the ibuprofen. 400 mg! No, I'm always writing about strangers. So it can't be the drugs.

Michael Balboa invested in illiquid bonds in Nigeria and Uruguay. This is against the law. Well, it's not. I think inflating their value is. Balboa worked at Millennium Global Investments. Now he's on leave from ARAM Global. / I didn't even know that the SEC could arrest people in London. Maybe he was arrested somewhere else. Or ... I don't know. It's nearly Christmas and I've got a smashed-up shoulder. I can't ... / Gilles De Charsonville (of BCP Securities). That's a nice name, isn't it? Probably too nice. He'll be pleased that he hasn't been arrested. I wouldn't fancy his chances inside with a name like that. I mean, you wouldn't want to hang around the showers too long with a name like that. Not unless you were into cock. Oh, I don't want to get too graphic! This is a family blog, after all. / It's that ibuprofen! It's the pain! I'm not in my right mind this morning/afternoon.

I don't even feel mystical. I feel cold, detached. / I reckon I'll be back on the guitar soon. I'm not wearing a sling. Everything's going to be okay. This isn't like Rimbaud with his leg. I'm not going to have anything amputated. This isn't the end, beautiful friend. / I'm listening to the new Amy Winehouse album. There's one great original song on it, Between The Cheats. / I'm glad this isn't like Rimbaud with his leg. Thank you, God! I seem to be getting through it. / That skeleton? My skeleton? I don't want to talk about my skeleton. If it were someone else's skeleton - like Rimbaud's - I would make a joke about it. But I'm not going to joke about my own skeleton, for fuck's sake!

Thursday, 1 December 2011

If you haven't got your health, what have you got?

Don't take me to no hospital, please. Fuckin' emergency rooms don't save nobody. Son of a bitches always pop you at midnight when all they got is a Chinese intern with a dull spoon. - Carlito Brigante

If you ain't got your health, what you got? Not a lot. I'm going to be working on this post all day long to take my mind off the pain. I might have to go to the doctor about my shoulder. I don't know yet. I know what Humphrey Bogart would do. He would just call up some dame and crack open a bottle of whisky. I know what Ernest Hemingway would do. But I don't have a shotgun. / Oh, I'm going for the whisky. Here's looking at you, kid.

Life is a mixture of good fortune and bad fortune. Not many people have it all good or all bad. If only you could choose. 'Yes, I'll take the minor heart attack, as long as I can have a promotion at work.' Think of Papillon. Given life in prison for a murder he didn't commit, he escapes and becomes a millionaire nightclub owner in Venezuela. Then an earthquake ruins him, so he decides to write a book. The book becomes an international bestseller. Four years later he dies of cancer. Who can make sense of it? I know I can't.

And poor Amy Winehouse. Her death convinced me to give music another try. You only live once. But I can't play my guitar. I've got songs to write. Time is running out. I haven't got all the time in the world.

Don't we all waste so much time on absolute nonsense? Most of our activities are just foam in water or smoke in the air. 'Now is the time to rouse yourself, the master said, for sitting on a cushion is not the way to fame, nor staying in bed.'

The pavement that hit me was my Benny Blanco. 'Remember me, slab of concrete from the Bronx?' Who set me up for that? Who knew I was going to Holland and Barrett? Ironic, really, when you think about it.

Only three weeks to Christmas. I hope I make it. I need a rest. I need mince pies.

When I sit still, the pain isn't so bad. I watched The Big Lebowski again last night, completely still. I left my awful reality for two hours. I wish I had a friend like Walter Sobchak. (His smile when he hears about the twenty thousand dollars. And: 'This was a valued rug?') I wish I knew people like Jackie Treehorn. That's a real escape. / This sort of writing isn't an escape, you know. It's a confrontation. / There's no hiding place here.

Like the world ... / Don't go away. When you're gone, no one will remember. You better stay. Well, for as long as you can.

Just called the doctor, and I'm seeing him tomorrow. I've got a bad feeling I won't be able to play my guitar for a couple of months. That would be a disaster. Gilly Marie may be a simple song, but it's a great simple song like Louie, Louie or Sugar, Sugar. I want people to hear it. And I want to make some money. This is a desperate situation. But I believe in God. There must be a reason. And I'm not at all religious. I'm spiritual. There's a big difference. / At least I have a basic recording of my new piece of music. It means I'll be able to write the lyrics for it without touching the guitar. / Why am I such a pessimist? Experience of life? I don't know.

It says on the internet that I might only have to wear a sling for a week or two. But I'm crazy! I haven't even seen the doctor yet. There's probably nothing wrong with me. / By the way, two yobs laughed at me in the street when I fell over yesterday, but when I got up and stared them out they soon shut up. I'm not a natural victim. I'm a predator. You can't be weak where I live.

So, take me down to the paradise city, where the grass is green ...


Update (Sunday, 9.30am)

I went to the hospital yesterday and had an X-ray. It turns out I've got a small fracture. A couple of doctors there actually tried to talk me out of the X-ray because they didn't believe that any man could be so tough as to walk around for three days without painkillers. 'You would be in real pain if you had a fracture.' Well, now they understand. I'm like Lee Marvin or something.