Tag Archives: waitrose

Summon the Posh

There’s nothing more skank-ass-ho than a man walking through a park at 8am wearing a tuxedo. And it’s not like I didn’t take every precaution to prevent this from happening. I left the Christmas Party at a reasonable time, caught the train, cranked up my headphones to drown out two Gen Y girls who were engaged in a competition to see who could be the least socially aware (‘I’m such a free-spirit that men can’t handle me…’), shared some ‘Murder on the Orient Express’ type vibes with fellow passengers (‘We all did it!’), got delayed, commenced the walk home, saw my car at the midway point, knew for certain that I was way too drunk to drive, got into the passenger seat just for a minute, just to rest my eyes, just to get a bit warm and then – BAM – right in the middle of the school run and kids faces at the window and ‘Mommy, is that man dead?’ and ‘No darling, he just doesn’t have his life together’…oh, and the judgemental eyes of the upwardly mobile middle-class like I’ve stumbled into the hood and am gonna get stabbed up or barred from Waitrose or both…

I looked at the dashboard clock – too late to go home and change before dropping my car off for its MOT. An image of the queen popping out of Buckingham Palace to buy some fags was firmly ensconced in my brain as I rucked up at the garage – lop-sided tiara and foie gras stuck between her teeth. My deodorant, impressive though it was, had long-since given up the ghost and my waxy skin / stubble combo spoke only of shame.

Various overall wearing staff made no attempt to hide their amusement as I stumbled up metal steps to a port-o-cabin and heard a voice that sounded like Eartha Kitt’s demonic transgender uncle mumble that I was here to drop off the Audi.

‘Why are you in a tuxedo?’ the man asked

‘Why are you not?’

‘Fair enough.’

Then came the annoyance of him asking me complicated questions like ‘Is this your address?’ and ‘Has your phone number changed?’ and all I could think off in response was: I am an aristocrat in decline, I’m going to be spectacularly overcharged, Where can I purchase the healing elixir that is bacon? 

With both hands I reached into my coat pockets to retrieve the car keys and came upon the handles of a set of maracas (which I already knew were in there from when I got out the car, but for some reason had failed to stow in the glove box).

The man could see them (and hear them) and now I was off the chart crazy. An explanation was surely forthcoming. Should I use the real reason (So that I’ve got something to do when I’m waiting at the lights)? No, of course not:

‘It’s how we, The Elite, identify ourselves to each other in public. I usually use a French horn, but my butler’s having it polished.’

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…So long and thanks for all the mammaries

My usual dentist was away on maternity leave and had been replaced by a woman so voluptuous that it was almost suspicious, (the gratuitous drawing of attention to her figure is an essential detail!) Having talked me through the process of removing a broken tooth and replacing it with a temporary crown she leaned over, whereupon one of her pendulous breasts slapped firmly against my face; engulfing my right eye and settling against my cheek.

She seemed not to have noticed and diligently went about her work. With my one good eye I tried to signal to her assistant (‘Is this normal?’) She too appeared ambivalent, (either that or she didn’t speak eye-mind).

For 40 minutes (seemed longer) I lay under the warm weight of her heaving bosom – a strangely emasculating experience if truth be told. I hadn’t needed any anaesthetic as there was no root to offend, but by the end of the procedure my face was completely numb.

Afterwards the dentist (surely we should’ve been on first-name terms by this point) asked me if I’d like to keep the mould they’d made of my jaw. I couldn’t see any practical use for it, but it was going in the bin otherwise, so I said yes and took receipt of a macabre looking little plastic bag – Exhibit A:IMG_0822

‘How soon before I can eat anything?’ I asked.

‘Oh, straight away,’ she replied.

Having failed to ask for her phone number I left the surgery and went to a local supermarket in search of lunch. At the check out, whilst trying to retrieve my wallet, I succeeded in fumbled the aforementioned item out onto the conveyer belt.

Even I had to admit that it looked like something you’d find in Jeffrey Dahmer’s fridge. It would be an exaggeration to say that the cashier screamed, but she did press the help (panic) button, prompting the appearance of an equally bemused looking colleague.

‘I haven’t murdered anyone if that’s what you were thinking.’

Evidently they were…

On an entirely unrelated topic I’ve just started uploading some of my songs to:

https://soundcloud.com/martincororan

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