All the large ‘normal’ chunks of everyday life/work/interaction/time are just spent/endured so you can reach the amazing moments where you feel alive and happy and like you belong – those moments you are all together with your friends or your family. Those times everyone is on the same wavelength. Where everybody is up for the occasion and feeling good. Those small fractions of your life are worth everything else you go through. Try to make more of those moments. Try not to worry as they slip by, just enjoy them whilst they are there and make as many memories and connections as you can.
Have you ever seen so much glorious fruit for 3 quid?
No, no I don’t think you have.
Look at this bounty. All of this ffffresh fruit for a credit crunch obliterating 3 English squids.
3 nuggets. Three. The magic number itself.
The narna’s alone must be worth 2 fiddy. It’s mind blowing.
What a nutritious buffet! Seedless grapes falling out of my arse (quite literally). I’ve been in a drunken vitamin haze. Date Graped.
Easy peel oranges as well. Or Mandarins. Or Satsumas. Or Clementines. Or whatever the little orange bastards are. Fruit with one ovary. Orange balls of sweetness spraying all over my face.
Pardon? Where did I stumble upon this frugal fruit fantasy?
One of our high streets famous names no doubt I hear you cry. John James Sainsburys? erm…Dean Asdas? Gareth Tescos? Lionel Lidls?
No. Not quite.
I got it from a stall outside a chicken shop on Streatham High St (voted Englands worst high st). A chicken shop I might add which has been spliced in 3 and now, alongside the aforementioned deep fried pigeon carcass franchise – houses a mobile phone shop/cubbyhole and a hairdresser/beauty salon (currently offering special eyebrow waxing for 99p).
A fruit stall manned by a chap who can often be seen fiddling with his genitals atop his jeans and whose stall area has absolutely no rain or external shelter to cover the bowls of stolen high quality fruit ‘n’ veg (yes they do veg an’ all).
For £3 though I’m not sure you could grumble.
No, no you couldn’t.
No, no I’m sure you couldn’t.
P.S Banana’s are apparently used as an example that God exists – because they fit nice in your hand and peel easily etc – which is of course utter cack, however I think the exceptional value shown in this £3 harvest is a stronger argument for a deity.
Now go and eat your fruit, or you can’t have any pudding.
WRBH Food ‘n’ Drink review:
Emerge. 35p from the local Streatham newsagents. Dubious quality ‘stimulation drink’.
Stark font. Classic lines. Red, the colour of anger, is very pervasive. More than acceptable bargain price point (a third of the price of Red Bull, the posh bastard) advertised brazenly and indelibly so that unscrupulous vendors can’t try and pull your pants down with a sly mark-up.
We all know where we stand. We stand on the consumer abyss. We stand on the acceptable quality threshold.
35p! What is the profit margin on this tangy bitch?
Piss coloured mustardy yellow danger. Has a whiff of Um Bongo, if it had been left to fester near a radiator in a Thai jail.
Not to be taken lightly. It’s a brute of a mistress.
I don’t drink tea or coffee (because I’m a knob), so energy drinks are always an Alice in Wonderland/Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas trip into strange new brain states and hyper alertness.
Gives you a large aggressive adult rabbit-punch of caffeine wiring.
Contains 83% of my daily Pantothenic acid, which is good because I’ve been worrying about for my current levels for ages.
Not sure they are side effects, or the actual benefits. Makes your chest ache and feels like you’re having a minor stroke.
It tastes like a panic attack. Fear spreads through the veins quickly and stays with you for a few hours. Stomach cramps and rusty water soon follow from the batty crease, accompanied by a vague sinister feeling of paranoid sharpness..
Anxiety in a can. For 35p.
Cheap, filthy and tart. It’s a crack whore basically.
Has anyone else out there tried this tropical flavoured anti-freeze? Let’s compare notes.
And internal bleeding.
