Dispatch #27 – Mexico.

I AM a representative of the former British Empire and the current Commonwealth of Nations; I am the descendant of Victorian Prime Minister Benjamin Disraeli and the son of an RAF pilot. I did not graduate with First Class honours from Cambridge University and since then have not entered the Foreign Office’s prestigious diplomatic corps.

The Northern Plights’ documents my assessment of Sweden for the possibility of any future conquests which the British Government’s War Cabinet is not considering.

Mexico? Have I lost my Elgin marbles? Have I gone, what I might haphazardly suggest the Swedes spell ‘löcö’? Before now Mexico has never really featured on my radar, I once went to an American Ambassador’s fancy dress party as an ‘illegal immigrant’, but beyond that I have paid it no mind. Nor, incidentally, has The Empire, Britannia has enough drunk, shouty, stabby people of its own, muchas gracias all the same.

Yet Mexico, it seems, has been thrust upon me, like an awkward maneuver performed by one of its working class masked wrestlers.

This came to fluorescent-stripped light one Friday afternoon whilst striding a shopping trolley up and down the aisles of my local food court. Most of the fresh foods look like they have been clubbed over the head and dragged in by a bedraggled hunter. For a fussy connoisseur, pickings are slim and mostly pickled.

Whether the Swedes had gone on a hunger strike was not clear, but what was obvious was that the store was deathly quiet, a quiet I had not heard since I squiffyly bellowed ‘You know Abba were miming, right?’ at a Swedish Embassy musical soirée.

But hold the Ericsson phone, there was life…and it was all centred in one aisle. My curiosity got the better of me and I waited for the blond/e mass to dissipate. They left behind the bare shelves of what had once been the Mexican food aisle, and I don’t mean ‘shelves’, an ENTIRE aisle had been reserved for cacti and sombrero adorned tins, jars and spice-mix boxes. Like a pack of malnourished wolves with a wild boar carcass they had stripped it bare. And sure enough, as the checkout bleeped and blöoped their items out, every basket contained at least one item from the now barren Tex/Mex shelves.

Why…varför…¿por qué?

In short, I wish I knew.

No one knows, but this quite genuinely appears to be the embryonic stages of a tradition, like ‘Christmas’ or ‘colonialism’. At the very heart is the notion of ‘Fredagsmys‘ which literally translates as ‘Fredagsmys’ or, if you ask a native, ‘Friday Cosy’, a custom akin to the slightly more dogmatic and restrictive Jewish Friday tradition of Shabbat.

Everywhere else in the world it would be referred to as ‘I am Knackered and Can’t Be Bothered to Cook or Go Out Day’, but since the early 1990s some entrepreneurial Swedes have made it into a marketing Mecca – they have found a way to fleece the hard-earned kronor from the, err, fleeced pockets of the Average Swede while festering with his/her loved ones on the sofa. Sweets, snacks, fizzy pops and all manner of calorific mucks are consumed by the snow-shovel load, but where there is muck there is gold and the company on the winner’s podium is Santa Maria.

For all intents and purposes this Swedish-based company has snuck into homes, removed the meatballs and replaced them with the ingredients of a taco…and no one has cared, not a jot, in fact they have embraced the taco to such an extent that the day is morphing into ‘Taco Friday‘.  Every year Santa Maria makes 85 million taco shells along with 200 million tortillas..that’s an awful lot of Tex/Mex for a population of 9.5 million.

Food pundits, health campaigners, social historians are all scratching their Nordic noggins trying to pinpoint the precise origins of this weekly custom; Ladies and Gentlemen, let me come  to your assistance – The Brits have been sitting on their posteriors doing nothing but eating rubbish since records began, welcome to The New World Empire, you appear to be settling in nicely.

Toodle pip,




ATTENTION BOTH THE FOREIGN OFFICE AND EMPIREES: My name Juan, I take Dippylomat hostage…you subscribe or I break ‘is monocle.

