As sadistic as it sounds it’s perversely satisfying to have
a fellow member in the ‘4am Terror Club’.
At least I know when it happens tonight, which it inevitably will,
instead of focusing on feelings of solitude and loneliness, I can spare a thought
for you 2.5 miles up the road going through the very same shite.
I was out and about in that London today. For all its misgivings I love the place; a
stroll along the South Bank, a crappy juggler of fire outside Tate Modern and a
chilly, autumnal picnic in the gardens of St Paul's Cathedral. People come from far and wide to see this
stuff. I’ve little doubt the boys are
sick of me telling them how grateful they should be that they have it on their
doorstep. When I hear myself talk like
that I feel I’m slowly turning into my father.
Better that than my mother – but there’s a whole train of thought I don’t
fancy embarking on this evening.
Whilst undertaking the unbelievably long transfer from the
Central to Northern Line at Bank today I noticed on a poster that Helena
Bonham-Carter will be playing herself a.k.a. Miss Havisham in a revamp of Great
Expectations. To be honest, the only
competition she could have had for the role was me... Let’s hope it’s an improvement on her
abortive attempt at Mrs Lovett.
I also seem to have become slightly obsessed with the outrageous
levels of sexism being bandied around in the name of Christmas
advertising. Given my earlier reference
to the Asda Christmas advert (see The ‘C’
Word – 6 November) I am equally horrified by the offerings from Tesco and J
Sainsbury’s:
Sainsbury’s show a ‘busy’ mother who, seemingly flustered,
goes to sneak a mince pie in the kitchen (maybe the sub-plot is she’s
bulimic?). She finds the box, the
excitement mounts, in fact she looks as if she might be slightly wet at this
point... BUT OH NO!! Crashing disappointment as she reveals an
empty box. Who ate all the pies? Her fat twat of a husband. Did he think of replacing them? No.
Did he think of letting her know he’d forced each and every one of them into
his mouth? No. Is he a selfish cunt? Yes.
As an act of revenge I’d buy two boxes; one for me to consume all to my
feckin’ self along with a bottle of Cognac, and half a dozen to shove into
every available orifice my husband possessed.
The Tesco offering shows a black family (oooh, get
them!). Mum is making Christmas dinner
in the kitchen on her own. She’s
sweating like a rapist – flustered doesn’t even cover it. Cut to the rest of the family ‘relaxing’ in the
living room. You can feel the heat from
the roast potatoes, the steam from the vegetables... You feel her pain, how undervalued she is by
the thoughtless feckers she shares her life with. Just when you think she’s about to grab the
carving knife and massacre the entire family, Dad arrives! Woohoo!!
He’s got Champagne or Cava (can’t remember which but it might be
significant). He passes Mum a glass with
a winning smile and all of a sudden she doesn’t want to kill him anymore.
The Suffragettes are all spinning in their graves right now.
Frankie
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