Have an Astral Christmas!

Yes, I hope you have an Astral Christmas. Just like the one you had last year. I'll be back on Tuesday 4th January.

In case you're wondering, I’m not going to be lazing around, stuffing my face with mince pies for two weeks. I'm going to be putting a lot of work into that post I told you about. It'll be no longer than three or four thousand words, but it'll be very polished and concentrated.

Laters.

Morgan Sze wants billions of dollars for his new Azentus Capital hedge fund thing

Well, that's what Reuters reckons. It seems reasonable to me. If I were a Goldman Sachs trader and global head of whatever, running away to start my own hedge fund, I would also want billions of dollars to make a big splash with in the astral sea. It's a sea of love!

He only wants a billion.

Only a billion? That can be arranged, no problem. This is all going to work out beautifully. I only wish I had the enthusiasm to continue writing about Morgan Sze and his hedge fund. Unfortunately, I'm a bit distracted at the moment.

You're looking forward to Christmas, ain't ya?

No, not particularly. I'm just excited about the special post I'm working on. I mentioned it yesterday. I'm putting everything into it. My heart, my soul, my, er, everything. It's going to be a masterpiece.

We'll see.

By the way, dear reader, Reuters will tell you more about Morgan Sze. I apologize for being so unhelpful, so ...

So uninformative! O Master, you would never make it as a journalist.

Yeah. What a fucking tragedy. I'm all broken up about that.

Oh, you're a sarcastic c**t, you are. But you make me laugh.

Thank you, my child.

FSA fines and bans William James Coppin and Perry John Bliss

"Gentlemen, this script does not exist."

Reader(s), this post does not exist. This FSA post or page (or whatever it is) does not exist. What an exciting world we live in! I was immediately attracted to the story of stockbrokers William and Perry and their adventures with Provexis as soon as the words "Gentlemen, this script does not exist" entered my consciousness.

'Over the next two days, Coppin and Bliss made a series of calls to clients in which they disclosed that Provexis plc was going to announce a major contract shortly which would make its share price increase substantially. Using this inside information, they encouraged some of their clients to buy Provexis plc shares.'

The script did not exist, but still they went ahead. No fear! Can you believe this?

William and Perry should be given medals for their bravery. Why has the FSA fined and banned them?

Robert "Lone" Wolf at UBS is a lone wolf

With a name like that/this, Robert "Lone" Wolf was always going to be a lone wolf. And that's why he's not the chief executive of UBS. Into each life some rain must fall. I doubt he has sleepless nights though. He is the chief executive of something. UBS Group Americas. That must be a comfort.

O Master, not for long.

I know how it feels to be a lone wolf. I am one. That's how I know. Even more isolated than Bobby "Lone" Wolf. I am the chief executive of nothing.

O Master, "Lone" will be the chief executive of nothing soon. Into each life ...

So? Wolf is not afraid of nothingness.

Who on earth is Caspar Rock? And why?

There's a rumour going around that Caspar Rock is going to become the chief investment officer at Architas, which is some sort of multi-manager nonsense. Voices familiar with the situation say that Caspar is already the deputy, has been for a while. The sheriff, Richard Philbin, is leaving at the end of the month, so the position is/will be free. Are we supposed to believe any of this?

I think we can believe most of it. Are you shocked? I think we can believe that there is some Architas multi-manager nonsense in this peculiar world of ours. Apparently, AXA is all mixed up in it. And I think we can believe in the existence of Richard Philban. I have actually seen a picture of the man and he appears quite human. Please don't take that as a recommendation. Being 'human' is overrated if you ask me. We need more dolphins. We need them working in finance.

Who on earth is Caspar Rock? That's the question. And why? That's not the question. I think we can do without the 'why?' I have a book Why Beckett. Awfully pretentious. Why would you call a book that? And why would you leave out the question mark? Read the book. You'll find there is no reference to 'why' at all. Pietro Citati's Kafka is much better anyway. A masterful piece of work!

Who on earth is Caspar Rock? That's the question we should be asking. I always knew that Kafka was important. I do have a mind of my own, you know. However, Citati made me realize just how important. Particularly impressive is the section where Citati describes how Kafka turned away from being the new Dostoyevsky to find his own difficult, narrow path of darkness. Every great writer needs to turn away from something, from the easy life. You think this is easy?

Who on earth is Caspar Rock? Oh, it's a good question, and it deserves an answer. I only wish I had an answer. I wish I could satisfy you, dear reader(s). I cannot satisfy you. I cannot tell you who any man or woman is, let alone the mysterious Caspar Rock.

I wish I were a dolphin. In the astral sea. Free from human thoughts. I would think like a dolphin. I had an evil dream last night. No dolphin would dream such a dream. I awoke, confused and upset.

You have to pretend no one will read, that no one will ever read. That's the hard part.

Nicolaas Marais is on "desert leave" from BlackRock

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

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

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

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

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

But that's very advanced stuff.

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

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

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

Sorry, boss.

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

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

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

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

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

I won't forget, boss.

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

A thoughtful moment concerning Marcel Duchamp and myself

The FSA is writing to 49,387 people to warn them that their names are on a 'master list' that boiler room fraudsters may have been using to contact them out of the blue and offer worthless shares. Well, the fraudsters most probably have been using it. So the victims will know by now. Why do they need a letter from the FSA telling them what terrible fools they've been? It's rubbing salt in the wound.

O Master, that's not what concerns me. I want to know why they have called it the 'master list'. What's going on, boss?

Obviously, they are trying to put the blame on me. They know I didn't have anything to do with the list. It's outrageous.

Why don't you sue them?

Life's too short. I'm above all this. I will not let them drag me down to their level. I have my mind on higher things.

Yeah. The astral desert. Ghost chatter. The burning money. All that stuff. Mystic shit.

Marcel Duchamp.

Eh?

It occurred to me this morning, after my tea and toast but before my shave and the washing of my hair, a thoughtful moment, that Marcel Duchamp had been staring at an open goal, just as I am now. It was so obvious. So simple. Back then. Still is. With another art.

Yeah.

John Cryan is leaving UBS (to pursue other interests outside of normal reality)

I think we all know what that means, don't we, dear reader(s)? Mr Cryan, chief financial officer extraordinaire, is heading for the physical/astral desert of our love. Where the money always burns, and the moons always shine - if you have your astral eyes in. Where you can touch the sky! You can get as high as an eagle. So it's gonna be astral more than physical. It's gonna be crazy rather than thoroughly sane and dull. And Mr Cryan will be multicoloured, oh, not the usual grey. Because he's had enough! He's nearly fifty and he ain't lived yet. Who can blame him for yearning after the delights of the desert? No doubt he has heard stories (my stories!) about the trunk of Ganesh, and he wants a taste of it, the good life, the wild life, a life that is so close to death (we are nearly there) that we tremble with anticipation. But we don't want to die! We are not insane. We want to live forever. And we will. Believe me, my mystic lovers, all above board, you will live forever - especially if you are one of the fortunate ones mentioned within these bloggy pages (are they pages? no, I refuse to live in the past). I know what I'm doing. I'm taking you all with me. It's gonna be a gas. Like Jim Jones. No, that was a drink. I get confused. It's the peyote, (wo)man, whatever you are. Don't touch that dial! You're not going away, leaving me all lonesome in a wilderness of my own making. We're gonna have a party for John. He won't be leaving for months. Oh God, what's the delay?! Why do they always do this, these executives? 'I'm leaving, leaving on a midnight wave of ecstasy to the desert.' Then what? We have to wait. Three months! Six months! A year! These bankers must think we have the patience of saints. No! We want Johnny here, and we want him NOW! Come on, Johnny, take massive action. Be decisive! Be a man! You can remember what it feels like to be a man, a free man, can't ya? Before the corporate world broke your spirit, dragged you through the dirt of mundane life, a little crying child in rags, well, a suit, let's not tell lies, you already have everyone's sympathy, I'm sure, but, oh, you could be anything in our reality. We will dress you up. No expense will be spared, as long as you're paying. What's your credit card number? Never mind. That can come later.

What did HSBC know about Bernard Madoff?

Oh, there's some talk, some 'news' - if you can believe that, that, that HSBC knew all about Bernard Madoff and his diabolical [so evil as to recall the DEVIL] Ponzi scheme, way back, back in 2001, when the world was young. Ah, the apple trees, blossoms in the breeze.

HSBC subsidiaries fed money into the Ponzi nightmare, or so various nutjobs claim. I don't know what to believe. Do any of us know what to believe any more? And if HSBC knew, so what? You have to make hay while the sun shines, don't ya?

Personally, I would like to know what HSBC knew about Jack Pickles. He was Madoff's boss. He was the one pulling the strings.

