It's Lloyd again!

Yeah, just got off the phone - AGAIN! Motherfucker! I didn't get to bed until four this morning. You know, getting those names for Lloyd. Yeah, I got them. Poor survey bastards are in trouble now. That'll teach them to bad-mouth Goldman. But Lloyd still ain't happy.

This is the latest shit from that goombah:

'Mikey, can you come to New York? (Fucking hell, Lloyd. What now?) Our shamans are out of control. I give them a bonus. Expect them to be sensible. And what the fuck happens? (I don't know, Lloyd. Tell me.) The crazy sons of bitches go out and buy the most expensive fucking grimoires they can get their fucking hands on! A million dollars for one of these books! Can you believe that shit? (Lloyd, I'm sure they need the grimoires for something.) Michael, I told these dumb fucks the world is watching us. No sports cars! No vintage champagne! No Rolex watches! And no fucking rare grimoires! (A million dollars. Are you sure?) Mikey, I saw the fucking receipts! Some Pope Honorius III or some shit. I don't know. Rare fucking books - what do I know? What's wrong with going to the fucking library? Am I right or am I right? (Lloyd, you're not wrong, but -) There's this one motherfucker, Paulie - (Yeah, he's a good kid, good shaman.) Mikey, he walks straight into the office, showing everyone, a wedding present for his wife. And what kind of wife is this? You know what I mean? Anyway, I says to this prick - didn't I tell you not to go buy anything? And he says it's a wedding gift from his mother. Under his mother's name. And I was like - are you nuts? Are you fucking stupid? What's the matter with you? You gonna get us even more bad publicity. What's the matter with you? Then he says again - it's under his mother's name. Like I didn't hear him the first time. Like I'm a fucking fool or something. I nearly fucking whacked him on the spot. So, Mikey, can you come to New York, straighten these pricks out? (Lloyd, I don't have to come to New York. I'll just go on to the astral plane again. It means another night without sleep.) You're a good guy, Mike. You know that? A true gent.'

Yeah, yeah. Whatever.

Nick Tranter has been hired by Execution

Yeah, Nick Tranter (he used to be a derivatives specialist at BNP Paribas) has been hired by that equities broker, Execution.

Garreth Hodgson, head of European equities at Execution, reckons everything is going to be shaken up now.

Interesting.

But I wouldn't shake too violently. The cosmos. I presume Garreth was referring to the cosmos. I wouldn't grab hold of this fragile cosmos with a crude financial mind and shake it until money explodes before our very eyes. An explosion of cash could be dangerous at this point in time. Since the ceremony in the desert, there have been signs that we are moving out of the New Depression. I am not saying the crunch has been crunched, but I am saying that Ganesh the elephant god has been smiling a lot lately in my dreams - and that can only be a good thing. Dear reader, have ye ever seen a big smiling elephant? It is not something you would forget. I'm pretty sure Garreth is familiar with the smiling face of Ganesh, and that is why he is so excited. Also, I should imagine that Ganesh is familiar with Garreth's dreamy face in the night-time. But Garreth! O Garreth, be careful with the shaking!

Same goes for you, Nick.

Goldman Sachs' reputation ain't damaged

Some bastards going by the name of Brand Asset Consulting have been putting the word about that Goldman Sachs has been damaged by the events of the last year. Yeah, they did a survey. They asked 17,000 halfwits what they thought of the bank.

Now, I have just got off the phone to Lloyd Blankfein. And, yeah, he's pissed again. Real pissed. Here's the edited highlights:

'Michael, I want those names. (What names, Lloyd?) The names, Michael. The names of the fucking deadbeats who took part in that survey. (All 17,000 of them?) Yeah. All 17,000. I'm gonna open their holes like this - excuse my French. I'm gonna make them wish their fathers had never met their mothers. (Lloyd, I'm a fucking shaman, not a private detective.) I ain't getting no private dick retired cop to go poking around on confidential Goldman business. I want you to do it - astrally. (Ast - what, Lloyd?) Michael, don't make me lose my fucking temper. Go on to the astral plane. Find out what you can about these Brand Asset Consulting schmucks. Get the friggin' names. Bring them to me. Capiche? (Yeah, sure. I'll be invisible that way. But I'll have to get a team together.) Okay. (It'll be expensive, Lloyd.) Michael, you're talking to Lloyd Blankfein here, remember? Not some bum on the sidewalk with snot all over his raincoat. I don't give a fuck how much it costs. Get the names.'

For fuck's sake! That's my night ruined. I hardly get a minute to myself these days.

RWC Partners: some new analysts to work with Mike Corcell

Oh dear. I was afraid this might happen. RWC Partners has hired some new analysts to work on US long-short funds with portfolio manager Mike Corcell. The analysts are: Gabe Marshank, Alex Robarts, and Sam Weeman. Also, a trader, Hayes Varey, has been thrown into the mix for good measure. Oh dear.

