Posted in Picture, Writing

Toilet Attendants – I Will Not Pay to Take a Shit

A couple of months ago I made the rare and dangerous journey into town for a night on the piss to celebrate a friend’s birthday. Everything was going swimmingly – I was on my fourth jegermeister, there was a dance-off between two very white men in their forties on the dance floor and I had just witnessed a retard in a neon-pink lycra dress walk into a glass door. Inevitably, and despite my best attempts to dehydrate my body beyond all repair, I needed a pee.

I am very much a lone pee-er. I know girls tend to piss in packs but I prefer to just spend five solitary minutes urinating, thinking, facebooking and taking photos of myself to see if it is possible to look sexy whilst sitting on the toilet (it totally is) – so off I went in search of some water closetry. Giddy at the thought of the impending relief, I found the toilets, headed through the door and…..there she fucking was – a fucking toilet attendant. FUCK’S SAKE!!!

I have a history of problems with toilet attendants, most of which are a direct result of a mystery birth defect that has left me with the inability to burp.  Because I can’t burp and yet continue to drink shots and fizzy booze when I’m out, I will usually throw up at least once on a night out.  It’s not a gross food spew, it is more just me simply un-drinking what I just drank because there is no room in my stomach for any more air.  Having dealt with this ridiculous disability since the age of 15, I have become a seasoned pro and my drink spews are usually very simple exercises that pass with such speed, I have actually spewed up a complete ice-cube before.  Combine this with the fact that I tend to fart when I spew (N.B. Billy Connelly does this too, so it’s okay) and things begin to get a bit awkward.  One of my first dates with Billy, for example, ended with me throwing up in his parent’s back garden.  He tried to be nice by rubbing my back but as soon as I started ripping one out, he retired rapidly to the back door where he proceeded to point and laugh.  I was MORTIFIED.  I had absolutely no control over any of my bodily functions and my new boyfriend was just standing there witnessing all this.  So, as you can imagine, the last thing I want when I get to a toilet is some bint listening in to all that pandemonium.

On this occasion, however, it was purely a pee visit and I entered the toilets to find the attendant leaning against the sink, chewing gum and looking me up and down whilst humming that charming Khia classic “My neck, my back, lick my p***y and my crack”. There was no one else there, just me and her, so I stood there for a moment getting awkwardly hummed at before disappearing into the nearest cubicle. Turns out the nearest cubicle had no toilet roll and a bit of spew on the seat so I had to come back out and try the next one. Was she wondering why I changed cubicles? Does she think I’m a snob because I’m not prepared to sit on spew? Does she think I’m annoyed that there is no toilet paper? Is toilet paper replenishment even her responsibility? If not, why not? It probably should be, she does sit in there all night after all…..

And just like that, my relaxing piss-time was ruined.

The silence in the room was deafening so I perched myself on the edge of the seat and tried to keep the noise to a minimum. See, girls don’t like people listening when they make pee pee or poopy – as opposed to guys who don’t seem to mind at all (something I discovered to my horror when I was having ‘relations’ in the cubicle of the men’s toilets in a Torry pub. Nothing like an alcoholic taking a shit to put you off your stride). I then began searching for some money, only to realise that I had left my purse on the table. Fuck. I have to figure out a way to wash my hands, dry them, sort out my eyeliner (which at this point in the evening is inevitably half-way down my face) and fix my hair without accidentally making eye-contact with her or brushing against any of the myriad of products she had taking up the sink space.  Bear in mind that I am pretty drunk at this point so this is literally blowing my mind.

Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, in comes The Banterless Brigade – a generic group of about five girls who, I imagine, are in the same Media Studies class at the University of UggBoot, who get moist over pictures of floral scarves, are a bit too posh to give blow-jobs and spend 48 hours a week in the make-up section of Debenhams.  The story one of them is telling promises to be the funniest story ever told by a human.  It’s not.  It’s about an Ann Summers party and a bottle of Lambrini.  Or something.  At least their inane screeching is drowning out the sound of my colossal piss.

I decided to exit the safety of my cubicle to see if these girls could handle the awkward toilet-attendant-moment better than I could.  Two of them completely ignored her and made weird sex-face pouts at themselves in the mirror whilst the rest of them tried way too hard to look as if they cared by asking the attendant cringey questions like “So how did you get into this line of work?” and “Do you enjoy it?” etc.  She responded by saying that her five children are starving to death in the basement flat of a tenement building in Logie so she really had no choice but to start up her own ‘business’.  Since when did poaching all the free perfume samples from Boots and hanging around in the shitter of Revolution constitute running a business?  Her response did not generate much sympathy from these girls, with one of them saying something along the lines of “Yeah, that’s a sad story.  Here’s 50p, now straighten my fringe with your fake ghds.”

