May 15, 2006

Perhaps, or maybe indeed because, I lack so much as the merest scintilla of class, I have had a very bad evening. So far, anyway.

And bear in mind, it is only 22.25 (as I start).

Here's the thing.

You're a local newspaper reporter who - despite history of other things a tad more dramatic - finds himself going to watch a mayor get sworn in.

This involves the following:

...A bustle of drunken, boring, pompous oafs (for politics really is showbiz for ugly people) thrusting their ageing, grey-haired chests out (and yes, I do include the "women") at each other like braying donkeys at a Donkey Duel.

...Nervous, twitchy little council officers running around after aforementioned fools, doing everything like fearful chickens bar pathetically pecking the floor in a desperate search for seed (and let's not mention Mark Oaten again, here. This is a family newspaper).

...Horribly excited wives of local councillors who keep pushing their dim and timid husbands in my and my boss's direction, in the hope that we'll put her on the front page next week with a picture of her prize turnip (which may or may not be her husband).

...A somewhat shameful duet of ex-girlfriends - shameful, that is, because they are sisters *ahem*

So, after listening to the swearing-in ceremony - Zeds to the max, incidentally, with a strange pastor whose essential message to the incumbent alderman was "God's sound, mate," and all in a full-on Scouse accent - me and the boss decided to fuck off, and to fuck off right now.

And as such, we retired to one of our local haunts in Hoylake. We were peckish, you see, and were highly desirable of their nice tapas menu, not least the asparagus wrapped in parma ham, and perhaps some other niceties, too.

Needless to say, the fucking chef had gone home.

So, no change there, then.

Hmm.

Okay, then. Nachos and houmous will do. Well, not really, but it'll have to, won't it?

Crunch. Munch. Munch, again.

Bad, eh?

Well, not quite, no, actually - not until the fucking jazz music started.

Can anyone - anyone - honestly, genuinely, and sincerely, mind, explain jazz music to me?

It is absolute bollocks.

"DoobleydoobleydoobleydoodooDOODAADAAdooobooboobaabaadoobley," sings some useless fucking twat, while nodding knowingly at a supine audience, occasionally turning to individuals in a band that look like they're spontaneously coming buckets in their trousers even though they don't have a single musical note in their bodies.

And the audience, pretentious intellectual dwarves that they are, nod back, yeah, giving themselves and their band as many equally knowing-but-unknowing glances back and forth between them.

Christ!

And then, to top it all off, the bastard Indian was closed, so I am denied my madras and instead have to settle for a glass of wine.

And a rant, of course.

Does it, oh Lord, get worse than this?