Calm The Global Markets!

 "Growing worries over debt in the eurozone and the US caused sharp falls on world stock markets last week." (Photo: BBC)

Surrendering, please no shoot.

Emergency flares and SOS's were fired off from the world of nervous lemmings. Everywhere around the globe there was the usual turmoil, as psycho-sellers drove down markets, dumping stock along with wives and the odd mistress. Finance ministers awoke from their two year slumber aghast. "We, the G7 major economic powers are still finding just about everything totally beyond our understanding. So just as a precaution, we will burn sage and dance around the magic crises pole before the markets reopen in an attempt to calm the idiots"  Emergency Talks DOOMED! suggested the Daily Shirker in today's enlightened and supportive editorial, written by the failed revolutionary Max Trott. "Workers! Perhaps Now? Some slogan to get your head staved in for. Meanwhile hit man Jean 'Crossbow' Tetchy wants nothing Italian, especially something beginning with: Debt. "They are not reliable except for perhaps the odd thin crust pizza, ice cream and an espresso."  The governing council of the ECB held a telethon on Sunday as well as requesting Beriusconi to have 30 minutes without a woman of some interest hanging around, and flog off some of his TV stations. No white smoke was forthcoming.

US Treasury Disputes Reality!

Treasury Dept: See?..the numbers you press determines the outcome. Now you try.

The U.S. Treasury Department said there is “no justifiable rationale” for Standard & Poor’s move to downgrade the nation’s credit rating" (Bloomberg).

Standard & Poor's boys and girls prepared their response with much practise of the historic 'swivel on this Benny and the Fed.' "We at Standard & Po' Boy can smell the difference between spread sheet fixin' and a Washington sewage plant. We lay all blame on the self interest, not-on-my-election-year political  non-system with it's guaranteed failure mechanism. They're totally incapable of adequately addressing deficit reduction of the required magnitude. Further more, the Treasury Department can blow that squackin' "we made a $2 trillion error' out their collective orifices."

Pinned Down And Windy!

"Pinned down by the wind while on this rowing adventure in the Artic." (BBC Scotland)

Page 1: We are stuck in some hard white, numbing cold stuff and I'm thinking about the last time I did my laundry and didn't have a sheet of Bouncy for the dryer. Anyway, for the time being showers, fry-ups and sissy beds are not for us. For 105.7 days, nights, afternoons and Easter; the wind. Howling from N by NW past Carry Grant at about 30mph, which means something more than an upset tum. Still, we are hiding under Henry's big dugout  in a relatively sheltered bay, only 60 miles to the next one via a mountain pass. The coast is where all the open frozen water is, but it's colder there and we don't like getting wet. It's not worth beating ourselves up for a little progress, so back into my Inuit kit and a bedtime story from Henry. The wind. A bloody wild creature that only the rugged out-doorsy aran sweater types can hack. We're not, so why are we here? Did we do a wrong turning from the wedding party that winter's night, into that posh folks rowing club and say "yes"? "South tomorrow", said Nigel which is a comforting word to hear. "South". I say it under my breath. But I know, he knows, the compass should but doesn't seem to, that it's the wrong direction.Time passes us by, then once more we're on board, but being rocked violently. Graham the Grump is doing his erratic fist-waving-at-the Moose-head on the imaginary wall routine, all because he's not allowed in the leader's front seat. This was all explained to me later, so I can't confirm it's accuracy. I must have been out for at least 29hrs18 mins3seconds after being hit across the head by Grumpy's oar. And I've no recall as to how we got to the next, slushy ice bay and across the Wellington channel towards Nunavut. Page 2 of our sea going Artic adventure coming just as soon as my concussion clears.

Pasties? 'Blockbusters' Says Brad!

I'm a Vegi, so mine's the samosas.

John P, from the company Landslastpasties.com said little at first, as he was full of his own product. "Early yesterday morning a local lad who's descended from a well known family of ship wreckers, arrived atop a donkey. He asked if we would supply 5000 pasties for Mr B Pitt's cast, crew and half of Cornwall. At first we didn't know how we'd cope as we get ours from Greggs but if this was a hoax, the little kelp cruncher would be entombed in an old lead mine where we keep the smuggled French brandy. As it was, it was the only time anyone could recall when truth came forth. So, by lucky Cornwelian chance, we acquired the only copy in print of  "Delia Bakes It, Cooks It, Coins It In" then it was pasties away afore you could say Rick Stein!"

 Cornwall's Flag.

"And a further order was placed for anyone who managed to keep down their first encounter with our neo-national dish." chirped a proud kelpi from his unfamiliar role as a zombie extra. (Photo: Reuters)

Humans Need Not Apply...

(Photo: RV)

"Human spaceflight. Always been a messy business but now it's as good as over for us. And some Shuttle folk should have practised more in that weightless ass docking routine," observed Dan of Cape-Cav diapers. Historically this subject has never grabbed much public attention. "Robot's the future" continued Dan. "Robotic probes. Metal fellas never want a Snicker; recharge easy, a squirt of WD600 an' they're off romin'. Anyway...what is the Chinese for diaper?" enquired a wistful, newly redundant Dan.

John fringe flyer Malkovich Hits The Street!

Another 1000 to hand oot, then it's a pie an' deep fried Mars. 

What prompted the JM; Holly star and famous thesp, to risk being lost among rubber-neck camera-clicking tourists?  "I've got to shiff a tray of knock-off's and Fringe flyers before some weisel snout gets me lifted," Malkovich declared. Got to reach as many mugs as poss. Princy Street's like a salmon run and I'm Mr Grizzly  scopin' them in!" he declared to the jossling throng around; pleased as he slipped effortlessly back into stage speak. A shady man at JM's elbow with a get-the-f- out of my face attitude was not helping the fishing party. "Look. It's street biz an' I'm a shy backstage jonny sort." Mr J Sands, 53 was not quite being over truthful. Some light was escaping from under his bushel, so when pressed against 6 pints of Belhaven's best, he loosened. "We come here to do a play and we needs common folk as well as richies filling the place. I worked with dear deceased Harold. Poems and politics with me mostly writin' the silent bits; and them ignoramuses thinking all the while that the thesp had forgotten their lines. That right JM? Me and the Pinter, scribbling the nights away...happy times..."  (Photo: Copyright Control)

(Julian Sands will perform in "A Celebration of Harold Pinter" during the Edinburgh Festival)

Rupert Forever! From An Admirer...

Your place or mine, Rupie?

Scottish Labour leader, Iain green-eye Gray stomped his foot. "How could my Aussie bird do it? What could he ever have seen in that tubby, slippery tongued haggis! Willy Rennie?..that jealous bitch. Never in the frame. If a dug looked his way he'd book a room at the Carlton. But... the letters; oh those letters! How do you think I feel knowing aboot them noo? Their cosy evenings with a rare malt; the fire glintin' on his rugged, ootback features. Whit  might  hae gone doon, as they say? Aye, but now it's oh so clear why that Cheshire Nat Cat kept his geggy clamped shut! Oh Rupert...I'd a done ony thin' had you winked ma way."