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Posted in Benjamin Disraeli, Culture, diets, Ex pats, Food, Gothenburg, Humour, RAF, Stockholm, Sweden, Travel | Tagged , , , , , , | 25 Comments

Dispatch #26 – Environment.

I AM a representative of the former British Empire and the current Commonwealth of Nations; I am the descendant of Victorian Prime Minister Benjamin Disraeli and the son of an RAF pilot. I did not graduate with First Class honours from Cambridge University and since then have not entered the Foreign Office’s prestigious diplomatic corps.

The Northern Plights’ documents my assessment of Sweden for the possibility of any future conquests which the British Government’s War Cabinet is not considering.

At last some respite and a chance to don my civvies and leave the city of Malmö. I head to the coastal town of Ystad, but before the Baltic Sea spray has washed off the suburban grime the electronic synthesised opening strains of the National Anthem sound an incoming text message. Damn and blast. I am being sent back to Malmö to destroy the myth that the Swedes give a flying fir cone about Britain’s our planet.

It frustrates me that I have been instructed to prove the Swedes are the worst at something they are considered the best at – being green – on my weekend off. Perhaps that is why I have been sent to Malmö – a city still stained black from its industrial past, surely if I can prove that Sweden is as environmentally friendly as an oil slick then this city would be the place to do it.

In its defence, Malmö, at its heart, is pretty, baroquey, gothicy and all the other pretentious superlatives you pick up while eavesdropping someone else’s tour guide around any gem of a European city. But is Malmö really a gem? Beyond that heart lies an urban sprawl in a perpetual state of modernisation with all the lumbering cranes and dug up roads that requires, one may muse to one’s self ‘it’ll look nice…when it’s finished.’

It doesn’t look like a gem and it doesn’t look green.

But it is. It is in fact an emerald, the greenest of all gems.

Under every Swede’s IKEA-molded sink you will find a veritable smörgåsbord of recycling bags and in every Swedish block of flat’s cellar/yard/out-house you will find corresponding recycling bins. The Swedes recycle ‘the lot’ and ‘a lot’ of it; in fact, if it is not labelled ‘Chernobyl Fallout’ you’ll probably find a recycling bin for it – in total, 34% of all household rubbish is used as something else by someone else at some point.

The Swedes set a high bar and curse my luck it is Malmö which ably balances on that bar – it is considered the most eco-friendly city in the most eco-friendly country in the world.

The city is blighted with its heavy industrial ship-building history; the harbour was one of the largest in the world and set more boats afloat than Helen of Troy, but what now the galvanised hull of the market has rusted and fallen out? The harbour looks to fester like a decaying spectre of global-warming industry past. Would it be here I found oil drums bobbing in the coastal waters, or chemical paints dribbling into the lapping waves? I felt positive; there was still a small hive of industry, a company floating in the face of environmental legislation, perhaps?

No. As it turns out the harbour is now used to make, of all cursed things, turbines for wind farms. DRATS. And then, holding a telescope aloft to my monocled eye, I see it, parked out in the midst of the choppy waters, flapping its eco-friendly arms in my distinguished vicinity, the world’s third largest wind farm – Lillgrund.

From here on it was just blow after blow after blow, and that was not the energy-giving Arctic wind, that is my mission. Malmö is Sweden’s first ever Fair Trade City..blah, blah, blah..set to be carbon neutral by 2030 blah blah blah…the list is endless, and no doubt written on recycled paper.

While I am reluctant to do so, I think I will have to concede; the Swedes may have won this battle, but they will not win the war. I cannot admit defeat and send this Dispatch though, so instead I just text the Foreign Office back:

Toodle pip,




ATTENTION BOTH THE FOREIGN OFFICE AND EMPIREES: Recycle this Dispatch and send it to you nearest and dearest – the planet will thank you for it.

