I've had my lunch

Cheese and onion rolls. (Like sausage rolls for vegetarians.) Crisps. Yoghurt. A can of Coke. None of that diet muck. I'm still depressed, and a bit angry. Charlie's chakras? Oh, Charles Kirwan-Taylor won't have any fucking chakras by the time I've finished with him! Remember when I stopped them whirling? That was nothing.

The last post of the month. I haven't been too literary this year - yet. I don't give a shit. My blog, my rules. I'm too unsettled. Depressed, and angry. I don't feel like a smooth poet. I feel like a rough killer. A monster. You should never trust a vegetarian.

I was in a very bad mood on Sunday. I meant what I said about the work stuff, but not about my angel. She'll always matter, whatever her attitude is. I don't want to upset her. She means so much to me. This world is a horror show. She's the only good thing in it.

If I were God, I wouldn't have any dealings with the Earth. And I don't think He does. I mean, look at all the wars and disasters. All those people praying to Him and He just wants to be left alone, I'm sure. 'It was a mistake. Don't they understand, the cretins? A mistake!'

Charles Kirwan-Taylor has left RAB Capital now!!!

And I don't even care, so I don't know why I'm using the exclamation marks. All I know is that it's bad news for Charlie's aura and his chakras.

I tried my best to help these people. Charlie gave me his word of honour that he wouldn't leave RAB Capital. But then so did Stephen Couttie.

I'm not speaking to them, any of them. Michael Alen-Buckley phoned me a couple of hours ago. I put the phone down on him. I'm just not interested.

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Let's write about something else. (Well, I'll do the writing - if you don't mind. You can do the reading.) If another chief executive lets me down, I'll ... forget it!

I've been thinking I really should get on with writing my songs while there's still a music business left to appreciate them. You can hardly find rare albums any more unless you go to a big shop in central London. There's a small independent shop in Chiswick though. I'm amazed it stays in business. As we all know, illegal downloads are the problem. I reckon music publishing will be okay as long as nothing happens to the radio or TV. Anyway - or whatever - I know for a fact you can make more money from songwriting than blogging. And songwriting is actually easier than blogging - if you're talented like me, that is. Having said that, I still haven't managed to write the lyrics for my second song. It's a lack of will rather than a lack of creativity. I think I fear writing a mediocre lyric to a brilliant piece of music. But I should just get on with it. What have I got to lose?

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Reader, I know this isn't a music blog, but what do you want from me, eh? What do you expect? Charles Kirwan-Taylor has ... forget it! Just fucking forget it!

I'm going for lunch.

As Stephen Hester gives up his bonus ...

Michael Fowke says: 'Go and get a job in a fucking hedge fund, Stephen, if you want to earn millions and millions and millions of pounds.'

I'm Michael Fowke, by the way, the world's foremost financial shaman. I'm the author of this blog, but I guess you know that.

This Stephen Hester, I spent a couple of days in the desert with him when he first became chief executive of Royal Bank of Scotland. I can't say I warmed to him all that much, even though he was on fire. Burning brightly, as they say. I knew he was only interested in the money. He completely missed the spiritual/mystical side. He paid it lip service, of course, but then a lot of bankers do that, don't they?

I want to earn millions and millions and millions of pounds, myself. But I'm not going to work in a hedge fund. I'd get bored.

Philippe Gougenheim with a bizarre Glasnost hedge fund thing now

Isn't it amazing, some of the stuff that goes on? This nutty Philippe Gougenheim character is supposed to be the big boss of hedge funds at Unigestion. But that's not good enough for him, oh no. (No!) Yes, he's running away to start his own hedge fund, this "Glasnost" whatever. Philippe wants to be open and transparent and all liquid - personally, I'm saying/writing. Forget about the hedge fund (it won't be launched until June or may never be launched - if it's an absurd pipe dream, which is entirely possible) this is personal. Philippe wants us to see through him. (Oh dear! Like he's made out of glass?) And he wants us to look inside and see the liquid. (Eh?! Like he's a glass we would drink out of?) And he wants to flow into our mouths like the finest champagne. (My God! Is he fucking sick?!) I can't believe these Swiss twats! Oh, they're all the same, aren't they? I mean, cuckoo clocks? Where do they get their ideas from?

This is why I won't go to Davos. My angel's on her own, I'm afraid. 'Oh, Michael, darling, please come. I need you here with me.' No! I'd do anything for love, but I won't do that!

The FSA has decided to fine David Einhorn £7.2 million

Yesterday. Just decided. Just like that. 'Oh, what shall we do today? I know, let's fine Einhorn £7.2 million. We need some new carpets.' Absolutely outrageous!

'On 9 June 2009, Einhorn was a party to a telephone conference in which it was disclosed to him by a corporate broker acting on behalf of Punch Taverns Plc that Punch was at an advanced stage of the process towards a significant equity fundraising. This was inside information and Einhorn should have appreciated this. A matter of minutes after the telephone conversation had concluded and on the basis of that inside information Einhorn gave instructions to sell all of Greenlight's holding in Punch. At the time these instructions were given Greenlight held 13.3% of Punch's issued equity.' More, than is healthy.

