FAST FOOD...

I was in a fast food restaurant today.  I am not proud of my behaviour, but I was hungover and working, never a clever combination and I needed some carbohydrates and transfats to carry me through the afternoon ahead.  I have half an hour for lunch, the takeout joint is 30 seconds walk from my shop.  Perfect.

I should have known when I read the sticker on the door that said "pull", but actually you had to push it...

No matter, I would persevere.

There are 5 people in front of me.  It takes 20 minutes to serve them.  I have no idea why.  I think maybe I have wandered into a unique space where gravity is stronger here than on the rest of the planet.

In comes the local serial killer - turns out he works here.  He has a name tattooed on his neck.  Is it his, or somebody else's, I wonder..?

He works on a till, relief all around since the queue is out the door now.  His first customer pays with a card.  Our serial killer can't get the card into the card reader, the magic box of electricity seems to confuse him.  Collective hearts are sinking. 

It occurs to me that if I had driven the 20 yards from where I work into the drive-through, I would have been served in 2 minutes instead of 25...

I did receive my order  -  I had 5 minutes in which to eat it.  I am so glad no one saw me as I hysterically stuffed my face in the canteen...I have a feeling it was deeply unattractive.  I don't think I made any noises...

Of course, I can't tell you the name of the fast food restaurant.  Suffice to say it rhymes with "KFB".

I'M A VIEWER, GET MY TELLY OUT OF HEEEEEEEEEEEERE...

What was Katie Price thinking of, really?  I do believe she was blinded by the massive cheque she was promised for airing more of her dirty laundry - this time quite literally.

After years of reality tv shows following her every move, did she really think she could just sit on her *rse and pontificate about the relationship she had with Peter Andre for three weeks and the public would change their opinion of her?  And what does it matter about the publics' opinion anyway?  Katie Price is one of those charmless unfortunates whom people love to hate.  Her demeanour is such that I can imagine people buying her work just to burn it.

"I'm here for closure," she opined to anyone who would listen.  I'm no expert, but there is no such thing as closure.  It is just a buzz word that people use when they do not know what they are talking about.

If there is such a thing as closure, it involves not harping on about the painful times in one's life anymore and turning one's mind to more productive things.  However, Katie Price/Jordan is a commodity.  Katie Price's divorce is all she has to sell right now - that and her relationship with her cage-fighter other half, who is a cross-dresser no less, but "strictly for sexual purposes".  

No doubt there will be a book released for Christmas about her time in the jungle.

Peter Andre is a moron, but he means well and is good with children - this has gone a long way to boosting his public image.  Katie Price's image is that of a flint-hearted woman who sees a £ sign on everything, a black widow that would eat her sexual partner for breakfast.

Three weeks in the jungle will never be enough to scrub that image from her public's collective unconscious.   She may need an incredibly inventive, creative PR agent...

WOMEN'S PROBLEMS

It turns out I committed the ultimate, ultimate sin this week as far as women are concerned.  No, I did not get off with someone else's man when I was a bit the worse for wear. I am talking about the other sin.  The party/occasion sin.

I chose the same dress as somebody else in a desperate attempt to get a dress for a wedding that was taking place in 6 days' time.

I DIDN'T KNOW!!! I was in a terrible panic, running around the local massive shopping centre on a Sunday afternoon like a contestant out of Supermarket Sweep - I had checked out all their shops in an hour.   From Monsoon to Primark, all you could hear was a wailing: "Why are people moving so slowly?"  Then I discovered it was coming from me.

It wouldn't be so bad but I was actually a bridesmaid.

All the accessories and no dress.  See, I was on a diet and you have the same accessories whatever weight you are.  Anyway, I had a dress from a previous occasion (always the bridesmaid but never the bride, but that's another story for my counsellor) - it's just that 7 days before the wedding I had to be cut out of it because of a dodgy zip (honest).

So there I was in woman hell, something I take great care not to normally immerse myself in - have you ever tried fighting against your hormones?  It's a losing battle...When - THERE, what's that?  In the first shop I had gone in, the only party dress in my size IN THE ENTIRE shopping centre, twinkling at me and whispering "You know it's the right thing to do..."

Panic over.  Try the dress. Buy the dress.  But, 50 minutes later, who's this on the phone?  A well-meaning mother of the groom asking if I had sorted my dress out.  I innocently explained the situation, only to discover...

SHE HAS HAD THAT DRESS FOR WEEKS, SHE EVEN SHOWED ME AN INTERNET PICTURE OF IT THE NIGHT BEFORE, DON'T YOU REMEMBER?

(I had been quite drunk at the time)

AAAARRRRGGGHHHH!!!!!

And then my mood ring exploded.

ENTERTAINMENT OR BUSINESS?

Who are these clowns "John" and "Edward"?  They look like they belong to a cult - or they've come down from space to see how we do things down here and are reporting to their leader who goes by the Earth name of "Simon Cowell".

The trouble with Saturday night on ITV is that it is a self-perpetuating cartwheel of hurtling nonsense.  It only needs a tiny push: 

"Are you a Nobody who wants to be a Somebody? Not got the family onto Jeremy Kyle  yet?  Or even The Trisha Goddard Show?  Come and see our self-appointed, self-important gurus who will belittle you  ON THE TELEVISION."

You can hear the stampede to the auditions from inside the double glazing. Pictures are jolted from the walls as the masses scramble for validation of their existence.

If I am in of a Saturday evening, I prefer to use this time to clean the bathroom.  I WOULD RATHER BE STARING INTO THE TOILET BOWL THAN THE SMUG CAPITALIST FACES OF THOSE WHO EARN HUNDREDS OF THOUSANDS OF POUNDS A YEAR (conservative estimate) by contractually obliging the winner to sing and dance for a comparative pittance -

Sorry, got to go - my keyboard is on fire....