Teras

I have tried to set them free.

I think the problem is: they believe they aren't slaves.

It makes sense, to me.

Imagine you have no idea you're in bondage. Will you try to escape?

They can't see the chains. It's all psychological, of course.

I suppose they like it. It doesn't even seem like humiliation when you're getting paid as much as they are. Also, there's the perks.

And at least they have the illusion of freedom. It's probably very comforting. I can't say it appeals to me.

They may even feel important. It's a vocation, after all.

Did someone tell them they were making a difference? Ha! Yes, I bet some devil told them that ...

Oh, many years ago ...

They still believe it. How do I know? It's the way they walk, when they should be crawling.

I make an effort ...

They won't thank me for any of this.

Actually, 'they' won't know I'm referring to 'them'.

And I think that's for the best. I don't want them to suffer the way I've suffered. They won't want the awareness.

Freedom, like knowledge, is the cause of much suffering.

With the hardest of words I could give them a taste of my suffering.

It's not for me, the happy 'I', the satisfaction, the peace of mind.

They have it. The sods.

I'm removed. Separate. Alien. Out, and off.

Out, out, out! The stormy sea of reality is where they'll find me - if they ever come looking. Off the chart, in all directions! That's the freedom. And it kills you if you're weak.

Corey Ribotsky charged by the SEC with fraud

Something to do with PIPE transactions, whatever they are.

'The SEC alleges that Corey Ribotsky and his firm The NIR Group LLC repeatedly lied to investors to hide the truth that his PIPE investment and trading strategy was failing during the financial crisis. For example, Ribotsky falsely told investors that despite the adverse market conditions he could liquidate all of the PIPE investments in 36 to 48 months - a practical impossibility given the size of the investments. Meanwhile, Ribotsky misused investor money by writing checks to pay for personal services and such luxury items as a Lexus, Mercedes, and Rolex watch.' More, than is healthy.

Rolex watch? Well, that's where I lose all sympathy for the man. If you're going to spend your hard-earned money on something as vulgar as a Rolex watch, you deserve to be disgorged.

I don't even know what disgorgement is. It sounds nasty though. It sounds positively medieval. I can't even recall Jack Pickles in his prime disgorging anyone. Those SEC characters are serious people!

Trevor Kelham will be with Barclays Wealth Management

Soon. [In his flesh. In the flesh. His flesh. It belongs to him. This is an edit, a rewriting or whatever. Even when I want to write like the dead people, I can't help adding something. No, not fire. Not on this occasion. Flesh. His flesh.] Any time now. Maybe the next few days. Maybe he's there already there. Yeah. Mr Kelham is [going to be] director and international wealth adviser within the wealth advisory division. He['ll] be managing major private client relationships, and he['ll] be developing new business.

He was a managing director at Rothschild. He was a director at Credit Suisse. He went to the University of Sheffield, and the University of Southampton, and ... somewhere else, and ... Law Society England Wales International Bar Association Society Trust Estate Practitioners Association Contentious Trust Probate Specialists Institute Directors Chartered Management ... Rugby, cricket, and golf. I say, he likes rugby, cricket, and golf. No one knows his opinion on football. It's a vulgar sport. I'm sure that's his opinion.

This is what they like /// I would cry, if I had tears left /// It's what they want /// I would wail, if I wasn't all done with wailing /// Oh, how the other half dies. [!] It's no reflection on Mr Kelham. He never asked to be written about like this. Normally, I would put in a bit of fire. [Blood? Flesh!] But I want to fit in now. I want to write like the dead people, now, who are still breathing. There are dead people still breathing who write about Mr Kelham and the others, and other subjects. There is nothing I can do to stop them.

I'm sure there are lively souls that play Russian roulette when they're feeling like this. Or a game with a knife, between their fingers. (Souls have fingers too.) When they're feeling like me, desperate and bored and angry and psychotic. But not Mr Kelham. He doesn't feel like this. There's no need for the gun or the knife. He's calm and happy. And ... not the dead. They're just pleased they're still breathing. I would be pleased, oh yes, indeed, indeed, indeed, if I were not so alive. That's where the pain comes from, being so alive. I'd recommend it to any of them.