So, apparently, Mr Einhorn - not "Einhorn", if you don't mind, let's have a bit of respect - didn't realize that it was inside information. The FSA claims he's a clever boy, so he should have realized. Well, maybe. I don't know. Should he have realized, dear reader? And £7.2 million is a lot of money, isn't it? I'm not exactly Mr Einhorn's biggest fan. (He hasn't got any time for mystical capitalism. He never came to the desert in the old days.) However, this doesn't mean I want to see a dead shark biting lumps out of him. It wouldn't be so bad if it believed in death, but this is The Dead Shark That Refuses To Believe In Death.

Actually, I need some new carpets. I might fine someone.

_________________________

Yes, I might fine someone. Then jump on a plane to Davos and hang out with my angel. Normally, I wouldn't dream of going to Davos, but when you're in love you do crazy stuff, don't you?

His name is Mudd, Daniel Mudd

And he's just resigned from Fortress Investment Group, where he was the chief executive - of all things! Bloody hell! I'm trying to concentrate on writing about finance here while dealing with all kinds of nonsense. There are literally morons shouting in the street outside my window. There is a cat screeching. (Do cats screech? Maybe it's howling.) Not my cat, thank God. I hate cats. However, I don't hate that three-legged cat that hangs around. If it's him, he can howl all he wants. I mean, he's disabled, ain't he - or it? But about Daniel Mudd. This is the man who had it in for Abraham Lincoln. No, sorry, that's not ... Daniel Mudd has just resigned from Fortress Investment Group [yes, yes] because the SEC is after him, suing him. He says he's innocent, of course. He says he never made false and misleading statements about exposing himself to ... on the subway?! No, Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac to subprime mortgages. Yes. Oh, yes! Clarity at last! Well, no. Almost. Isn't this the dream?

Yes, clarity is the dream. I would sell my soul to the devil for clarity. And control, concentration. The chaos of life? It's killing me. And I have more than the average joe because I notice it, and I let it all in.

I'm listening to Roxy Music's Country Life at the moment. How much did I like Bryan Ferry when I was seventeen? I dyed my hair black! That's how much. I liked David Bowie as well, obviously. It's why I wore those baggy trousers from his Stage tour. And let's leave David Sylvian out of it! I'm not discussing lip gloss.

Lee Marvin. Lee Marvin. Lee Marvin. Let's focus on Lee Marvin. Or maybe Steve McQueen. Bogart! I need Bogart to come to me, like in that Woody Allen film.

Bogart? I should be writing about the man whose name is Mudd, but life is too short.

Lloyd Blankfein calls me out of the blue

Well, he phoned me. I'm not saying he called my name. I'm not saying I heard my name on the wind all the way from New York. That would be fucking ridiculous and I'm surprised you fell for it. Do you believe everything I tell you?

No, he phoned me, late last night, out of the blue. This is what was spoken between us: 'Mikey, how you doing, boy? (What do you want, Lloyd? Who have I got to hit now?) What the f**k is this? Can't I call an old friend? We haven't spoken since the Lee Robinson affair. (No, I phoned you about my intern, remember?) Oh yeah. That freak. (You didn't give him a job, did you?) F**k no! (Good. So who do you want me to hit?) Mikey, Viniar gets all the contracts these days, you know this. You're hurting my feelings. (Lloyd, you haven't got any feelings. I can't imagine you became chief executive of Goldman by having feelings. Jesus.) Okay, Michael, I'll level with you. When are you coming back? I miss you, kid. (I'm not working for you again.) We had some laughs, didn't we? (The people we hurt, they weren't laughing, were they? I feel bad, Lloyd, real bad. I get these nightmares, you know? I see their faces, man.) You know your problem? You've been spending too much time with that little prick, Bobby D. He doesn't even pay you. (I ain't seen Bobby in ages. I ain't got no connection with Barclays any more. I'm on my own now, Lloyd. And that's the way I like it.) How are your songs coming along? (I'm making progress.) You ain't gonna be no Burt f**king Bacharach, Mikey! (What do you know about it?! Just fuck off, Lloyd, all right?) You're a shaman, for Christ's sake! The best there's ever been. (I've got more strings to my bow.) We'll see.'

Can you believe what a pain in the arse this guy is?

Iain Stewart is very keen on gold, says it's a sensible hedge

And I have to agree with him. Iain Stewart is the manager of Newton Investment Management's Newton Real Return fund, by the way. I only wish I had enough money to buy gold. I'm investing in the next best thing: baked beans. I have fifty tins now. I reckon that when Western civilization collapses I'll be able to trade these beans in for fifty houses. Not that I'll need fifty houses. I'll only need my cave. On second thoughts, maybe I should save the beans for myself, and my loved ones. Well, my loved one. I'm not sure she's a big fan of baked beans. She's probably into fancy New York restaurants. However, if you're starving, you eat what you can get. Baked beans in a cave? It's what every girl dreams of.

_________________________

Oh, grey day. I hate the grey days. Give me the sunny days! I'm too depressed to write about finance. I really am feeling miserable. I wish Iain Stewart the best of luck with his fund, but ... there's got to be more to life, hasn't there? I wonder if Iain feels the same. I can imagine him in the office at Newton. 'Sod this for a game of soldiers! I'm going out to get drunk.'