Who is Jack Pickles? I suppose I know more than most. After all, we were best friends. Like brothers, we were. Almost the same person. Yes, that close. But he turned to the dark side, of course, while I stayed pure and righteous and whiter than white. They say that rape and murder are just a shot away. (Well, Keith Richards does.) And that's true with Jack. And kidnap, and extortion, and Ponzi schemes. We shouldn't overlook the Ponzi schemes. Although the media does. Why has no one investigated Jack Pickles? Why is everyone so afraid of him? Even the Feds won't arrest him.

They are always pestering me though, the Feds. They seem to think I am the only one who can deal with Jack. They think I know him better than I know myself. One agent actually said that to me. 'You know him better than you know yourself. You don't even know yourself. Repent. We won't arrest you. We can't. But you must repent. Take Jesus into your heart.' Ha! Can you believe that nonsense? He later fell down an elevator shaft. Tragic. But it was nonsense. I don't know what he was suggesting to me. People say all kinds of strange things to me. And not just people. Disembodied voices. However, I will not be taking Jesus into my heart. My heart is full. Big Herb. Ganesh the elephant god. The ghosts of the dead financiers. There ain't no room for Jesus. Same old story. Some things never change.

There is no insider trading at Janus Capital Group

Well, that's a relief. I'm glad that Janus Capital Group didn't get itself mixed up with the hedge fund Wall Street nonsense probes and shenanigans. Or the Wall Street insider hedge fund scenario [‘scenario’ ain’t right, but I’m leaving it in] with the Feds getting up to all sorts, raids and that. Yes, I'm afraid I haven't got the energy this morning to make sense out of the news. I save all my fire for the astral plane. I mean, I need to. You know how exhausting it is. You've been there, haven't you?

You may not believe this but Janus provides growth and risk-managed investment strategies and manages equity, fixed income, money market, as well as balanced mutual funds. Well, on second thoughts, you may believe it. But: Janus goes beyond research-driven investment strategies by providing advisers with soul-building programs and dream-world insights through the astral desert. Within and without, basically. Can you believe that?

You probably can! The nutters I attract! Jesus! But I'm not complaining. I love all my readers. You are my children. I love you all! And I know you love me. One day, you will show me your love. You will show the whole world! I will give the order and the revolution will begin in earnest.

Bill Gross of Pimco fame says that the West is losing its grip on the global growth pie

There is a big pie out there which is getting smaller. Too many Brazilians and Indians and Chinese are sticking their fingers in the pie, while the West goes without. In America and in Europe, the global growth pie is becoming a thing of the past. Bill Gross is trying to tell us that we cannot compete with emerging markets. We should listen to him. Why? Because he is the manager of the world's biggest bond fund. We have to respect that.

O Master, couldn't we just fly away?

We could ignore Bill Gross. Yes, we could ignore him. Maybe we should. And listen to the voices instead. We could fly away. Let's leave this wretched earth to those who are dumb enough to want it. What did Henry Miller say? 'I want to annihilate the whole earth. I am not part of it. It's mad from start to finish. The whole shooting match. It's a huge piece of stale cheese with maggots festering inside it. Fuck it! Blow it to hell!' So, you see? It's not a pie at all. It is a piece of cheese.

O Master, pie or cheese, we must leave!

I suppose we could abandon our physical bodies and head off to the astral desert, and stay there, forever! But I'm not sure we're ready for that. It's all right for the mystical child, that voice, he never had a body. O my child, you have nothing to lose.

Wake up, Master! No one has anything to lose. Westerners are facing a crisis of endless proportions. Unless you want to go live in China, do ya?

The ultimate demon is a lack of global demand. There's nothing we can do. How do you tackle the ultimate demon?

Is this a real demon?

Real enough, I suppose. But there are others. And they are real. On the lower levels. We better not go there. Imagine if we left the frying pan only to end up in the fire.

It doesn't bear thinking about. What's the solution?

We'll have to pretend Bill Gross doesn't exist. If he doesn't exist, he can't talk about global growth pies, and -

What fantastical nonsense is this?!

I've done it before. With Maurice Marble III. Does he exist?

O Master, who is Maurice Marble III?

Exactly!

Who is Gabriel Azedo?

Don't start all that again.

Gartmore's John Bennett isn't going down without a fight

This is what I like to see. Some fighting spirit! John Bennett at Gartmore took over a lot of Roger Guy's stuff, pan-European equities, or something like that. Or maybe I've got that wrong. What do I know? Anyway, you would think that he would be hitting the whisky, drowning his sorrows. Not a bit of it! This man is a warrior! Like me, he went to the University of Life and the University of Death. I feel an incredible bond with this man. Mystical, it is. Oh, he's quite a man. But don't just take my word for it, take his. Let Mr Bennett explain himself to those with open minds and open hearts (yes, the best of my readers) -

I am John Bennett. I am a fund manager. I own over 3 per cent of Gartmore. What's that worth? Who cares? It may be worth nothing. But what is a man worth, lost in this cold world, or happy and burning on the astral plane with financiers who died long ago? Those financiers! I have seen them alive, and seen them dead. Life and death, it's all the same to me. Flesh into shadows, and shadows into flesh. I don't ask questions. It is not my job to investigate the mysteries. In fact, I laugh at the mysteries. That's why I do not get upset when evil people tell me that the good times at Gartmore are coming to an end. My mind is not disturbed. What did Krishna say to Arjuna? You must fight! And Krishna was right. And then there was Napoleon at Waterloo. The Prussians could have been on the moon for all he cared. So let's not worry about victory or defeat. Let's concern ourselves with honour. An old-fashioned concept, sure, but honour is important. Julius Caesar! Why did Caesar's army fight for him at Pharsalos? To defend his honour. No other reason. And after such great deeds, he would have been condemned had he not sought the help of his army. What was he to do, hand himself over to a bunch of nonentities in Rome? His men understood. Oh, we must always fight the darkness of lower beings. That's why Mr Fowke continues with his blog. Imagine the glee of his enemies if he were ever to stop. And that's why I continue with my work at Gartmore. You won't catch me climbing out of a window, slinking off in disgrace. No, I am staying at my desk. They won't take me alive! Death before dishonour!

Thank you, John. Good luck!

I find it interesting that Mr Bennett mentioned Julius Caesar. Even more than Napoleon, Caesar should be an inspiration to all men of ambition. Let me quote from Christian Meier's biography of the great man: 'The only certainty was that Caesar had found his own path, the path he had always sought. Since the contemporary oppositions afforded the outsider nothing that would have induced him to take up a firm, objective position, he had to find his point of reference, his criteria, within himself. With no cause to take up, he had to develop his personality freely and without ties. He wanted to demonstrate his virtus - the manliness so admired by the Romans - through deeds. His pride, his awareness of his own superiority and the self-confidence that grew with every new success made him certain of achieving the goals he had set himself. Having distanced himself from everyone else and deliberately set himself apart from his peers, he could begin to show his true greatness, knowing that he was free to realize all his rich talents without too much consideration for others, and convinced that he possessed incomparably more strength, skill and insight than all of them.'

The SEC alleges that Arnold McClellan and his wife Annabel ...

... were up to no good. Up to no good with their crazy relatives over the water, James and Miranda Sanders. More insider shenanigans! But let's be honest, everyone is up to no good! It's the way of the world. We are all inside something. This world, this cosmos. Everyone is being charged! There is no escape.

'The McClellans might have thought that they could conceal their illegal scheme by having close relatives make illegal trades offshore. They were wrong,' said Robert Khuzami, Director of the SEC's Division of Enforcement. 'In this day and age, whether it's across oceans or across markets, the SEC and its domestic and foreign law enforcement partners are committed to identifying and prosecuting illegal insider trading.' More here.

Oh, they were wrong, still are. And Mr Khuzami is wrong. We are all wrong. Even the hermit in his cave is wrong, so what chance the regulator, the cop, or the journalist? We are human beings. We are all sinners. We ain't never been right. This is something I know. A little fragment of our reality, and I could reveal more. But who will read this? Who will learn? Who will follow? Won't everyone just smile, and say, 'Wonderful entertainment! Now, I wonder what the others have posted'? It is so very depressing. The loneliness of the supersane. A heaven that burns like hell. Who will understand?

O Master, the heart of the wise is in the house of mourning; but the heart of fools is in the house of mirth. It is better to hear the rebuke of the wise, than for a man to hear the song of fools. For as the crackling of thorns under a pot, so is the laughter of the fool.

Yes, my child. The best of my readers will certainly understand that. Hopefully, they will keep away from those other voices, foolish voices, those other sites, that offer only emptiness, though they make noises like they offer wisdom. There is no end to their writings. All day and all night they witter on. None of it is permanent. None of it burns with the fire of essential speech. Their works are holes in the soil of mankind’s achievements. However, it is not so with me. I am building a palace on their posts. And they know it, and they hate me for it. My words cut through their brains like a knife, leaving them envious and sad, and angry and frustrated, writhing on the cold ground of the internet like snakes, while I fly over them on my way to immortality. An eagle blessed by God.

