IT'S been a remarkable few weeks for my blog.

According to the web wizard who mans the Mercury site, my readership is shooting into the stratosphere.

Well, maybe not the stratosphere, but it has at least doubled - there are now two of you.

Clearly I'm doing something right.

And that something is nothing at all.

IT'S not often you spot a bona fide slave in Birmingham City Centre.

Yet that's what Nick Cohen was claiming to be.

Cohen is a socialist political-commentator, most famous for his book, 'What's Left?' a vigorous defence of the decision to invade Iraq.

A free thinker is Nick, who no man can control - or so it has always seemed.

Yet here he was at the Tory Party Conference.

Or as he put it to me, ruefully: "Just here to meet my new masters."

It was a socialist political-commentator's dry little joke.

Although instigated by the new reality.

Previously, it was another party, led by Tony Blair, that surfed to power on a wave of 'New'.

Now blue is the new New, while David Cameron is TB Part 2, complete with beautician's facial peel, vanquishing all that Iraq wear and tear.

But the Tories weren't gloating at Conference, and had clearly learned the lesson of Neil Kinnock's knockabout triumphalism in 1992, which turned the tide against Labour in the subsequent General Election.

They were being straight-faced and grown up about all this imminent power that was chapping at their door.

This was no hardship, as the Conservatives are experts at being grown-up.
Or just plain ancient.

I've always been a keen student of economics.

Which is why I'm ideally suited to explain the current financial situation.

My immense knowledge of Adam Smith, John Maynard Keynes, macro economics, micro economics, demand, supply, utility and marginal costs has led me to a major intellectual breakthrough.

I can now exclusively reveal that... we're screwed.

Big time.

But don't conclude that nothing can be done to alleviate the situation.

We can still play the blame game ...

And the big news this week was that a black hole appeared on planet earth - and swallowed us all.

No, not the one that was almost created by a giant nuclear physics lab stretching from Switzerland to France.

I mean the black hole otherwise known as Brand Beckham.

The one that sucks in the media's interest - yet radiates nothing.

For instance...

I had a scary moment watching the Republican convention on TV last week.

Isn't it bad enough that I'm terrified of spiders, heights, nuclear warfare and Jordan's eyelashes?

Now Sarah Palin has got my knees knocking.

The self-styled pit bull in lipstick makes Gordon Brown look as dynamic as Michael Foot's duffle coat.

I'm scared of her all right - but scared in a good way.

Listening to her speak to her party was a blast of cold, clean, invigorating air.

Okay, I hate everything she stands for - except for the fact that she stands for something.

Which is quite exceptional in the current climate.

Lottery winner Tracy Foster says that even though she's in possession of a cheque for £2.5 million, she won't quit her lowly-paid job working in the catalogue industry.

Which sounds nuts.

Most wage-slaves - especially office workers - would love to free themselves from the shackles of the beastly boss and demon desk.

But I actually think Tracy is right. Work is wonderful.

Read on to discover why.

Poor Jamie Oliver!

The king of the kitchen has been complaining that his life's work is in danger of being forgotten, and that he'll only be remembered as a "professional s**t stirrer".

As a man who has spent most of his waking hours undertaking the equivalent of dunking a Moulinex Blender in a cow pat, I believe professional s**t stirring to be a most noble pursuit.

It's the amateurs you have to watch out for - they have a tendency to use their index fingers.

Which is why I call them RANK amateurs.

Still, I understand Jamie's concerns.

For years he was lauded as a highly decorated member of that most glorious fraternity, the brotherhood of celebrity chefs.

But after a few grumbles about battery-reared chickens and dodgy school-dinners, the public's perception of him changed from puka cook to pious campaigner.

And like the man says, his life's work - forgotten!

Now, there might be some people out there who think that it's arrogant of a chef to talk in terms of his "life's work", as if heating food was as important an undertaking as painting an iconic picture or writing a triumphant symphony.

But I agree with Jamie.

Chefs are artists on a level with Picasso and Mozart.

If you disagree, I suggest a chat with Big Franco, the proprietor of Big Franco's, the greasy spoon round the corner from me.

Only last week we discussed this very topic. Let me set the scene ...

So what exactly happened to my life?

I'm sure I used to have one, but I must have misplaced it somewhere.

Maybe behind the sofa, I've not dusted there for ages.

Ditchwater may be dull, but, next to the mire that is my miserable existence, it seems like Evian spring water.

I didn't realise what a saddo I was until I scanned the blog of fellow Mercury minion, Kate Lawler.

Boy, does she know how to have a whole lot of fun!

And she's got the exclamation marks at the end of every sizzling sentence to prove it.

Read on to see how our lives compare.

Fancy a relaxing holiday abroad?

Well, you can just take a running jump.

Although it's doubtful whether even a running jump would get you across the Dover Channel.
So you'll have to stay right here, in Blighty, because it's just been reported that air fares will be soaring sky-high... which means you won't be.

Still, best not despair.

After all, you can always go on a camping holiday, like Barbara Windsor, Sid James, Bernard Bresslaw and Hattie Jacques used to do in the 60s.

Don't fancy it? Think tarpaulin is appalling? Rather be buzzing in Ibiza?

Shame on you!

Camping is the new black, buddy. And here's why...

Brace yourselves, maths fans, it's time to focus your meticulous minds.

I've got a complicated problem for you to figure out.

Okay: take one deadly-dull afternoon programme, one that should have been cancelled decades ago.

Now subtract its big-headed female presenter.

What do you end-up with?

It's a trick question, of course.

Because nothing changes.

Countdown plus Carol Vorderman is the same as Countdown minus Carol Vorderman.

Guff for geeks.

Yet what was last week's major news?

The terrible tragedy of Carol being forced from her job as the pouting number-cruncher on the Channel 4 show, after bosses demanded she accept a 90% pay cut.