I might go and play Catacombs. It's an old ZX81 game that I found online yesterday. I used to play it for hours on end when I was twelve years old. The game is off the fucking hook, I tell you.

Laters.


Update (Tuesday, 7.30am)

It has just occurred to me that language tells lies even when the people using it think they're being truthful.

No subject

There's no subject, and no pain. 'What?!' Oh, I wish! And no fears, and no troubles, ha, really, nothing to worry about? In my dreams! I'm trapped, a prisoner, a monkey, a fly. I'm stuck, a fly with intelligence, in jam, almost as bad as the ones I despise, those flies without intelligence. The jam of cold reality, it is. I can't escape my consciousness, can I? And my consciousness can't escape the jam, can it? It's so incredibly sticky! So this is it. Yes, yes, yes. My fate. Our fate. My punishment. Your nightmare. A rat with soul! And I wanted glory. I am a big, soulful rat in the sewer of life. Just marvellous. How wonderful! It was worth being born for, and worth all the grief of hanging around, eh? Well, no subject, then? No, no, no. What is this, do you think? It's not nothing. Ah, nothing. God! Maybe if I fake it, it will come to be. Emptiness that would make King Solomon proud? I don't know. How could I know? I can't make sense of anything. I'm suffering. This utter misery. My aching heart! "No subject" seems to be the subject here, that's the problem. What can I do? I can't fake emptiness when I'm full of words and ideas, right in front of your eyes, dear reader. Because it's not nothing, I'm afraid, all this. No, this isn't nothing, a beautiful nothing that would set me free. This is something, an awful something that makes me a pathetic slave.

You, reader, you ...

One day, soon, I'll break the world, your world. Yes, it's your world, and I blame you for the mess. 'My world?!' I will smash it into a million pieces. You must prepare for another life. I'll take your money and your possessions. I'll strip you of everything! Together, we'll be naked on the earth. Kindred spirits, at last. Try to understand, this: we are one action away from a tragedy, or one action away from a glorious comedy that will change the way we feel about everything. It's true. "They" say I'm crazy, but "they" don't see what I see. And who could know what I know, that there is nothing to know, just a hell of a lot to fear? We need to feel, feel joy, and we will.

Anthony Chiasson, Todd Newman, Jon Horvath, Danny Kuo ...

Anyone else? Yes. Spyridion Adondakis, Jesse Tortora, and Sandeep Goyal. All charged yesterday in America. They've been accused of insider trading. I don't know all the details. I don't have an intern, so what do you expect? The truth is, I'm not interested in all the details. I have problems in my life that I'm trying to deal with, and you want me to focus my attention on some guys I've never met who are mixed up in something I don't understand and could never understand because I'm a simple shaman who half the time isn't even connected to normal reality in this terrible world? What have I done to deserve a reader like you?

_________________________

Now I need to go into a trance. Or something. I don't care about this post. It was doomed from the start. (I had a bad feeling, you know?) I need to think about my next post, if you don't mind. I mean, if it's all right with you. Not that I need your permission. You can't stop me. No one can. I close my eyes for a few seconds and I get visions! Seconds! It used to be minutes. I'm drifting away from your world, reader. Yes, it's your world, your terrible world. I never wanted to get involved, but I got dragged into it. By demons? Probably. I don't know.

Are you a demon, child?

Noam Gottesman is no longer co-chief executive of GLG!

It's a smart move. I think dealing with all those cold earth wanderers at Man Group has worn him out. They don't have a mystical bone in their body(s?), while my dear friend Noam has loads. He's well out of it! He's moved to a non-executive role, whatever that means. [It means he's now chairman of the company's interest in the US - my intern.] I don't have an intern! Apologies for that. Which company, Man or GLG, or both? It's very confusing. I wish Man hadn't bought GLG. I can't understand all these mergers and takeovers that go on. I don't have much of a business brain. It's a good job I work on the shamanic side of things, eh? Jesus! Imagine me running Man/GLG! Run it into the ground? Well, no, actually. My greatness as the greatest financial shaman of all times would mean AUM would go through the roof. AUM? Yes, AUM. I've picked up a couple of things, you know.

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There's a brilliant film on TV tonight. (I've got the DVD.) Trees Lounge. 11.55pm, BBC One. Written and directed by Steve Buscemi. He plays the lead as well. I don't want to give too much away, but the final scene - for my money - is the most depressing scene in film history. The Tommy (Buscemi) character realizes his fate, that's why. He doesn't say anything, but you can tell by the expression on his face that he realizes. Maybe people like Tommy don't have a chance in life. Having said that, Duncan Bannatyne was an ice-cream man like Tommy, so ... life might be what you make it, maybe. Though it's easier to make something of a life that has already been partially made for you by your parents - if you know what I mean. Some people are given a winning lottery ticket at birth. Some people are so privileged that it takes a miracle for them to fuck up.


Update: I forgot the final scene in Gallipoli.

Robert Polak has founded Anchor Bolt Capital

There's always some - why wasn't I told sooner? Actually, why wasn't I told full stop? [I need a new intern.] Oh, it doesn't matter, I suppose. Those poor souls over at Bloomberg have all the details. It's a new hedge fund. (Surprise, surprise.) Based in Chicago, of all places. It's called Anchor Bolt Capital, of all things. (As you might have guessed, or maybe you saw the title of this post, or maybe you're one of these tuned-in people who - forget it!) Robert Polak used to work for Citadel. Of all the firms!