Russell Investments is bringing its fund of hedge fund funds fund back from the dead!

It will be a miracle if Russell Investments manages to pull it off. The group's - is it a group? - hedge fund of fund funds died three years ago. Now, Egidio Robertiello has been put in charge of the resurrection.

For those of you who may not have a clue, Russell Investment Group is world-renowned for its depth of manager research, quality of manager selection, and access to some of the world's leading investment managers. They provide strategic advice, world-class implementation, state-of-the-art performance benchmarks, and a range of institutional-quality investment products for clients. And you thought they were a bunch of amateurs. Shame on you!

Right, I have been speaking to Ed. (He likes to be called 'Ed'.) This is what was spoken between us: 'Mikey, have you ever heard of anything like it, man? (What? Bringing a funds of hedge funds hedge fund back from the grave? It's fucking macabre, Ed. Nothing less than macabre. Are you sure you want to do this?) Got no choice, Mikey. They said to me, Ed, now's the time for you to prove yourself. Show us what you can do. It's dangerous, but you're the man for the job. (They said that? They must think you're some hot shit.) Yeah, but to tell you the truth, man, I'm scared out of my little head. I ain't never done nothing like this. Have you? (No.) But you're the world's foremost financial shaman! (Yes, but I'm not stupid. I think someone's got it in for you at Russell Investments.) They brought me in from Credit Suisse to handle the situation! (Yeah, but why? Who benefits if you end up trapped in the world of the dead, unable to return?) Unable to ... is that likely? (It's possible, Ed.) Well, I suppose anything is possible, but - (Isn't there any way you can go back to Credit Suisse?) No, I've burnt my bridges with them. (Oh dear, Ed. You're in a right pickle, aren't you?) Can't you help me, Mike? (I can say a little prayer for you. I mean ...) Great. [Sarcastic git.] (I can't even do that, really. Big Herb is dead. And I'm not praying to

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That's enough. I don't enjoy writing this whimsical crap any more. I'm not the shaman I used to be.

[These notes are for me. A record of the way I'm feeling on 27th September 2011.]

I don't want to have conversations with anyone. And I don't want to mention Big Herb, the desert, the astral plane, or any of the old stuff ever again.

Life is darker for me, much darker than it used to be. I'm sure I'll manage a bit of sardonic humour; but no one should expect fireworks.

And I want to withdraw. You engage with the world and you just get misunderstood at best; fucked over by imbeciles at worst. The game isn't worth the candle.

I've got to write this blog for myself only.

The Monday morning question: do we need more regulation of ETFs?

The Monday morning question?! What's this nonsense? Some ridiculous marketing gimmick? Forget about it. I'm going to sack that fucking intern! And it's nearly lunchtime - or it will be, nearly. And I didn't have any breakfast. I can't function properly without my toast and tea. Blackcurrant jam? You bet! But, anyway, ETFs: do we need more regulation of ETFs? Synthetic ETFs or any other sort? No! We don't. There is too much regulation already. How is anyone supposed to make any money? Regulators like the FSA [dead shark, thinks it's alive] will soon be telling us how many times a day we're allowed to go to the toilet. (Just how Hitler got started.) Well, they won't be telling me. They have no power over me. I don't trade. I don't work for a financial firm. I don't have any shares in anything. I'm aloof. Above it. Away from the dirt and the noise. Olympian. That's why I'm so respected, and why financiers, investors, and mystic kooks from all over the world value my advice. I'm not one of these dodgy journalists. You don't know what they're involved in, half of them.

