If you want your money out of the Fidam Capital Growth fund ...

You'll have to wait a long time. If you've got a long time. I've got a long time. Un / fortunately, I am not an investor in the Fidam Capital Growth fund. This means I'm waiting for nothing / nothing / nothing financial - [not yet]. Story of my awful life. But if you're an investor, you will have to wait three whole months for redemption. Don't blame me. It's not my fault. Fauchier Partners has decided that that's the way it's got to be. The great thing about Fauchier Partners is the philosophy. We all need philosophy to get us through the bad times. 'Fauchier Partners is a conservative investor, and the preservation of our clients' capital is a top priority. We exercise our judgement in the selection of hedge funds and the construction of portfolios.' Funds of funds of funds, with a few more funds, for good measure, on the side. So conservative, and very safe. They're not wild hippies doing it for a laugh. Genuine professionals. I'm feeling better already and I'm not even an investor.

I'll be waiting a long time for redemption. I haven't even got any money invested. It could be worse. I could be one of the others. Lost, and they don't even know it. Thoroughly damned to hell, with icing on top, and a cherry. I wouldn't swap places with any of them, not for all the traffic on the internet. Imagine having no soul, no feelings. Pain is alien to them. So is pleasure. They go round and round with no (attempt at) meaning. At least I go round and round (attempting, meaning) looking for a way out. I'll find a way out. There's no rush. I'm hopeful. There is a meaning in the way out. I truly believe that. It's something to look forward to. Oh. Just in case you're wondering, this is the future of my writing. It's what I said I would do, and I'm doing it. This is not irreverent bullshit for brain-dead clowns. I'm taking you deeper, if you've got the guts to follow. Come with me. I'm not having any conversations any more. I don't care about all the characters rotting on the floor of my subconscious. And here is the beautiful part, right here: I'm not making any concessions! Don't ask me where I found the strength. But here is a theory, right here: maybe I found the strength in my despair. 'That's where it came from?!' Who can say? Maybe you hit bottom and you lose your fear. I don't know. But I wouldn't rule it out. I'm just saying, I'm still trapped, and everything is closing in, tighter, nicer, warmer, it's like being wrapped up in a carpet, even better than a blanket, thick carpet, with words, thoughts; images too.

Here is my advice, right here, if you can bear it: smash the reality of money. Break it down. The pieces will stick to your soul for a while. But not for long. We'll be clean. Like being new, fresh, reborn. I stink. So do you. Such dirty *****! You really have to be rich to think like this, to hope like this. I'm poor. Some of you will stand a better chance of redemption. I will catch you up. I'll be a multimillionaire within five years. I'm aiming for twenty million. Then I'll get clean.

Simon Thorp is taking Quentin Peacock with him

And a few others. 'I'll take you all to Avoca Capital Holdings!' Simon Thorp has been sold. This is how it starts. You start selling human beings in a credit business. You end up committing all kinds of atrocities in a place like hell. That's Liontrust Asset Management for you. I have a lot of friends at Liontrust. I don't want to be too critical. Maybe it's for the best. The Liontrust Credit Absolute Return fund! The Liontrust Credit fund! Going, going, will be ... gone. Quentin Peacock will be gone. And the others. Good men like James Sclater. How does James feel about it? Did anyone even ask him if he wanted to be sold into slavery at Avoca? Of course they didn't! James is a grain of sand. Or a piece of dirt. He is not important, to them. But to me, he is important. They look at him and see ... an insect! Is that worse than a grain of sand ... or a piece of dirt? Who knows? I see a human being. I see a man.

I'm feeling pretty miserable today, insanely emotional. Everything is a struggle. I'm not talking about Liontrust. I can't be responsible for Peacock and Sclater. I have my own life to live. And I have to live it in a world of lies. This is my truth. It may seem fantastic, but it is real. I'm not trying to destroy anyone. Some people are negative because they feel small inside. They rejoice when a company or a person fails. They pretend to despise money. However, they always have enough for their fucking skiing trips. It's at times like this that I want to take the King James Bible and hide in a cave. I'm choking on other people's disgusting behaviour. There must be a way out. Jesus was just a man. I am just a man. Look at me! See a human being. Clean the filth out of your eyes. Look at me! This is not a joke. I piss on the superficial. I piss on the fake. Let them live with Satan. I'm heading for the mountain. I'm going back to the desert. I'll be alone. I'll be happy. Pray for me. Sinners, pray for yourselves. Fuck! I can't leave for the mountain. I can't lie down in the desert. I have responsibilities.