And that is why I don’t like toilet attendants.  First of all, they deny me the right to fart-spew in peace and then charge me for the privilege and secondly, they are put in a position where utter bastards can treat them like shit and get away with it.  It’s demeaning and I don’t think anyone should spend their Saturday night sitting in a toilet being spoken to like that, whether they are doing it willingly or not.  I don’t believe for a minute that Cheryl Cole punched a toilet attendant because she was black, she punched her because she wanted to take a massive shit for free and I don’t blame her.  In fact, I’m taking this to Parliament – fuck the Alternative Vote, I want a referendum to ban the poop-perving bastards.

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Posted in Picture, Writing

The Mystery of the Forest-Dwelling Loaf(er)

Last week Billy and I went to the Tyrebagger Sculpture Forest to take the dog for a walk.  It was misty, rainy and the car park was empty so we knew we had the whole forest to ourselves.  About half way into the walk and, by now, pretty deep into the forest, we stumbled upon the single most random thing I have ever seen in my entire life:

A single loafer sitting next to a turd on a rock.

So what happened here exactly?  Let’s reason this out.

Okay, we can see that the turd is on top of a rock, quite a distance off the ground and surrounded by plenty of foliage.  This leads me to believe that it was not laid by a dog.  In fact, out of everywhere in the entire forest, this rock would be the most awkward place for a dog to lay a cable.  Using my awesome powers of deduction, I am therefore going to assume that this bum-cigar came from a human.

Did Scott Disick pinch one off in the Tyrebagger Sculpture Forest?

Now for the shoe.  Because both the loafer and the brown-trout are visibly fresh I am going to deduce that they belong to the same, clearly fucked-up person.  The type of shoe suggests that this person is either male, or a lesbian.  For the sake of argument, and because I’m hesitant to offend lesbians for fear of being raped by one, let’s presume it is a man.  We know for sure that this man is an arsehole because only arseholes wear leather loafers.  It is also possible that he owns a yacht, has a vast collection of pastel sweaters and uses mental abuse to ensure that his wife never develops a mind of her own.  So what about the purpose of the shoe?  What the hell happened that justified the abandonment of just one of his shoes?  Did he use it to wipe his arse?  What kind of maniac wipes his arse with a loafer? 

Finally, let’s examine the crime-scene itself.  If you were in a forest, bursting for a jobby, you would find the most secluded place possible, wouldn’t you?  Behind a bush maybe, or in a ditch perhaps.  Not this guy.  This sick bastard wants people to see his meaty gorilla-finger.  I would even go so far as to say that it is reminiscent of a sacrificial offering – placed at the altar of some sort of shitty-shoe God.  

The evidence proves almost conclusively that this can only be the work of a demented lunatic whose mother made him eat shoes whenever he shat himself as a child.  However, there is an alternative explanation that can’t be ruled out just yet.  Tyrebagger is a sculpture forest, right?  There are sculptures in it.  Is it possible that Tracey Emin scurried into the forest in the dead of night, in her little lesbian loafers and released a chocolate hostage in the name of art?  If this is the case then it’s about fucking time.  I went to the Tate Modern once and her ‘art’ was so terrible I actually vomited into my own eyes.

But this?  This could work.

Posted in Picture, Writing

The Royal Wedding – I Am All Up in Dis Bitch

In less than two weeks time I will be in London, hopefully drunk, possibly pissing behind some foliage and definitely watching Prince William and Kate Middleton getting married on a big screen – because, my friends, I am going to Camp Royale in Clapham Common. For three magnificent days, this park will be turned into a campsite with the sole purpose of Royal Wedding perving. You are provided with a free cup of Yorkshire Tea every morning, hot showers, “attractive fencing”, phone charging points and 24 hour security against those stabby London-types you hear about in the news. It’s like T in the Park for losers and I, for one, cannot wait for the utter restrained madness.