All I can say is: bring on the cheese rolls! (Like old-fashioned sausage rolls, but cheese.) I'm starving. Trust me, you don't want to write about ETFs, you don't even want to think about ETFs, not when you're hungry and you know there are some cheese rolls in the fridge downstairs, along with some Disco big flavoured crunchy snacks, and a mango and passion fruit yoghurt, and a can of Coke - and none of that diet muck. And don't ask me why I've put big flavoured crunchy snacks in the fridge. It's just convenient. They're in the bag with the other stuff. So there - I've told you. Are you satisfied now?

And let me tell you, I'm looking forward to the Monday afternoon depression. Well, I can't say I'm looking forward to it, but I know it's coming. Overcast, ain't it? Where's that Indian summer? Good news: it starts tomorrow! That will cheer me up. I'll be able to go for a walk in the park. Might even pop over to Chiswick. There are a lot of fit birds in Chiswick, you know. And the sun brings them out. It's hormones or something. The sun activates them? I don't know. I'm not a doctor.

I'm a shaman. I am the world's foremost financial shaman. I should be writing about ETFs. If I can just forget about the cheese rolls, and forget about the women, you never know, I might actually achieve something today. I might write a post that even the squares will take an interest in. But don't hold your breath.

Let's leave it here. 'One more thing?' No, this isn't Columbo. No more questions. I won't be doing this again.

I wish I were an old billionaire with grey hair

I'd like to be old and rich. All the pain is gone when you're old. All the passion too. I'd like to be rich enough and old enough not to have a care in the world. I'd like to sit in my favourite armchair with a blanket over my legs. The closer you are to money the closer you are to death the closer you are to ... I'd like to be old and mad. With grey hair down to my feet. And I'd like a grey hermit's grey beard. I would lock myself away in a mansion, a palace. Men with guns and dogs would protect me. I'd be free of scum. The further you are from humanity the further you are from life the further you are from ...

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I don't really want any of that shit. I was being sarcastic. 

Is Oswald Grubel leaving UBS?

Or is he staying? I'll be happy/miserable either way. I don't care what he does. I'm sure he'll try to cling on to power. These types always try. Yes, they always try. It won't do him any good though. It didn't do Big Herb any good. The end for him was death in the astral sands, a bloody cut throat. The red in the yellow. Even now, I see the red in the yellow. Right now, I'm seeing it: the astral blood of a dead god, and those sands I'll never roll in again. Take me home, children. I want to go home ...

Oswald Grubel is in Singapore with the board of UBS. Executives! Directors! [I don't know. I can hardly ...] And I bet he's bored stiff. I know I would be/am ... crying tears of boredom. Because ... the board is so boring, and so is the Grand Prix. All those cars, going round and round, and round, getting nowhere. Oh, I don't care what they do with Grubel; but they better not touch my dear friend, Carsten Kengeter. That would really upset me. And I'm very irrational when I'm upset. I just lash out. Well, I slash out, with my razor, and (nearly) everything is red then. Sometimes there is (was) yellow sand, and a bit of blue sky. It's mostly red. And I'm very passionate about red. Blood like lipstick on open mouth red lips there's an image of a face red lips and red T-shirt and nice smile ... there's nothing boring there ... that would ... I know ...

I'm going in the wrong direction. Because I'm bored. If only I could destroy. If only I could spread terror. I have a dream. It's their nightmare.

Brevan Howard is giving $2 billion away!

Who has ever heard of such a thing? A hedge fund giving money away! But why? Well, Brevan Howard feels it has too much money. It says $25 billion is enough. It doesn't need $27 billion, apparently. How bizarre! But I won't complain if some of the money just happens to find its way into my bank account. If anyone from Brevan Howard is reading this, $50 million should be sufficient. And if you think about it, you probably owe me that much, anyway. All the publicity I've given you, the mystical help. It all adds up, you know. Got to be worth at least $50 million. I've got mouths to feed. (No, I haven't, but it's what people say in these situations, isn't it?)

   

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That's enough Brevan Howard for one day. If they want me to write more, they'll have to pay me. I don't do this for my health. I want the MONEY!

