I was dressed up. And when you is dressed up, you do not walk like some abused housewife bitch with your body in some dowdy-ass slump. I am a proud creature, I am fierce. People look at me and they say Damn, that bitch is everything I aspire to be!

Well dream on, motherfuckers, because you ain’t gonna get close. You are ten thousand leagues under the me.

If there’s one thing I cannot stand, it is ugly people. Don’t be all looking like that around me, you ugly fucks, with your crack bitch mother who shoulda drowned the fuck outta you in the sink. I ain’t sitting through no weeks of hypnotherapy wiping your ugly face from my memory, because you are too fat and lazy to look good. Bitch.

And if you ugly, I know you don’t be looking at my titties. Not like this cunt on Goodge Street, last night. I was investing my hips in some motherfucking fabulous to and fro, and this fat cunt took one look at my smooth, toned body - and bear in mind that I was looking good, people - and he fell in lust with my ten thousand dollar titties. The fuckin’ nerve of this man - looking at my hot titties!

You know what I did? I raspberried that son of a bitch. I gave him five full seconds of the raspberry. Count em. Five seconds of ass noise, that’s what he got. And you know what this cunt said to his friend? With this stupid-ass English accent, he turns to his ugly-by-association friend and says all la di fuckin’ da, “I think she’s deflating”.

Motherfucker! You be talkin’ about my hot sweet Peri-Peri make-you-cry-they-so-beautiful titties? If you weren’t so fuckin’ full of the AIDS, I would grab your hand and press it to my bosom, where there be so much love that it make you see GOD. But no - I am not engaging with this fat ugly mess - my time and tits is precious, and I got hot and sexy places to be.

If you lucky enough to know me, you will know that I do not wear underwear. My ass is not a thing to be covered - it is a thing to be coveted. My ass sings. Put a microphone to my ass, and you be hearing Whitney fuckin’ Houston. Seven octaves of love come flyin’ outta my crack, and you betta fuckin’ believe it. But this cunt, he be following me down the street, and when my itsy micro-mini flips up to let the love out, it gets too much for his ugly virgin brain, and he be tuggin’ at his dick, he so excited. He be on all fours and ape-shit for this booty.

I have this special move. Superman got his crazy laser eyes, Wonder Woman got a tiara and shit, and I got The Whirl. It’s a full 360 with your hair out like a bitch on fire. And when you doin’ The Whirl - which by the way you don’t, because I have filed copyright and I will pay men to rape you if I catch you doing it - you laugh. You raise your head up and you laugh at the motherfuckin’ sky.

I deploy The Whirl, to knock this cunt off my tail. And get this - the motherfucker laughs. Is he living on the same planet as me and you? I have to say something. But what’s a girl to say whilst remainin’ classy and unreachable? What’s the weakness of ugly people? I know… their ugliness. So I tell him. I give it to him straight, both barrels. “YOU UGLY!” No, that’s not enough. “YOU UGLY MEN!”

Look at them pussies. They crossed the road straight away. They looked into the face of beauty, and they saw that they were wanting. That must have been like a fuckin’ religious moment for them. I am their fuckin’ God. They be makin’ a shrine of my tits and ass, and they be pulling each others dicks over me, those fuckin’ faggots. I am the fucking best.

In this story, I was the ugly cunt. The ugly-by-proxy friend was Lee. Writing about the incident from her point of view is part of the anger management course I’m pretending to be on for the purposes of this sentence alone. It is the profoundest source of sadness to me that I didn’t get a photo of this lady, who was quite possibly the most beautiful and well-hung woman I’ve ever seen.

Stop Press : Lee, who has written the story from the boy perspective, has just made this authentic identikit of what this loveable strumpet looked like. It is exactly what she is. It is unnerving.

< < Previous Attempts To Make Jimmy Carr Look

As we’ve already established, Jimmy Carr simply won’t look at anything. There isn’t a person, thing or experience that could interest him, since his happiness was lanced by an aristocrat’s umbrella. Now! I’m a good-natured chap, and like the princess who couldn’t laugh, I’ve made it my fatherly mission to offer Jimmy’s hand in marriage to the first thing that warrants even a sly glance.

