Recently I made a scathing attack on Gordon Brown, our somewhat self-inflated prime minister. A man whose brilliance at dropping his problems into his successors 'to-do' list is. I predict, what he will eventually be remembered for. But all is not lost. Oh no. I have found the solution.

Yesterday I strolled down to the Job Centre to sign on the dole for another fortnight. The heavy clouds and damp drizzle made me wonder if I would have to sprint down to the Job Centre, but thankfully the rain held off.

The security guards there are wonderful, second only to our policemen. Ever helpful (and I do sometimes send them on errands) yet after nearly a year of signing on, totally unable to recognise me as a member of that protected species, Homo Unemployedus. Good grief, I go to all this trouble to look scruffy and they still stop me at the door.

"Excuse me Sir...." They ask, walking up to me with puffed out chests and hard stares. As usual I present my job search documents, and satisfied that I'm not a suicide bomber intent on destroying civilisation as we know it, they allow me to pass by.

The atmosphere in the current Job Centre is by far the best I've ever encountered. Gone are the primeval queues awaiting a rubber stamp at the desk, gone are the ticket machines which inevitably tell you that thirty seven other claimants are in the queue in front of you, gone is the soft music, and thankfully so is that toe-rag who stopped my money the last time I was claiming benefits. Now there was a young gentleman who had the makings of a true dictator, if only he had the intelligence to realise that running an office is not an impressive political career.

Anyway, I sat down on the suprisingly comfortable seat and awaited my call. They now politely call you by name. Such a human touch. My claims advisor is a pleasant lady who seems bored of the hurly-burly of spotty kids and single mums. We exchange pleasantries, and I eventually sign her form that allows me to receive a fortnights money.

"Is there anything else I could do for you?" She asked me as I was about to bid her goodbye. A thought occured to me that maybe her boredom was becoming too much - sadly I much prefer the brunette two desks down - but perhaps I'm just getting too old and sex starved to see an innocent request. In any case, I felt secure in the knowledge that security guards were not too far away.

I thought for a second or two, then replied "Well... you might do something about the economical downturn in this country..."

"I'll give it my best shot." She promised me. There you have it Mr Brown. Forget your political posturing and fiscal philandering, the answer to Britains problems is sat in an office in Swindon. You heard it here first.

Heist of the Week

A giant oil tanker gets taken by somali pirates off the coast of kenya. Clearly they can't afford petrol either, which suggests to me that someone in Mogadishu has just bought a V8. All they need to do now is steal an oil refinery. Far more likely though is the possibility of arms purchase. By coincidence there was a tv program last night about Victor Boutt, a russian arms dealer who inspired the Nicholas Cage film Lord of War, which by even stranger coincidence I saw on DVD yesterday afternoon.

What am I bid two million barrels of crude oil? Its a bit worrying, because they've already got plenty of AK47's.