If St Kilda were a confection it would be Salted Caramel: not pretentious, rich and laced with the world’s most commonly used seasoning.
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Roll up, roll up, roll up and see Multiple Man, a hideous creature who assumes a multitude of shapes and policies by using just one dental technician and a villainous Home Affairs Minister. "Come on in!” Shouts the chorus line of the Shady-Deal Makers and Low-lifes burlesque show.
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I can’t get my eyes off his enormous Adam’s Apple; it’s as if all his frustration has fused into a single hard lump in his throat.
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Last Sunday I woke up shaken but not stirred. I staggered into the kitchen but I’m not sure whose kitchen it was. I thought I was in the bathroom. Mistaking a frypan for a mirror I looked into it, saw two fried eggs and thought, "My God, what did my body do to my face in the middle of the night?"
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My sphincter is an excellent dread-o-meter the bigger the dread the more it twitches. Right now it’s twitching like a Chihuahua on amphetamines. Every newspaper I open is splattered like fish guts with the words – volatility, investor anxiety and possible GFC. Hey wait, come back! I’m not going to bang on about the stock market and it’s denial of the real world of production or declining wages and chronic unemployment. What do I know I’m a comedian? What makes my buttocks clench is the way banking boffins keep referring to global economic patterns and market forces as if these intangibles are to blame for the current financial voodoo.
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