I love the Royal Family. As a Scottish person this may seem like a bit of a controversial statement but I shit all over that controversy. I am also one to sell out my patriotic ideals for free tea and a toilet that doesn’t have used sanitary towels stuck precariously to the ceiling causing my bowels to retreat into my throat and stay there trembling in fear for the whole bloody weekend (yes V Festival ’99, I am talking to you – not cool).  I also doubt that I will witness a drunk, generic teenage girl taking a dump up against a wall whilst clinging desperately to a glass of champagne, or a young gentleman falling on someone’s tent, breaking it, spewing on it, standing up, pissing on it, falling back onto it and instantly going to sleep in his own lumpy juices (to be fair, those last two examples were from T in the Park ’07 so all in all, pretty impressed with the high standard of behaviour).

Probably the main reason I love the Royal Family is because they are so mental they make my family look like the Waltons.  Prince Philip – my favourite by a mile – is a racist, sexist, homophobic liability who never fails to say the wrong thing at the right time. It’s nice to see that, no matter how much money you have, literally no one can escape that embarrassingly inappropriate grandparent. If anyone else said the things he said I would get seriously violent but when he says them I just want to give him a Werther’s Original and a pat on the head. Here are some examples of some real things that he really said:

Love you!
  • To two Aborigine tribes in Australia – “Djabugay, Yirrganydji, what’s it all about? Do you still throw spears at each other?”
  • When asked if he would like to visit The Soviet Union -“The bastards murdered half my family.”
  • To a driving instructor in Scotland – “How do you keep the natives off the booze long enough to get them through the test?”
  • To a Mr Patel at a reception for 400 British Indian businessmen at Buckingham Palace – “There’s a lot of your family in tonight.”
  • To a group of British students in China – “If you stay here much longer, you’ll all be slitty-eyed.”
  • After accepting a gift from a Kenyan woman – “You are a woman, aren’t you?”
  • To a group of deaf children standing next to a Jamaican steel drum band – “Deaf? If you are near there, no wonder you are deaf.”
  • To a 13-year-old aspiring astronaut – “Well, you’ll never fly in it, you’re too fat to be an astronaut.”
  • Talking about his daughter, Princess Anne – “If it doesn’t fart or eat hay, she isn’t interested.”

 

"I smell shit/Lady Gaga"

The Queen, on the other hand, is so devoid of personality it’s almost admirable. She spends her entire life walking around like someone just took a massive turd on her face. If it wasn’t for her amazingly coordinated old-lady outfits and exquisitely well-crafted false teeth I would probably forget she even existed. I did applaud her restraint, however, when she met Lady Gaga at the Royal Variety Show wearing that monstrosity of an outfit. She was wearing a fucking ruff!! Does she think Blackadder is a documentary and that ruffs are mandatory attire for royal engagements? Or was she trying to be clever? In which case, don’t take the piss out of the Queen, Lady Gaga – because you won’t win. If I was the Queen I would have cut her balls off and threw her in the Tower of London.

Awesome.

Prince Harry is also a favourite of mine, partly because I think he is going to be our generation’s Prince Philip and partly because I want to do him. Even so, what the hell was he thinking wearing a Nazi costume to a fancy dress party? No matter what angle you look at it, that was a bad decision. I feel a bit sorry for him though, I think he just wants to be a normal boy but he’s not allowed. I’ve seen interviews with him and he actually has banter, it’s a shame he’ll spend the rest of his life trying, and probably failing, to restrain that part of his personality.

Andrew and Edward? Or is it Edward and Andrew? I don't know, let's just call them "a pair of cunts".

Now for the other two, Edward and Andrew – I’m not going to lie, I have no idea which one is which. They both look the same, talk the same and dress the same, however one is fairly innocuous and the other one likes to hang around with paedos and has a ginger mess of an ex-wife who looks like an alcoholic shoe – Yet another example of bad judgment from this undoubtedly affected family. Everyone fucks up, I agree, but when you are a member of one of the most scrutinised families in the entire world, the sheer volume of fuck-ups they have been responsible for can only be attributed to clinical insanity. That is why I love the Royal Family – they prove to us civilians on a near daily basis that no matter if you’re well-bred and rolling in money or one of those dirty minks who puts their living-room furniture in the front garden when the sun comes out – people are all fundamentally selfish skanks incapable of controlling their urges. If the Royal Family were as ‘perfect’ as everyone wanted them to be, they would be nowhere near as fun and they wouldn’t make me feel so good about my relatively low-level dysfunction.

I want to taste her baking.

