Thursday, 4 December 2014

They're saying that Paul Greenwood will have to live without his teddy bears

Over in America. Pretty depressing ... / Do you remember this, dear reader(s)? - When a teddy bear approaches you in the dead of night, fists full of cash, what do you do? Do you scream your head off? For you know (well, you should know) it is a demonic teddy bear, conjured up from the depths of hell. Or do you just take the money?

Well, that's one problem Paul Greenwood doesn't have now. 'Why?' He's going to prison for ten years. Financial fraud, a sort of Ponzi scheme. And he admitted it! And he's sorry: I've lied, I've cheated, I've stolen. Words cannot express my sorrow and remorse for what I've done. / 'Aren't you allowed to have teddy bears in prison, boss?' I'm not sure, Voice. 'It doesn't seem fair, if that's the case.' I think Paul's teddy bears were all auctioned off, anyway. It's for the best, really. Prison is tough enough. Imagine a convict with a cell full of teddy bears! 'It might get people talking.' More than that, man. It could be dangerous.

Paul was a partner in hedge fund WG Trading Co. The other guy, his partner, Stephen Walsh, got twenty years. 'Is he into teddy bears too?' I don't know, Voice.


No. 274? I'm tempted to write about demonic teddy bears in the dead of night, getting a-ROUND, and a-ROUND, and a-ROUND. 'Yeah! Bring it on!' However, I'm going to write about colours instead. 'Colours?' As in Donovan and Rimbaud. 'You mean vowels.' Do I? 'Rimbaud.' Don't worry about it, man.

Anything else? Oh, the autumn statement thing? Gideon ain't fooling no one. Bye, bye, scumbags! 'We'll only get another gang of scumbags, boss.' Maybe. Probably. / You have to get so high that the shit can't touch you. I'm working on it ...

Autumn?! Isn't it winter?


Guitar? Well, as I've mentioned before, I can't do much on Wednesdays and Thursdays, but I reckon I'll be going guitar crazy on the other days. I've got no choice. / I've been reading a few forums on the net. Other characters are having trouble with their playing. They do three or four hours a day for a couple of years and still don't get anywhere. It's no good, man. So ... the nuclear option!

Lunch? Jesus. 'Ha!' Forget about my lunch, reader(s), please. It's not important. What are you having, eh? A three-course meal in a fancy restaurant, knowing you.