CONTESTANT ONE : A COW IN DIRE NEED OF MEDICAL ASSISTANCE

- Aren’t you going to help the cow, Jimmy?
- Sigh.
- But the cow, Jimmy. It’s got syringes in its eyes. It won’t even see you looking.
- Let the cow suffer. In its suffering, I will find what small pleasure I allow myself.
- Come on, Jimmy! Don’t be like that. Give it a look, cheeky chops.
- Leave me now. I have to summon enough energy to embrace a void tomorrow.
- You win, Mr. Carr. You might also like to know that the cow’s dead.
- Aren’t we all?

CONTESTANT TWO : A WONKY CHILD WHAT DONE A PICTURE

- Jimmy, look at the picture that child drew for you! It’s a dazzling kaliedoscopic lookathon!
- Ffffffffsssst.
- Come on, he’s clearly not a very good child, so it probably took him a very long time. You could at least look at it, Dr Rib-Tickles.
- So, the child is one long drawing closer to death. I see no reason to celebrate that with a reckless look-see.
- Oh, go on, you frisky wee ‘nana. Slap yer peelers on’t.
- The only thing this child has to offer the world is its own death, and with it, the release from the endless duties that its life creates. To flatter its giftless output with a jamboree of wanton glimpsing is nothing short of repulsive hypocrisy.
- Hark at you, flobbergobs! Oh, look, Mr Carr. He loves you. If he had the motor skills, he’d be doing the lambada. Go on, lob it a lazy look! Gwan. Do it for a Chewit.
- I do not recognise that child as human. I will not soil myself by processing its unclean reality.
- Congratulations, Mr Carr! Next!

CONTESTANT THREE : THE STEAM DIMENSION

- I’ve called on the denizens of the steam dimension, Mr Carr.
- I’m impressed.
- Really?
- No. I’m utterly unmoved.
- That’s the spirit! Shall I describe what’s going on behind you, or do you want to have a little peep? Incy peep? Jimmy have a teency peep peep?
- To offer a preference would be to register an interest. Instead, I will brush a little dust off my knee.
- But would you look at me if I… jumped in front of you, waving my arms?
- I’m sorry. I’m focussing on the emptiness of the universe, many millions of miles behind you. I cannot see you at all.
- Gumph!

I swear, Jimmy Carr, if it’s the last thing I do… I’ll get you to look at something!

Should The Crystal Maze get recommissioned, another generation of highly-energised young executives will have to face up to an agonising question; should I buy my eager but proven-stupid friend out of their themed prison at the cost of one crystal?

Too often do we let our unreliable emotions make this decision - look at that sad little face behind the bamboo cage. You can’t look at that face and say “yes, but he did just make an absolute spastic of himself in there, and we’d probably be better off without him rolling around and kissing his shoulders in the Crystal Dome”.

So I’ve developed this, the Crystal Maze Buy-Out Ready Reckoner - just a quick glance will tell you how many man-seconds you have in the dome, and whether giving up one crystal for a team member will increase (green), decrease (orange), or have no effect (white) on your overall times.

The Crystal Maze was last made in 1995. This has been bugging me for quite a while, and I’m glad to have got it off my chest. Good day.

I’m hungover, today. Properly hungover. And when I get this hungover, I get very emotional. So far this morning, I’ve cried at a story about homeless AIDS beagles, and made myself giggle on a bus by making my coffee lid do a whistle. The last time I was this drunkover, I spent all morning writing a fan letter to Stephen Fry. He made a spelling mistake in his reply, which - in terms of ruining an image of perfection - was akin to changing a cherub’s nappy.

