Squiggle
Prince, Squiggle, or whatever the bantamweight eccentric legend likes to be called these days, once said that there comes a time in every man`s life (Or woman`s, you won`t be finding misogynistic offerings on here, unless of course the tea`s not on the table by the time I get home) when he gets tired of fooling around. Judging by the fifteen dozen paternity lawsuits the Lilliputian performer has against him, it would appear that such a time is yet to appear in his time on this marble. He also said that I should not to make him chase me because even doves have pride. He`s obviously not all there, but he wrote Cream so he`s forgiven.
Possibly true trivia point 1. Apparently Prince is generous enough in the britches department to be able to pleasure himself, should he be required to do so.
Prince may be right, but there certainly does come a time in everyone’s life when they get tired of doing the weekly shop at “The” Asda? President Mugabe has been known to send opponents of his current rise in the “Top of the Pops tyrannical existence Top 40”, to the local “The” Asda, at Eleven O` Clock on a Friday morning. A badly written list with ambiguous words such as “veg ” and “fruit” in one hand, and a voucher for 50p off a ten litre bottle of Persil Liquid in the other. The gonad electrocuting machine would be plugged in by the poor sap themselves upon return to Mugabe`s torture chamber, for a little light relief.
The shopping experience, and you can insert Morrison’s, Sainsbury’s et al into the place of Asda, has become the domain of mobility challenged, casually wandering, gormless, existence stealing, mouth breathers. Is there ever a more wonderful sight to behold than a bored 17 stone Giant Haystacks doppelganger, lazily leaning on a trolley, trousers displaying his upper rump topiary, wandering with no rhyme or reason along the frozen meat aisle? It is no accident that very sharp knives are currently unavailable to buy within the aisles. Or guillotines. Or those machine Guns out of “The Wild Bunch”. Though no jury in the land would convict an Asda shopping related homicide, surely?
But of course there is a reward for negotiating your wonky wheeled trolley, avoiding the mobility scooters, myoclonic toddlers, and braying sweat stained pond life pyjama clad twenty “somethings” through the gruelling previous 25 alleyways (including the Pet food aisle, and I don`t even have a pet, why do I walk down there?). And that reward is 3 bottles for a tenner. A choice of white, pink, or red wines to allow you to welcome the weekend into your sad and dreary life. But wait, look closer. To call the selection offered “wine” is akin to describing Shredded Wheat as a tasty breakfast. The selection is reminiscent of a concrete boot laden Frankie Boyle after he`s just completed a marathon, whilst gargling with Corsodyl. Weak and without taste.
The final insult of course is the checkout. Name tags with legends such as “happy to help”, lay beneath scowling faces which peer, daring you to ask, just ask for help. Faces which look like they`d rather be washing Tramps genitalia than putting your Pek, beef pastes, and frozen chips into your bag for life, that is if you`ve remembered to unpack the blasted things from the boot of your car.
Right, that`s your lot. I`m off to Tesco`s Express to buy a tiny bottle of wine and Brussel sprout, and pretend that I’m a Giant with a cabbage. Till the next one, learn something new.
GNS