Thursday, 10 November 2011

Bunga, bunga

It's all going bunga, bunga in Italy, whatever that's supposed to mean (or maybe the situation has got better, or worse - how would I know?) I'm all bunga, bunga, myself, at the moment. Bunga, bunga, all over the shop, truth be told, but I'm not complaining.

Italian bond yields are rising, and falling. Up, and down. No one knows what will happen. Or why it will happen. The "experts" know nothing, and I know nothing. Well, no, no, no, I know: BUNGA, BUNGA. So give me some credit, I know something. When all else fails, we have bunga, bunga, don't we? Well, I do, RIGHT NOW. I can't speak for you, dear reader. I would like to speak for you. Actually, I would like to speak through you. Have you ever considered a career as a shaman's dummy? There's not much pay. The hours are terrible. But I can promise you "satisfaction". I can certainly promise you bunga, bunga - if you know what I mean. (I'm afraid I don't.)

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Why am I so bunga, bunga? Well, I've just finished writing my first song in twenty years and it's a classic - seriously. It's called Gilly Marie, and it's my tribute to the two fittest birds in finance. (Yes, I put their names together to make one name. I'm clever like that. Oh, and I only love one of them, as you know.) In fact, the song is so good that I'm considering slowing down on my blog (for a while) so I can put all my energy into writing more songs. I mean, why am I living in poverty, earning pennies from a blog, when I could be living the high life as a millionaire songwriter? And will someone please explain to me WHAT THE FUCK I've been doing for the last twenty years! Have I been in a coma?

Writing classic pop songs is only half the battle though. Apparently, not many music publishers accept unsolicited material these days. But where there's a will, there's a way, eh? 'If you will it, it is no dream.'

Holy Jesus! I'll tell you what I feel like right now. I feel like Scarface staring at that Pan Am blimp just after he's whacked Frank Lopez and Mel Bernstein. 'Maybe you can handle yourself one of them first-class tickets to the resurrection.' That's what I'll be telling anyone who crosses me from now on - including the demons in my soul. Talk about fired up! Christ! I'm fired up! Talk about bunga, bunga! Bloody hell! I've got bunga, bunga coming out of my ears.

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I feel good. Child, everything's going to be okay. Hopefully, the euro will burn, and the European Union will collapse - BUT everything will be okay. Trust me, everything will be bunga, bunga, in the positive sense of the phrase.

Bunga, bunga
Bunga, bunga
Bunga, bunga
Bunga, bunga

Is there a bunga, bunga song? There should be.

Bunga, bunga
Bunga, bunga
Bunga, bunga
Bunga, bunga
Can't get enough

Bunga, bunga
Bunga, bunga
Bunga, bunga
Bunga, bunga
Gonna bunga till I drop