Right, I'm not feeling too good this morning, dear reader(s). I woke up this morning and my head was spinning. 'Were you drinking last night, boss?' No, I wasn't, Voice. I hardly drink these days because of my migraines. 'Oh, I know what it is.' Yeah, some sort of imbalance in my ear. It's a temporary thing. I've had it before. I'll be okay. 'No, no, no, Mikey.' What then? 'It's all these conceptual posts you keep writing.' Christ! Yeah, maybe. 'You've written over four hundred of them now. And you keep spinning, don't you? You keep getting a-ROUND, and a-ROUND, and a-ROUND. It can't be good for you, man.' Well, I don't care, man. I enjoy it. I'll never stop!
Anyway, this Dermot Murphy character at Jupiter. Who on earth is he? 'Tell us!' Well, he's just some guy who's been promoted, that's all. 'He was an analyst, wasn't he?' Yes. Now he's, er ... hang on a minute ... an assistant fund manager, if you can believe that. 'Yippee!' It seems Dermot's assisting Ben Whitmore with his UK value strategies funds. 'Nice. Very nice.' It's all right. Our Dermot obviously has a bright future. 'Is he ...' What? Spit it out! 'Is he a financial shaman though?' Ha! Give him a chance, Voice. Let him work his way up to full-blown fund manager first. 'Okay.' Jupiter doesn't even need any more shamans. 'Oh, okay.' They've got shamans coming out of their ears. 'I suppose.' They've got more shamans than you've had hot dinners, son. 'I don't eat, boss.' Whatever.
...
Anything else? 'Are we finished already?' I'm not in the mood for blogging today. I need to go and lie down. There's nothing else. 'Another conceptual, later?' You're having a laugh, ain't ya? I really think I need to cut down to one a week, you know?
Uh ... politics? Well, it's business as usual. Nothing will ever change. Forget what I wrote yesterday, the Panama Papers shit. What we need, what I need ... is a fucking spaceship to get me out of here, you dig? That's the only solution.
Anyway, this Dermot Murphy character at Jupiter. Who on earth is he? 'Tell us!' Well, he's just some guy who's been promoted, that's all. 'He was an analyst, wasn't he?' Yes. Now he's, er ... hang on a minute ... an assistant fund manager, if you can believe that. 'Yippee!' It seems Dermot's assisting Ben Whitmore with his UK value strategies funds. 'Nice. Very nice.' It's all right. Our Dermot obviously has a bright future. 'Is he ...' What? Spit it out! 'Is he a financial shaman though?' Ha! Give him a chance, Voice. Let him work his way up to full-blown fund manager first. 'Okay.' Jupiter doesn't even need any more shamans. 'Oh, okay.' They've got shamans coming out of their ears. 'I suppose.' They've got more shamans than you've had hot dinners, son. 'I don't eat, boss.' Whatever.
...
Anything else? 'Are we finished already?' I'm not in the mood for blogging today. I need to go and lie down. There's nothing else. 'Another conceptual, later?' You're having a laugh, ain't ya? I really think I need to cut down to one a week, you know?
Uh ... politics? Well, it's business as usual. Nothing will ever change. Forget what I wrote yesterday, the Panama Papers shit. What we need, what I need ... is a fucking spaceship to get me out of here, you dig? That's the only solution.
