April 12, 2007

THERE are many things I would rather do than go shopping, chief among them being nailed to a cold pavement in the middle of a town square while having my kneecaps haphazardly drilled into by a drunk labourer.

Or, just so you get the point, I would gladly swap an afternoon at the Trafford Centre for being trussed up naked like a Sainsbury’s chicken, smeared in cheap strawberry jam and then dumped beneath a recently disturbed nest of very angry hornet wasps.

Still not convinced?

Make me sleep in barbed wire pyjamas. Put foil on my fillings. Remove the top of my scalp and scrape my exposed brain with sandpaper.

Anything – anything – than an afternoon “at the shops”.

I mean, shopping: Why would you?

I have trousers to wear and shoes to walk in. My coat still doesn’t leak and the arms haven’t fallen off my shirts. And besides, do I look like I have money to burn? The bar IS open and the football IS on, you know.

I have no time for the so-called metrosexual man who whiles away his Saturday afternoon swapping moisturiser tips with his girlfriend.

I can’t tell my Moschino from my Manolo Blahniks (whatever on earth they are – Argentinean central defenders?).

I couldn’t give a monkey’s about Beckham’s latest skirt disaster (or whatever those skirt-things are actually called). And the next spotty youth who offers me a store card when I’m only buying a pair of socks should book himself in at the dentist’s.

Something I’ve learned at the grand old age of 36 is that no matter how often your girlfriend insists that shopping is a) worthwhile and b) fun is that they are a) lying and b) lying.

For instance, in the lexicon of the English language, who do you really think came up with the word “bargain”? I’d lay money on it being a woman.

But it’s a nonsense word. There is no such thing as a “bargain”. No such thing! How on earth can handing money over for something for slightly less than you might have handed over elsewhere a “bargain”? Argh! It’s not! It’s still bloody handing over money!

And then there are the inevitable and much lamented problems of going shopping with your other half. You don’t want to be there, she doesn’t want you to be there, but if you don’t show even the slightest enthusiasm for Something You DEFINITELY Do Not Want To Do then your bedroom later on suddenly becomes chillier than that bloody Smeg fridge she wants to buy.

Look, love. It’s really quite simple. The fridge we have already works. Imelda Marcos looks at your shoe collection with envy. And you’ve got so many clothes that people keep coming into our house thinking it’s the local branch of Top Shop.

I really don’t want to spend the afternoon being accused of looking at other girl’s backsides while you do a circuit route of the shopping centre trying on everything three times before you decide the first one was the best.

I just don’t need to go shopping. You don’t need to go shopping. And we, certainly, don’t need to go shopping.

What do you mean your clothes are falling off? Do you hear me complaining about that? No, of course not.

Now find the remote control and get that bloody QVC turned off. The football’s about to start…

Ancilla, noun
A sidekick who helps another to accomplish or master something difficult or complicated

"I can't believe you got me leathered the night before my bastard interview," said Zeds, as he tripped over his own trousers. "I'm hungover, I look like shit, and I'm as well prepared for the bastard thing as I am to perform open heart surgery. On children."

"Well, yes," said Nipper, pulling the duvet up to this chin. "But remind me again about the bit where I'm supposed to care?"

Now I don't like Christmas, January, but at least December offers us a few days off work and some shiny stuff to flog on E-Bay. What exactly do you, January, have to show for yourself? Ay, ay, ay?

Sort it out January, or we'll cross you off the calendar and invent a new month, that's much easier to spell and more fun to live through.

Here's an idea.

Why don't you take a phone call from a "supplier" who in fact works solely for you and has done for almost two sodding years.

Listen half-heartedly to question regarding payment of invoices pre-expensive popular winter religious festival held annually.

Respond that only half of the owed money will be paid.

And that you're not quite sure when that will be.

And then fuck off back to your comfy house with its fairy lights on the garden hawthorne bush, you absolute cunts.

I may have had one or two shandies too many last night, but then you know that already.

I may have overdone it on the lime pickle and the red onions, too - but then you know that, too.

Oh yes.

Oh yes.

Join in, now...

I may be late for work,

I may be in a hurry,

I may be about to fill my pants with internally processed curry.

My face is getting redder,

Because you're a fucking traffic light and you're Just Plain Mean.

You stand on every corner,

You're everywhere I look!

But of my smooth traverse to work you couldn't give a fuck.

You stay on red for ages,

Even though pe-des-trians are merely fucking dross.

You're tall and bright and flashy,

Annoying on all fronts,

Yes you AND your Belisha mates are a twattish bunch of cunts.

I really really hate you,

Instead as per fucking usual my collar will be felt.

'Cos you'll grass me to the coppers,

Send them a colourful snap,

Then wonder why dogs just look at you and immediately take a crap.

Traffic lights I hate you,

And anyone who dis-agrees is a snivelling Green Party shit.

December 12, 2006

Used to be nice, now they're, well, less nice.

Not as chewy.

Bastards.

Here's an idea, you utter bastard:

Drench the outer sides of my desperate brain in some kind of fluid that, through the miracle of osmosis, eventually seeps through the grey viscous until both ends meet in the middle, thus producing a reaction not unlike that when electrical contacts find that all-important spark.

PING! go the Greed Lights, flickering and flashing on, like strobelights, all around my skull.

HURRAH! What will I buy for myself?

What kind of house?

What kind of car?

In fact, how many cars?

Gadgets?

Furniture?

And what about my family friends?

Where shall we all go on holiday?

How popular will I be?

How much sex will I get?

*gurning with excitement, dry in the mouth*

God, I can finally pay off this, and I can pay off that.

And I can pay off their debts, too.

Because that'll make them love me.

And I can get my eyes lasered.

And buy that suit.

And one of those watches.

And a London apartment. And one in New York.

And a yacht.

Oh, yes. I need that fucking yacht.

And helicopter flying lessons.

And a season ticket.

And my own restaurant. Inside my own hotel.

*gibber gibber gibber*

And then I can SING to the mirror without a care in the world!

SCATTER fifty pound notes from my penthouse balcony!

PISS in my bed!

SHIT in my sink!

PUNCH my own butler!

I CAN! I CAN! I CAN! I C -

"And here's your host, Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaale WIN-tonnnnnnnnnn........."

And then you remind me that I'm 50p short of a pint of Black Soup.

You absolute cunt.

Just fuck off

Why not continually phone up local newspapers with your opinions about that week's news and then sound all sad and confused when it is explained that the newspapers do provide a letter's page for that, but not a fucking answering service?

Why not then say you can't write a letter on your own because your eyesight is bad and then when it is suggested you get someone else to write the letter, like a family member or neighbour, for instance, reply that you haven't got anyone, even though you obviously have because they're prompting you, loudly, in the background?

And why not then reluctantly hang up only to dial the same bastard fucking number, instantly, thinking there is a cast of thousands at the other end of the line who unlike the first person to answer do actually provide some kind of typing pool service for lazy pensioners?

DO NOT spread yourselves around me like a gaggle of seagulls with beak ache, rifle through the free newspaper and exchange your opinions on the least interesting stories, spray each other with perfume, laugh so loud that your wigs wobble, bully the only male in the group until he uses the emergency hammer to break the glass and throw himself out of the window or tut about anybody so much as an hour younger than you. Thank you.