St. James's Place has changed its Cash fund to Money Market fund

Try and guess why. Go on. All right, I'll tell you. St. James's Place changed the name because of guidance/advice from the FSA! Can you believe it? My God, it's an outrage! We're not free to name our own funds now! Is this North Korea? I'm surprised the FSA didn't also advise David Bellamy, the chief executive, to change his name to, oh, I don't know, Sebastian Schnook? If only there were an off-the-shelf solution to the FSA, but there isn't, is there? As we know, the FSA is the dead shark that refuses to believe in death. And you can't kill a dead shark.

It's so depressing. Will we (you, to be honest) never wake one morning to find it gone? Well, it doesn't affect me all that much (or at all). I'm thinking of you, dear reader. It's you I'm thinking of. I'm thinking of "you". I know you see the dead shark in your nightmares; and your daymares, obviously. You're never truly awake. It can't be much fun. I mean, I used to see it, myself. I know what it's like, and how terrible it can be. [Those fucking teeth!] But I made a decision not to accept dead sharks in my life. And I know you haven't been able to make that decision yet. You don't have the strength. And I'm not blaming you. Oh, I'm not blaming you, child. You are not the world's foremost financial shaman, so how could you have the strength?

Kay Haigh is launching his Avantium Investment Management, a new hedge fund ... global macro

Next month. Yes, global macro. But I don't know what he's going to do for a website. Someone seems to have taken his firm's name for a site. I suspect he'll have to pay out big money to get his hands on it. Or his mind. How do you physically touch a website? And it's not even a proper website yet. Just a domain name, really. However, it's not my problem, and I don't even know why I'm writing about it. I should be writing about the fact Kay Haigh will be dabbling in all this macro nonsense that Lee Robinson and I have been warning everyone about. (Kay, ask Lee. He'll show you the scars.) No one listens to us.

So, the EM Macro Master fund will be unleashed upon the world next month, and it will have over $200 million in assets - for starters. Of course, it’s none of my business, and I'm not even interested. I want to get back to the grandeur of last week. I don't want to be writing about global macro. I'm above all that. I'm practically living on Mount Olympus these days, and you want me to write about global macro? Get the fuck outta here!

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Oh dear.

One day, after my ship has come in, I'm going to slow things down a bit. I'll spend hundreds of thousands of pounds promoting this blog, but I'll only write when I'm feeling all elevated. That's the plan, anyway. But nothing ever goes to plan, does it? Not with me. Today, I'm in the foul rag and bone shop of the heart. And it's disgusting. I absolutely hate it here. It certainly wasn't a part of my plan for the start of this week.

Well, at least I'm going to be having Disco crisps with my lunch. That's something to look forward to. (They're actually big flavoured crunchy snacks. I'm not sure the manufacturer will appreciate my calling them "crisps". I'm such a **** sometimes.)

We are at the gates

Oh, the arrogance! The arrogance of daring to breathe in a sick world where only fools are allowed to prosper. How did I get here? And what do I think I'm doing? No one has given me permission. What is my authority?

If only I had a little intellect. A smidgen. What a wonderful blessing that would be! I'd cry tears of joy. Unfortunately, I have more than a little intellect. My mind sees all of earthly reality, and, what's more, it understands all. There are genuine horrors that are hidden from the purveyors of news. So, are they ignorant? They are lucky.

The world is nothing. Yes, earthly reality is nothing. Still, I go on with life, playing my part. I can't stop. There are men and women putting words on nothingness. They think it means something. It is easy to write when you have the consciousness of a worm. It's not so easy when you are almost a god. I am up against animals who do not know, and who do not care. I confront them; try to make them see the error of their ways; but how do you shame the shameless? Not just shameless, but the mind/life less. Are they dead? No, these animals are breathing! Their deaths were an illusion/delusion ... collusion? They are alive, with a few thoughts, and they seem to be happy. But oh / ah / oh / do they not know their happiness is absolutely ridiculous? Would it take God to whisper to them, a raging thunder in their skulls, that all was not well? It is easy to despair. A weaker man would give in. A dumber man would consider the fight futile. But I soldier on for no reason. After all, this is a conquest of nothing. I go on, on, on! 'Why?' Because I know it's the way to immortality. (Is that a reason? On!) Losing meaning, I / I have no knowledge or authority when the words and visions come. I am helpless in the sea of literature; or is it the sky? I don't know. It doesn't matter. Open to everything and willing to risk my life, I go into ... whatever it is, or rather, I am taken.