Who is Chris Burvill? Where is he going?

Chris Burvill is one of the heroic few still standing at Gartmore. He runs the Gartmore Cautious Managed fund, all £900 million of it! We'll never see his like again.

O Master, where is he going?

O my child, come in from the cold, warm yourself. Mr Burvill ain't going nowhere. Clouds so swift. Snow won't lift. Gate won't close. Railings froze. Get your mind off wintertime. You ain't goin' nowhere.

Eh?

Don't worry about it.

O Master, where is he going?

Nowhere - yet. I ain't looking into his heart, his soul. Who knows what horror I will find? He seems a decent man though. He says the euro will crash and burn. Good! Let’s hope it takes the European Union with it. The people of Europe will be free again!

O Master, this Burvill chap, where is he going?

Maybe he will go to Acapulco. Going to have some fun, on the run, in the sun. But I'm sure the Gartmare goons would drag him back. They need him.

Oh, he ain't going nowhere.

Martin Cornish says he is definitely seeing more "people" knock on his door

Not only that but Martin Cornish reckons these "people" are thinking of doing something. Can you believe it? These hellish "people" are thinking of doing something! Why doesn't Mr Cornish just tell them to piss off? There's snow everywhere, and "people" are knocking on his door! This is an outrage!

Or it would be, if Mr Cornish wasn't very pleased with the situation. You see, Marty is a man who likes to work with hedge fund start-ups. It takes all sorts to a make a world, doesn't it? Marty is the managing partner at law firm Katten Muchin Rosenman Cornish LLP. They focus on the financial services sector, including investment funds, regulatory and related corporate work, general banking and real estate finance. Anyway, the good news is, these hellish "people" [how I regret besmirching them now] are actually upstart hedgies. Marty is seeing more of them. They are knocking on his door at all hours. Marty "I see hedgies" Cornish. That's how he likes to be known. But could some of them be ghosts?

I have been speaking to Mr Cornish. This is what he told me: 'Mr Fowke, I can assure you that all the hedgies that come to my door are real people. There is no question of their being ghostly apparitions. What is wrong with you, man? (Mr Cornish, may I call you 'Marty'?) You may not call me 'Marty'. I want to keep this as formal as possible. (Mr Cornish, are you familiar with the ghosts of the dead financiers?) No, I am not. Who are they? (Well, obviously, they are a group of dead financiers, many of them ex-hedgies. They float around on the astral plane, and in my subconscious, and in yours.) Not in my subconscious, Mr Fowke. I think I would know. (With all due respect, Mr Cornish, you do not strike me as the kind of man who has an amazing amount of self-awareness, let alone any sort of contact with your innermost being, and -) My innermost being?! What nonsense is this? (Mr Cornish, please hear me out. Isn't it true that many of these "people" come to your door, and indeed knock on it, in the early hours of the morning, three or four in the morning? Isn't that so?) On occasion. (On occasion? I have it on good authority that it happens every night. Please tell me what happened last night.) How do you know about last night? (Come on, Marty, tell me.) I heard a loud knocking on my door at 3.15 this morning. (Your door? This was your bedroom door, wasn't it?) Yes, my first thought was that it must be a burglar. (Politely enquiring if he might have your car keys, perhaps?) I didn't know what he wanted. However, I sprang out of bed, and, dressed only in my pyjamas, I - (Like the R. Whites guy!) Yes, very much like him, er, Mr Whites, I opened the door. (And what confronted you?) How do you know all this? (Mr Cornish, tell me about the ghost!) It was a man, white as a sheet, and he wanted my advice about starting a hedge fund. (And you thought this was all perfectly reasonable, in your bedroom, at three in the morning, discussing the hedge fund industry with a man who you freely admit was as white as a sheet?!) I thought I was dreaming. So I didn't take it seriously. But he had very warm hands. (He touched you?) Yes. (Where did he touch you?) I would rather not say. (No wonder you didn't call the police.) Why would I call the police? It was only a dream, just a dream. (Oh, a dream! And in the morning you awoke to find £5,000 on your bedside table, a down payment for your services! How do you explain that?) I can't explain it.'

You see, dear reader? Some people refuse to believe in the supernatural. It doesn't matter what evidence you present them with. I can reveal that the white-as-a-sheet man was a hedge fund manager (let's call him 'Henry') who died a few years ago. After leaving Marty's house he flew over to my place to let me know what had happened. He said Marty was extremely rude and wouldn't even offer him a glass of lemonade. He paid the £5,000 though. Mr Cornish may be a bit of a pain, but Henry does need his advice - even after his illustrious career on our cold earth. Have you ever tried to set up a hedge fund in the physical world from the nebulous world of the astral plane? It's not something for the faint-hearted.

Angus Woolhouse abandons Gartmore to its fate!

Yes, Angus Woolhouse, who was head of global institutional business at Gartmore, has joined the Matrix Group as chief executive officer of its asset management division. Apparently, he managed to escape through a window which one of Gartmore's security team had foolishly left unlocked.

Mr Woolhouse is free, free as a bird! Like an eagle he will soar through the astral sky. I wish him all the best.

But what will happen to Gartmore?

Death in the snow on this cold day. That's how it feels. I'm looking out at the grey sky death. Snowflakes swirling around, pieces of ghost flesh. There is no warmth for them. Well, there's my blood. Blue flesh in a red mouth. Winter insanity chills them to the bone. I suffer with them. I am Jesus for them. The voices are frozen in the cavern of my mind. That's my pain. Speak! O ... O ... O ... Speak! O ... O ... O ... Never mind. It could be worse. It could be broken teeth stuck in a brick wall. Or a block of ice hitting a head, with smoking eyeballs rolling down the road, and a spark that lasts a second or two in the heart. But that's just me. It is worse for them. Oh, there was hope for them! It has gone.

Dirty snow. They will sleep in dirty snow. A hole in the ground where we will find them silent and motionless. Pains for those left behind will go on. Are we surprised? Each word is a broken fingernail. This vision is a pile of broken bones. Gartmore is a cracked skull. There is nothing to look forward to. The smart ones got out. Not for them a bowl of soup in the shelter. They'll be eating caviar. Not for them the failure, the loneliness, the despair, the shadows approaching them. They will find a place in the sun. Those left behind are trapped now. Like loyal fish in a barrel waiting to be shot, but wanting to escape the misery. Oblivion is the only option. They look to me. I am their Jesus. I suffer with them. But I cannot go with them.

Where are they going? A hole in the ground will not be the end of it. The pain will pass. There is hope! I am the shaman who knows. I have not just scratched the surface of reality, like all the others. I go deeper than anyone.

I am the ultimate master of reality! You must come to me if you want the truth. I have wisdom. I have knowledge. Oh, and I have panache. I dance on the edge of the abyss and it ain't just my angel that keeps me out of it - not on a good day. So how will this Gartmare end? This is what I believe: in that wretched hole in the cold ground, those poor Gartmore souls will find salvation. It will take time, but they will discover that which lies behind the burning money. I only wish I was going with them. Alas, my ego is a great hindrance.

HSBC's Paul Thurston is getting higher and higher

One day he will touch the sun. This is what I like to see, bankers doing well in life. Paul Thurston is/was the big head in HSBC’s British division. But from next March he will be in Hong Kong, working as global head of retail banking and wealth management. So, how did this mild-mannered janitor become a superhero?

I have been speaking to Mr Thurston. [I'm always speaking to someone. Will it never end?] This is what was whispered between us, late last night, beneath an astral moon: 'Master, look at that moon, man! Is it yellow? Is it red? Is it blue? Oh, it changes colour, and it seems to be laughing at us. Look at his lovely face! Is he alive? (Yes, Paul, the moon is alive. Yes, it changes colour. Yes, he - I think it is a he - is laughing at us. But this is par for the course in our reality. You should know what goes on by now. So let's discuss a serious matter. Why is your career so glorious? How do you manage to go from strength to strength? Is there nothing that can stop you?) Come on, Master, you don't need to ask those sort of questions. You know how much I love Big Herb. You know how much respect I have for the ghosts of the dead financiers. This is something all bankers should learn: honour the mystic ones on the plane and you will have it made. (It really is as simple as that, isn't it?) Fuckin' A it is! Where would I be without a ghostly caress while I'm sleeping, or a kiss on the forehead from the icy lips which burn? And how do you explain that? (The icy lips that burn? Oh, Paul, that has baffled scholars down the ages. But I know. Those financiers are dead. They died a long time ago. So their lips are as cold as the physical moon.) Right. (But the fire of money still burns within them, and it passes through their lips, so you can still feel it. It's a strange mixture of fire and ice.) Amazing! And these dead financiers, did they all die such a long time ago? (Oh, not all of them. There are some young ones. In fact, you can join them when you pass over, if you want to, and if they will have you.) I imagine they're very choosy, Master. (You imagine correctly, Paul. They are very choosy. And it can be a risky business, applying.) Why? (Well, you wouldn't want to be blackballed. Let's leave it at that.) Okay, Master, let's just leave it at that. Maybe we should stare at the moon for a while longer.'