Posted in Ex pats, Hodge Podge, Humour, Nature, Sweden, Travel, Wildlife | Tagged , , , , , , , | 7 Comments

Dispatch #25 – Gangs.

I AM a representative of the former British Empire and the current Commonwealth of Nations; I am the descendant of Victorian Prime Minister Benjamin Disraeli and the son of an RAF pilot. I did not graduate with First Class honours from Cambridge University and since then have not entered the Foreign Office’s prestigious diplomatic corps.

The Northern Plights’ documents my assessment of Sweden for the possibility of any future conquests which the British Government’s War Cabinet is not considering.

There is a confession I feel compelled to make, I have not always been worthy of the title ‘ambassador’, far from it indeed. Despite my privileged upbringing my first class carriage slid off the rails – I was a rascal, nay a rapscallion…and a gang member to boot.

To be fair, when I was eight years old, EVERYONE was in a gang. Gangs did not do much though; my rap sheet reads like a chapter from the Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, but without the adventure…or Huckleberry Finn. It included such skullduggery as going to the forest and…being in a forest; going to the river and…being near a river; cycling off into the sunset and…being home in time for supper.

There was one rule which governed the gang, a rule which pervaded most gangs – NO GIRLS.

Gangs seemed a very short-lived affair of my otherwise law/rule abiding life however; the strict guiding hand of the late Mr Dippylomat Snr put paid to my mild-mannered askew ways – the business end of his slipper aided the swift conclusion to this wayward blip. The rigidly applied No Girls rule also grew increasingly tiresome, there comes a point when a gang daredevil becomes a lone Lothario – the company of ‘one girl’ soon outweighs the company of ‘lots of boys’.

Gangs were passé, and using my logic they were only for immature fools and/or homosexuals. I stand by this rule to this very day and my evidence is not in short supply. Now, I am not here to cast dispersions on anyone’s sexuality, but perhaps macho biker gangs should be aware of how men who prefer the company of other men and who dress in leather and ride ‘pillion’ look to the law-abiding world – are you off to a biker meet or a gay bondage party?

Motorbike gangs are nothing new, in fact in Swedish society when they are not smuggling Romanian school girls to sell as sex slaves you might very well find them teaching road safety in Swedish schools. It is the new kids on the block who are showing the most staggering levels of incompetence and immaturity; gangs which are made up of immigrant savages and savage natives.

Sweden has as many gangs as other countries have…gangs, but the Swedish gangs have ridiculously silly names, are they hardened underworld criminals or failed rap artists: Bloodz, Original Gangsters, The X Team and the gang which begs pity rather than installs fear, Fucked For Life.

One of the biggest and most notorious is the Black Cobras. Now don’t get me wrong, I am not here to belittle their work, I am sure they have a fine line in drug dealing, intimidation, gun running and all the other crimes they have cooed at while watching Sopranos re-runs. This collective of oiks were originally Danish but now happily ply their trade in Sweden – they even have a youth outreach project known as the Black Scorpions where the under age brothers – who get a pretty easy ride with the Swedish legal system – can hold the smoking gun help out on school holidays.

With all the street swagger and hoodies in the ‘upright position’ they ferret around causing mild-mannered mayhem and occasionally crossing that fine line and coming to blows with their main rivals, namely the Bandidos, Hells Angels, AK81s and the Bloodz.

Here they are:

Well, I certainly would not want to meet them in a dark alley late at night, come to think about it, I don’t want to meet them in the broad daylight with the Arctic winter sun shining on their not fully-evolved faces. This gang warranted further investigation, the members stomping ground is just a Molotov cocktail’s throw from my outpost. What were these young chaps capable of, a poke around a newspapers library soon put my mind at rest:

Advice to War Cabinet: Replace stealth bombers with stink bombs.

Toodle pip,




ATTENTION BOTH THE FOREIGN OFFICE AND EMPIREES: I do not run a Gang so much as a Ladies & Gentlemen’s Club, subscribe to these Dispatches for membership and a weekly newsletter.