Oh, it's depressing. It really is.

And it's Sean Stephens I find so ooo depressing, to be honest, really. He's the chief financial officer - that's what he reckons, anyway, ha! Well, this "Sean Stephens" creature refused to comment on details regarding the fund's start. So this meant that Kelly Bit (an absolutely gorgeous girl, by the way) and Christian Baumgaertel had to fill up their news report with emptiness, sheer emptiness. Hedgies refusing to talk?! I understand it happens a lot. Especially with the younger reporters. You've got to feel sorry for these kids. They don't have the power I have. They can't make these hedge fund gits talk, can they?

It takes a shaman. Yes, it does! I can make them talk. It's true that most hedgies love me and want to talk, but I get the odd awkward bastard or git. They're the ones you have to break, quickly. (When I say "you" I mean "me".) Hit them with everything you've got. I'm talking blood, fire, the works. Of course, unless you're a top financial shaman you won't have access to blood, fire, or the works. Don’t get confused. The last thing I want to see is a bunch of amateurs running around putting the blood and fire (and the works) on the odd awkward bastard - or git.

I'll have to pay this "Sean Stephens" creature a visit, one of these nights, as The Eagles would say. I'll do it for my Kelly. I'll break this chief financial officer, ha! I'll make him cry. I'll make him beg for mercy. Just thirty minutes with me and he'll want to tell me everything. Even the most personal stuff. I can't wait!

Paul Moghtader loves controlled volatility

(Well, he would.) And that's all I know about him. I'm afraid Paul Moghtader is a bit of a mystery man. Well, I know a little more. Just a little. I know he's managing the Lazard Global Controlled Volatility fund with this Susanne Willumsen bird. But that's it. I honestly do not know anything else about him. And do you know what? I'm not even sure I want to know anything else or ... more. I'll only be disappointed. You should never meet your heroes. Though he's no hero of mine, and no one has suggested that I should meet him. (Not even me.) Perish the thought! I can't spare the time. Meeting fund managers? It's bad enough that I have to write about them.

No one forces me to, I know that. (Maybe the moon.) I just can't stop! It's bad enough, certainly, and yet I can't stop. What is wrong with ...? Oh, I know! Don't need to wonder, do I? I got the fever, must have it, with the blood dripping from last night's moon (every night's moon, let's face it) oh most nights, when it's out looking for savages like me to entice. Byron knew all about it. He packed in the roving because of it. But it affects different people in different ways. With me, it's fund managers. I can't explain why! With Byron? I wouldn't like to say. Augusta? No! I refuse to invade the man's privacy. He's been dead close to two hundred years. Let him rest in peace!

Is Raymond James merging with Morgan Keegan?

Well, I guess it must be. Why am I always the last one to know about these things? I bet Jamie Augustine knew. (Yes, Jamie knew!) So why didn't he tell me? And I thought he was a friend.

Hang on. Who the freakin' hell is John Carson? It says here (in some utterly absurd news report) that Carson will become president of Raymond James Financial and head of fixed income. What in the name of all that is holy is going on, for the love of Jesus H. Christ?! Isn't our Jamie the head of fixed income? If they've done anything to hurt our Jamie, I'll swing for them, I swear.

I bet Van Sayler is behind it! He's had it in for Jamie since the very beginning. I can't believe this! Someone tell me I'm having a nightmare.

Moore Capital should tell William Tung to sort himself out

What the hell is going on with this guy? William Tung says he's closing his Avesta Capital Advisors to return to Moore Capital, but (get this, un-fucking-believable) he may reopen Avesta at some point in the future - if he feels like it, if he decides to run away from Moore again, that is. What a character! Jesus Christ! If I were Louis Bacon, I would say to Tung: 'Listen, kid, it's nice to have you back. We missed you. But don't fuck us about. If you want to work here, fine, no problem. However, you're going to have to forget all this Avesta nonsense. It didn't take off. There's no shame in that. Not everyone can be like me. But you've got to be fully committed now, capiche? Is there something wrong with your chakras?'

Yes! There's got to be something wrong with his chakras! (Or his aura? You never know.) Why didn't I think of that? Thank you, Louis, Louis!

_________________________

Ah, music ...

Let's put Mr Tung and his chakras (and his aura) and his boss, Louis, Louis, to one side. Life is too short, far too short, for finance, and chakras. (And auras?) I have problems of my own. What? Inspiration! I've been thinking about inspiration - music, lyrics, all that jazz. I'm convinced that it only happens when you're working. I mean, you can't just sit around waiting for inspiration to come to you. You've got to go looking for it. When I play my guitar for an hour or two, I get plenty of ideas for songs. Music, not lyrics. I rarely develop these ideas though because I'm only looking for "classic" tunes. Which brings me around to that piece I have without the lyrics. It is a classic tune and I think I'm going to have to force the lyrics into existence. Hard work! I'll have to write - maybe for hours on end - until the words come together in a way that suits the music and matches it for quality. Perspiration, rather than inspiration!