And that's what we did. We stared at the moon for a while longer, together. Did years pass? It felt like years. Though I'm sure the experience only lasted a few earth seconds. We were there, mystic brothers, as the moon laughed, all the time changing colour. Paul was happy, I could tell. And it wasn't the promotion. I could see in his expression that he was elevated within. Higher than he had ever been, he was. Maybe one day he will get higher than the sun. Who knows? I am not a fortune teller. A lot of people think I am. But that is not my job. I am a facilitator. I have helped Paul. I will always be willing to help him. I will help all the bankers who want to believe, who want to stretch themselves. When a man or a woman burns with the fire of money, he or she looks for more in life, and even in death. The greyness fades. They see the sun, the physical sun, with new eyes. Then, inside, they see the astral moon. Or rather, an astral moon, for there are many moons. To be honest, they see what they want to see. If Paul had wanted an astral sun, it would have been delivered to his consciousness. We are the masters of reality. We get what we want. Heaven or hell. We create it in our minds, our souls. This is the way. It goes on forever.

And while I was with Paul, thinking about him, I thought about myself. I realized that I have created myself, and that I continue to create myself. I have never been given anything. No one ever gives me anything. (Well, no one on earth.) I haven't been supported. There is no one alive intelligent enough to support me because to be supported you have to be understood first. And I do not care how arrogant that sounds. I am alone. Of course, Big Herb looks at me, and he understands. Ganesh also looks at me. And he understands. But they are not men. They are gods. It would be shocking if they did not understand. And God, the one universal god, understands me the most. That is why I have no fear. If I were in the wrong, God would strike me down. However, He lets me continue with my mission. God has given me the freedom to create myself.

Sarasin's Christopher Lindsay is mixed up like a bowl of nuts about gold

And it ain't just him. Everyone at Sarasin & Partners is a little confused. All this on top of Robin Hepworth and his polar bears, down in the mine. Not canaries! No, polar bears. And now we have Mr Lindsay, screaming like a queen: 'EquiSar Global Thematic! EquiSar IIID! We're talking funds of Barrick Gold. Lots of it!' David Vickers ain’t happy though, while Chris (head of thematic research, seriously) rants and raves, more coming -

Electric cars, fertilizer, robots, iron ore, but it's gold, gold, gold, I want, and you want. Perhaps you have just come into a lump sum that is available for investment. Put it into gold! There might be more demand. Are you nervous about the dollar? Perhaps you are a mystic kook considering whether there might be a better way of managing your funds to meet the competing demands on your resources. You may be an alchemist. Well, you don't need me then. Clear off! Perhaps you are a family office, independent financial adviser, pension fund, bunch of ghosts, multi-manager, insurance company or other mental institution looking for fresh and innovative ways of investing. Perhaps you are a lonely man, a lonely woman, an aching stranger. How do I know? I don't know who you are. You read Mikey's blog. You could be anyone! You could be Charles Manson. He's on Twitter, you know. Or perhaps you are simply conducting a periodic review of your investment management arrangements and wondering if there may be ways of boosting performance, simplifying administration and saving unnecessary costs. Well, of course there are ways. In fact, there is one way. We only need the one way. On the astral plane you can pick up gold anywhere, everywhere. It's there, in the sand. You don't believe me? I am not the queen of the highway. No one can save her, save the blind tiger. I am a monster, black dressed in leather. That's me! It's all in my head! I have to thank Mr Fowke for giving me this opportunity. They don't let me out. They don't trust me at Sarasin. They say I scare people, that I drive investors away. THEY ARE INSANE! I blame David Vickers. He ain't no Goldfinger! Not like me. I love the stuff. Come with me, mystic ones. Weird scenes inside the gold mine. I am lost in a financial wilderness of pain, and all the children are insane. I have to work with children! Not mystics ones, not burning ones, but cold ones. They love the gold. They hate the gold. They like the gold, a bit. Then they hate it. Is it any wonder I'm so emotional? Bite me. Put your teeth into me. I'm desperately in need of some stranger's teeth in my flesh. It would calm me down. Guitars! Desert! Astral moon! Native Americans! Napalm nights! Faces from the ancient gallery. Evil grins. A gold axe! Gold snow. The winter snow is gold in my eyes. Here is the danger that worries THEM so much. Ride the snake. Fight the polar bear. The polar bear will take you down into the icy water, astral seas. Fight! There is a door. It's another world. Come on. Come on. COME!

Thank you, Chris. I'm sure my readers will take all this under advisement. [N. Amer.]

Blue Index: James Sanders and Miranda Sanders charged by the FSA!

Yes, seventeen counts of insider dealing. And not just this husband and wife team. Christopher Hossain (a trader, he was arrested in the Tottenham Court Road, apparently) No, that's just a rumour [A rumour? It's the way he feels, his problems], James Swallow (co-owner, director), and Adam Buck have also been charged with insider trading [I prefer 'trading' to 'dealing']. By the way, James "Paul" Sanders is co-owner and a director of Blue Index.

'The offences are all alleged to have taken place between October 2006 - February 2008 and all five individuals have been bailed by City of London Police to appear at City of Westminster Magistrates Court on 20 December 2010.' More here.

It's at times like this that I lose all interest in the subject I'm supposed to be writing about. The FSA has worn me out. When is it going away? Nothing lasts forever. Why are they clinging on? Even Hitler committed suicide when he knew the end was near.

O Master, I saw under the sun the place of judgment, that wickedness was there; and the place of righteousness, that iniquity was there. I said in mine heart, "God shall judge the righteous and the wicked, for there is a time there for every purpose and for every work."

Fuckin' A! This is what I'm talking about. Thank you, my child.

Who is Robin Hepworth? Why is he turning cash into gold?

And why is he so damn ethical? Robin Hepworth manages the Ecclesiastical Amity International fund. He's turning cash into gold because he's worried about inflation. Fair enough. We're all worried about inflation, aren't we?

I'm worried about the ethical rubbish though. That's my main concern. 'We can't invest in miners. There might be the odd situation where it is possible but generally we can't because of their impact on the environment.' More here.

The environment?! Is he for real? Who cares about the environment? We must destroy everything. The polar bears must go. Not that you get a lot of polar bears down mines. Mr Hepworth hasn't considered that. Mine away! The polar bears are safe, for the time being, those vicious bastards!

The earth won't last. Live with it, or without it. We're all going away. We're only passing through. Why should we care?

Swan Street Partners buys 5 per cent of Gartmore!

Why? Why oh why oh why?

Why would anyone want 5 per cent of Gartmare? It's Gartmore, boss. I know what it is! I want to know why John Zwaanstra wanted 5 per cent of it. Zwaanstra? The Penta man? What's he got to do with it? He's behind it. He got his brother to buy it. His brother? Todd. Todd? Never heard of him! What's going on?

That's what I want to know. Did George Soros tell him to buy this stake? George Soros?! What about Lord Lucan? Is he in on it as well? Don't be ridiculous!

I know that Todd is controlling it on behalf of his brother, but who is his brother working for? This is from here: 'Despite the Swan Street purchase, Gartmore's share price has continued to slump following Roger Guy's retirement announcement, now sitting at 97p.' Roger Guy has the 5 per cent!

No. Jack Pickles has it. It's got to be him. Surely not! You blame everything on Jack. How do you know, Master? O my child, I have a feeling in my water. You just got the feeling? Sounds serious. It is serious. Jack is planning something evil. Obviously. I mean, he's always planning something evil. Why change the habit of a lifetime? Many lifetimes? He rode a tank, held a general's rank, when the Blitzkrieg raged, and the bodies stank. Or maybe that was someone else.

Enough! This is the load of crap du jour [how I hate that middle-class 'du jour' bollocks!]. Indeed! Let's end it here. No, Master, we must continue. Your readers. What about my readers? They want satisfaction.

Dear reader(s), do you really need to know what terrible evil Mr Jack Pickles is planning? This isn't a soap opera, you know. Can't you just use your imagination? Must I do everything? 320,000 words now and counting, and you still want more?! You're insatiable!

All right, let's go then. Leave them wanting more. You truly are the Master. Ladies and gentleman, Mr Fowke has left the blog.

I'll be back!

He'll be back! It's tea and biscuits time!

SEC freezes Richard Dalton and Universal Consulting Resources

Have you ever been frozen by the SEC? Those dudes are cold, real cold, and they will freeze you if you let them. I, on the other hand, will burn the fuck out of you. So what you gonna do? Are you going with them, or are you coming with me?

