Rocket Man

I had to go grocery shopping this evening; my third least-favourite activity after dusting and being nice to children. The checkout at Sainsbury’s was being manned by Elton John: age 4. I didn’t think it was possible for someone so young to be so fat and so camp, but the two carat diamond earring was the icing on the fairy cake.

“Would you like some help with your packing?”

I don’t know why they always ask me this. It's quite obvious that I have arms.

“No.”

I had obviously laid down a challenge. I reached forward to take a shopping bag and his fingers twitched on a jar of pesto. We glared at each other. I was somehow having a Mexican stand-off in Sainsbury’s with a fat, gay four-year-old. The next moment, I grabbed a bag and he started firing items across the scanner at the speed of light – there was no fucking way I was going to keep up with him (especially while trying to place the heavier items at the bottom in a sensible and logical manner) and pretty soon I was swimming in Hovis and Lloyd Grossman sauces, empty bags flapping on my hands like pom-poms. Elton stopped scanning and looked at me like I was pathetic. I wanted to smash his head in with a chicken kiev, but I knew they’d tease me in prison if I went down for that. So I finished my packing and paid, resisting the temptation to say “Go fuck yourself” when he asked if I wanted cashback.

Next time I go to Sainsbury’s I’m going to buy nothing but 24-packs of Stella. That’ll show the bastard.

An Astute Observation

My Grandmother was down this weekend. Before we had dinner, she watched as I threw five ice-cubes into a glass and poured myself a Magners.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Pouring myself a Magners," I said, style oozing from my pores. "It's trendy to have it with ice."

"Well, why don't you just water it down and put it in the fridge?" she asked.

I have no answer to that.

Fun Fun Fun in the Sun Sun Sun

I’ve just been on holiday. While this break was much-needed and much-enjoyed, it did mean a reunion with my age-old nemesis: suntan lotion. For some reason, I have the mystifying inability to spread the damn stuff over my body in an evenly-applied manner, like normal people. In fact, if you saw me after my first day on the beach, you might assume that I’d been leafing through Chapter 1 of the often-overlooked tanning bible How To Burn Like A Fucktard. I really tried this time – I mean, I really tried – two layers of factor fucking 30 all over and I still manage to get a bloody white handprint in the centre of my chest. What am I supposed to do? Gazillions of bronzed bastards on the beach, and there’s me on day two, having to sit in the shade because it looks like I’ve been bitch-slapped by Casper the Friendly Ghost.

Sigh.