So, when I read in the Metro that Twiggy went off on one about the fats, I was outraged. She said that there was no excuse to be fat. Apart from the vaguely sickening idea that a former model whose name screams THIN is saying “STOP BEING FAT FOR FUCK’S SAKE I’M NOT FAT WHY ARE YOU SO FAT”, this is plainly bollocks. Here’s some great excuses and, even better, reasons to be fat;

TOP EXCUSES / REASONS FOR BEING FAT

1. There was a pie stuck to the pasty you just ate, and you didn’t notice because looking at food isn’t eating food and eating food is what you do.
2. You are an X-Man who draws power from the disbelief and disgust of those around you. In particular, you power-up when people getting onto a bus see you sprawled across two chairs, and involuntarily gasp in horror.
3. “But Mr Taylor… the horse was so delicious I couldn’t just eat its head.”
4. Fat people have an acutely developed sense of deliciousness. Sometimes it’s so well-developed that the fat person has to pause between mouthfuls to gasp at the overwhelming deliciousness of it all.
5. Really fat people are stab-proof, and can put their hands on their hips and laugh at circus knife-throwers.

So hear ye, she cried - it’s OK to be voluptuous, which I think means you’ve got big tits and one of those arses that are good for giving piggy-backs, but if you cross the pie-scoffing Rubicon and scronf your way into obesity, Ms Twiggy will fucking have you. You don’t get a name like Twiggy without having a few special moves. Seriously, she can do that helicopter kick off Street Fighter. Here is a picture of Twiggy having a fight with Lulu.

Twiggy is the one on the right, cheeky!

Anyway, I can only guess that the Metro (the Daily Mail Urban for people who like their hatred a little less bludgeoning) is combining baffling celebrity soundbites with that sense of directionless motherly panic about the obesity timebomb. It’s a kind of panic top-up - you may have been worried about climate change recently, but don’t forget that you were fretting yourself gay over fat children in March. Literally, it’s a timebomb. Look what happens when a fat man is allowed to reach 45 years old.

The obesity timebomb, as fun as it sounds, is simply a way of saying “fat people die a bit earlier”. Which, in a world where geriatrics are piling up in gigantic mumbling heaps outside Post Offices, doesn’t seem so bad. My own extra weight is to compensate for my complete lack of pension arrangements. If I’m penniless when I get to sixty, the stress of living will cause a fatal heart attack. I can’t think of a more sensible way to go.

I can’t apologise enough for this, but I’m going to be desperately earnest. That’s why I told you about the emotional hangover, earlier. I was prepping you for an unaccustomed bout of sincerity. Fuck the obesity timebomb. Fuck heart disease, fuck unquantifiable raised probabilities of fucking whatever. Fuck Twiggy, who being a model at the beginning of the Swinging Fucking 60s, seems ill-equipped to moralise about excess. Fuck this sense that we should be desperately doing everything we can to make our lives longer - I’m not eagerly waiting for death, but having unsuccessfully given the kiss of life to a man I loved, I reckon the most savage sting’s already been delivered. Fuck the fact that whilst I can superficially rail against this sort of thing, the fuckers got inside me before I was clever enough to deal with it. I can smell you in my subconscious, and I don’t WANT YOU THERE. I hate the fact that you got in there first, and made me want to be thin. It’s cunts like you that have created a world where people have to look at themselves in a mirror and say “I am beautiful” until they believe it. Because YOU made them hate themselves in the fucking first place. I THINK I AM BLAMING TWIGGY FOR ALL THE UNHAPPINESS IN THE WORLD.

Having said that, though, fat people are funny. All like eaty and wobbles. Look! A food! Haha. Bet you looked. Fatty.

Since they locked the students out, it’s rare for the toilets at work to have anyone in them.

I’m working in administration, which means an office full of women and one fat gay bloke. While this means I do have to put up with the monstrous Brenda, it does give me free reign to express myself in the shitter. When I notice too late that there’s no toilet roll on the spindle, no worries! I can do a greasy waddle to the next cubicle, and wipe as much as I like with the door open. I have made unworried attempts to piss in all three urinals and all three cubicles with one bladderload. I could even use the sinks as a bidet, and swing my little legs cheerfully as I do so. It’s my playground. Even my toilet at home doesn’t feel so uniquely mine.