Come with me. Richard Dalton wanted to come, but he couldn't. I don't know what he was doing with his diamond investing. Not sure I care. But this is what the SEC reckons: 'The SEC alleges that Richard Dalton and Universal Consulting Resources LLC (UCR) raised approximately $17 million from investors in 13 states for two fraudulent offerings that were generally referred to as the "Trading Program" and the "Diamond Program." Investors in both programs received monthly payments which Dalton told them were profits from successful trading. However, there is no evidence to substantiate the $10 million in claimed profits from the two programs, and the vast majority of funds that came into UCR bank accounts were from new investors instead of actual profit-generating activity. Dalton used money from new investors to fund the monthly payments to existing investors while continuing to recruit new investors in order to keep his scheme going. Meanwhile, Dalton stole investor funds to purchase a home and a vehicle and pay for his daughter's wedding reception.' More here. It was a goddamn Ponzi scheme, apparently. But I ain't gonna judge him. Only God can judge him.

All I know is, diamonds are forever. It take more than a website to kill my vibe does, he write his own posts, so sort of, I think 'em, that mean I forgot better shit than u ever thought up. Damn, is he really that caught up? I ask if you talkin' bout classics, do my name get brought up? You understand? No?

Come with me. Let's forget about Dalton and the SEC. God will settle it. Let's concentrate on the burning. Do you want the burning?

I'm feeling so happy today. Ecstatic! Not in the pit of despair, wailing and gnashing teeth, like yesterday. I have more moods than Van Gogh on crack. It's true, but on a day like this, I don't even need no angel to save me, as gorgeous as she is, as wonderful. All I need is the burning inside. I'm itching! This is like a disco inferno, the way I am, right now, in my soul. And I want you, dear reader, to feel the same. Are you reading this at work? Are you surrounded by a bunch of zombies who have no inkling they're born? No one told them they could live, so they just mope around, grey. It's death, but not as we know it. That ain't you. You're reading this, so you must want the fire. Am I right? Squares don't read my blog. I make squares wet themselves, the pussies. Are you a real man? Are you a real woman? Maybe a bit of both? It doesn't bother me. BUT - I dare you to jump on to your desk. Do it! And scream: 'Motherfuckers, I'm burning this place down. Then I'm taking you all to the astral desert. Mikey and the gang will burn us up. Come with me or die!' Reader, man, come with me, they will come with you, and we will all come together in a heap in a sandy world of flames. This is the way. The ultimate pleasure. And it's free of charge. You don't have to invest a penny! Not one penny! Now take my love. Take it in your mouth! Taste it! Your mouth is burning. My mouth is burning. Look into my eyes. Match me! Come with me! Smash the office up. Leave it all behind. Inside, that's where the fun is. Everything you want is inside of you. You can travel a trillion billion miles in your head. I do it all the time and there's nothing wrong with me, is there? We're gonna riot! We're gonna destroy, and create. Heaven in our heads! And hell for those left behind in the office. Tie them to their swivel chairs, the unbelievers. Spin them like cosmic Catherine wheels until they too float off into space. We will force it upon them. You believe or you die. That's the rule. I'm not fucking around any more. In this mood [Christ, let it last!!!] I am a god. I am a god in human form. Nothing can touch me. My fingers are burning. This feels so good. I hope you're feeling it too. Wherever you are. The City. Wall Street. I hope your office is destroyed. I hope there's chaos. Give me everything I want. I want your devotion. Your belief. I want your fucking ACTION!

Diamondback Capital Management raided by the Feds

This is my first post since last night. I've been away so long!

Let's get down to business. Diamondback Capital Management has been raided by the Feds. And not just Diamondback! Level Global Investors and Loch Capital Management too! What's going on?

The FBI reckons there's insider trading at these hedge funds. God knows how many others. Is every hedge fund in the world involved? Let's thank our lucky stars that the Feds know nothing about the astral plane.

O Master, why do you defend these people? You're as bad as Jack Pickles.

O my child, I am nothing like Jack Pickles! How dare you say that! Jack Pickles murders and kidnaps and extorts and - I could go on! But insider trading isn't so -

O Master, I'm shocked.

Yeah, like Claude Rains you're shocked. Don't give me that. You know what goes on. You've been there yourself.

I'm just a voice!

That's no defence. If they ever come for you on the plane, you'll have to do better than 'I'm just a voice'. 

 

I'm just a voice!

Shut it! How do I go on? And on and on and on? With a perforated eardrum on top of everything else. With the cold. With nightmares. With an angel, out of reach. With so many misunderstandings. FBI agents seized documents. Those poor hedgies are suffering now. But we all suffer. I need something to hold on to. Like Van Gogh, like Rimbaud. My suffering has meaning. David Ganek suffers. Timothy and Todd McSweeney suffer. Where is the meaning? Will they learn? I believe they will be able to squeeze something from the experience. Despair is a lemon. My life is a pancake. When do we eat pancakes?

You're not making any sense. Shrove Tuesday. Something to do with sins. Repent!

I'm not an evil man.

Who is Guillaume Jacqueau?

Who is Guillaume Jacqueau? That's a good question. Is he a shadow of the man he wants to be? That's another good question. I can tell you he is a director at Barclays Private Equity in Paris, and I can tell you he will be the big boss next year when BPE breaks away from Barclays and goes it alone. Yes, the lunatics are taking over the asylum. I can't tell you any more than that.

Who is Claus Z?

German authorities have charged Claus Z with aiding and abetting fraud. So what? Who is he? Is he someone we should be concerned about? Is he a man just like any other? Is he a stranger?

Someone must have been telling lies about Claus Z, for without having done anything wrong he was arrested one fine morning. Two men entered his room. He had no idea who they could be. What authority did they represent? He didn't know.

He showed the men his papers. 'What are your papers to us? You're behaving worse than a child.' That was nonsense. Z lived in a country where there was universal peace, where all the laws were in force. The men spoke of some strange law. Z didn't know this law.

The Law had to be explained to him. He heard that before the Law stands a doorkeeper on guard. If you try to enter the Law, the doorkeeper will tell you that you cannot enter at the moment. It's possible you'll be able to enter later, so you hang around, waiting. The door is open, and you can peer through it, if you want to, but the doorkeeper will most probably laugh at you. He will tell you that he is powerful, and that there are other doorkeepers even more powerful than he. You will not dare enter without permission. You sit on a stool and wait, for days! Years! You become old, and your eyes grow dim. In the darkness you perceive a radiance that streams immortally from the door of the Law. Then, close to death, you ask the doorkeeper why no one else has come seeking admittance to the Law. The doorkeeper tells you that the door was intended only for you. He then shuts it.

So why do I care about Claus Z? Am I a friend? A good man? Someone who sympathizes? Someone who wants to help? Are there some arguments in his favour that have been overlooked? Of course there must be. Logic is doubtless unshakable, but it cannot withstand a man who wants to go on living.

However, the hands of the two men are now upon Claus Z. Like a dog. Will the shame of this outlive him?

Celine David used to work at Credit Suisse

Now she spends all her time watering plants or something. She's a gardener!

How strange! I suppose she found City life too stressful. She still keeps an eye on financial matters though. This is her view of the present situation and the next few months -

Not many among us wake up in the morning looking forward to the working day ahead. I do, and I feel incredibly lucky. So what is it that I love so much about my garden? The challenge of creating something beautiful that captures my vision and personality. Yes, I have vision, and I have personality. But enough of me! What of the economic situation? People ask me if I think that we can stimulate growth through temporary incentives. I say, as long as the roots are not severed, all is well. And all will be well in the garden. In the garden, growth has it seasons. First comes spring and summer, but then we have autumn and winter. And then we get spring and summer again.

I think what this babe is saying is that we welcome the inevitable seasons of nature, but we're upset by the seasons of our economy.

Yes! There will be growth in the spring!

Well, okay. Celine David ain't no desert girl, but she seems to know her stuff.

Why is Peter Clarke (of Man Group fame) defending the FSA?

For those of you who don't know and may not even care, Peter Clarke is the chief executive of Man Group. I have criticized Man Group in the past for not embracing mystical capitalism. I thought the GLG gang would change things. Well, there have been no forever changes so far. Now we see Peter Clarke defending the evil empire of the FSA. (When I say evil, I don't mean evil in the sense that Jack Pickles and his boss, Satan, are evil, I just mean that the FSA is infested with cold earth wanderers. These wretched wanderers reject the astral plane, the money gods, and the burning love. Is that not evil? Of course it is!)

Oh come on, Master, you're being unreasonable. By your standards, nearly everyone in the world is evil then.

So be it! The world is an evil place. Let's get off it. Let's fly away!

Philip Falcone ain't worried about a thing

Phil Falcone is the big man at Harbinger Capital, and he ain't worried about a thing. He's never been worried about a thing. Goldman Sachs and the Blackstone Group may want their money back, but so what? It's not the end of the cosmos.

