Monday, 13 December 2010

Nicolaas Marais is on "desert leave" from BlackRock

But he will join Schroders in March next year! He'll be running the multi-asset business. Well, someone has to. It won't run itself, not with John McLaughlin skiving off. Bastard. No, that's unfair. [Why do I say these things?] John is going to be concentrating on Schroders' liability-driven investment business. I mean, someone has to. It won't -

O Master, I can see a pattern developing here. Maybe you should deal with Nicolaas Marais' LinkedIn profile.

Ah yes. Nic's LinkedIn profile. Nic reckons he is 'currently on "garden leave" from BlackRock.' That's bullshit. Why do they do this, Nic and finance types like him? Are they ashamed? Do they think people will laugh at them just because they're taking some time out in the desert of our love, wandering (or floating, astral sands) through a sandy wilderness, looking for Big Herb, looking for dead financiers, looking for me - because I am nearly always there, ready and waiting, willing and ready, waiting for the sun to shine, and it always shines, so there's no need to wait for it, in truth?

Who would want to spend time in a cold English garden anyway? You ain't gonna get no burning love, just frostbite. Who needs it?

Well, the cold ones need it. They love it. But Nicolaas Marais ain't one of the cold earth wanderers. This isn't a man who can be happy face down with his face full of dirty snow. Ice in his eyes?! It would never happen. No, he's gonna be gone burning for three months. And I mean totally gone in his head as well as his body. We're talking about the experience of a lifetime. For some people it can be the experience of a deathtime too.

But that's very advanced stuff.

Of course it is, my child. There is no question of Mr Marais, Nic, (Nic to his friends and perfect strangers, and I am perfect, and I am a stranger in a strange land, so I think I qualify, Nic!) having the experience of a deathtime. He ain't no shaman. He's a neophyte. We can't have him dying for a short while, just to get the taste, then coming back, regaling everyone with bizarre stories that he won't even understand himself because he ain't got the training. I got the training. I got the T-shirt.

O Master, is that the T-shirt with the skull on it?

Don't be so bloody stupid! I wasn't talking literally. Why would I have a T-shirt with a skull on it? Sounds incredibly vulgar. Credit me with some style. Christ!

Sorry, boss.

I've lost my train of thought now. Thinking of skulls now. Lots of them now. They just fill my mind. My mind in a skull, filled with skulls. This is not something you want on a Monday morning. I was hoping to get off to a positive start. I don't want to be bogged down with skulls. You're to blame, you little cretin!

Oh come on, Master. I only mentioned one skull on a T-shirt. I can't be held responsible for all the things that stream through your consciousness. If you want to take that one harmless skull and blow it up into a mad fantasy of piles of skulls, a charnel house of skulls, well, it's got nothing to do with me and I wash my hands of the whole affair.

You haven't got any hands! You're just a voice.

So you keep telling me. I don't need enemies with friends like you, do I?

We're not friends. Don't forget your place.

I won't forget, boss.

Now, clear off. I've got to edit this post, then post it, and then have my lunch while reading the Sun.