So this morning, when two of the three cubicle doors were locked, I felt a touch deflated. There would be no singing, no laughing at my own hungover sputtering, and certainly no rinsing my armpits in the sink because I’d forgotten to shower again.

I sat down and sulkily started to shit, and was vaguely pleased when one of the other people left. The third gentleman, upon hearing the door slam to, seemed even more pleased. From the noises that started to come from his cubicle, he also seemed to think that he was alone. The large toilet roll spindle rumbled far too fast and loud, and far too regularly. He even started to make little whimpers. You’ll understand that my every fibre was begging me to make an early crimp and lie on the floor, to see what was happening.

The only possible sense of the noises I heard were;

1. He was wrapping the paper around his fist and speedily rubbing his anus with a vigourous to-and-fro motion, whilst preparing the other hand with more paper. I’d never considered a double-handed club-fist attack, so if this is what he was doing, kudos.
2. He was simply pulling ten sheets off, screwing it up, and wiping at high speeds with a paper rose. The time between rumbles didn’t allow him time to inspect the muddy flower; he simply kept wiping regardless. Truly, this is a wiping madness.

By this time, I’d found the sound recorder on my phone, and can share the experience. Although I missed the best of the whimpers and rumbling, I’m certain you will enjoy the moment when he gasps “OH, SHIT”.

So, I had to check the toilet, and I’m pleased to report that my phone has a camera function, too.

Note that the man was so panicked that he didn’t even use the last pull on the toilet roll, or flush; so keen was he to escape what had just visited him. There’s only one solution - I’m going to have to use the chinese student’s computer to send an everyone email, asking who it was.

The only thing that haunts me about this story is… that could have been me. He didn’t do anything worse that what I do when I think I’m alone. I wonder if someone’s got video footage of me cleaning out last night’s wank in the sink?

1. JOE MEETS MEG RYAN ON THE MEAN STREETS
Joe : Come on, piss-hat! Pick a card!
Meg Ryan : Seven of hearts!
Joe : No, physically pick one out of the pack, you dumb ho-bag.
Meg Ryan : Right, I’ll take this one.
Joe : It’s the seven of hearts!
Meg Ryan : Look again! They’re ALL seven of hearts.
Joe : Wow. This is the best trick ever.
Meg Ryan : Now I’m the seven of hearts!

2. LATER, AT THE VOLCANO
Boulder : You’ve changed, Volcano. You’re no fun any more.
Volcano : I’ve been meaning to tell you. I am getting engaged to the Pyrenees. My crazy days are over.
Boulder : Aw. Are you gonna get married? Are you gonna have a little wedding with almonds in little fucking bags?
Volcano : Yes! There will be many almonds in little fucking bags!
Boulder : Excuse me. I’m going to roll around in a copse for a while.
Volcano : Don’t block the exits to any caves!
Boulder : Fuck you.
Volcano : To celebrate my engagement to an entire mountain range, I will festoon that pretty village with delicious lava!

3. MEG RYAN BUYS A CANDLE
Meg Ryan : CANDLE ME FAT BOY
Candle Salesman : I only have one candle left and it smells.
Meg Ryan : Good smell?
Candle Salesman : Why don’t you lean in and sniff for yourself?
Meg Ryan : Alright, I will.
[Meg Ryan sniffs the candle]
Meg Ryan : Oh no! It’s a trap!
Candle Salesman : Correct! It smells impolite!

4. JOE MEETS THE VOLCANO IN A BARN
Volcano : Fight time!
Joe : Dragon Punch!
Volcano : Roundhouse Kick!
Joe : Double Roundhouse!
Volcano : …
Joe : Fight me!
Volcano : I’m building up power, hang on.
Joe : OK, cool.
Volcano : …
Joe : This had better be good.
Volcano : …
Joe : Are yo -
Volcano : BUM-WEE HORSE!
Joe : Eh?
Volcano : It’s a horse that wees out its bum.

