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.
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.
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 ÃÂ£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.
THE shame of it!
In the children's section of my local library, the book of the week isn't one of the glorious fantasy compositions of JK Rowling or CS Lewis.
Instead, pride of place goes to the autobiography of blimp-boobed, blank-eyed bimbo, Jordan - aka, Katie (the) Price (is right).
Is this really what impressionable youths should be digesting?
Perhaps the library has top-secret plans for Jordan to re-write those well-loved kiddy classics from yesteryear.
Meaning the young 'uns can look forward to Little Red Ride Her Good.
Or maybe even Goldilocks And The Three Bare... naked Chippendales.
Perhaps I'm being too harsh.
After all, in these times of economic instability and financial hardship, Jordan is a wonderful example of British industry at its most robust... with the emphasis on bust.
She's more productive than British Leyland in its heyday, and better for your teeth than the entire output of Cadbury's... unless you happen to dig your chompers into her boobs. (Never forget, silicon is more unforgiving on tooth enamel than a bar of Fruit and Nut.)
Maybe Jordan really can teach those youngsters a thing or two.
In fact, she may just be a complete high school curriculum in a greasy thong and fake eye-lashes.
Well, here's the proof.
1) Jordan as a foreign language.
Studying Jordan Speak is like learning French or German, as it has its own distinctive vocabulary and grammar.
Eerz wazzizface = Allow me to introduce you to my husband, the talented entertainer and raconteur, Mr Peter Andre.
Farque the lotto yooz! I ain't doon at, matey! Not-never! = Although I'm sympathetic to your request, I'm afraid if you really want me to take off all of my clothes, you're going to have to negotiate a price that's much more compatible with the demands of my financial adviser.
2) Jordan as arithmetic.
Our gal is an expert when it comes to counting.
And she doesn't need a calculator.
Not when she's got all those fingers and toes to play with.
Even big numbers don't present a problem.
She knows that one plus one equals millions and millions and millions.
When you're talking about the number of mammary glands, at any rate.
3) Jordan as PE lesson.
Oh come on, this one's soooo obvious.
As Peter Andre must have discovered by now, his lady wife is as sturdy as a gym vault, with more boing than a trampoline.
In fact, I'd say she put the tramp into trampoline, but that's just not true.
Besides, her lawyers may be reading this.
4) Jordan as English lit.
She can certainly be compared to at least one of the literary classics.
Similar to the Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, she is two females trapped inside one body.
Katie Price is meant to be the sweet one, while JUGgernaut Jordan is the dark manifestation of all those hidden desires.
Or, in layman's terms, Katie wears clothes - Jordan doesn't.
5) Jordan as history lesson.
Like Edward Gibbon's mighty tome, The Decline And Fall Of The Roman Empire, Jordan has plenty of history packed between her covers.
Most of it's called Dwight Yorke.
6) Jordan as Scientific Principle
Isaac Newton argued that gravity makes all solid objects fall towards earth.
Professor Jordan disagrees.
Her breasts are never going to dip one single inch - not while there are plastic surgeons on the planet, willing to pump dollops of Polyfilla into those sprightly puppies.
So there you have it. Jordan can provide a few lessons for us all, not just the kiddies.
Although somehow I don't think she'll end-up working as a teacher at your local comprehensive.
Unless they start making those corduroy jackets entirely out of leather.
Not just the ratty, old elbow patches.