WEEKEND WRAP 14/06 - 20/06. PIPS, LIES & LIQUID GOLD

By Martin Foskett
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Friday was leaking into Saturday like leftover curry into a white bedsheet—messy, potent, and destined to linger. I was slumped in my chair with the sun mocking me through the net curtains, brain buzzing on black coffee, and the kind of madness only known to spreadsheet warriors and sleepless day traders. The phone glared back. The charts hummed like an electric fence around a pie shop. I'd been dancing with WTI Crude all week, and by God, I had the pip bruises to prove it.

This wasn't trading. This was guerrilla warfare with Fibonacci knives and RSI tripwires. One moment, you're up 300 pips; the next, you're being mugged by a rogue candle with no wick and a wicked sense of humour.
THE BEAUTIFUL BASTARDS (WINNERS):

1. 71.78 → 72.56
2. +78 pips – a slow, cheeky crawl through a minefield of hesitation.
3. 70.50 → 71.72
4. +122 pips – the kind of breakout that makes grown men whisper sweet nothings to their screens.
5. 68.28 → 71.56
6. +328 pips – this was the Prometheus trade. The fire was stolen from the trading gods and stashed in a Tesco carrier bag.
7. 72.40 → 73.35
8. +95 pips – clean, surgical. Like slicing through butter with a katana.
9. 71.65 → 73.21
10. +156 pips – caught the pulse early and rode it like a greyhound on caffeine.
11. 73.35 → 73.67
12. +32 pips – minor victory, but every candle counts in the war room.

THE FILTHY BETRAYALS (LOSERS):

1. 73.91 → 73.16
2. -75 pips – caught the top like an overeager drunk at last orders.
3. 73.33 → 73.20
4. -13 pips – microbubble, the kind you feel in your soul more than your account.

THE FINAL COUNT:

• Total Pips Gained: 811
• Total Pips Lost: 88
• Net Pips: +723

Not bad for a week's hustle in the smoke and mirrors of oil trading. The charts threw tantrums, the ATR danced a jitterbug at 0.57, and RSI stayed moody around 53 like a teenager at a family BBQ.
Volume wobbled like a jelly on amphetamines—occasional spikes followed by long, eerie silences. You could almost hear the algorithms thinking. Pausing. Plotting. Bastards.
This wasn't just a set of trades. It was an exorcism. A pagan ritual with green and red candles flickering in a digital cathedral built on greed and caffeine. Every pip won was a jab at the madness. Every pip lost was tuition paid to the devil's own brokerage.
And I'll be back Monday. Armed with indicators, gut instinct, and the mild tremble of a man who's been there, seen it, and scalped it.
Let me know if you'd like the net pip curve in comic strip form or a crude cartoon of WTI represented as a sultry femme fatale seducing a poor RSI reading in a smoky jazz club.