5. BOULDER WANTS A BIKE-CYCLE
Boulder : Is this Halfords?
Biggles : I’ll give you three guesses.
Boulder : Yes!
Biggles : Incorrect.
Boulder : Yes!
Biggles : Incorrect.
Boulder : …
Biggles : It isn’t Halfords.
Boulder : LET ME GUESS
Biggles : OK, sorry.
Boulder : It’s no good now, you’ve ruined it.

6. THE PYRENEES DUMP THE VOLCANO
Pyreness : Hello you are dumped. Can we be friends?
Volcano : Let’s give it a couple of months.
Pyrenees : This is so like you.
Volcano : So like you more like.
Pyrenees : I’m like you. Look at me. HNG.
Volcano : Stop it or I’m telling.
Pyrenees : I’ve already told. Everyone knows.
Volcano : You can’t have done because I would have heard you tell.
Pyrenees : I did it in code.
Volcano : Ah but I’ve got a decoding machine.
Pyrenees : It’s unplugged.
Volcano : It’s solar-powered.
Pyrenees : I told at night.
Volcano : Look over there. That horse is weeing out of its bum.

7. JOE STARES OUT OF A WINDOW FOR TWENTY MINUTES WHILE MEG RYAN IS SUPERIMPOSED IN THE SKY BUT HE CAN’T SEE HER BECAUSE IT’S A METAPHOR

8. THE DRAMATIC CONCLUSION
Joe : I love Meg Ryan but I have to jump into the volcano.
Meg Ryan : I love you too don’t jump into the volcano.
Joe : Sorry it is just something I have to do.
Meg Ryan : That is a shame, but I will wait for you.
Joe : I’ll be dead.
Meg Ryan : OK, I won’t wait for you.

THE END

Coming soon! Real life Firestarter and Waterboy action reality adventures inside an actual real life creepy cave in real life!

(The reason I didn’t get this finished last night is because I got embarrassed doing the voices in my room, while my flatmates were watching a film next door. So I just went in and watched the film. The film was “But I’m A Cheerleader”, which is pretty gay. But not quite as gay as sitting in your room doing voices for cut-out bits of paper.)

Brenda, the lady who sits opposite me at work, and a woman whom I despise with a kind of joyful clench, has just walked in at 9:53. This is pretty late, by all accounts, so from observing her habits, I know she’s going to shout really loud about some outrageous fucking lie to justify this one…

Sure enough, ten minutes later, I’m sitting through her sixth retelling of the story about how her fridge freezer packed in, and has flooded her kitchen. Her husband is at home, up to his knees in towels! And she’d gotten up especially early, because she wanted to be here at eight, to start attacking her huge workload, too. How cruel life is!

This certainly is proportionately more elaborate than the time she was 15 minutes late, when the reason was simply the longest traffic jam in the world. That was also on a day you were planning to get in early, wasn’t it? The fates must really conspire against you, you brown-spouting fuck.

I smile, with the fake placidity of furiously paddling duck, and stifle my natural response. “I no more want to hear your dreary fucking lies than I want to slide toothpicks into my eardrums, you stupid, withered slice of meaningless bitch pie.”

Edit : I just took a photo of her. Please feel utterly free to print this out, roll it up, slide it into your arsehole and shit through it. In fact, if anyone were to send me a picture of themselves desecrating this picture, I would send them real presents through the post. Go on, piss on her. Piss on her face. Please.

This office just took a downturn. Let me introduce you to yesterday, with Brenda.

9:10
We walked into the office together. When we reached our desks, she screeched in her vinegar whine over the tables. “So why were you late?” Only she didn’t use the inflection that might have implied that she was late too. This is her tactic, the shrill faux-friendly voice that lets everyone know your business. Thank fuck she can’t see the insane pornography I’m staring at all day.

9:45
I was having a conversation with the other woman opposite me. This is what I do when I’m not on the internet. Brenda comes back from whatever she fucking does in the corridor - to be honest I don’t want to think about it - and started repeating the last thing we said to each other. I checked her face without making eye contact, and her disgusting jowels were flapping with exasperation that she wasn’t part of the conversation. I hate her.