And so now, now, now ... What is the time? I'm recovering from a disturbed night. But then what's new? Every morning is the same, after every night. Is it the afternoon - now? I'm a wild and colourful consciousness speculator, with my psychological losses, with such disturbed nights. There were no lovely dreams for me last night. I had the terrors of God on me, oh, again. A reminder that I have not escaped. Now, in this day, I wonder where the stars are. I suppose I'll have to wait ... until, tonight; and then, then I will not sleep. I'll get my darkness, the way a shaman should. I'll see the stars - if there are no clouds. I will set myself up for the cosmos. I'll be wide awake, with no dreams! And no nightmares! I never want to sleep again. I can control my pain when my eyes are open. I want the simple life without these little fake deaths. Give me bread and water, and the freedom to find my words. I'll survive like that. From my room, my prison cell, I'll stretch out across the sky (er, it's the sky) and may even go beyond. I really want to escape. I need to get away. We can travel in our minds to other worlds. I've touched realities far removed from here. My invisible fingernails have scraped the edges of the universe! But I always fall to earth. It's a tragedy for me. And it's a tragedy for anyone who follows me. I am the evolutionary spearhead. If I fail, we all fail. Unless someone wants to ease me out of my position. I know of no other man or woman who wants to take on the existential challenge of a lifetime. Deathtime, too. I say, it ain't easy. Remember (or maybe learn): there is more life than we are aware of. Death is only the beginning of it. We are at the gates.

Kweku Adoboli is the UBS rogue trader

Yes, it’s Kweku Adoboli. And he's been arrested in London. But I wouldn't worry about it. We're all rogue traders at heart. By the way, nothing's been proved yet. Only God can judge Kweku - and us.

And it was a mere $2 billion. That's not a lot - not when you consider how much money has been lost during the financial crisis.

Samuel E "Q" Belk IV has joined Cambridge Associates as director of diversifying investments

And for once I'm lost for words. Can you just give me a moment? No, I can't do it. I can't write this post. I'm sorry, Sammy, mate, but this is not acceptable. I know it's not your fault. Or maybe it is. Maybe you take pride in it. I don't know.

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Let's draw a line under the whole affair, dear reader, and move on. Did you see Terry Smith on Newsnight last night? Terry Smith. That's a good honest name, isn't it? You can have a pint in the pub with a man like that. (I get these vibrations, as you know.) He'll probably bore you to tears, droning on about Spitfires and shit, but still ...

Bruce Kovner has been grooming Andrew Law

And I thought that was illegal. But never mind. I'll gloss over it. I don't want to get anyone in trouble. We all have our peccadilloes. Let's concentrate on the news that Bruce Kovner is retiring from Caxton Associates after thirty years. He's had enough. Sick of being chairman and chief executive. It's understandable. He's made his billions. Now he's going to devote himself to mysticism, and to moving beyond money. Well, that's what he has written in a letter to investors. I can't see it happening myself. So it is written, so shall it be done? No, not in this case. The mysticism will be fine, if he follows my example, but moving beyond money? I haven't managed that yet, so how does Bruce expect to do it? Sure, it's an ambition of mine, of all financial shamans, and even the children [- you?], but let's not run before we can walk, eh? And let's have a bit of humility before the mysteries. Arrogance isn't going to help us. It will just shut us off from the prize. None of us want that.