Investors worry about all kinds of crap, don't they? Phil and I will start worrying when the cosmos collapses, when our chakras stop whirling, when our auras turn to shit. That's the time to worry. When the fire goes out. When passion dies. When love turns cold.

What would Jesus do? Oh, forget him. He's small potatoes. What would God do? [If God died, we would have to bury Him a G. Thug life.] If God had money at Harbinger, would He want it back? These investors are mixed up like a bowl of nuts.

The higher I get, the closer God seems. Phil understands. He has been in the desert. And in graveyards. There are bones in graveyards, six feet deep, no light. If these bones could come alive with new flesh, would they want their money back? Did they even have any money invested? We are not aware of everything that happens for a reason or no reason. We are in the dark ourselves.

Questions. Answers. What a comedy! When will 'they' realize that there are no questions? So how could there possibly be any answers? Despair goes on. It goes away. It comes back. If you are intelligent. King Solomon knew. But let's try to fight it, eh? We will not go gentle into that evil night.

Rabbi Milton Balkany is going down for extortion, blackmail, wire fraud, all sorts

Rabbi Milton Balkany has been found guilty of trying to rip off SAC Capital. He claimed he had knowledge of insider trading at the firm, and he wanted $4 million to keep quiet about it. Now he is facing up to twenty years in prison. But it’s Jack Pickles who should be doing time and eating porridge. I can't prove a thing (you never can with Jack); however, I just know he was involved in this. There's no way a rabbi would try to extort money from a hedge fund without a demonic force behind him - or even inside him. That's Jack. He is that force. The man is evil. How many times do I have to tell you, dear reader(s), before you understand? A lot of you like to pretend he doesn't exist. I know, I know. It helps you sleep at night, doesn't it? Well, when the hell are you people going to wake up?! You're asleep all day long too. Enough's enough!

I feel so alone sometimes. Fighting Jack, it's like I'm fighting my own shadow. It was so cold last night. Did I imagine his icy fingers around my neck at three in the morning? You tell me. I don't know what's real and what's a fantasy any more. What is a fantasy? Am I a fantasy? Did I imagine myself? Did Jack imagine me? Maybe Jack exists, and I don't exist. That would be even worse, if it were true. There would be no light in the financial world. For I am the light. I am the way. I am a candle in the wind. Satan is the wind. Jack is a mild breeze. I should be able to beat him.

I am the light. I am the way. I truly believe that. Jack is a puppet. Forget him! Satan is everywhere.

I am the light. My head of fire will show you. It's so cold today.

Why was Alexandre Harfouche fired by Goldman Sachs?

Some people really write and talk nonsense, don't they? Other news organizations - nowhere near as reliable and as knowledgeable as I am - seriously maintain that Alexandre Harfouche (head of European block trading) was fired by Goldman Sachs merely because he violated internal policies and procedures. Ridiculous!

Alexandre Harfouche was given the boot because he wouldn't let the shamans at Goldman's London headquarters smear blood all over his body in a bizarre ritual. Well, 'bizarre' to the squares of this world. I've lost count of the number of times that associates of mine have smeared blood all over me. It can be a bit of a giggle, if you approach it with the right attitude. Personally, I think Alex should have just let them get on with it. I find, in life, that a lot of the things that initially scare or disgust you will actually come to seem quite normal and natural if only you are willing to open your mind - and your heart. You shouldn't shut yourself off from new experiences. You won't get anywhere like that. As Uncle Monty once asked: Are you a sponge or a stone? Alex voted Conservative, I'm sure.

I have been speaking to a financial shaman at Goldman. His name is Peter. I can't give you his surname, but I can tell you that he is on the secretive twenty-strong shamans committee. This is what he said: 'Michael, have you ever met Alex? (No, Pete, what's he like?) A big crybaby. (That's a bit hard, isn't it?) He wouldn't even let us take a peek at his chakras. We only wanted to help him. (What's this all about, Pete?) Mike, we're going to be taking a look at all the Goldman boys and girls who haven't embraced mystical capitalism yet. And this is from Lloyd. He wants us to root out all the squares and losers - in time. (Well, it's going to take some time. You're going to be pretty busy, Pete.) It'll be worth it though. By 2015 every Goldman employee will have been given a grounding in financial shamanism. That doesn't mean they will be shamans; but we believe it's important that they at least know the basics and have a feel for the desert. (You didn't take Alex out into the desert, did you?) Are you kidding me? He practically wet himself with the blood ritual in the office. Imagine the desert, the fire, the ghosts. (Well, did you explain to him what was happening, or did you just strip him naked and put the blood on?) I must admit, Mike, we could have handled the situation a lot more sensitively. We just grabbed him and took him down. He didn't even know there was a basement. He wouldn't let us splash the blood all over though. He started crying, and we had to let him go. Our thinking was that he would enjoy it. But it must have come as a shock. I guess we'll have to review our procedures.'

Yes, that's one of the things about being a financial shaman, you do become detached from everyday reality. It's easy to forget that our world - blood and ghosts and fire and all that - must seem utterly terrifying to the average joe in the street.

Point State Capital: second-largest hedge fund launch of all times!

Next year, Point State Capital, it's going to be massive. The hedge fund will launch with $5 billion! But it will be a very private affair. Stanley Druckenmiller is putting $1 billion in, and a few of his mates from the old days are coming up with the rest. The fund will not be open to new investors. Ah, that's a shame, isn't it? How selfish can you get?

'But he will be tested! A giant octopus could take him for a spin in the astral depths! Dolphins could chase him! He might land on the rocks of another reality! In fact, I'm sure he will. His head will hit hard. New emotions will bubble up within him. Some good, some bad. It will be a new life. But not even death would be a release for him. Mr Druckenmiller needs to understand that not even through death can we escape life. It goes on and on and on!' Do you remember this? Well, it seems that Mr Druckenmiller has hit his head on the rocks of another reality. He has seen new wonders, and had new insights. He should be willing to open himself up and share his 'Point State Capital' state of mind/reality with the rest of us. Of course, he will argue that he'll have no ownership stake in the firm. 'Oh, I'm merely an investor, leave me alone.' Not good enough. That won't wash if he tries to use it as a defence.

Mr Druckenmiller, Stanley, open yourself up, man! Where do you go to, my lovely, when you're alone in your bed? Tell me the thoughts that surround you. I want to look inside your head. I mean, that's reasonable, ain't it? We're not asking too much of you, are we? Let us into Point State Capital. We want to be a part of it, all the mystical children, all the shamans and the ghosts. Even Big Herb and Ganesh the elephant god might want to wet their beaks.

O Master, do they have beaks, then?

O my child, it's an expression. It means they might want a piece of the action. Stan couldn't stop us anyway, not if we stormed his consciousness one night.

Oh, could we storm his consciousness, go in mob-handed, like?

Of course we could. You, me, Bobby D, even that freak in the square brackets (if he returns). Big Herb, Ganesh, the ghosts of the dead financiers. Stan wouldn't know what hit him. Complete phantasmagoria! That's what he would be up against. But I'm asking him nicely.

Yeah, it's far better if he submits to your will. We don't want any unpleasantness, do we? We don't want anything getting in the papers. "Stanley Druckenmiller's inner space smashed to fuck by mystic bandits". That wouldn't look good on the front page of the Daily Star.

You're telling me it wouldn't look good! That's where I get all my financial news. I don't want them writing about us as if we were a pack of deranged thugs.

Mystic thugs! Spiritual bootboys! Astral wanderers with knuckledusters and -

Yes, all right. What's the matter with you?

I'm all worked up now.

Well, save it for tonight.

Are we going in?

I don't know. All depends on whether Mr Druckenmiller phones me. I'll give him a few hours.

Gartmore for sale

Oh, big Gartmore news yesterday. It's going out of business or something. I missed all the excitement because I was mucking about with my 'Stacy-Marie' song. Still not finished, by the way. "Stacy, Stacy, Stacy-Marie, I love you, girl, but you don't love me." Yeah, I know what you're thinking. Please bear in mind this is a pop song. The lyric does sound great with the music I've written. Back to Gartmore. [Thank God. And this is me, Michael. My square brackets have been returned in one piece.]]]] I think.]] Roger Guy and Dominic Rossi are leaving! I don't know who Dominic Rossi is. Perhaps a chief investment officer - who knows? But Roger Guy is a real shock. I thought he was staying for life. Apparently not. He's going gentle into that good night. A wild man who caught and sang the sun in flight, and learns, too late, he grieved it on its way? Possibly, but I'm not getting involved. No, what interests me is the fact that Goldman Sachs has been brought in by Gartmore to conduct a strategic review. Basically, Goldman is going to have a poke around to see if anything can be salvaged. Maybe the furniture can be sold. Or that old photocopier. It still has some life in it.