Star-crossed money-lovers, Guy and Rambourg, to launch own hedge fund

And I couldn't be happier. Yesterday, I was all suicidal like a broken sha / sha / shaman. Today, the sun is shining in my soul (well, that's what it feels like) and I discover that Roger Guy and Guillaume Rambourg are together again and planning to start their own hedge fund. Will the fund be based in London or Geneva? If the lads have any sense they will choose Geneva. Do they really want the FSA wrecking their new venture? Journalists (most journalists, there was Nick Goodway) are too scared to write about it, but it is the TRUTH that the duo's old firm, Gartmore, suffered death by regulation.

Anyway, I can't wait for the fund's launch. It's going to be a gas. It will be a champagne riot. It might even be a shamanic carnival with blood and fire. The investors will come hobbling back to the lads, heavy suitcases packed, with amazingly hard cash, the kind of notes, stinking, raw, and violent, you can sensuously run your fingers through, while a sexy thing rubs up against you, the caviar smeared on her enormous breasts. Roger and Guillaume won't know what to do with all the money. I suppose they could give me my share. I mean, I deserve a share, after all the mystic love I've laid on them. I would only be too extremely willing to take a million pounds off their hands. Maybe even more. That's how sensitive I am to the needs of others. Being old school, I would stuff most of it into my mouth and set fire to it. I'm fucking crazy. I don't care. It's the lifestyle I was born for. I can't wait for the launch.

I can't wait for the launch. They better invite me. I want to be there. I'll curse them, yes, I will send them to HELL if they deny me the opportunity to roll naked on their office floor with the money stuck to me, in my mouth, in my arse, burning, my hair on fire, like a god, now that I've killed all the others or sent them away. This better be understood: like a disturbed cow chased by bats in the night, I'll squeeze something from the experience. Something to remember when I am old and grey and as near to death as we always are. Near to it. Taste it, children! There is nothing to be afraid of. Death is your friend. Money is a lover. Let it come alive! Open your wallet. Open your purse - if you're that sort. Jump in with your mind. Put your soul into it. You can die in your wallet. You can drown with that cash. Let it take you. Do not resist. We are going somewhere else. Away from all the pain. Forget the launch. We will launch ourselves right now. This isn't a hedge fund. We can't hang around waiting for Roger and Guillaume to get their act together. Hang on ...

Oh, it's fading. I'm losing my grip. Damn! It's gone. We will have to wait for the fund. No choice. I'm not going to explain. I am very disappointed. It was there, in the vision. But it has gone. We were wishing for too much. I think we were being too optimistic. Still, there's the fund to come. I wonder what they will call it. The Roger Guy Experience? With Guillaume as junior partner? No, that wouldn't be fair. Guy Rambourg! Yes, I like that. Not very imaginative, but it sounds all right. They should name the fund after themselves. Let the whole world know that they are not shy, retiring types.

_________________________

Time for reflection. Even without the desert, there is passion, blood and fire. Not much changes ever. I get worked up. I might go to the park after lunch. Or should I continue with my writing, and try to solve the mystery? This spiritual exhaustion, I ... it's hard to explain. This is one more thing it's no use even trying to explain. I have no energy left.

Todd Builione, president for life, sickening, at Highbridge Capital Management

I've just found out. The rotten bastards reported it. He was the chief operating officer at Highbridge. (Probably still is. I don't know how they do what they do or why.) But the exciting (and sickening) news has come through to my nervous, chaotic mind: Todd Builione is the president for life at Highbridge Capital Management! This makes him pretty much untouchable, unlovable, and isolated, a mad money tyrant. So maybe the news isn't exciting (and sickening) at all. Maybe the news is terrifying. And sickening.

I am not afraid. The news is absolutely terrifying, let's be honest, but I am not afraid; and now we must be impressed by my lack of fear into the bargain. [I am definitely not convincing anyone. I must raise my game, to a god's game, with sick in my mouth.] Who wants more than top tier performance? No one I know. We just want a peaceful, soft time, cosy, in the cellar, wrapped up in a blanket, kisses on our foreheads, and around the eyes, all over. We're waiting for the storm to pass. We are not demanding governance frameworks with checks and balances. Are we insane?! We want food and shelter. We want to save our skins, and our souls. Leave the institutional quality business management to those who are living on easy street - far, far away.

I am a little bit scared. Yes, a little bit. So are you. Why do they report this stuff? Why can't they leave us alone? We were happy in our ignorance, cut off from stories of demonic success. Soon, there will be severed heads in the freezer compartment. I know the future. It's exactly like the past. There are no surprises for shamans like me.

If I were Boaz Weinstein ...