And I know a lot of you wonder: 'Oh, what is the prize? What is it?' Well, I wish I knew. I'm just as much in the dark. I suspect it may be some form of salvation. Oneness with God? I wouldn't rule it out. However, God and I don't exactly see eye to eye. Slightly socialistic, ain't He? That's not really what we're looking for in a leader. And with my cutting Big Herb's throat, well ... you can see what I'm getting at. This 'prize', this 'salvation', is - or is becoming, in a perverse way - my responsibility. I'm the one who will have to lead the children to the promised land. I'm the one who wanted it, after all. I mean, the glory, and that. No one made me settle Big Herb's hash, and send Ganesh the elephant god into exile, or admit the truth about Jack Pickles, or disappear the ghosts of the dead financiers, sideline Satan, and ... defy God. Jesus H. Christ! I feel dizzy! What have I done?! I'm either very brave or very stupid. I'm like Napoleon on the road to Moscow. How many of you will fall? (If I retreat. I'm not retreating!) It's my mad adventure. Are you really coming with me? I can't believe I inspire such devotion.

Ted Weschler? I couldn't tell you

If you asked me, I wouldn't know. There are people who come out of the blue, the blue sky. They are little gifts from God. Ted Weschler of Peninsula Capital Partners is a big gift from God, a man out of the BLACK sky to Berkshire Hathaway. Inexplicable. Incomprehensible. [Inescapable?] And it is pure, unadulterated Ted-ness. That's what we are dealing with. A hedge fund manager like we have never known - until now.

So don't ask me. 'Why did Ted Weschler pay five million dollars for his dinner?' Oh, Christ! The things you ask me! I don't know. There are people starving in the world. I can't explain. None of it makes any sense. 'How did he get a job with Mr Buffett?' Jesus H. Christ! Those dinners, I suppose. What do I know? I've got problems I'm trying to cope with in an absolutely wretched life, and you're pestering me like this? It's not fair. Even shamans need a break, you know. And I feel broken, anyway. It's all so confusing.

I'm just mad about Zafferano Capital

Zafferano Capital's mad about me. Electrical banana is bound to be the very next phase. But let's not get ahead of ourselves.

Zafferano Capital is - or will be - a new emerging markets alternative investments firm, run by John Macfarlane and Nigel Whittaker, who are both leaving Tudor Investment Corp..

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Right, that's enough. The electrical banana will have to wait. I'm making my fresh start today. Oh, I know I wasn't going to mention it again, but I'm confident it will work out this time. I have a new approach! (Thank you, Mr Robbins. I've modified it a bit.) A good psychological trick is to "use" someone you can model yourself on. My mistake the other week was to choose Bill Gates, which was as big a mistake as using my hero, Picasso, on other occasions. Why was it a mistake? Because I don't come from the same background as him. Now, this is going to seem rather bizarre, but I actually believe Marco Pierre White and Gordon Ramsay will be better "models". 'Two chefs?!' Bear with me. Just hear me out, for Christ's sake! They're from similar backgrounds, to each other and me. You see? Humble beginnings. And it was through an insane work ethic that they escaped their backgrounds. This makes far more sense than focusing on Gates, who came from a very wealthy family and went to private school and Harvard. And, yes, I know that White and Ramsay are flawed characters, but I'm one myself. So it's perfect. Before you act, you need to believe, no, actually know, that what you want to achieve is possible. And you need to know how to achieve it.

To be honest, I don't think I've been too lazy in my life. (Over 400,000 words in five years, compared to Rimbaud's 50,000 or so in five years; and I've managed to surpass him with important works such as The immortal words of a mortal man. And please consider that not even Rimbaud created a new form of literature. He merely revolutionized an old form. And if you don't agree with me: fuck you! Much-loved regular reader or not. Oxbridge **** or not. I'm the expert here.) It's just that I've suffered from depression, and a sense of futility - which isn't necessarily connected to it. However, hard work can cure depression, or at least hide it.

Of course, dear reader, you won't notice a great deal of change at Money is the way. My blogging will go on much the same as before (but with The Three Cs). It's the songwriting I need to get to grips with.

I'd love to write a great pop song like Maybe I Know, recorded by Lesley Gore, and written by Jeff Barry and Ellie Greenwich. It is pure pop genius.