So, Goldman. This is where I come into the picture. Or I would come into the picture, if I ever wanted to work for the bank again, which I don't. Lloyd Blankfein phoned me at the crack of dawn this morning: 'Mikey, how ya doing? (I'm fine, Lloyd. How are you?) Never felt better. Making loads of money. (That's a surprise.) Mikey, what's going on with BarCap and that Bobby D? (Nothing yet.) You can't rely on him, man. He's a f**king prick. You know that, don't ya? (What do you want, Lloyd?) You've heard the Gartmore news, yeah? (A bit. It's closing down.) Yeah, well, we've got the contract. I got guys going in there, looking at all the fixtures and fittings. I don't know what they're leaving, what they're taking. They got phones and desks and s**t. Will you be censoring this? Anyway, what I ain't got is a financial shaman to inspect Gartmore's employees. Can you imagine the state their auras are in, and chakras? I need someone to do an assessment. (Not me, Lloyd. You employ hundreds of shamans and mystics. I'm sure you'll find someone.) There's no one like you, Mike. (You don't need me for this job.) Okay, Mikey, it's cards on the table time. I f**king miss you, kid. (Lloyd -) No, listen, I'm going to pay you so much money that you won't want to write those half-assed songs of yours. You ain't gonna be no Burt f**king Bacharach. Come to your senses! You're the world's foremost financial shaman. (Lloyd, it's called independence, you understand? I write these songs, then I don't have to work for you, for Bobby, for anyone. I can upgrade my blog, make it professional, and pay for billboards.) Billboards? (Yeah, billboards. All over the City of London. And Wall Street. Pictures of me, like Doctor T. J. Eckleburg.) Eckleburg? Who the f**k is that c**t? You see, this is where you're going wrong, Mikey. I ain't ever heard of no Doctor T. J. Eckleburg, and no one will hear of you. (It's a literary reference. It's symbolic. You don't read a lot of books, do you, Lloyd?) Books?! Books?! Are you out of your f**king mind?! You think I got rich reading books?! (Lloyd -) You gotta get your head straight, boy. Books! I've never heard anything like it!'

The man's a total philistine.

Why is Andy Crossley leaving Invesco Perpetual?

Andy Crossley, the manager of the Invesco Perpetual UK Smaller Companies Growth fund, is going gentle into that good night after eighteen years at Invesco Perpetual. A good man, the last wave by, crying how bright his frail deeds might have danced in a green bay? No, it's not as bad as that. I've given you the wrong impression, haven't I? [What's new?]

Andy Crossley once said: 'My universe of stocks is so vast and varied.' And that's the truth. What he wants, more than anything now, is to float off, out, off, out, further, into the cosmos, to join his stocks. [He's leaving the earth? It's all right for some.] Dear reader, I will have my square brackets back by next week.

I suppose I should have a little conversation with Andy Crossley in my head. In an ideal world, I would. [But?] I'm feeling ... [Like you're drifting over the broken glass of your words. Nothing has changed since yesterday. You can't go on like this.] Next week ...

It's not as if I'm one of those ... [One of those ... ?] It's not as if ...

I was doing so well this morning. I enjoyed speaking with Guy. [Why don't you play your guitar for a while?] If I want your advice, I'll ask for it. That's enough.

[I would just like to thank you all for reading. Michael has gone off to get a coffee now. I'll finish up. This will probably be the last time you hear from me - if the 'Master' has his way. I don't know what -

Guy Hands is not worm food, not yet

Oh dear. My friend Guy Hands has been beaten by a worm. But it's not the end of the world, is it? He still has his health. And he has his wealth, and he is still a young man [is he?] He has everything to live for. So let's hear no talk of suicide. [Suicide is painless.] Will you shut up?

I have been speaking with Guy. [A penny for the Old Guy! He's fifty-one, you know.] This is what was spoken between us: 'Mikey, I'm so depressed. This goodly frame the earth seems to me a sterile promontory. I might my quietus make, with a bare bodkin - if I can find one. (Guy, mate, you can cut that out right now! I don't want to hear this sort of talk from you.) I'm joking, man! I'm all right. (Are you sure, Guy?) Mikey, I'm going to live to fight another day. (That's more like it! That's what I want to hear.) And EMI will survive. (Will it?) We just need some new signings, some massive stars. (Do you need any songs, Guy?) Maybe. How's your Stacy-Marie song coming along? (Oh, it's going to be a classic. I reckon it will be a worldwide hit for someone.) Send it to me when it's finished. ("Oh, Stacy-Marie, you're such a lovely girl, Stacy-Marie, I want to -") Is that how it goes?! (No, that's just the dummy lyric. I'm going to come up with something better than that.) I should hope so. That was pathetic. (Guy, man, I haven't written a song for seventeen/eighteen years, so give me a chance, will ya? I'm a bit rusty.) All right, Mikey.'

"Stacy-Marie, I want to follow you everywhere." I'm a bit rusty, that's all. It's going to be a great song. It just needs some work. Thomas Edison didn't succeed with his light bulb at the first attempt, did he? [Comparing himself to Edison now. It's only a pop song.] Exactly! It's only a pop song. There's nothing to worry about.

Who is Chip Skowron?

It's at times like this that we ask ourselves: 'Who is Chip Skowron?' Grey sky. There was a bit of sun. This is London. A long way from Connecticut. So, if we asked that question, right now, at a time like this, what would the answer be? [Is he an insider trader?] And who would give us that answer? If a voice out of nowhere spoke to us, could we believe anything it said? [Beauty is only the first touch of terror.] Of course, we like to believe we are in control. [You can believe what you want.] Why isn't my first name 'Chip'? Some guys have all the luck.

O Master, Dr Chip Skowron is a portfolio manager at FrontPoint Partners. I've done my research. Not for me: 'Who is Chip Skowron?' I'm above it!

O my child, your research is worthless! He manages health care hedge funds - so what?! FrontPoint has placed him on leave - who cares?! And there is a rabbi involved. But these are just mere facts. What is a man? A quintessence of dust? No! He must be something more than that, something that is beyond the intellect [intellect, ha!] of a mystical child.

O Master, what would Jesus say?

Go and ask him! Just don't waste my time. I wish I knew who Steve Cohen was. That would be a start. It's one of those days. Times like this. [And I'm not helping.] I'll get those brackets back. I want order. I want control. [You want clarity.] Yes, I want clarity. [It's a real struggle. I'm not sure your readers understand.] Some days, words flow like a river to the sea of God. I mean, they go in the direction of God. Other days, just fragments is all I get. Bits of broken glass stuck in the feet of a shoeless drifter. [Who is the drifter?] I am the drifter, on a day like this.

O Master, we are the stranger, remember?

O my child, I remember. 'Who is Chip Skowron?' It's beyond a joke! [His intellect.] Not mine! [I was referring to the mystical child, that little moron.] Don't be too hard on him. I want my brackets back. [Come and get them.] Do you see, dear reader, what I have to put up with? Would you want this life? [I'll get my violin.] One day it will all be different. [When your ship comes in?] 'Stacy-Marie'.

It's a nice tune!

This is the day of broken glass. Look at my words. Look at all the blood. They have cut me. I am bleeding for you. This is all free of charge.

Take the pain!

What choice do I have?

Sabotage at the London Stock Exchange!

There was a problem with the Turquoise trading platform at the London Stock Exchange yesterday. Between 8.30 and 10.30 in the morning the trading platform was shut down by a sinister figure seen floating in the air, all dressed in black.

There are always going to be problems with a turquoise dark pool (or any dark pool, let's face it). Turquoise may be a very positive mystical colour, the colour of angelic souls, of spiritual teachers, and of the holy love that exists beyond space and time [love has a colour?!], but dark pools are places of unmitigated evil, these trading platforms on the lower levels, where all the demons are, where Jack Pickles struts about, where Satan rules. I suppose the LSE imagines that this colour will offer protection. No, it will not. In time the turquoise will turn black, all black. As black as Jack's heart. A black trading platform! And that figure? That was Jack. He was there, yesterday. What a nightmare! And it goes on. Will Xavier Rolet ever wake from it?