If I were - if I could be - just wouldn't worry about Chad Liu. 'Oh, Boaz, let it go, the feeling.' I just wouldn't worry about the Prudence Investment Management hedge fund returning 200 per cent to investors in its first two years. Dreaming of a new life; as Boaz Weinstein, I would set myself free. I wouldn't beat myself with angry fists into a coma.

Like a half-dead butterfly he lies on the ground, this Weinstein. Tragically, last year, only 10 per cent was returned by his Saba Capital Management. It seems Chad Liu is the big fat bumblebee, our hairy honey, humming wildly. I'd die and come back as a wasp, if I were Boaz Weinstein ... and had the freedom to choose any form.

I will never be Boaz Weinstein. This is all academic. But if I were - if God/Nature said I had to become - my tears would burn any bodies who disrespected me. I'd throw my wet handkerchief in their silly faces. The pain would make them understand, and appreciate: how hard it is to leave a Deutsche Bank trading desk!

Chess, blackjack, poker. Who cares? It's the game of life that matters. I play, he plays. If I could switch my life with another man's. Toss my soul into a new fleshy robot. Well, not new, not baby-fresh new, but a few years younger, with more hunger. I could find happiness inside someone less broken.

If I were, I am, an animal ... substantial, a black swan, I will surprise the world with a storm of horrors conjured up from the depths of our shared inhumanity. 'Shocking, so rare, abusive and instructive, a savage god! I'm waiting for you to open your eyes.' That's my scream in the ears of the dead. That's my blood and my fire.

There is no need for Boaz Weinstein. There is no need for Chad Liu. They can take their money. So can all the others. Now watch them run for the hills. And watch me, hot on their trail(s) with teeth sharper than a hellhound's teeth. I'll get them. They will be trophies on the wall. I'm performing a great service. Everyone wants to be remembered.

One day, I'll be a trophy, on God's wall. Hopefully, I'll be nailed up beside Picasso. Is it nice to have a dream? I'm not stretching my soul for a laugh. I'm not wearing myself out for a few pennies in the bank. Yes, I'll see all my friends - Kafka, Beckett, Rimbaud ... It's my will. A dream is nothing.

You have to be desperate. An empty life should be cherished. It's the gift that keeps on tearing away at your mind until action is the only escape. If I were Boaz Weinstein ... or anyone, every day would be a picnic in the park with the sun out. I wouldn't have to beg for crumbs in the dark. I'd be satisfied and practically finished as a writer.

Will you be investing in the Brent Goggins hedge fund?

I know I will. Why? Because Mr Goggins is a hard worker, that's why. And he has vision. Brent Goggins had the gumption, the sheer gumption, to go door to door collecting old cans to raise money to start his fund. How many of you reading this in your comfy offices in Mayfair (or wherever it is you're based) would be willing to do something like that? And how was Mr Goggins rewarded for his efforts? The police in West Hartford, Connecticut arrested him and threw him in a cell! (He's out on bail now.) Outrageous! This man is an entrepreneur, a visionary, and he gets treated like he's the scum of the earth. His chief financial officer, Charles Cravish, was also arrested. It's stories like this that almost make me want to go back to the astral plane and bloody well stay there. Almost. But I suppose we have to try and fight the forces of evil, don't we?

Julian Metherell is leaving Goldman Sachs for an uncertain future

Dear oh dear. I hope he knows what he's doing. I mean, I hope he can find a position somewhere else. Julian Metherell, Goldman's head of UK investment banking, is leaving in the summer. He's sick of it, the chasing after money. 'No?!' Oh, yes. I don't think he's even looking for a new position. He wants to be a poet. A painter, maybe. An artist. For Christ's sake. And I know what will happen. He'll only end up writing about money, or painting pictures ... of money. Once you've been touched, there's no escape. Once money has burnt you, you're a contaminated man (or a contaminated woman) for ever and ever and ever.

Julian Metherell needs to pull himself together. He needs to find the energy within or without. I'll be honest with you, reader(s), it's probably going to be without. The world has beaten Jules down, beaten him to a bloody pulp - if you like, if that's not overdoing it just a tad. And I know you like it, the circus show, or the fairground attraction, the man in the tent, then, down even further on his luck, the man in the gutter, black eyes, bruised, bloody, torn clothes, spittle, fleas, the degradation of it all, the squalor, and the desperation. It's the drink that ruins them. Not just the burning love. Oh, they can't handle the love, so they turn to the drink. Julian isn't there yet! That's why I'm stepping in. I'll save this man from disaster. I'll save him from himself; at least, the worst part of himself. Because I have been there. Jack Pickles tried to fuck me in hell. It's no secret. And what happened to him? He's dead now. I killed him. So this is what I'm saying to Julian: 'Jules, you can fight your demons. You can kill them. You've got to believe in yourself, Jules. Believe in your abilities, son. You deserve happiness. No man is defeated until he gives up.'