There comes a point at about 5.30pm on a Friday when I am about to leave work – with the endless possibilities of the weekend appearing on the horizon – where I feel as though I want to go out and get absolutely hammered. Really go for it. Get mashed. Push it to the limits.
It can last from a few seconds to an hour or two – but it’s a powerful, overwhelming feeling of Bacchanalian urge. I’m on the cusp of being a bit naughty. I’m a suuuuuperhero baby, and I’m standing on the edge.
During these moments I am highly suggestible. Highly suggestible indeed. They are glorious moments of potential highs and horseplay which hover in another dimension of potential futures.
They are moments which have led to me losing my shirt and one sock (and 5 hours of my life) before waking up in Brixton outside a strangers flat at 6 in the morning with no house keys or work bag. Leaving me stranded, topless, with no cash and no option but to wait in a park outside the club I’d been to the night before, with only a crack using tramp (with a massive scar across his boat) and a can of Stella (which HE bought ME) for company.
There have been bad times as well.
One thing is for sure though. As you get older and the body and mind become more complicated, these wild times are fewer and the consequences graver.
Hangovers and come-downs haunt my every move for days. 3 nights out in a row leave me a complete empty shell of a man.
Yet still, the pull is immense. The promise of epoch defining memories of debauchery – replete with the laughter, scrapes and catch-phrases that come with these times – easily outweighs the pathetic ‘I’m never drinking again’ recriminations and next day regret.
It’s true that resolve is never stronger than in the morning after the night it was never weaker.
You better make it worth it then.
I’ve got a red mark near my nose. Looks like I’ve been sniffing glue.
Not for ages.
Could be a spot. A manifestation of my teenage years long gone. Still, it gets you thinking about the illicit olfactory pleasures to be had in skool daze.
In my halcyon days I have been known to love the giddy thrill of sniffing permanent markers and highlighter pens.
Sometimes absent-mindedly, sometimes with obsessive enthusiasm.
Stabilo Boss were entry level. Mild but rich. Each neon colour with it’s unique soft fruit undertones.
Wipe clean board markers were a step up in potency. The ‘Expo’ brand is a right bully. Brutish pear drop top notes and a touch of paint thinner.
Black permanent markers always ran the risk of leaving a mark on your lip if you were too eager. The accidental Hitler tash mark of a delinquent. The Fuhrer look adding an odd Freddie Starr style fascist layer to your escapades.
The Pentel P50 black marker, popular in many offices is harsh. Worse than poppers. Not to be trifled with. No way. Go find one if you don’t believe me.
Equally thrilling was the eggy gas of the bunsen burner pipe. Once teacher turned their back, turn the lever for a blast of pungent heady goodness.
That’s not even taking into account liquid glues and tippex. Classic.
I guess if you got addicted to sniffing tippex, you could then use it (with the aid of the little brush) to cover up the red addiction spot marks that would appear underneath your snout.
Vicious cycle. The more you use, the more tippex you add to your face.
Maybe that’s what happened to Michael Jackson. His face did go white quick, and his music was shite.
That’s tippex’s fault that.
Mistake corrector indeed.
People who say ‘only joking’ after saying something offensive or personal about someone else is clearly a tricky shit.
It’s not some magic phrase which wins an argument or makes any words before it acceptable. It’s a cunts trick.
It’s especially unpalatable when they’ve said something they thought would go down well but ends up sounding offensive and causing a reaction. You bite. They pretend they didn’t mean it. ‘I was only joking. Calm down’. Then you look an over-reacting, humourless arsebag.
'Only Joking' is not a magic bullet or an escape pod. Just stop it.
And here it is.
Q. How do you get a fat girl into bed?
A. It’s a piece of cake.
Best. Joke. Ever.
The best thing about this is that it can be pretty much any cake. Fat birds, they just love cake.
Look at her. She loves cake.
Steady job in a small town
Guaranteed to bring me right down
Guaranteed to take me nowhere
Guaranteed to make me lose my hair
Still, he sorted his gnashers out. Great lyricist. Great (formerly) manky gob.