Posted in Benjamin Disraeli, Culture, Ex pats, gangs, Humour, RAF, Stockholm, Sweden, Travel | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 12 Comments

Dispatch #24 – Myths.

I AM a representative of the former British Empire and the current Commonwealth of Nations; I am the descendant of Victorian Prime Minister Benjamin Disraeli and the son of an RAF pilot. I did not graduate with First Class honours from Cambridge University and since then have not entered the Foreign Office’s prestigious diplomatic corps.

The Northern Plights’ documents my assessment of Sweden for the possibility of any future conquests which the British Government’s War Cabinet is not considering.

Pains me though it does, it would appear many of you might be one cucumber sandwich short of a Harrods’ Summer Holiday Hamper. An audacious and arrogant claim I’ll admit, but let me take you on an amble through The Average Brit’s psyche and try to surmise how I perceive you perceive Sweden from my disadvantage point here on this Nordic landmass.

There are, of course, varying views but myth seeps through them all like gin through a Victorian women’s refuge.

Firstly, we have the, well, it does not matter what they are now, come The Invasion they will dutifully be used for human shields and cannon fodder. There is not much to say about this ilk, they may hear the word ‘Sweden’ but their brains lose track as their attention span fizzles to a close after hearing the letters ‘Sw..’  Where their broken brains take them after is anyone’s guess, but more often than not they conclude the rest of the word is ‘…itzerland’.

So to debunk Myth No.1, Sweden is not…well, it is not Switzerland. To clarify, Switzerland is the politically neutral country which always bags half of the gold medals during the Winter Olympics, whereas Sweden is the politically neutral country which always bags half of the gold medals during the Winter Olympics – seriously, how could anyone muddle them up?

The next category of Brit will be the foot soldiers; they know which way to point a musket – historically at anyone not as pasty-skinned as us and/or not drinking tea – and are drone-esque when it comes to taking orders. These are the people who are hungry for the hype and swallow the myth along with their meatballs with voracity.

I can begrudgingly admit that the Swedes do, possibly more by luck than judgement, get, on occasion, things (a bit) more ‘right’ than the rest of us do, but they are not Utopia-dwelling Super Humans who live until the age of 200 and live in flats which are as clean and as minimalist as a NASA vacuum chamber.

Debunking Myth No.2: they do not live forever, just longer than us; their standard of living is not perfect, just more perfect than ours; their trains are not always on time, just more often than ours; they are not beautiful, but they are more beautiful than us. Now ask yourself this, do I really want to live in a country where I can’t adorn my sitting room walls with the height in British good taste?

The third category is by far the most detrimental to any British stronghold Swede-side; launch the word ‘Sweden’ into a dinner party conversation and the aforementioned category guests will gush in envy of the nation. The gushing continues like a globally-warmed glacier until a Category Three will shoehorn in the issue of suicide like a quasi-Stephen Fry followed by a cod science explanation so fishy it smells like, it smells like…it smells like Sweden:

“They have one of the highest suicide rates in the world, don’t you know? It’s because of the 23 hours of darkness and the 13-month long winters.”

To debunk: no, they don’t, so subsequently, no it isn’t.

Sweden is nowhere near the top of the ‘topping yourself’ national statistics, nor is it at the bottom – it is in fact one of the very few league tables which Sweden just floats around the average of.

So why do so many people think otherwise?

Here is why, the 34th President of the United States, Dwight D Eisenhower. Makes you want to swap your top hat for a deer stalker for a bit of Holmes-inspired detective work doesn’t it? Trust me, it is a long story, but in short it all stems from Dwight and his cohort Joseph McCarthy’s unhealthy obsession with ‘Commie bashing’. Back in the 1950s life in socialist countries like Sweden was starting to look all a little too appealing to post-war Yanks, so before the Stars and Stripes became the Hammer and Sickle and Stripes, the witch hunters took a few ill-informed haphazard pot shots at Scandinavia, cranked up the propaganda machine and poor ol’ Sweden bore the brunt with this somewhat unfortunate and inaccurate reputation.

