As unreformed addicts of my op-ed efforts and doggedly loyal members of my suggestively swelling fan base will testify (and it may indeed still come to that), ich bin nicht the kind of cowboy who confines his rapid-fire six-shooter to its rawhide holster. My legendary name, the signature of so copious a tour de force, is synonymous with brazen candour. My dilapidated keyboard - while starting to lose a key here and there remains mightier than a North Korean nuke.
Bottom line, if something needs to be said, or someone needs to be shot, look no further: Im your outlaw. They dont call me the kid for nothing. I sure as hell hope not, anyway.
Unfortunately (and this really grates with the hyper-hawks amongst you), I also suffer from a tragic and incapacitating illness, commonly known as Englishness. In its chronic form, following the loss of a proud, globe-spanning Empire, Englishness renders an otherwise strapping six-footer all but impotent when presented with an opportunity to mercilessly crucify an opponent.
As a long-convalescing English subject of eternal indecision, I am by nature resistant to overreaction and, without thinking, I shy away from any outward displays of emotion, keeping my upper lip stiffer than a triple vodka. My trophy cabinet, a gleaming edifice of seven-feet-by-ten housed proudly next to my pilfered-from-a-pub dartsboard, is testament to my refreshingly sober devotion to reason. The awards gold, silver and gleaming with lovingly-applied polish just keep on rolling my way.
Nevertheless, in this case, at this particularly poignant conjecture in mankinds protracted and hollow history, I simply cannot yield the floor. The New York Times that colossal bastion of high-quality, editorially balanced and morally honest muckraking extraordinaire has finally succeeded in pushing me to my limit. Intellectually speaking, I have been stretched like a string of processed cheese, and now, lets face it, I have snapped. There is not a shred of doubt in my tortured mind: the recent Times headline Why Europeans remain calm as oil prices soar, must stand as the most flagrant piece of misreporting in the history of the printed word.
As a devotee of the New York Times, and a regular waspish pillar of the we know best liberal establishment, it pains me to expose the downright shoddiness of this embarrassing journalistic faux pas. To an internationally-adaptable and gloriously balanced intelligence like mine, the Times stands as the only true torch-holder of excellence worthy of sharing the breakfast table with my soya-soaked shredded wheat. My mornings, insufferable as they are, would be palpably duller without those precious few minutes when I wrestle with the bloodhound, tear the broadsheet from his salivating fangs, and choke on my halved grapefruit as I cast my bleary eyes over yet another saga detailing the desperate plight of my Haitian brothers.
At times like this (no pun intended ever), it is the clear duty of every honest Abe with too much print on his fingers to expose the malpractice of the fourth estate. I offer the following tale as evidence of the extent to which the press shows no regard for the actualité.
As an Englishman, I just about classify as Eurotrash, and from the moment I learned Id be forced to part with $40 of my hard-earned dosh for one measly barrel of oil, I have been indulging in a display of jerking convulsion so elaborate my agent has received repeated requests from a Balinese dance group that I join their throng as principal limbo-king.
Or to put it another way: oil prices are soaring, and Im not calm.
The jiffy I sensed a gusher in the oil price index, I was on the blower to my brokers PA, begging like Ollie Twist for a five-minute slot with the sweating swindler. I suppose he might be able to squeeze you in next month, Mr Hilton, she replied, somehow managing to turn my two-syllable surname into a groan.
I was having none of it, and summoned my chauffeur. To my brokers office, post-haste! I ordered, snapping some life into my bow tie and spitting on the toes of my Derbies with enough phlegm to extinguish a volcano. Unfortunately, a litany of recent investment misfortunes, combined with the spiraling cost of petroleum at my local pump station, obliged me a couple of weeks back to hock the beloved Bentley. My chauffeur, whose union showed minimal sympathy with my plight, walked me to the bus stop, slipped me a handful of coinage, and waved me off like a concerned parent.
I arrived at Grifter, Hustler and Spiv Financial Services in a state of social disrepair. A poorly-tailored gentleman on the public omnibus had cunningly separated me from my family heirloom Patek Phillipe wristwatch by tickling my nostril with the sharpened point of a machete. When alerted to the details of my unfortunate adventure, my brokers PA launched into a fit of hysterical weeping, slapping her desk with joy and crowing like Peter Pan. Again! Again! she demanded, forcing me to replay the distasteful tale until it lost all charm.
Eight hours later, having exhausted my interest in waiting room gossip mags, I was shaking like Elvis from the effects of guzzling a gallon of crude Coca-Cola as I entered my brokers crypt and found the crook perfecting his nail-filing skills behind a Perspex Finnish-designed desk-of-the-future.
Youve screwed me! I yelped.
Leave the invoice with my secretary, he said, not looking up.
Ive received enough fifth-rate financial advice for one millennium, I reminded him. Thanks to you, I dumped all my assets into internet magazines.
He laughed. We all got our fingers burnt on that one! Dogs, the lot.
Gas, I said, hoping he hadnt already noticed. I want in on the energy markets. Shift my entire portfolio into oil.
He looked at me with a smirk. Oil, eh? Took a nosedive only the other day You know something?
Yes, I said. I know youre a no-good thief. I want some of that Saudi sauce. You assured me the war on terrorism was a great investment opportunity.
And it still might be, he shrugged. Give it another hundred years or so.
I dont think the pawn shop will understand the subtleties of long-term investment, I whined. This is an emergency. Things havent been this bad for me since the 1973 crisis.
But you were born in 1975, he frowned.
A piffling detail, I snapped. Just get me in on the racket. The oil-producing nations are pumping like theres no tomorrow. Its time we started doing the same.
He gulped. You and me?
Whats the matter, I said, afraid of a little global economic meltdown? Get to work. Tap those markets, you layabout!
If youre lucky, Ill let you know how it goes. As for the idea we Europeans couldnt give a fig about soaring oil prices, there goes another Wall Street myth.
