An old one-liner which, for best comic effect, you should set up with extra, preliminary questions and then leave the last question hanging, so the listener supplies the answer: what do you call the killing of a man? Homicide. What do you call the killing of a brother? Fratricide. Of a father? Patricide. Of a king? Regicide. Of oneself? Suicide.

BETWEEN COVID in 2019 and cancer in 2022, I didn’t watch tennis for so long, I didn’t know the names of players at Wimbledon, but that didn’t stop it from being the best Wimbledon since Roger Federer retired, and not only because NoVaxx Jokeysumbitch got served, royally, by the young man we now know as Carlitos.

TWO GREAT losses in one week and I’m fearful of a hat trick for Death. The beloved University of the West Indies academic, Professor Brinsley Samaroo, 84, and the Czechoslovakian writer, Milan Kundera, 94, both slipped away, the old Brinsley drawing a lot of love from people writing in our newspapers and the even older Milan doing the same in newspapers all over the world.

IS NOT today Y’Boy studying these Trinis who doesn’t read at all-at all, who never even finish a literature book in secondary school – but pontificating on what kinda book RIK should sell today; it have nothing more annoying than a cockroach who does push up he-self in fowl’ business.

WHO SEND me to watch West Indies play the arse and a few overs of cricket at the World Cup qualifiers in South Africa last weekend? I, who, over ten months of crippling cancer treatment have remained in a fairly good mood by refusing to watch West Indies games, got sucked back into this most persistent form of Caribbean masochism via the same patriotic rabbit hole: I thought I would at least do my bit for a team that refuses to do its own bit for itself.