10:14
The man came to fix her telephone. For one week, she has been without a telephone, and has sat in her fucking chair like a puddle of dog shit, saying “everyone’s calling me! And I’m not available! I mean, if they want me to sit here do nothing, I will **GROTESQUE LAUGH** but I’d like to do some work! **GROTESQUE LAUGH**”

The phone man needed to drop some cable behind her desk. She couldn’t stop herself from trying to help; she kept pulling the cable in a way that exactly undid what the engineer had just done. I was furious on his behalf, and could barely stop myself from making audible whimpers as she yanked brainlessly away.

11:12
She conspires with me that she has been frustrated with her lack of a phone. “You’ve seen those comedy sketches, haven’t you?” I smile, but don’t reply with words. “You know those comedy sketches? Where the televisions go out the windows? Sometimes I feel like that.”

ONE - Televisions out of windows is a rock star cliché, not a famous set of comedy sketches, you cunt.
TWO - Do you mean you feel like you’re a television going out the window? Or do you mean you feel like throwing your television out of the window? What are you fucking saying, woman?
THREE - It’s called a MONITOR, you thick-striped twat.

“Yes, I’ve seen televisions out of windows,” I reply.

12:39
She calls me Jon. Fine, that’s my name. She calls Lynn Lynn. Excellent, well done. However, when she talks about our likeable and unsavage boss, Jan, she goes the extra mile and says the full name. Every time. Swinging it around like it lends her some kind of authority.

“Not just any old Jan, you understand! I am referring to the one and only J. Sherlock! Yes, the very same! Ms. J. Sherlock who runs post-registration nursing courses in this faculty we’re standing in right here!”

Here’s a heads-up, you cunt - I’ve seen Jan look at you, and it’s only because she’s a fundamentally nice woman that she doesn’t tell you to go stick everything in your pisspipes. You only escape it from me because I’m the kind of person who’d rather shout at the internet.

1:12
Out of morbid curiosity, I look at her face again, and see that her mouth is, in effect, upside down. Her tits are like well-chewed and rehydrated prunes. She trips over something, and jokingly threatens to sue something or other. Then all hell breaks loose as she discovers that there is a photocopier in the next room.

“There’s a photocopier next door? I was told I had to use the ones on the eighth floor. I’ve been going up seven flights to do my work.”

She then changes her story, and repeats it down the office.

“There’s a photocopier next door? Sue was told that she had to use the ones on the eighth floor. She’s been lugging all her work up seven flights.”

Right, you fucking hero. You altruistic piss-drinking darling. If it wasn’t enough that you’ve adopted Sue as your own personal Live Aid cause, you may have noticed those lifts? The lifts that take you up and down the building, you retarded Surrey fuck? Lifts make all floors the same floor!

2:15
Ms Sherlock walks past our table. Brenda - and I just stopped typing to snap a pencil even thinking the word - breaks off from nattering fruitlessly to me, and calls her over. “I don’t think Jon gets my sense of humour,” she said. “I think I’m a little bit too much for him.”

Don’t even get me started, bitch! I got your sense of humour the moment you opened your anus-lipped face! Your humour is unvaryingly a three-punch-combo;

1. Squeal in that fucking voice you have for two minutes about how difficult everything is for you, because other people simply make your life hell.
2. Say something resigned, like you don’t really care.
3. ** GROTESQUE LAUGH ** to cover up the fact that no-one else gives a leopard’s gash about your interminable suffering at the hands of the hole-punch thieves.

It’s not that difficult to get, Brenda! Now blow it out your cunt!

3:42
She’s been quiet for an hour, now. God, I hate her so much. I’m going to walk around a bit, and see what’s on her screen.

It’s a database entry form page. Jesus. That’s just so totally her.

OH GOD SHE’S PUTTING A SANDWICH IN HER MOUTH. She put about half of it in. She’s only two feet tall, and she’s cramming granary bloomers into her leathery neck. It’s 3:45, woman! Since when was that STUFF YOUR FUCKING FACE O’CLOCK?