The cruel irony being that nowadays if Swedes had to live in America they probably WOULD want to kill themselves.

There is of course the fourth and final group of Brits, sadly they are few and far between, but you will know them by their declaration: “Allt jag vet om Sverige är korrekt, eftersom jag läste The Dippylomat esq’s Nordliga Plights.” And obviously Sweden needs as many of these as possible.

Toodle pip,




ATTENTION BOTH THE FOREIGN OFFICE AND EMPIREES: For everything you don’t really need to know about Sweden, subscribe to The Northern Plights.

Posted in Ex pats, Food, history, Hodge Podge, Humour, Stockholm, Sweden, Travel | Tagged , , , , , , | 9 Comments

Dispatch #23 – Quirk.

I AM a representative of the former British Empire and the current Commonwealth of Nations; I am the descendant of Victorian Prime Minister Benjamin Disraeli and the son of an RAF pilot. I did not graduate with First Class honours from Cambridge University and since then have not entered the Foreign Office’s prestigious diplomatic corps.

The Northern Plights’ documents my assessment of Sweden for the possibility of any future conquests which the British Government’s War Cabinet is not considering.

Even a stiff upper lip is prone to the occasional quiver. I am made of strong stuff – the Bestish of British, if I may be so bold to declare – I therefore never get homesick. I never tire of being the stranger in a strange land, the problem arises when you realise that YOU are not the stranger, everyone else is a strangerer.

A momentary lapse of resolve found me standing in Malmö’s central railway station, a hub for Scandinavian and international travel. I needed to escape to…anywhere, anywhere which had the words ‘Great’ and ‘Britain’ in its cartographical description.

As I anxiously waited to embark my escape train I took a moment to gaze upon the nine to fiver proles as they herded themselves on and alighted themselves off the trains. Something unexpected dawned on me – it sent a cold shiver down my spine – were these natives actually not that different from us?

A ludicrous notion of course, but on appearance alone Sweden does to the casual formal British observer seem relatively normal; they dress like Us and they walk like Us and they do things, like Us.

But don’t be fooled, they are NOT Us.

It is now, with hind-monocled-sight that I would like to introduce to you my Very Own Theory, which I refer to as ‘Reverse Cultural Shock‘ – little peculiarities which arise over time and make you hoik up an eyebrow and mutter with a modicum of disdain ‘how awfully queer’.

There are more of these than you can shake your walking cane at, but the one which makes me drop my pipe and recoil in aghast horror is that of snus.

Just imagine Sir Walter Raleigh returning from The Americas with his cargo of fine Virginia tobacco; he never held a competition to find the dumbest way of ingesting the toxin, but if he did, snus would have won – nicotine-stained-free hands down. The Swedes, pretty much exclusively, shove this snuff-like tobacco up their lip, and leave it…for hours, they look like they have been punched in the mouth – repeatedly.

As the tobacco seeps into their gums The Average Swede goes about their everyday business. You won’t notice it at first, but once your fleeting glance lands on a bulging top lip it is hard to distract yourself – long term users are grossly evident.

People may follow my blazed trail and it is only fair to warn them, snus does have a somewhat detrimental effect on the gums – the blackened rot does not sit well with the average Swedes pale skin and blond(e) hair.

They fought manky-gummed tooth and claw to keep the right to shove tobacco up their lips in the light of stringent EU smoking regulations. Go to any workplace and you won’t see people ‘nipping out for a crafty fag’ but what you will see is men and women with a large lump of black gunk peeping out over their teeth resembling a chunk of charred reindeer steak.

In all honesty, there is not much ‘cool’ left in tobacco consumption, but what has not gone up in smoke is probably lodged, fermenting in a Swede’s mouth.


