A GREEK TRAGEDY

Monsieur Trichet settled into his high-backed leather chair and sighed a deep sigh of pleasure. He wondered how Herr Hitler would feel if he could see a Frenchman sitting in the plushest office in all of Frankfurt controlling the purse-strings of Europe. Trichet had been born in Lyon in 1942 under the dark days of the puppet Vichy government, yet now he had several hundred Germans running around at his behest - the irony was not lost on him.

As President of the European Central Bank since 2003, he had overseen the emergence of the Euro as a rival to the US dollar as a world currency, and saw the Eurozone very much as his fiefdom. The global recession had raised his profile for which he was grateful, but solving the resultant problems was an intellectual task, not an emotional one. His Mercedes and his luxury apartment in Frankfurt were safe; nobody would be knocking on the drawbridge of his chateau in Provence with a repossession notice.

The phone rang; an internal call, his PA.

'Merci, Juliette.' He put down the receiver and walked over to the huge plate glass window that offered an uninspiring view of identikit tower blocks of the financial sector.

In the middle of the street, there it was, as Juliette had said - a wooden horse, perhaps ten metres high.
Four minutes later, he was standing beside the monstrous creation examining at inscription on its right foreleg: 'To the ECB: a token of our thanks for your support during our recent economic hardship. Presented to Jean-Claude Trichet by the People of the Hellenic Republic. PS Would look nice in your atrium.'
There were polizei and television crews everywhere. With his ever-present umbrella, Trichet rapped on the belly of the horse.

'Bonjour,' he shouted. Nothing.

'Bonjour!' he repeated.

A trapdoor swung open and a bald head poked out, a grimacing mouth visible below an elegant grey moustache.

'Ah, Monsieur Papandreou!'

'Call me George.'

'What are you doing, George - we don't even keep the money here?'

ROBINSON CURSE-O

It was the beginning of the rainy season on my seventeenth year on the island. Friday had gone to the northern side of the island to hunt wild goats and would no doubt spend the night in the cave outpost we had constructed there when he saw the brooding storm clouds moving in from the west. For my part, being well aware of the impending malevolence of the weather, I began to tether down as much as possible, and to ensure that my abode was as wind-proof and rain-proof as it could be.

As I completed my preparations, I spotted what looked like an upturned boat on the incoming surf. The rain was already falling like daggers but the opportunity was too good to miss. I ran down the sand and grabbed the object from the arms of the sea before it was smashed to pieces on the rocks. On my own, and in the face of a biting gale, it was all I could do to pull the boat, a rowing vessel belonging to some wrecked galleon, a few yards up the beach before I had to flee and hope for the best.

My sleep was troubled by the shrieking wind and lashing rain until in the early hours I fell into a deep slumber in spite of my worries for the boat, my companion on the other side of the island and my livestock.

When I awoke, the storm had worn itself out and I became gradually aware of the sound of hammering in the distance. Pulling the furniture away from the door, I saw a black figure down the beach working away to some object; it was my manservant, Friday, returned to me safely.

I wandered down the beach to see to what object his endeavours were directed.

'Look', he said, beaming. 'I make raft.' He was surrounded by planks of wood.

'But where did you ...?'

Then I remembered the boat, and put my head in the hands and cried as I had not done since boyhood.

HAVING A LAUGH

The World Giggling Championships have been thrown into disarray by the disqualification of current world champion, Todd Anderson of Australia, for the crime of 'chortling' in a second round match against Spaniard Luis Lopez. Anderson claimed the 'chortle' was the first of his two permitted 'guffaws'. Audio playback was inconclusive, splitting former players down the line.

The umpire's decision, later upheld by the tournament referee following an appeal from the Anderson camp, could lead to a split in the sport with Anderson and other leading gigglers setting up a rival Freestyle Giggling circuit where chortling and chuckling would both be permitted during matchplay. Sniggerers are still likely to be disappointed.

THE MAN IN BLACK

Two o'clock in the morning. Dressed in black from head to toe, he moves through the foliage like a leopard. His prey: the rich residents of Belgium Hill and Luxembourg Crescent. His conscience is clear; Standard Union and Allied Mercia will pick up the bill. These people have insurance coming out of their ears.

He slides open a side window, and clambers inside the property known as 'The Beeches'.  The layout is familiar; he moves around quickly picking up items of value and placing them noiselessly in his black briefcase. Sometimes, it’s just too easy.

