My hatred of really strong perfume began long ago, back in the days of yore. The really cool six-form girls at my school would always sit at the back on the bus, and get on last because they had to finish smoking their fags. As they passed by little pubescent me, sitting on an un-cool seat in the middle of the bus, I was transfixed by the blur of their Pat Benatar haircuts and paisley-print chiffon scarves. But then came the backlash: a mouthful of Impulse ‘Chic’, sprayed on as liberally as Raid on a wasp’s nest. Continue reading…
It’s not that I hate sport, it’s just one of those things that is definitely for Other People. I mean, like most of us, I can get thoroughly involved in a Wimbledon final. Or care, just for ninety minutes, whether England get knocked out of the World Cup. Or suddenly give a crap whether a British bloke can throw some thingy further than another bloke from somewhere like Latvia.
But I’ll always eventually let the side down, and show myself up as a sporting ignoramus. It’s because watching sport on the telly is usually accompanied, in our house at least, by a few bottles of French lager. I won’t name names but it’s reassuringly expensive, like a lot of my most coveted night creams. And, tongue loosened by said amber nectar, I’ll begin my shameful commentary. “Why are their socks rolled right up to their knees?” “What would happen if someone in the crowd accidentally scored a goal?” “How muddy would it have to be for them to actually stop playing?” Continue reading…