4:30
Her phone’s ringing too much for her. It’s rung around four times since it was fixed at 10:14. The first time it rang was “Here we go!!!” Every time after that, she flapped her arms at me as though to say “Look! Look at this! Isn’t is abominable, what I put up with? You understand, don’t you? We bonded in that twenty minutes I talked to you about my holiday. You remember, that 20 minutes where you didn’t say anything? I just went on and on at you? You remember, right? You must remember, because I didn’t even stop when you actually turned your back on me and scowled at the wall!”

So now, she has a new bane of her life. I honestly don’t think this woman could operate with any less than 20 concurrent banes.

HOME TIME
In summary, Brenda is not the best work colleague, and if you have an office you’d like me to work in, please say so. I promise not to write anything like this about your staff.

There was a woman in Ealing Sainsbury’s Local yesterday. She was pushing her shopping trolley around, and asking, “Is this the bread?”

I laughed. There’s nothing funnier than a woman walking past some Dolmio, squinting suspiciously, and asking “Is this the bread?”

What made it even funnier - to my mind - was the utterly unfriendly way she was barking it at no-one in particular. She didn’t look like she wanted an answer, she seemed perfectly self-contained and willing to walk up and down the two small aisles forever.

Then she changed her tactic. “Excuse me, I can’t see. Can you tell me where the bread is?”

Well, that explained something. She wasn’t insane, just a grumpy blind.

I followed her briefly, hiding behind things and being as stealthy as you have to be, when you’re following blind people. She found the bread, and woofed “Is that the bread?”

The man standing between me and the fierce woman looked awkward, and said “yes, it’s just there”.

“Where?” she demanded, her gracelessness intact. “I can’t see. Is it Kingsmill?”

This was Sunday evening in an understocked Sainsbury’s Local. There was only one loaf of bread left, on the centre of the shelf. It was, to the man’s relief, a Kingsmill, and he told her so.

The woman lunged at it, and squeezed it into her face. The man and myself stared at her - my mouth had opened by one finger - and she threw the loaf down and said “That’s Kingsmill GOLD. I don’t want Kingsmill GOLD. Is there any down there?” She gestured at the area around me.

I walked off. If you’re going to rely on the kindness of strangers, don’t expect people you treat like mere tools to happily tell you whether that is a packet of six bagels or a loaf of Kingsmill. I skipped around the shop, happy with my observations, to find my companion, who - lacking a compulsive interest in watching cuntish behaviour - was actually shopping. I quietly said things like “rude bitch”, hoping that her hearing had been enhanced by the blindness. I am a grown-up.

Here she is, in a blurry picture that is probably what bread looks like to her -

The rest of our shop was punctuated by an arrogant but helpless voice. No-one was helping her; she’d only got lucky with the bread man because I was blocking his escape route. When we got to the checkout, she was still walking around the shop with her combination shopping trolley / laptop bag. She had nothing in her basket - and fuck knows how long she had been there before we arrived - and she was shouting to the air in front of her.

“Where is the manager of this shift?”

After ignoring her for as long as possible, and acknowledging the growing sense amongst the customers that someone should say something, one of the staff said “he’s by the spirits and wines”. So she carried on walking around, now shouting “where are the spirits and wines?” This didn’t help her cause at all, as she now just looked like a mad, rude alcoholic.

It was vaguely and shamingly satisfying to see someone getting absolutely nowhere by being rude.

The puddle of goodness in me wanted to feel pity for her. It wanted to look past her attitude, and see the circumstances that had made her who she was. But I couldn’t. It would have taken something special to feel anything human towards this aisle-roaming Dalek of a woman. I wanted her to collapse. I wanted her to shrink into a pitiful, helpless wreck. I wanted to hear her sobbing “it’s difficult… for me… especially since Henry died… I don’t mean to be rude, it’s just how it… comes out…” In short, I wanted her to stop being a cunt and start being human, so that I could stop feeling like it was my civic duty to push her over and run off.

But we’d bought flapjacks, and I was quite hungry, so I left her to it.