Myriad Asset Management launch delayed by some goddamn stinking chivato

I can't believe this shit. Carl Huttenlocher was supposed to be launching his new hedge fund this month, but Hong Kong's Securities and Futures Commission is refusing to give Carl a licence until it has investigated allegations that he got involved in shenanigans at Highbridge. (And who will be leading the investigation, the mild-mannered janitor, a dog in a filing cabinet? Puh-lease!) Some informer, some goddamn stinking chivato, has claimed that assets were improperly valued at Carl's old fund, and that its redemption gate and payout plan were designed to inflate fees at the expense of clients.

Why am I so upset?

Firstly, as I've always said: who cares about the clients? Hedge funds are in business to make money! (Am I wrong on this? I'm not a communist!) My view is, the clients can take it or leave it. I'm sick and tired of all the crawling to clients that goes on. They're just a bunch of opportunistic bums with money under the mattress. That's the sordid truth. They ain't got a clue about working for a living. It has never entered their heads that they should go out and get jobs like everyone else. They think money will do the work for them. So these aren't people we want to respect. People like Carl and his team at Myriad are the people we should respect, and love, and SUPPORT! Not treat them like dirt, for Christ's sake! We're talking about capitalists here - mystical capitalists, most of them. Hard-working souls that put their blood and their fire on the line every single day. What the hell is going on?

Secondly, Carl is a friend of mine. I've only known him about a month, but we've become really close. And he's taken to financial shamanism like a duck to water. He got a little tearful when I went into the recent history - I had to explain to him why Big Herb's assassination was absolutely necessary, and why we won't be seeing the elephant any more - but I'm convinced he'll make a first-class shaman once he's completed basic training.

If I find out the name of the chivato, he or she is going to wish I hadn't. I can just imagine the rat reading this post: 'I hope he's a nice guy who doesn't need to use the razor to make a point'. Yeah, right. Did I get where I am today by being a nice guy?

Paul Marriage is optimistic about small caps and there is nothing we can do

We'll just have to let him get away with it, this optimism.

I suppose someone is always optimistic about something. It's the human condition, isn't it? We can't all be pessimists. And I was optimistic, once, you know; before I had a look around the desolate market where none (usually) come to buy and foolishly bought myself a bit of wisdom. So I'll never be optimistic again. I've learnt my lesson. But it doesn't matter where you go in the world, you'll always bump into a grinning halfwit who's looking for a pot of gold with his name on it, normally at the end of a ludicrous rainbow. It's an absolute nuisance. The only thing to do is to ignore such people.

However, I may as well tell you about Paul Marriage. (It's a matter of honour now that I see this post through to the bitter end.) Exactly what is his problem? Well, for starters, Mr Marriage is the manager of the Cazenove UK Smaller Companies fund. That should set alarm bells ringing. Of course he's going to be optimistic about small caps! That's his job. And for finishers (finishers, already?), there's the fact that Mr Marriage has plenty of cash to invest from his £77 million portfolio. Oh, well, enough written. Wouldn't you be optimistic if you had plenty of cash to invest from your £77 million portfolio? I know I wouldn't.

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'I know I wouldn't.' And that was the bitter end - except for this, whatever this is.

I have no idea what this is. More words. It's because I don't want to leave you. I know you're just as lonely as I am. So there's more. Until it sickens me and I have to leave.

It sickens me. Yes, it sickens me. But I'm still here. You go first. Goodbye, my friend.

You can stop reading now. I'm not going to say anything witty or interesting this late in the post. Haven't you got any work to do?

Oh, you're such a fucking optimist!

SEC charges Clay Capital with insider trading

The SEC has been complaining again. This time it's upset about James Turner and his hedge fund: 'On August 31, 2011, the Securities and Exchange Commission charged James F. Turner II and his New Jersey-based hedge fund firm Clay Capital Management, LLC with engaging in an insider trading scheme that involved the securities of three companies - Moldflow Corporation, Autodesk, Inc. and Salesforce.com, Inc. The SEC also charged Turner's brother-in-law Scott A. Vollmar, Turner's friend Scott A. Robarge and Vollmar's neighbor Mark A. Durbin for their roles in the scheme. In total, the scheme generated illicit gains of nearly $3.9 million.' More, than is healthy.