Well, I have been speaking to Mr Rolet, in his nightmare. This is what was said in the darkness: 'Mikey, I am feeling incredibly low. I have no energy, no enthusiasm. What's wrong with me, man? Why do I suffer so? There was a time when I loved to love and my baby just loved to dance. But I can't see those days returning. (Yes, Xavier, she was a cosmic dancer, wasn't she? Didn't she say that she was dancing when she was eight, and that she was worried that it may have been rather strange to dance so late?) Yes, you have a very good memory, Michael. She danced herself into the tomb. Personally, I thought it was strange of her to dance so soon. She left the tomb eventually. But she doesn't dance any more. Maybe that's why I'm so depressed. (No, Xavier, Jack has fucked you up. And not just your consciousness. He's damaged your aura. Your chakras have stopped whirling as well. Yesterday's sabotage had a terrible effect on you. I'm afraid this is only the beginning. There's more to come.) O Master, what can I do? How can I wake from this nightmare? Instruct me! (Get rid of the dark pool.) Mikey, I can't do that! (Go to hell then.) Mikey, please! (Xavier, there is no hope for you if you insist on continuing with this Turquoise nonsense.) Oh God! If only my baby would dance again! (That won't do any good.) It would make me feel better, just watching her. (I don't think you understand how serious this all is, Xavier.) How's your baby, Mikey? (She's not my baby, yet, but I'm writing a song - 'Hey Gillian' - about her.) Smart move. They love all that, the ladies.'

Oh dear. Dark pools. I just hope he takes my advice.

Update: Right, I've been fiddling around with my song for the last few hours, and I've discovered that 'Stacy-Marie' fits into the melody better than 'Hey Gillian'. Not only that but I have some cool lines as well.

Octane Holdings is moving from Zurich to London!

I'm ashamed to say I don't know much about Octane Holdings. [You don't know anything at all, do you, Michael?] I know it's a fund of hedge funds sort of thing, and I know it's based in Zurich, Switzerland. I know it's owned by Sanlam, whoever he is. And I know that Robert Roux is a mate of Sanlam's. However, I know nothing about Mr Roux. [Couldn't even get him on the phone, could you, arsehole?] I couldn't even get him on the phone. But I have managed to bring him into my head. [Why aren't I surprised?]

O Master, who is that?

O my child, ignore him. [A bit of a pause, yeah? Go on, my son!] Yes, Bobby Roux is here in my head.

Mikey, exciting news! Octane Holdings is moving from Zurich to London!

But why, Bobby? Why would it move?

They want to be close to you, all the Octane people, like in that Carpenters' song.

Well, Burt Bacharach and Hal David wrote it.

How are you getting on with your songwriting?

[Yeah, this will be interesting.]

Quite well, actually. I came up with a classic chord sequence and rhythm for the verse of a song a few weeks ago, but couldn't find a decent melody for it. Then yesterday, I was singing a dummy lyric over it in a 'Neil Diamond' voice and -

[Neil Diamond!]

And the melody just fell into place. I need a chorus now, or maybe a variation on the verse that will serve as a chorus, and I need some lyrics. It's shaping up nicely.

I wouldn't mind listening to it, when it's finished.

[Octane Holdings, anyone?]

Listen, mate, I don't know who you are, but you're not welcome here, okay? Those square brackets are my square brackets. They are not for your use, understand? Do you understand?

O Master, I think he's gone.

Bobby? Bobby?

Bobby's gone too.

That's the end of the post then.

Peter Allwright and Stuart Frost and the RWC Cautious Absolute Rate and Currency fund

Dear reader, do you know Peter Allwright or Stuart Frost at all? They joined RWC Partners one night last month (when Mike Corcell was out of the building, prowling the streets, with an evil grin on his face, he's not getting any better, I've heard they keep him in a cage during the day - see below, but he must feed at night, so they let him out). Well, today they took control of the RWC Cautious Absolute Rate and Currency fund. They've been dreaming of this moment since they were babes in arms. Okay, I'm exaggerating. But they are very pleased to be at RWC and managing this fund.

Have you ever spoken with Peter Allwright at all? I have. See what you make of this: 'Mr Fowke, I'm so happy to be at RWC Partners, managing the RWC Cautious Absolute Rate and Currency fund with Stuart. It's a dream come true. (Yeah, you've done well in life, Pete. You can call me Mikey, if you like.) Thanks, Mikey. (So, er, what's it like being in the same firm as Corcell again?) Corcell? (Yes, Mike Corcell. You were at Threadneedle at roughly the same time, weren't you?) Don't know any Mike Corcell, I'm afraid. (Don't be silly, Pete. He's a top guy at RWC.) The name doesn't ring a bell. (Oh, I think I understand. You've blocked it out. It must have been hard at Threadneedle. I bet you lost some good friends.) Michael, what on earth are you talking about? (The trip to the desert, the team-building thing. Those analysts. Did you know any of them?) What analysts? (Don't piss me about, Pete. The analysts that ... disappeared.) I don't know anything about any analysts disappearing. (No? Oh. Have you been threatened, Peter? Has someone told you not to talk about it? Has Mike threatened you?) I don't know anything. (It's rather childish of you, pretending to not even know him. It wasn't your fault.) What do you mean, it wasn't my fault?! (I know you feel guilty.) You're crazy! Bloody crazy! As crazy as Corcell! (Oh, so you do know him?) Well ... (Why don't you tell me all about it?) I can't, Mr Fowke. We were all sworn to secrecy at Threadneedle. If the truth got out, it would mean the end of a lot of careers. (Peter, speak to me. What happened to those analysts?) He ... he ate them. (Oh my God!) The man's an animal! That's why we keep him in a cage at RWC. (In a cage?!) Yes, during the day, to protect everyone at the firm, but at night ... he roams the streets. (Jesus Christ!) Yes. (Jesus Christ! This is pretty heavy stuff you're telling me.) Do you think he's a vampire, a werewolf? (I don't know, Pete. I really don't know. I'm going to have to look into this.) Do you ever see him on the astral plane? (I used to. Not lately though, not for a long while. If he's carrying on like you say, he'll be down on the lower levels now, anyway.) The demonic levels? (Yeah. And I don't go down there.) Can you help him? (He may have to be destroyed.) Destroyed?! This is a human being we're talking about! (Is it, Pete? Is it?) Oh ... I don't know. (Neither do I.) The funny thing is, I actually quite like him, when he's not biting people.'

What about that, eh? Tragic. Absolutely tragic.

John McIntyre has been hired by Royal Bank of Scotland

As we can all imagine, John McIntyre was a banker who sued Commerzbank for not paying the bonus that Dresdner Kleinwort had promised him.

O Master, that's ridiculous! Who would do such a thing? Mr McIntyre, obviously. But imagine you worked at Goldman Sachs and sued the bank just because another bank, say, Barclays Capital, had promised you some money. These people are out of control! I'm starting to think Vince Cable isn't such an idiot after all.

O my child, Commerzbank bought Dresdner Kleinwort. If you haven't got anything sensible to say, keep your mouth shut.

I haven't got a mouth. I'm just a voice.

Mr McIntyre is going to be head of corporate finance in Europe, the Middle East and Africa. God knows how much RBS is going to pay him. Actually, we'll be paying, all the taxpayers of Great Britain. I hate these goddamn commie banks. But I don't hate Mr McIntyre. As you can no doubt believe, dear reader, Johnny is a personal friend of mine.

You and your personal friends! Is anyone a stranger, an enemy?

I'm glad you asked me that. Robert Tchenguiz is a stranger. Not to Johnny, but to me he is.

Bobby Tchenguiz, a stranger to the world's foremost financial shaman?! O Master, that's a lie. I can recall you having a conversation with him, a couple of years ago, when he lost all that money. £1 billion in twenty-four hours! Remember?

No.

Come on, man. He was being all philosophical about it. And he told you about his love for that big elephant. And Big Herb.

O my child, you must be getting me mixed up with someone else. Robert Tchenguiz is a stranger to me. Oh, not to Johnny, but to me he is.

You've had a falling out!

No. Robert Tchenguiz is a stranger. He's just some Joseph looking for a manger. Dear reader, it's true that all the men you knew were dealers who said they were through with dealing every time you gave them shelter. Mr Tchenguiz is that kind of man.

You're talking shit!

O my child, that's Lenny, not me.

Lenny? Another stranger?

Another stranger? Yes. Now another stranger seems to want you to ignore his dreams as though they were the burden of some other. Oh, you've seen that man before, his golden arm dispatching cards, but now it's rusted from the elbow to the finger.

Eh?

O my child, how did we get lost like this? How did we slip so far away from Johnny McIntyre?

One day we'll slip so far, we won't be able to get back.

Yes, maybe. Maybe we'll reach the Absolute. Maybe we won't want to get back, after reaching the Absolute.

O Master, is that really possible?

I have to believe it's possible. Post after post, hundreds of posts, hundreds of thousands of words! Like a river to the sea of God. One day, one glorious tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, I'll be clean. The dirt of life will be washed from me. No other living writer in the world thinks like this. A handful of dead ones on the plane, perhaps. No other (conventional) writer with an editor and a publisher would be allowed to get away with it. But this is the way of the shaman. Through stories of money I'll make it to the ultimate reality. The fire of that reality will probably destroy me though, or ...

Or give you a new life.

Yes, or give us a new life, a higher life.

O Master, YOU ARE THE STRANGER.

Yes. Yes. Yes. We are the stranger.