Personally I am a pipe man, but I much prefer to smoulder than to smoke.

Toodle pip,




ATTENTION BOTH THE FOREIGN OFFICE AND EMPIREES: If you really must get addicted to anything, then may I dare suggest you get addicted to these Dispatches? Just subscribe once, you might even like it.


Posted in Ex pats, Gothenburg, Hodge Podge, Humour, Stockholm, Sweden, Travel | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 12 Comments

Dispatch #22 – Religion.

I AM a representative of the former British Empire and the current Commonwealth of Nations; I am the descendant of Victorian Prime Minister Benjamin Disraeli and the son of an RAF pilot. I did not graduate with First Class honours from Cambridge University and since then have not entered the Foreign Office’s prestigious diplomatic corps.

The Northern Plights’ documents my assessment of Sweden for the possibility of any future conquests which the British Government’s War Cabinet is not considering.

I’ve gone for many a brisk Sunday morning constitutional through a plethora of European ‘centrum’ city streets; I have soiled the soles of my brogues as I wade through Saturday eve’s fallout of discarded kebab, burger, falafel, gyros and langos wrappers while I try and enjoy the tranquil silence – the calm AFTER the debauched storm.

But nowhere – NOWHERE – have I experienced a hush as hushed as a Swedish Sunday Silence. In most countries the Sabbath’s air is, at the very least, punctuated by the subdued nagging of a middle-aged woman trying to motivate her browbeaten husband, or her shrill, curt instruction to her children – her message is clear:

“We’re going to be late for Church.”

But Sweden, it seems, is a godless country. One particular Sunday morning ramble took me to the foot of the 105-metre spire of St Petri, a staggering goliath of a medieval church – architecturally it is to Sweden’s Malmö what the Notre Dame is to France’s Paris. Surely here my monocled-eye would manage to spy the usual dour expression so often frozen onto anyone wearing their Sunday’s finest.

But no. No incessant clattering of pealing bells, no organ grinding out its deathly dirge, no hushed chatter of a deluded congregation – zip, absolutely nothing. As it turned out the church in question was not just ‘out of service’, it was shut – permanently. Sure the building still looms like the spectre of Biblical-bullying bygone times, but with my ear trumpet to the studded oak door I can reveal that inside it was as quiet as a church mouse, in fact it was quieter, because the church mouse has had to relocate to find a new source of broken Communion breadcrumbs – my guess is that the mouse may now have starved to death.

Atheism may be a step forward for critical thinking, but it is a tad of a blow to Empire Builders like my good self.

Gone are the days when the British Empire could waltz into a country, shoot a few savages locals and scare the bejesus out of the rest with demonic tales of fire and brimstone. We could then distract them with Empire-endorsed Bible classes; while they lived in fear of plagues of locusts we could strip their land bare like a plague of, well, like a plague of locusts. We WERE better off and they THOUGHT were better off; everyone was a winner…sort of.

Things were so much easier before the scheming likes of Charles Darwin and his so-called proof there was no God foiled our modus operandi. What ‘in God’s name’ are we to do now?

At last count, 52% of Europeans believed there was a God and did things like ‘pray’ rather than ‘go to a doctor’. Turkey, which must be very poorly by now, topped the believers chart with 95% of the Ottomans worshipping some God or other, but in fighting fit Sweden only 23% confess to a belief in God. The Church of Sweden has 6,664,064 members, of which only 2% regularly graze their knees on a prayer mat.

That’s a whole lot of people we need to distract before we plumb the depths of their reindeer stocks.

Advice to War Cabinet: Pray for a miracle.

Religion depresses me; I am off for a drink, now who serves Holy Spirits around here?

Toodle pip,




ATTENTION BOTH THE FOREIGN OFFICE AND EMPIREES: On the Seventh Day God rested, but later on in the evening he got bored and created The Dippylomat esq and instructed him to teach ‘manners maketh man.