I hope he reads this. And I hope he understands. Maybe he'll find work at an investment firm, a new one, under the sun. Maybe someone will be willing to give him another chance. He only wants another chance, for the love all that is holy, before the fucking light goes out! Reader(s), if you can offer Julian a bit of work, send me an email and I'll pass the details of your offer on to him, with my mind, to his mind, as I don't have his email address. We don't care about the sort of work at this stage. Changing light bulbs? Fine. Sweeping up? No problem. We've just got to keep him active. I know he's not leaving Goldman until the summer, but the rot has already set in. I can see him (with my astral eyes, still in good condition, one careful owner, but they're not for sale) in the Goldman office, twiddling his thumbs, alone, as melancholic as a troubadour after singing many songs of courtly love; surely, rueing his decision now, surely. And his co-workers, they know he's going. No one wants to be near him no more. It's terrible. It's tragic. It's madness, is what it is. Children, you should never leave Goldman Sachs. If you're that lucky, that chosen, why turn your back on it? It's the act of a desperado, a criminal, a degenerate, a vampire! Still, it's his choice. Julian Metherell knows my feelings on the subject now. I am here for him. The ball's in his court.

Bob Diamond wants more risk at Barclays

This is brilliant news. Of course, it will upset the sort who like to wet their pants at every opportunity, but so what? They should be grateful. This is another opportunity.

Bob Diamond, chief executive now, remember, the big man, never forget, wants to raise the bank's risk profile because - and this is beautiful - he wants Barclays to make more money. It's the most natural desire in the world. It's the most natural desire beyond this world, if the truth be told. However, the truth hurts, like a bullet from a gun. Yes, that's a lot of pain, so I'll keep quiet about things beyond this world, for the sensitive ones, and I will focus on the cold ground we all crawl over, hungry for salvation, the money-love, the only salvation there is in these parts. Sad but true. Cheer up. It could be worse.

Bob Diamond wants Barclays to achieve a 13 per cent return on equity by 2013. Is this possible? Is Bob being realistic? Or is he dancing in an astral landscape with fairies and goblins? Well, as you know, I have banned everyone from the astral plane. It's in the City of London and on Wall Street that we must make our presence felt; I mean, more than we have ever done before. So, no, Bob is not away with the fairies and the goblins. (There were never any goblins, anyway. That was just a story put about by our enemies in a ludicrous attempt to discredit us. The fairies are another matter, and I will not discuss them. For the record, I am not the man who dreamed of Faeryland. That was W.B. Yeats. And even he tired of the fairies. That's why he changed his writing style around his fiftieth year. I'm only forty-two and already making the change. I'm talking about the shift from dream worlds to a more intense engagement with the everyday world of the cold earth wanderers. There'll still be mysticism, but controlled, like everything else. It's yet another new way, a stronger way, and the people who want to ignore it, can ignore it; however, they will be storing up trouble for themselves. A quote from Damien Hirst is in order; on Nick Serota and the Tate: 'I'm dangerous to them. I mess up their parade. It's a dangerous game you play with Nick Serota. It feels like Nick Serota's not buying one to teach me a lesson. And I'm going to embarrass him for not having one. It's that fucked up. "Why have the Tate not got a Damien Hirst?" "Damien Hirst turned out to be shit." That's his game.') Where was I? Oh yes, Bob Diamond. I think he is being realistic. The Barclays characters, souls, what have you, should take more risks and reach for more profit, more greatness, more life, a magical 13 per cent return on equity! You only live again, and again, and again, until elevated enough to escape the cycle of birth and death. Why not make the most of it?

The nuns at Goldman Sachs should mind their own business

Well, the nuns aren't actually working there, thank God, but they own a few shares in Goldman Sachs, a few hundred dollars' worth, tops. This makes them think they have the right to tell Lloyd Blankfein and other executives what to do. They want a review of pay, these nuns. Lloyd made over $14 million last year. I suppose they think he should be on the minimum wage. Now, I can't say Lloyd is doing God's work. I would never say that. But he isn’t as far away from God as a lot of people would have you believe.

