Figs on the line

The inestimable Evening Standard, that AMT Coffee-stained, crossword-completed, strewn-across-your-seat Chiltern Railways whore, has taken its plump, trembling, sovereign-ringed and sweat-stained finger off the racing pulse of the Nation. Usually so quick to pick up on a crisis, those misanthropic mass-hysteria mongers have failed to identify the biggest English emergency since, well, this.

Yes, a FIG ROLL SHORTAGE THREATENS THE NATION and only the internet seems to care. Sure, a good-time Blonde sometimes likes to hang at the docks with her hard-tack-tough, fly-flecked seaman Garibaldi; once in a while she shyly consents to be spoiled by her dark, glossy-maned, continental sugar-daddy Bhalsen - but a life without the unctious, gritty, soft-doughed embrace of her sweet, sticky poet Sultan Roll?

Now that is a state of terror. We need to detain some fucking wasps.