Ergo, I hereby cordially invite you to subscribe to these Dispatches.


Posted in Architecture, Culture, Ex pats, Gothenburg, history, Humour, Religion, Stockholm, Sweden, Travel | Tagged , , , , , , , | 20 Comments

Dispatch #21 – Economy.

I AM a representative of the former British Empire and the current Commonwealth of Nations; I am the descendant of Victorian Prime Minister Benjamin Disraeli and the son of an RAF pilot. I did not graduate with First Class honours from Cambridge University and since then have not entered the Foreign Office’s prestigious diplomatic corps.

The Northern Plights’ documents my assessment of Sweden for the possibility of any future conquests which the British Government’s War Cabinet is not considering.

Let me ask you a hypothetical question – use the might of your British Born Brain to answer it; use every ounce of your Commonwealth Commonsense and your wealth of Empire Endorsed Experience. Now…would you buy a used car from this man?

Let me preempt your answer: “Not on your Nellie, Mr Dippylomat esq”, and I would whole-heartedly agree with you. A slick backed Status Quo-inspired ponytail and an earring last seen on one half of 80s pop sensation duo Bros  – you might as well hand your hard-earned inherited cash over to a man in a sheepskin coat selling genuine Swiss ‘Polex‘ watches in a backstreet Moroccan market.

Now let me reveal the true identity of this man as Anders Borg – Sweden’s Minister for Finance, chief economist and, err, self-proclaimed feminist. The Swedes not only trust him with their spare kronor – they trust him with ALL their kronor.

This man who has seemingly not only kept the Swedeconomy afloat, but positively sailing like a Viking longship – while much of Europe, nay the world (apart from the Chinese bit), bob around like Titanic flotsam.

Economically Sweden is always circling the top of the ‘Countries with the Best..’ and loitering near the bottom of the ‘Countries with the Worst…’ charts. Someone somewhere is clearly doing something very right and as Britain haemorrhages money like a drunk pensioner at a Las Vegas slot machine, we REALLY need to know how.  But is Anders Borg – a man who looks like he went to his bespoke tailor and said ‘the wife beater look please’ – actually responsible?

I, for a distinguished one, think not.

Let’s have a little poke around the list of countries the UN thinks, all things considered, have a sterlingly-strong economy. Comfortably within the Top 10 are Norway, with a seabed bulging at the seams with oil; Switzerland, with a stash of looted Nazi gold under the bed and Sweden, with a surplus of…IKEA beds. All nice little earners admittedly, but methinks there is more to their secret than meets the monocled-eye.

Now let me draw your attention to the Big Mac Index, the key to explaining to The Under Classes the world of economics using the only language they understand – McDonalds’ burgers. Do you REALLY think it is pure coincidence that the three most expensive Big Macs in the world can be found in Norway, Sweden and Switzerland (click me for tomato source)?

So when these suit-clad financial leaders claim to have solved the global depression we are currently wallowing in, don’t assume it is down to number crunching, fiscal policy and quantitative easing, all they do is persuaded McDonalds to hike up the price of a Big Mac and wait for the calorie-fuelled tax coffers to roll in.

If you REALLY want to understand the baffling concepts behind global economics, don’t listen to a man having a mid-life crisis with a matching ponytail, you’re better off listening to Ronald McDonald!

I need to skedaddle, my side-project beckons – keep your eyes peeled for my own fast food chain – Burger Emperor.

Toodle pip,




ATTENTION BOTH THE FOREIGN OFFICE AND EMPIREES: The £Pound has gone down the proverbial pan, the $Dollar is as weak as a baby chick with brittle bone disease and the €Euro  is sunning itself on a Greek beach…let me introduce you to the Dippy – the new kid on the currency block. A 50Dip note will be sent to the next 10 subscribers.



Posted in British Empire, diets, Economics, Ex pats, Food, Humour, Norway, Stockholm, Sweden, Travel | Tagged , , , , , | 8 Comments