Who are these nuns, anyway? The Sisters of Saint Joseph of Boston. Have you heard of them? No, me neither. The Sisters of Notre Dame de Namur. Who? The Sisters of St. Francis of Philadelphia. Eh? And the Benedictine Sisters of Mt. Angel. Whatever. It's crazy. I can't understand it. Imagine if Lloyd turned up at one of their nunneries and started throwing his weight around. How would they like that? And haven't these nuns heard about the financial shamans that work at Goldman and practically everywhere else in the world of finance? Genuine work, I mean, so obviously. Soul-stretching, mind-expanding, WORK. They don't complain, do they, the shamans? Why not? They are money-oriented! That's why not. They're not communistic nuns. Thank ... me. Yes, thank ME.

Of course, now that Big Herb is dead (a hero's death, oh, hero of the revolution!) and Ganesh is in exile (he'll be missed, I'm sure) there is only me. I'm the boss. I'm the one they all look up to on this cold earth. And the desert is out of bounds! Why? We must take over the cities! The City of London, Wall Street, Hong Kong, plenty of other places. Financial shamans are second-class citizens no longer. The money gods are dead (or gone). Long live ... ME!

And people said I lacked ambition. Ha! They couldn't understand that my nutty days and nights in the astral/physical desert were actually leading to something. No, not incarceration. Glory! It's only a matter of time before I become ruler of the world. Then you'll see things heat up a little. [Oh dear, I'm getting excited again.] Deep breath. Soothing classical music, yes, some Wagner. In an ideal reality, I would go back and edit. No! I must hold my nerve. I am not afraid to write what must be written. This is the ideal reality, this here, with music. Tristan and Isolde. Just like Romeo and Juliet. Or Dante and Beatrice. No, I mustn't go there, again, and again, and again. Like a broken record. The Three Cs. Think! Meditate! Three Cs, in my head! As I've said before, no one said this was going to be easy. They were right not to say it. I am right to keep stressing it. Storm of passion, out of the melancholy afternoon, with birds by the window, and white, fluffy clouds by the chimney. Ah, that's better.

I seem to remember that we were discussing nuns. Well, I was. You were all passive, as per usual. Waiting for me to lay burning love on you like it's going out of fashion. Is that all I'm good for? And when are you going to make a contribution? 'No place to leave a comment, Mikey!' Use your freakin' minds! Send me a message, with your freakin' friggin' minds! Haven't you learnt anything? [Calm down.] I'm calming down. It's that bloody Wagner! If he were alive, I'd swing for him. But that's a different kind of music.

Right, the nuns. The nuns have got to stick to God. It's the only way, for them. Why are they even investing in Goldman Sachs? Who told them to do that? It makes sense financially, sure. But spiritually? What would Jesus do? He'd have a fit.

The mysterious Stephen Jen has left BlueGold Capital Management to follow his dream

First, the good news. Stephen Jen has broken away from BlueGold Capital Management to launch his very own hedge fund, SLJ Macro Partners. However, I'm afraid there is bad news. Stephen Jen is not mysterious at all, not in the slightest. I lied to you, to draw you in. Please forgive me. I don't know why I do it. But aren't you a little to blame? Dear reader(s), how satisfied would you be if I told you that Stephen Jen had been director of macroeconomics and currencies at BlueGold? And what if I told you SLJ would specialize in currency trading? You can see my problem. It's the problem I always have with these ... people. So I resort to lies. I hope you can forgive me.

I am a disgusting human being. I can't believe I just tried to pass a small bit (minuscule, really) of the buck like that. How are you to blame, even a little? And it gets worse. Mr Jen won't be following his dream. The man has no romance in his soul. It's just a business thing. So, yes, I lied, yes, I lied about the dream as well. I am such awful filth. Have some of this: SLJ Macro Partners is waiting for approval from the FSA. How about that for a slice of cold reality? Are you happy now? That's what you want, isn't it? Before I end up in the flames of hell, you must tell me what you want. Or are you Satan's puppet(s)?

I can't trust anyone. I would like to trust you. I would like to believe you have my best interests at heart. A question for you. [Another?!] Have you been sent here, by your infernal master? Of course you haven't! I kill all these characters, and what am I left with in my imagination, Satan? It's the emptiness, you must try to understand. Oh, I know you understand. Words and images are searching for something to hold on to. Being so negative, I find something demonic. I only have myself to blame. Even with your being so unknowable, I can't blame you. I will have to make the effort to be positive. I'll have to! There is an angel, good and pure. We all know her. But maybe I should drop the mysticism altogether. See her as human, and myself as a fully human sha/man with no spirits or voices. One voice, my voice. Rational, sane. It would be wonderful to live like that. And it is a part of the plan, after all. I really should give it my best shot.