No more than four minutes later, he’s outside in the night air again, his luggage bulging with duty–free; a good night’s work.

A fine athlete in his youth, he vaults the surrounding wall with ease, and is back on the deserted pavement.  In the distance, a dog barks. He never pays a visit to a home with canine protection; too risky.

As he brushes himself down, a narrow beam of yellow illuminates his face.

‘Police’, says the young voice holding the torch. ’Step out of the shadows.’

He does as instructed, quickly evaluating his options. Fight or flight? Fight or flight?

‘Is that you … Father O'Rourke?

‘Tommy? Tommy Harrison?’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘I heard you’d graduated Hendon.  Your mother was telling me after Mass a few weeks back.’

'I didn’t expect to see you at this hour, Father.'  apologises the young constable. ‘You see there’s been a string of burglaries on the area.’

'One of my parishioners had a stroke. His wife called me; distraught, the poor dear.'

‘I really am sorry, Father.’

‘Nonsense! You were just doing your job, Tommy. If it wasn’t for this,’ the priest goes on, pointing at his dog collar, ‘I could easily be your burglar, all dressed in black like Johnny Cash.’

‘Johnny who?’

He doesn’t have the time or the inclination to explain. Rain is beginning to fall, and he has phone calls to make, goods to move.

‘See you on Sunday, Tommy?

Pc Harrison looks down at his shiny boots.  He’s drifted away from God since school; maybe this is a sign.

‘Sure,’ he replies. ‘I’ll be there.’

THE WALLS OF JERICHO

The Israelites were camped near the city of Jericho. Jericho had a great wall around it and big, heavy gates. The people of Jericho had heard about the Israelites and were very afraid of them.

God gave Joshua a plan for the capture of the city. On six days the soldiers were to march around the city one time each day. Some priests were to march with them, and seven priests were to blow on trumpets made of rams' horns. No one was to speak a word.

On the seventh day, at God's command, the soldiers were to march around the city seven times. The priests would blow on the trumpets and the Israelites give a great shout. The walls would fall down flat and the Israelites would be able able to capture the city.

On the first day of the plan, a man with a clipboard arrived in the midst of the Israelite encampment. He asked to be directed to Joshua's tent.

'Hello, I work for Canaan District Council,' the man explained, flashing an ID card. 'This is green belt land under the Green Belt Act of 1938 BC; you'll have to move your camp twelve miles further from the city walls.'

Joshua was much troubled by this man's visit, but undertook the necessary measures to appease the official, so he could proceed with God's plan.

On the third day of the plan, another man with a clipboard arrived in the midst of the Israelite encampment. He asked to be directed to Joshua's tent.

'Hello, I work for Jericho City Council,' the man explained, flashing an ID card. 'These rams' horns of yours are producing excessive noise under the Environmental Noise Pollution Act of 1967 BC; please refrain from blowing them.'

Joshua was much troubled by this man's visit, but undertook the necessary measures to appease the official, so he could proceed with God's plan.

On the fifth day of the plan, another man with a clipboard arrived in the midst of the Israelite encampment. He asked to be directed to Joshua's tent.

'Hello, I work for Revenue and Customs,' the man explained, flashing an ID card. 'No duty has been paid on this so-called manna from heaven you've brought into Canaan as required under the Imported Foodstuffs Act of 1981 BC.'

Joshua was much troubled by this man's visit, but undertook the necessary measures to appease the official, so he could proceed with God's plan.

On the final day of the plan, another man with a clipboard arrived in the midst of the Israelite encampment. He asked to be directed to Joshua's tent.

'Hello, I work for Immigration,' the man explained, flashing an ID card.

'It's OK - we were just leaving.' said Joshua, consigning God's plan to the scrap-heap. 'By the way, what does BC mean?'

'Before Calendars!' replied the official. 'By the way, would you mind awfully filling in this Customer Satisfaction survey?'

Joshua shrugged his shoulders.

'Sure. Do you have a pen? I seem to have snapped all mine in half.'

NOAH AND THE FISSURE

It was Monday.
Noah's wife went to see God.
'Is it going to rain today, Lord?'
'Where's Noah?' asked God. 'Man flu?'
'No, he plunged through a crevice on his way here; he's dead.'
'Oh, I am sorry.'
'Never mind. Rain?'
'Thirty per cent chance. Take a brolly if you go out.'