As for my other song, Gilly Marie, I've listened to it at least five hundred times now. (Oh, so many times?!) That's not because I love the sound of my own voice. (I know you don't believe me. But it's not much of a voice, honestly.) I hardly ever listened to my old songs in the old days. No, it's because I think the test of a classic pop song is the number of times you can listen to the song before becoming thoroughly sick of it. (Thousands?) In fact, you should be able to listen: FOREVER! I could listen to a song like OutKast's Hey Ya! until the end of time, I mean: FOREVER! Or The Rubettes' Jukebox Jive. Or ...

... Oh, I'm so proud! I'm proud to say that Gilly Marie passes the test. And I'm so excited. I'm really excited because my new song will be even better! ...

... Or ... OutKast's Roses. Bitch!

Peter Borish has become the chief executive of Touradji Capital Management

And there's nothing we can do about it. (Well, if I had the energy or the enthusiasm ...) Why Mr Borish?! I, there ... may be a slim chance that Paul Touradji knows what he is doing[?]! He's a veteran of the desert, after all. (And he remembers, obviously.) This Peter Borish used to be head of research at Tudor Investment Corp.[.] Oh, some time ago. I don't know when. I, not ... much of a preparation for Touradji Capital Management, eh? But it's none of my business. I'm not going to get involved. Why should I? Paul Touradji wants to concentrate on trading. Good luck to him! It's nothing to do with me. It really isn't. Even though I remember the desert nights ...

Paul and I were incredibly close, once upon a time. Like brothers, we were, mystic brothers. But times change. Paul doesn't hear the voices any more. (How could he? I got rid of them.) However, it's no great loss to him, I mean, I'm sure. And he's made of strong stuff. All the children are having to live without the voices now, anyway. They don't complain, do you? It's amazing what you can cope with - if you have to. I cope with the loneliness pretty well - with the desert nights gone forever, and the desert days, rolling in the sand, burning it up. And ... and ... and ...

Fuck the desert, reader(s)! Life goes on, yeah? Why am I so sentimental about shit like this? If Touradji doesn't miss it, why should I? Is he the stronger man, or just cold and dead inside? I don't know. I know he's moved on with his life, I know that. Life goes on ... for a while, then it stops, and starts again. I can't explain. I'm losing my grip on the mysteries.

I just wish ... you know? Oh, you understand. I don't have to write about it. There's a pain that never goes away. You can be lost in the desert. You can be lost in the City. You can be lost anywhere - if you have the soul for it. I can't fight the emptiness with this lack of energy and enthusiasm. I want to sleep, on the floor of my room, and dream of desert sands, and City pavement, what does it matter? When you're asleep you're dead to the world but ... no, there's still pain. There's no escape. My wrist hurts, blood in my head, gut all fucked up, and eyes like you won't believe ... I -

They think it's a joke, the life of a shaman. But am I laughing? No. I can't see the funny side. This is real sickness.

Thierry Lucas has founded Portland Hill Capital

It seems - yes, it does - there's always some **** founding some hedge fund somewhere, but the good news is that Thierry Lucas is a delightful character. So it's something to celebrate, ain't it? Yes! No, I'm only joking. Yes! I genuinely like all hedgies, and their hedge funds. What's not to like? Hedge funds make the world go round, and round, and round - until we feel sick and want to get off. But I'll never get off! I dig the nausea. It makes me feel so, so, so ooo alive. The truth is, if I weren't suffering ... I wouldn't know I was born, and if I wasn't born ... I wouldn't be suffering. So ... ooo ... ooo ...

Obviously, this isn't making a great deal of sense. There are too many positives and negatives all jumbled together. I really don't know how I feel sometimes. And I don't know how I think. But let me think for you, all the same, oh, let me try, let me give it my best shot, like Lucky in Waiting for Godot : Portland Hill Capital will launch its maiden hedge fund in the spring of this year when the sun is shining and God knows what it will be called so we will have to ask Him if He appears before us in a vision this nameless probably should remain so fund will focus on Europe yes all event-driven no doubt and rather marvellously an equity long and short vehicle actually an indecently large hedge fund launch of this year or any year lately hoping to raise up to the sky around $500 million American that is with a strategy so liquid and nimble and fresh and lovely and capable of dealing current levels market volatility deep fundamental analysis target investment ideas ...

Now, let me feel for you : ooo ooo ooo ooo ooo ooo ... Are you feeling it too?

Colin Harte's Absolute Return Global Bond trust is ...

I can hardly write/type it, is ... well, Barings, Baring Asset Management, wants to merge it with Andrew Cole's Multi Asset fund. They're obsessed with generating consistent and positive absolute returns! So, Colin will only have the Global Bond trust to keep him occupied - not even that, really - if it all goes ahead. Oh, I'm not sure I like this. You don't mess with a man's funds!

Now Colin's in some sort of "consultation" period with Barings. Well, if that was me, they could consult my arse, mate. Do you know what I mean?

Nick Leeson should have finished the job. A bit before my time, but I remember Big Herb telling me that Leeson couldn't organize a piss-up in a brewery. 'I told him to get rid of the name as well, not just the fucking bank!'

_________________________

The evil that men do. I just can't get my head round it. And women! They're not much better. It's money that causes it. Only the filthy rich are without sin, the ones who have enough - ? No, no, no. Oh, but sometimes, even enough is not enough! Then, even the filthy rich can find themselves in the pit, wailing and gnashing their teeth. It's not a pretty sight. And the sound is terrible, too.

