Wednesday, 22 December 2010


Right, the season of dreadful mornings is upon us. In my case this is only remedied, before doing anything, before venturing on to buy things, to sit quietly in the White Horse like a loony. Of course this has to be done before 1pm, when hoards of jovial groups of men arrive to ruin the peaceful restocking of my constitution. Of course I hate them, but I am indebted to the Lala's and Morgans and Alisha's and Cheequi's of this world for doing it all just for me at opening time.
Once away, buying things brings possible calamity on all levels. For instance, have you ever, as a bloke in baggy jumper and a thick overcoat and a cap and a beard, tried to buy make-up for your loved one in the MAC shop? Firstly you can't positively identify any of the products, and you have to consult one of the amazing female cryogenically frozen at 22yrs of age avatars who staff the place to get anywhere at all, and also you have no idea what you are buying!
After such events there is need for respite. I pop in to a pub, preferably one without celebratory groups of any kind, and I stare with bewilderment at my purchases, and wonder should I tell the barmaid she's got a fabulous arse. This would obviously not be a clever thing to do, but I am simply not clever at Christmas time, after all, cleverness has been banned, Jingle bells rule. The other night we watched A WHOLE EVENING of Christmas cookery programs one after the other. As a result we no longer know how to roast a fucking potato. We were doing perfectly fine roasting potatos ourselves BEFORE. I am now SCARED of the Christmas dinner!!
Good luck everybody.

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