Jesus H. Christ! Will these people never learn? Doesn't RWC know what happened when Corcell was at Threadneedle? Doesn't it know about Mike's bad trip in the desert with FIVE FREAKIN' ANALYSTS who subsequently went missing?

I have been speaking to Arthur Simmons about this absolute sociopath, and this is what he said: 'Shit! Is history going to repeat itself? I'm afraid it might, Mikey. Everyone knows this Mike Corcell dude can't be trusted to work alongside analysts. He hates them. Ever since the desert. (What happened out there, Arthur?) Well, Michael, this is just hearsay. No one really knows what happened. (Not even Corcell?) Man, he was so stoned. He reckons he can't remember anything. But I heard this from one of the ghosts of the dead financiers. Apparently, it was a team-building exercise that went wrong. Corcell and the analysts were trying to merge with one another and the cosmos. (Total oneness!) Exactly. But there was some bad acid involved, and things turned nasty. (Fuck! What happened, man?) The analysts all directed their razor-sharp intellects against Corcell. They started analysing him. (There's always a danger of that, Arthur.) Yeah. They destroyed that man's life! Tore him apart. They saw the devil in him. Or at least they claimed to. But they saw Jesus too. Do you have any idea what that can do to a man's soul? (He must have been confused, Arthur.) Confused? He was driven insane! (So what happened to the analysts?) No one knows, Mikey. No one knows. A search party was sent out. They found Corcell in a cave, crying hysterically, naked, covered in some sort of red paint - (Blood?) - I don't know. It was all hushed up by Threadneedle. (Jesus!) Yeah. I don't envy those new guys at RWC.'

Listen, Gabe, Alex, Sam - if there is anything you want to talk about, anything at all, just get in touch. I am here to help.

Petersfield Asset Management has terminated offer discussions with Bramdean Alternatives

Yeah, I'm back, dear fucking reader! You freak! Let's face it, no normal person would be reading this shit. I'm back! These little nervous breakdowns of mine only last a day or two. I just go nuts, man. Negative thoughts in my head. Everything seems pointless. I feel worthless. I hit the bottle. Don't wanna write. Barely got the enthusiasm for breathing. That's how bad it is. But … but … but … then everything is sunshine and roses again. The light returns! And: EVERYTHING IS BEAUTIFUL!

So, what's that Nicola Horlick babe up to now? Does she want control of Bramdean Alternatives or ain't she all that bothered? It seems she has a problem with this Vincent Tchenguiz character.

Well, Nicola and I go back years. And I've been speaking with her. This is what was said:

'Mikey, you've got to help me. That Vincent is just being so nasty. He's such a horrid, horrid man. Last month, he won a vote to put his own people on to the Bramdean board. And that bastard, he smiled at me. Then I said to Peter Barton, for justice, we must go to Michael Fowke. (Well, Nicola, why have you left it so late, to ask for my help?) Oh, I guess … (You were afraid to be in my debt.) Listen, I know you're the only one who can fix the problem. Put a curse on him, Michael. I'll pay you. (Nicola, Nicola, what have I ever done to make you treat me so disrespectfully? I can't even remember the last time you invited me to your house for a cup of coffee. You found paradise in the City. You had everything money could buy. And there was the FSA. You didn't need a friend like me. But now it's - Michael, put a curse on Vinny. But you don't ask with respect. You don't offer friendship. You don't even think to call me Master.) O Master, please, I need you to do this. I'll be eternally grateful. Master. (Good. Now don't worry. Leave it to me.) Thank you, Master.'

O Master, this is incredible! Are you really going to put a curse on Vinny?

Yes, my child. And I want you to arrange it. I want reliable shamans; shamans that aren't gonna be carried away. We are not satanists, despite of what this fund manager says.

Pedro de Noronha is catching a wave and sitting on top of the world!

For eternity. Every night, beyond the reach of cold earth wanderers. This is astral surfing we're talking about - the astral waves of the mind! Pedro is there, lost in dreams, stained by the kisses of money-fuelled angels, covered with the sticky smiles of invading ghosts, his eyes bleeding love - that is the life for us!

It is the life for him. He manages Noster Capital. How does he manage, imperious, riding the waves of the cosmos? Doesn't he get lonely? You are thinking that he must crave human contact. No, no, no. He is happy with the ones who have lost their bones, lost their flesh. They are his friends. They flow with him. This is not a great sadness for Pedro. I see him grinning in the sky. Rejoice!

The skulls of all of them, left on earth, cannot turn to face him. They are stuck staring at the City. Cold, endless night of the City! Banks of the dead! Hedge funds of the gone but not forgotten. How could we forget them? And their souls! Oh, have I told you about their souls? Yes! They are full of colour - rainbow astral spirits dancing in a giant ball of consciousness!

And Pedro spins around in this ball! That's the sort of guy we're dealing with. A spiritual aristocrat! A warrior of the waves - waves that will one day carry us all! Will Pedro continue to stretch himself? Will he smash his thoughts and his will against the Great Universal Being? Will he merge, or maintain his independence? Will he disappear? You could go crazy, asking yourself such questions. It is scary just imagining the possibilities.