The self-righteous are every bit as bad, the scumbags! The human race is disgusting. I'm glad I'm not a part of it. Detached, removed, isolated - whatever! I've never been so happy to be so inhuman. Not quite an angel, of course. You have to be real good to be one of those. And suppose Gillian suddenly took me to her heart?

Beauty is only ... the first touch of terror we can still bear and it awes us so much because it so coolly disdains to destroy us.

John Zwaanstra is giving money away!

Yes, millions of dollars. Billions, maybe. Millions, probably. And I'm not the greedy type. But I want some. I deserve some millions and billions, don't I? Well, millions, anyway. After all the work I've done? Of course I do! Zwaanstra's had enough of Penta Investment Advisers. It's too much hassle. He wants to take it easy at his time of life, so he's calling it a day. Obviously, Penta won't need all that money now. About $2 billion. That's a lot! I just hope John gives me some. He better! I've never been an investor, but does that matter? No, I don't think so. Not if John, Mr Zwaanstra, is in a generous mood. And I know he's a very generous man. I see no reason why one or two million dollars shouldn't head in my direction. It's not as if I don't deserve it. Of course I deserve it! How long have I been a mystical capitalist? Too long! How much money have I made? Too little! It's a real shame. A tragedy, almost. Shit! The sacrifices! What was I doing, while everyone else was getting rich? I was making sure everything ran smoothly. I was making sure no bankers or hedgies got burnt up on the astral plane. (Burnt to a fucking crisp?! Imagine it! It could have happened. It would have done, without me.) Oh, I deserve a reward.

There's a man, Chandler Blockage. Who in the name of Christ is he?

Sometimes, I think they take it too far. They want me to believe that "Chandler Blockage" works at SAC Capital Advisors. They want me to believe he's a trader, and Steve Cohen's protege - of all things. Ha! They must think I'm really stupid.

There's no "Chandler Blockage". It's not possible because anything ... What sort of world would it be if a man like "Chandler Blockage" existed? It would be a terrible world! Because anything would be possible in such a world. Especially at night, which has always been the most dangerous time. Asleep, dreams would become nightmares, and these nightmares would creep into everyday reality until - awake - all kinds of horrors would exist. It only takes one horror to lead to a ton of horrors. Not that I've ever tried weighing the darkness of the night. No! 'Informal. A large number or amount.' Well, a lot of horrors, then. A great deal of horror, I suppose.

Charles Simonian will find out a thing or two, pretty soon, about himself, and what he can cope with. Oh God. Simonian will have to work with this monster, this "Chandler Blockage". Even though ... Industrials trading on the Cohen Account? Oh God! Rather him than me. Honestly, I'm so glad I'm not a trader. I don't care how much money they make. Seriously, I really don't. And I'm so glad I'm not employed by SAC Capital Advisors. I mean, what a depressing ... I mean, what does Stevie actually do? He sits in his chair all day long, staring at the ceiling (occasionally glancing at his soft wrists). Like Prince Hamlet. What a depressing environment! Who would want to work there?

In fairness to SAC Capital Advisors though, who would want to work anywhere?

Albert Sohn and Credit Suisse are planning to launch a new hedge fund, apparently

I don't know all the details. The few details I do know, I don't really understand. And I haven't got the energy to investigate further. I need a new intern, definitely. Not that I had an old one. Oh, I tell so many lies, and yet I'm the most truthful person I know. Like Bacon said: lies that are truer than the literal truth. Or was it Van Gogh? Who cares?! But about Albert. Apparently, he's mixed up with that Credit Suisse crowd. He used to be the head of securitized products. [Yeah, right.] Now he's in the bank's asset-management unit - or so they say - and they've managed to talk him into some hedge fund nonsense or something. Sometime later this year, I think. Much later, hopefully. When he's got the energy, himself, I should imagine. It's only January, for Christ's sake! We've only just had Christmas. There's no rush, is there? Personally, I don't want to see Albert damaging his health, just so those hard-ons at Credit Suisse can have a new hedge fund for their clients. There's more to life than making money, you know. Though I doubt Gary Buchalter, Amar Sujanani, and Alok Verma will agree. And who are they, you're wondering. It doesn't matter who they are, dear reader. Is your life so empty that you need to worry about who complete strangers are? Get a grip! Focus on what you're doing. I mean, I presume you have a career, my friend, and that you're not one of these awful unemployed bums we've all read about in the papers, surfing the net for a minute or two before heading off to the local park with a few cans of Tennent's Super. That's no life. You should be ashamed of yourself if that's how things are with you.

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I'm still not doing The Three Cs. The question is: are The Three Cs all they're cracked up to be?

Are you coming with me?

Off the top of my head? Out of the blue? Whatever. Call it whatever you want. Any way you want to have it, baby. All I know is that the news has been fucking pathetic this last week or so. What am I supposed to write about, eh? Fucking journalists. You would think they would have a bit of self-respect. If I did my job like that, well, it doesn't bear thinking about. Imagine the chakras! And my intern? My intern turned out to be an absolute arsehole. I had to let him go. I won't even give him a reference now. He thought working for me would be the easy way into Goldman Sachs, but I've already phoned Lloyd to tell him to watch out for this wanker.

