Trotsky travels

As a liberal leaning man of this world, I often enjoy travelling around Asia, interacting with peasants and the like. It gives me a sense of purpose, does sharing pain and pleasure with a class of people for whom I sacrificed many of my younger days, a sense of purpose, which I as an exile otherwise lack.

But I am, at heart, a forward thinking man and the sad truth is that a highlight of these trips is the experience of flying on one of these modern jet planes. Aviation intrigues me. I've lost count of the hours I've enjoyed bombing the fuck out of cities on Rise of Nations. I assure you, if I’d had such technology at my disposal when we took St. Petersburg, back in ’18, massacring those middle class cunts would’ve been so much smoother and simpler. And so much more fun.

Now Sri Lanka is not normally a country I’d visit – I’m quite put off by it’s pseudo-revolutionaries who are completely unaware of what it is their revolution seeks to achieve – but I’ve just had the disappointment of a Sri Lankan Airlines flight. Or fright, as Comrade Mao would have succinctly put it.

Sri Lankan Airlines is proof enough that the free market cannot work. Excessive competition in the aviation industry has driven air transport companies to constantly try and differentiate themselves. Singapore Airlines has introduced bigger seats, while airhostesses on Emirates seem to look increasingly fuckable. Sri Lankan Airlines has responded to these competitive maneuvers by hiring look-alikes of the national cricket team.

Aside from the fact that cricket is a rather unfortunate upper middle class habit and that the culinary equivalent of a Sri Lankan cricketer would be no more appetising than the testicles of a wild boar, nothing at all appears wrong with Sri Lankan Airlines’ commercial strategy.

But neglecting either of those points, Comrades, would be rather like neglecting the fact the Romanovs were a bunch of corrupt, overfed, incestuous in-breds. For crying out loud, how do they expect a man of my age and wisdom to find sleep on board when there are monsters trawling the cabin?

Rigobert Song is a troubled man

Being an integral part of Galatasaray’s defence and having to constantly bear the weight of my people’s expectations, I, Rigobert Song am a busy man. So it is only the most grave of grave matters that I concern myself with and today, it is one of those matters which troubles me.

If there is one thing I remember from the days when I was plying my trade at that somewhat mediocre football club on Merseyside, it is that the locals, apart from being slab-chucking murderers (and thieves), speak a very absurd dialect of English. This point leads me to the most pressing concern that has occupied my mind for many minutes of today.

I was sent, by my good nephew, a box of McVities Jaffa cakes and while it invoked a sense of nostalgia, as I remembered Wes Brown, one of my more formidable opponents during my time in England, it has also pushed me into an awkward quandary about whether a Jaffa cake is, in fact a cake or a biscuit.

Why, I ask myself, Rigobert Song, are Jaffa cakes always found in the biscuit section of supermarkets, if in fact they are called cakes? Rigobert Song, my good self, cannot answer this!

So I checked my precious dictionary to see if it would give me a clue. A cake, I find, is a flattened, usually round mass of food that is baked or fried, while a biscuit is a small, fat sweet cake. I usually refer to the latter as a tart, but maybe that’s just me, Rigobert Song.

Getting back to the poignant dilemma that I am faced with, nearly everything appears to support the theory that Jaffa cakes are in fact biscuits. They are biscuit sized, look like biscuits and are eaten when one might just as well be eating a packet of McVities digestive biscuits.

But, wait, Rigobert Song is not so easily convinced. It seems the makers of these things have previously argued that cakes have the tendency to harden as they turn stale, much like African footballers, while biscuits tend to soften under the same circumstances, like the prissy French.

These disturbing thoughts have swept across my mind for many hours today. In fact, I am so sure that if no one provides me with the solution, I will soon be out of form and will be forced to disappoint my many fans. So I beg you, fans of Rigobert Song, find me the answer!