MANCHESTER RANT TWO

The painting above is by David Inshaw, a former member of the Brotherhood of Ruralists, and has absolutely nothing to with this article, except that I envy the quintessentially English serenity enjoyed by the two badminton players. 


It's a quiet Friday night for me, I've been working all day and all I'd like to do is rest. Not even rest hard like most people do at this time of the week, but just sit in front of the television eating something inane and watching something even more so, but apparently it's frowned upon to do that around these parts. 


I've just come back from a short walk incorporating a visit to the local Sainsbury's, apparently the place to go to have one's choice of evening entertainment churlishly mocked. I'm going home to London tomorrow to spend the week with my girlfriend, so sorry for not 'going large' the night before (see My Boyfriend Is A Dick for why). So you may now imagine me, standing in the queue, holding a modest four-pack of beers and a microwave meal. For one. 


I was staring into space and daydreaming as I got to the checkout and proffered said items to Stuart, my indefatigably helpful cashier for the day. Now, it's a fucking supermarket, do I have to have my wits about me every minute of every day, especially after spending hours learning why a fourteenth century Italian courtier should possibly want to be good at archery and ballroom dancing at the same time? And then he popped the question. 


"Night in alone eh?" Asks Stu with a patronising chortle. Urgh. One of his colleagues laughs, and sharing the amusement are three scantily clad female students (inappropriately so considering their generous proportions) each clutching their own crate of Strongbow, who titter asininely. What if I needed ingredients for a salad and happened also to have dry lips? What kind of reaction would I get if I put a cucumber and a tub of vaseline on the counter? For fuck's sake. 


I guess I must live the reclusive life of a total loser, and I was thinking that from now on I should use the self service checkouts so as to avoid the fatuous scrutiny of my shopping (or just to avoid any contact with other humans altogether) when I thought: No, you know what? Fuck you Stuart, fuck you his bald colleague and not forgetting the girls, FUCK you, you three, fat, soon-to-be-drunk bitches. 


I'm going downstairs to put the microwave to good use and listen to Minor Threat. It had better be a good fucking meal. Over and out.