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And I haven't got anything to say about it. I'm in London, England. Why should I care what they get up to in goddamn New Jersey? Yes, I know I'm supposed to be the world's foremost financial shaman, but sometimes I don't feel like a shaman at all.

My "fresh start" hasn't worked out - yet. I'm not even going to talk about fresh starts any more. No one makes fresh starts anyway. Life just goes on; and my life is like an oil tanker heading in the wrong direction.

Don't go to strangers

I once told you / you / you / would become strangers to those who knew you. 'You shall become strangers to those who know you.' And I was right! My children, you have become strangers to those who knew you. They don't know you now. Let's face it, they are the true strangers, anyway, always were: stranger than anything. Strangers to wisdom, to capitalism, to decency. Diabolical strangers to us!

With our pain we are moving through this hell, altering states of consciousness for the better, lifting the low ones high - out of the goodness of our hearts. We don't expect any thanks. We don't expect medals even though we are the bravest soldiers in a war against corruption and stupidity. I was chosen by Nature! And then I chose you. You were rather flattered. You thought it would be a good idea to follow me. To begin with, I put the blood on you. Children, I gave you the flames of my fire. Time passed as I filled your minds with vibrating words. You were so grateful. And today? We are friends. We are lovers. Through this hell there is a way to ... who knows?

Let's not worry too much about where we are going. We should take comfort from the fact we're not with the strangers.

Stay with me. I get lonely when you go. Stay right here. You'll only be deceived in those other regions. Strangers couldn't be straight with you if their lives depended on it. Their whole philosophy is crooked. They even believe their own lies. They love hell. That's how lost they are. So don't go to them. If I were the last sha/man on earth ... the last sha/man? No, but it feels like it ... if I were ...

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It is hard to live with reality. It either drives you insane or turns you into a liar. It gives you fragments and broken lines, when what you want (and need) is the purity of godlike expression. In the depths of obscurity there is hell. In the rarefied air of clarity there is something akin to heaven. The truth has to be clear. Opinions only confuse. Salvation is outside reality.

There is no truth where we are. No way for us to be saved. But I feel positive, for a change, and I seem to be holding myself together: a paragraph or two of genuine control. However, I know it will not last. I am being crushed by life.

Who is Leigh Himsworth?

And why the hell does he deserve to have Eden Financial launching some kind of crazy ass CF Eden UK Select Opportunities fund for his benefit? Like he's someone special. [Like a potential god?] He's only a new recruit, that's all. What the hell is going on?

I'm really annoyed about this. No one launches funds for me. [I am so close to becoming a god. I dream of the elevation.] I've been writing this blog for almost five years now. There hasn't been one launch of any sort of fund in my honour. And I'm starting to feel unappreciated. I want to caress someone with a razor. Oh, the cold steel! The look in their eyes. Moorgate. I'll be out for a victim. Someone with a rough face I can work with. Yes, I'm a vegetarian with a passion for human flesh! But I won't eat it. I'll take a couple of cheese rolls with me.

'At the heart of Eden lies a dynamic culture wholly focused on the delivery of investment excellence and high quality client service. This commitment is uncompromising. It touches every aspect of Eden’s business and is the driving force behind it. Everything we do centres on client needs and the fulfilment of their investment objectives.' Could I feel any worse? Eden's commitment is uncompromising. It's rubbing salt in the wound! Client needs?! Oh, everyone's concerned about clients and their absurd 'needs'! How wonderful! What about my needs? Doesn't anyone care about me?

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No, I'm not going to Moorgate. Let them do what they want to do. Let Leigh Himsworth have his brief moment of glory. I have bigger fish to fry. But I won't eat them.