WEEKEND WRAP – 07 TO 14 JUNE 2025

Image by Anita Starzycka / Pixabay

​I was halfway down the A120, groggy from last night's late session and an especially rebellious mug of instant coffee slapping itself about in the cupholder like it knew I didn't believe in travel mugs. June rain clung to the windscreen in that lethargic Essex way, thick enough to annoy, too thin to matter. The world looked bleached out and mildly threatening—like a wet ferret wrapped in cling film. And the charts? As limp and non-committal as a councillor at a planning enquiry. No trades on Friday. Not one.

The oil market was still. Eerily still. No volume, no conviction—just the faint whiff of something brewing. Tensions in the Gulf had been simmering all week like a curry left on the hob overnight. Analysts were jabbering about Iranian vulnerabilities, troop movements, repositioned air defences, and even mutterings of a retaliatory posture against Israel. But it was all sizzle, no steak. I watched, waited, cursed the rain, and resisted the urge to stab along just for the thrill of it.

Come Saturday, the weekend wasn't exactly relaxing either. I did the Tesco run just to feel like a citizen again, but you could smell something metallic in the air—something war-like, ancient and crackling behind the scenes of normality. Israeli intelligence leaks dribbled into the public sphere like a dodgy curry through a colander. Iran was shifting its military toys. Red flags fluttered, not on the charts yet, but in my skull. Still, no entries. The market was coiled, too twitchy, like a cat stalking a shoelace. I drank gin, made notes, and stared at the clouds.

Then Monday came in swinging. Russia dropped drones and missiles all over Kyiv like confetti at a dictator's wedding. The UK economy shrank by 0.3% in April, a number so small it sounded polite, but the markets didn't see it that way. Meanwhile, the US State Department got spooked and instructed all its embassies in the Iranian neighbourhood to be on high alert. That was it. The charts lit up. WTI bounced off a local support level as if it were spring-loaded. The RSI edged north of 50 like a naughty boy trying to sneak out of detention. The LWMA kissed the SMA like a long-lost lover who had just been paroled. I struck long.

+44 pips. Clean. Satisfying. The kind of move that makes you want to toast your own brilliance in a mirror.
Tuesday arrived on a gust of smoke and sirens. Iran had itself a little fire—a petrochemical blaze that killed three and singed half a facility. And the Americans? They started pulling staff out of Baghdad and Kuwait quickly. Not a precaution. A signal. Markets trembled and rose. The 200 EMA held like the crust on a good pie, the RSI perched at a smug 60+, and the trend looked like it had found its footing. I longed again. Another entry. Another payoff. +38 pips, neat as you like.

By Wednesday, the world was on fire again. A literal refinery explosion, NATO troops suddenly doing that subtle alert stance you only see in pre-invasion footage, and the EU, bless 'em, thought this was the perfect time to roll out their 18th sanctions package—this time trying to slap a $45 price cap on Russian oil, which is about as effective as a sponge umbrella. Oh, and Israel bombed Iran again. Why not? Meanwhile, uranium enrichment was ramping up like a DJ at a rave who's just discovered volume knobs.

Technicals were practically screaming. Price tested the 10 SMA with a brief flirtation, the RSI standing tall, patterns glowing like a holy relic. I didn't hesitate—two long entries near $67.50. They paid out +57 pips and +16 pips, respectively. It felt less like trading and more like harvesting. Like plucking golden apples from a tree, nobody else could see.

Thursday rolled in like a scene from a Cold War B-movie. Reports of hypersonic missiles, Israeli jets allegedly striking from inside Iran, and General Kurilla—top brass from CENTCOM—abandoning his congressional testimony like it was a bad Tinder date. Then, cherry on the flaming cake, Iran confirmed a ballistic missile test. Because, of course, they did.

And the charts? They were like a gospel choir in complete harmony. RSI was still above 60, trend lines tighter than a bookmaker's margin, and the breakout looked so clean you could eat sashimi off it. I went long again. Another +53 pips. Another win. I was riding the madness like a surfer on a tidal wave of global tension.
Friday. Chaos incarnate. Iran launched over a hundred missiles at Israel. A hundred. Not figurative—actual. Israel confirmed it had struck back and hit Iran's uranium facility. Radiation leaks were being whispered about like old pub gossip. Iranian air defences were doing their best impression of fireworks night, and the US finally dropped the charade and admitted it had been helping Israel. Retaliation was now less a probability and more a certainty, like your mum reminding you about bin day.

And me? I'd already opened a long before the news exploded like a piñata full of plutonium. Floating at +78 pips by the end of Friday. I held it into the weekend because when the whole world's on edge, oil likes to dance. And I wanted front-row seats.

The Numbers, you ask?

• Total closed trades: +208 pips
• Floating open trade: +78 pips

Every entry was justified. This wasn't Vegas roulette—it was cold, calculated chaos surfing. Geopolitical catalysts triggered each move; the technicals blessed them. RSI, trend alignment, moving averages—everything matched. Confidence rating? 80-90% all week.

And now, as I sit at the kitchen table, crumbs from a neglected sausage roll on my jumper, watching the rain nose down the windowpane again, I know one thing with absolute certainty: the oil market is the best bloody circus in town. And I've got a ringside seat, a half-lit cigar, and a twitchy trigger finger.
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Next week's show? Can't wait.