Monday, 6 August 2012

Chris Boas thinks he can entice me with his Longwood Credit Partners

Oh, he thinks I'm going to write about him. Ha! This late on a Sunday night or Monday morning, in August, when everyone's on holiday, when no one gives a shit about finance except a bunch of squares who can't afford to go away anywhere because they don't do it, they just write it. Well, I ain't writing it. I'm listening to Eno's Apollo, and I'm chilling until the early hours because that's the way I operate, man.

It's just another hedge fund. Like all the other goddamn hedge funds. Is that news, a new hedge fund? It won't even launch until next year. Christ! More pie in the sky. There's so much financial pie in the sky at the present time that the sky god in charge could open a pie shop, if it wanted to, if that makes any sense.

Sky god? I'm not making a lot of sense. / I'm in a foul mood. The usual stuff. Don't ask me any awkward questions and I won't tell you no lies. It's private. Can't I have a bit of privacy, eh? Come on, son/daughter. You don't need to know everything. I've opened my soul more than any other blogger. What do they write about anyway, the price of fish? Ridiculous! This is like a season in hell. And it ain't gathering dust in no basement for thirty years. You can read it NOW.

Oh, for fuck's sake! I'm getting pissed off with all these spiders who think they can rule the roost. One has just crawled in through the open window. I'm normally asleep at this hour. I guess he wasn't expecting me to settle his hash. Don't worry, dear reader, I haven't killed him. (I'm a vegetarian.) I've caught him in a little plastic container, and I've put him in the spare room because I don't want to stare at his ugly mug all night. I'll let him out in the morning. It's a good job I wasn't asleep. He might have crawled all over my naked body and given me nightmares. (Actually, I've got a pair of boxer shorts on, but you don't need to know that.) / Spiders. You can't live with them, you can't ... I don't know. / 'Spiders, silent and detestable, crowd in, our minds with webs to overcast.' Yeah, thank you, Baudelaire. You're not helping, mate.