So, did you have a nice Christmas? What do you think will happen this year? Got any holidays planned? You don't say much, do you? Are you the strong, silent type? Or just weak and unable to say anything interesting? I'm not judging you. I'm just trying to understand. What's the deal with you? Never mind. You're all right. Thing is, I get so lonely sometimes. All the voices have gone, the ghosts, the money gods. Yes, it was my way, like it's always my way. Still, I do get lonely. Now I know how Zarathustra felt. He didn't have an easy time of it either. It's psychological, a lot of it. I've always known how Picasso felt after painting Les Demoiselles d'Avignon. The isolation. Even Matisse didn't have a clue. It is very frustrating. But you have to keep going, I suppose. What's the alternative? Suicide? No thanks. And don't let anyone tell you it's painless. The worst of it is on the other side, I'm sure.

Maybe there'll be some news tomorrow. Who knows? I don't know. No! But I know there'll come a time when I'll leave the news behind. Pure money - the essence - could be pure literature with the right method, and the right spirit. However, it's not something I can do with adverts on my blog, and it's not something I can do as a poor man. One day, I'll cut loose. After my ship has come in, I'll be loose and free. Yes! That's what I'm working towards. That's why I need those songs. I'm not going to have my leg cut off, like Rimbaud. I'm going to be like Picasso, rich and successful, the ultimate artist/shaman!

Let's go beyond! Are you coming? Do you have the guts? I've alienated more squares than Duchamp with his urinal - look at the hits! - and this is only the beginning! You don't have to do what I do, child(ren). Not unless you want to. I'm merely asking you to keep up, as an observer, that's all. A witness, as it were. Your soul is safe. At no time will I place it in danger. That's my personal guarantee, or your money back. The same goes for your reputation. I know a lot of you [is there more than one?] value your reputation more than your soul. Whatever, eh? Yes. I'm actually so proud of you, that you've made it this far. Alienation is where all the action is, all the achievement. You're here with me on the edge of literature. So, just a little taste. Over the edge? This is a classic toe-in-the-water situation. Just a little toe, eh? Yes, go on! I'll look after you. I'm very protective of the ones I love. And I love you, (wo)man, I really, really do!

Let's see what we've got. Clear, cool water, nothing - Jesus! A fucking shark! Watch it! Oh, the vicious sod! No, you're all right. What a close shave! Hang on, are you ... ? Was that the FSA? Oh my God! Will they ever leave us alone? 'We all live in a dead shark, dead shark, dead shark.' They love it, don't they? You've got a bloody toe! Let me ... Reader, where are you going? Stay with me!

All right, all right, I'm with you, child. Dry your eyes. It's no big deal. We'll try again, one day, one far off day, after my ship has come in. It's too soon now, anyway. You're not ready yet, are you? And I've got my advertisers to think about. I'm not disappointed though. We've had bare excitement, as they say, or might say, the kids on the street. Yeah, you've lost a bit of blood. But worse things happen at work. Cheer up! Haven't you got any charts or spreadsheets or anything to be getting on with?

I have some ridiculously cheap dollars for Kashya Hildebrand if she wants them

What's all the fuss about? We all shine on, like the moon, and the stars, and the sun. That should be enough for everyone, but no! Some people want to buy ridiculously cheap dollars, and then other people, total bastards, want to complain about it like it’s got anything to do with them. Can you understand it, any of it?

Kashya Hildebrand is in trouble now. So is her husband, Philipp. He's the president of the Swiss National Bank. Or the chairman. He's been described as the chairman as well. It seems some people can't get their facts straight. Maybe he's both. What do I know? I don't even care. That's the honest truth. Anyway, Kashya bought some ridiculously cheap dollars - or they were almost ridiculously cheap. So what? She's got an art gallery to run. Do you know how many dollars it takes to run an art gallery? I imagine it takes a hell of a lot, so I'm not going to give her a hard time about insider trading; like her husband, Philipp, would even dream of telling her about his plan to cap the value of the Swiss franc against the US dollar. Next time Kashya wants dollars, she should come to me. I'll sort her out, and no one will know. Because I'm an art lover. I'm not one of these goddamn philistines that are everywhere these days, especially in the papers, like the Daily Mail.

WJB Capital Group has closed down its brokerage operations and changed these men's lives forever

For man also knoweth not his time, as the fishes that are taken in an evil net, and as the birds that are caught in the snare; so are the sons of men snared in an evil time, when it falleth suddenly upon them. - Ecclesiastes

Which men? Oh, Bryan and John. And forever? Surely not! And is the situation so serious that I need a quote from the Bible? Maybe.

It is my sad duty to report - is it, really? - that Bryan Maher and John Newman have lost their jobs. They only joined WJB Capital a month ago from Citadel Securities. Now they have to go through all the grief of sending their CVs out again. Why did WJB Capital even employ them? What a waste of time and energy!

I suppose we shouldn't blame WJB though. WJB didn't know the end was near. (Or did it? No! No, it didn't. It couldn't have done.) None of us knows when the end will come. None of us knows when we may have to close down a part of our life or - heaven forbid! well, it's gonna happen one day, evil time and all that - have our whole life closed down for us by unseen forces. Why am I so fucking morbid?