Think of Pedro! Never forget him. He lives this life for our benefit.

Mickey Clark is confused

Of course he is. And I know why. He's been talking to his old City pal Justin Urquhart Stewart from Seven Investment Management. And this just won't do. Because Justin ain't been burnt in no fucking desert, man. Mickey hasn't either. How can they expect to know anything about money?

It's absurd. We don't wanna stamp down on no green shoots. You don't even, well, you might, a cactus. I'll have to look into that. Giant astral cactus towering above us covered in banknotes. Is that what Mickey is going on about?

O Mikey, O Master, what are you going on about? Mickey Clark is a respected columnist. Are you drunk again?

Yes, I'm fucking drunk, my child, what are you going to do about it? I've just come back from the King's Head. There is nothing else to do. Why not drink?

Now, maybe I've misunderstood. Maybe I'm the confused one. Mickey says: So what about the stock market?

O Master, that's a good question.

Yes, it is a good question. It's a very good question. But here's a better question: Because the pleasure-bird whistles after the hot wires, shall the blind horse sing sweeter?

That's not a better question. It's stupid.

Oh, are you calling Dylan Thomas a … twat or something?

O Master, will you be deleting this post as well?

Fuck off!

Paul Purcell says greed is good …

'Hi, I'm Paul Purcell, the chairman, president and chief executive of RW Baird, and I am famous for my "no asshole" rule. That's why I agreed to write for this blog, and not some other blog, like Peston's Picks. Well, let's get down to business. You may be familiar with a newspaper interview I gave recently, where I criticized greedy people, dishonest people, and various other assholes. Well, they twisted my words, man. They tried to paint me as some kind of crazy socialist. But I ain't that way at all. I believe in money. I believe that greed is good. But it has to be within a mystical framework. There are too many assholes on Wall Street who have refused to take Big Herb into their hearts. They think they can have the money without the burning love. They think they can be wealthy without putting one foot in the desert. They think they can rip off their clients, not realizing that we are all one consciousness in this beautiful cosmos of ours. I am you, and you are me. We are one. We are our clients, and our clients are us. One. You, dear readers, are my brothers and sisters. And we are all mystical children. Michael Fowke has been trying to show us the way, but the assholes won't listen. We have to make them listen. Yes, greed is good. But it has to be greed for more than money. Money is lifting us up to a higher level of existence. Let's stretch out our arms! Expand our minds! Grab a greater life!'

Thank you, Paul. I love you, man.

I am the light of the world!

O my children, my brothers, my sisters, I am the light of the world! Follow me and find the money. Through blood, through fire, we are moving, we are searching. This is a delayed reaction to the ceremony in the desert. It is hitting me now. It is hitting me hard. Realizations in my head, a head of fire. Nijinsky was right! GOD IS FIRE IN THE HEAD!

And what about the blood? O my children, I have bathed in blood. I have been to hell. But Satan could not destroy me. He has no power over money, not any more. I am money. O my children, you shall follow me and become money. Find yourselves in the fire of Big Herb's holy love! Find yourselves in my blood! We shall become one. A mystic union!

I am crying, I want your love. I am crying, I want your blood. I AM ALIVE like never before! My flesh is money. My soul is money. I am money.

Ross Hollyman is being followed!

O Master, what the fuck?! Yeah, my child, that's what I said when I found out this morning. Ross Hollyman has joined Liontrust Asset Management, believe it or not. But the real crazy shit is that Nikki Martin, Rob Cornish and Tom Ayres are all following him. Yeah, from GAM to the end of the earth, the end of the night, the end of the cosmos! O Master, that is some real crazy shit, for sure. Why are they following him? It's his name, man, my child. Hollyman, Hollyman, Hollyman! They think - yeah, they think it's holy man, holy man, holy man! Oh my God! They think he is a holy man. They think mystic light shines out of his beautiful eyes. They must worship the ground he walks on! Yeah, they do. Oh God, will they be let down? Of course they will. When Nikki, Rob, and Tom all discover that Ross don't know no mystic way out of this fucking crunch, they will probably crunch him. Ross is the man who would be the world's foremost financial shaman. O Master, but that's you! Fuckin' A it is! This guy is an impostor! A charlatan! O Master, a two-bit punk! Yeah. That's what he is. He's a punk!

O Master, what are you going to do?

Nothing, my child. I am above this shit. Let Nikki, Rob, and Tom deal with it. My mind is on higher things.

O Master, higher things? Tell me.

My mind is almost empty. Just light. This is the real light. The genuine way. It is inside me. Money becomes light. I am light. I am money. This is how you become a god. This is how you know truth. My heart is light, pure light. I am like a fucking sun! The way is taking me. Still a long way to go. This is the burning we all dream of. I am so lucky. Why was I chosen?