It's best not to worry. I wouldn't worry - if I were you. I reckon Bryan and John will be okay. They could always go back to Citadel. Or maybe not. My intern/researcher [eh?] has just told me that Citadel closed down its securities thing/division, er, thing, last year, or most of it. I think. Oh, I don't know, do I, eh? What's going on? I don't even have an intern/researcher. As if! Forget about it. Please forget that I even mentioned Bryan and John and WJB Capital Group. Let's be honest, it's none of my business (or yours) anyway - which should be a lesson to everyone. Something to think about, if not exactly a lesson. Yes, it's something to think about, seriously. I mean, if all people, all the people, everywhere, all minded their own business a bit more and were less interested in what other people were getting up to there wouldn't be so much bullshit stuff nonsense in the world and maybe we would all get a bit of peace and quiet for once.

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Forgotten ...

My songwriting isn't going too well at the moment. I just don't think I have the creative energy to write this blog and songs at the same time. I have a piece of music for a pop song which is of Beatles quality (mid-period, 1965/66) but I don't have any lyrics for it or even a lyrical idea. And that's totally crazy, considering I have words galore here.

I can't actually slow down on this blog yet (for reasons I won't go into) but if I could, I would reduce my posting to once a week for five years or so, and then come back in style once I had the money and position to really cause mayhem and fuck up certain slags' parades (as well as achieve immortal fame, of course). Regular readers will know my plans, the billboards, the new website, etc. It's going to take time, and I may have to go out on a limb, or a couple of limbs. I don't know what I'm going to do.

These are notes for my own benefit, more than anything. I like to see things typed up and on the screen. It helps me focus my mind, and I can come back to it whenever I want. But I'm always changing my mind, aren't I? I'll have another nutty scheme in a few weeks, you wait and see.

Humphrey Bogart is the man!

I'm watching Casablanca at the moment. Has there ever been a greater model for manhood than Rick Blaine?

Tough, self-sufficient, cynical, romantic, likes a drink. I could go on. That's who I want to be when I grow up!

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I bought a DVD of Dracula last week - the 1979 one, starring Frank Langella as Dracula and Laurence Olivier as Van Helsing. A very good film. But I've started to think now that maybe someone should make a new version with Danny Dyer playing the Count. (I'm not sure I need the "o".) Just imagine it! It would be a comedy classic, with lines like: 'Ere, mate, do you mind if I take a bite out of your missus?'

All news is bad news (and I'm feeling rather psychotic)

No news is good news. That's what they say. But there'll be some along later (for the idiots who need it, who can't live without it, who can't even breathe, and can't think). Not that I care about the news. I don't care! I piss on the news and the people who report it. I'm a rebel! I'm an outlaw! But I have a feeling in my water that there will be some later. Just my vicious luck. I'm cursed. This is merely the start of another year. So don't get excited, my friend(s). Don't come in your pants. For my part, I'm not going to get excited - not yet.

I must calm down. Maybe there won't be anything later. Let's pray. I'm not promising myself a thing, I'm that negative. Not the news, no. I'm not predicting anything - not the news, no, for you; oh, you're on your own, foolish child(ren). Try to understand: I'm not looking forward and I'm certainly not looking back. Is it true? Honestly, I intend to exist in this moment until the next moment arrives. Then I will exist in that one. I'm afraid it's the only way to do business. Even though there is no business. If only there were a way, if only there were ... I could touch you, my hands around your throat. That would be some business. It might get in the papers.

Bad news? Outer space doesn't care. The planets don't care. The billions of suns do not care. Haven't you heard the news? Sadly, there is no news. Yes, I'm writing to myself, love letters, and hate letters. I'm all mixed up! This is the way into the future. But there is no future. I could pretend. I could tell lies. Some people make a very good living out of lies, even their absurd opinions. Can you believe that? I must tell the truth. There is no truth. Jesus! These words of mine. I was looking for something a bit more civilized, but I can only be the barbarian that I am. Will I be taking prisoners this year? What do you think?

I have nothing left to lose, and I do not care.
I have nothing left to lose, and I do not care.
I have nothing left to lose, and I do not care.
I have nothing left to lose, and I do not care.

Join me! Sing it! Out loud. Or whisper it, quietly to yourself. I'm not fussed. It's the attitude that matters.

Bunch of zombies, talking crap. I don't need it. I don't need living dead people in my life, in my consciousness. Could they be more lame? No! Could they be more dead and still be breathing, just to annoy me, like I deserve such punishment?

Friend(s), I'm glad you found this for yourself because the pieces of shit don't want you to know about it. This is rock 'n' roll. Don't let anyone tell you any different. They'll say I have no authority. Ha! I have natural authority. I was born with it. No big boss with my prick in his back pocket gave it to me! They'll say I have no right. Oh, I'm a human being, for Christ's sake! I have human rights, don't I?!

(And they care about you, but not like I care? I do not care? Work it out for yourself. It'll take a little thought.)

So join me.

I have nothing left to lose, and I do not care.
I have nothing left to lose, and I do not care.
I have nothing left to lose, and I do not care.
I have nothing left to lose, and I do not care.

Try to sing. Let the living dead hear it!