The only exception to this is Prince William. He seems to be the only one with any sense in that family. The poor guy must wake up every day, take a look at Charles, Philip, the Queen and the chemically-preserved horse’s ball-sack that took the place of his mother and wonder which disabled child he drop-kicked in a past life to deserve this. That’s why I’m so glad he’s marrying Kate Middleton. She seems pretty sane and is possibly the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. She looks like she’s good with kids and smells of daffodils.  She makes a refreshing change from all the tacky, materialistic, overdone cock-gobblers with the dead eyes and obvious self-esteem issues and proves to little girls that you don’t have to look like the month old corpse of a gypsy-prostitute-clown to be beautiful.

The other reason that I’m a fan is because, without a monarchy, I think British culture would be pretty weak. Yes Scotland has kilts and bagpipes, Ireland has Guinness and shamrocks, Wales has……..leek hats (?) and England has……..stuff, but when other countries think of Britain as a whole, I sometimes wonder what characteristics they associate with the UK. Morris dancing? Beefeaters? Tea & scones? I’m fucking zoning out here! When I think of Britain as a colour, I think of a dull medieval puddle brown. Our food is so bland that our national dish – Chicken Tikka Masala – is a rip off of Indian food and even our weather is meh. Over the centuries the Royal Family has added some much needed colour to British culture. It has provided the world with a bit of historical authority, humour, scandal, mental illness, excess, hereditary disease, war, wealth – a bit of fucking excitement! When all this Royal Wedding stuff first came about, Prince William and Kate Middleton said they didn’t want it to be a flash affair because they don’t want to rub in the fact they have loads of money in today’s ‘economic climate’. That’s really nice of them and everything but for fuck’s sake!! All I hear about nowadays is how no one has any money, the cost of living is going up, the property market is plummeting, Libya is falling apart, Japan is getting nailed by tsunamis every 5 minutes – it’s making me want to kill myself! I want something to cheer me up. I want an over the top, shiny, happy Royal Wedding. I want unicorn on a spit, baby panda slow-roasted in a swan sauce, naked virgins dancing on rugs made from polar bear. Self-indulgence is about the only thing this lot are good at, so come on, make it happen!

Admit it, our Royal Family kicks ass. It is one of the most celebrated institutions in the world – everyone knows about the British Royal Family but not a lot of people know that Morocco or even Spain has a monarchy. They’ve been through (and achieved) a lot since their establishment and without them all we’d have to show for ourselves would be old men with bad teeth dancing with sticks in a beige puddle eating stolen curry. We should be glad that the Windsor’s and their ancestors are here to take the focus off all the shit things we have to offer the world – and before anyone gets all up in my grill about the fabulous, ground-breaking inventions that Britain has given the world, you only need to watch an episode of Dragon’s Den to see that that ship has sailed. Reggae Reggae Sauce is the best thing we’ve come up with since penicillin and it tastes like baboon gouch.

Yeah I did. Ebay, £12.99, free delivery.
Posted in Picture, Writing

The Royal Wedding Recovery Position

I’m not entirely convinced that many people are interested in how my weekend at the Royal Wedding went but, because I don’t really give a shit, I will be providing an in-depth analysis of my short time in the big city anyway. It is a moderately-paced story filled with crime, bad language, sexual deviance, alcohol, drugs and adult baby-grows. It begins on a Thursday….

Thursday 28th April

I arrived at Lisa’s flat in Putney after the epic journey from Luton airport. The Royal Wedding wank-fest is tomorrow and we had no supplies therefore the first stop was ASDA for chairs and booze. After purchasing the essentials we decided we couldn’t be arsed to get the train home and so managed to find what was possibly the dodgiest taxi company in the entire kingdom.

We entered the taxi office and found ourselves in a tiny, nicotine-stained room lit by a bare light-bulb. Sitting in the corner at a table behind a cage was a man who clearly hated life. He eventually asked us what we wanted and seemed surprised when I said: ‘a taxi’. He pressed a buzzer and a short Nigerian man appeared through the door of a room which smelled a little bit like human sex trafficking. He looked like he had just woken up (next to a bruised, naked eastern-european teenager) but whatever, the train station was at least a five minute walk away and I had mega-sore tootsies, so into his car we got.

He didn’t have a meter – an excellent sign – but we learned our bartering skills from a Tunisian ninja so he wasn’t gonna come out of this taxi-ride a winner. When we finally pulled up outside the flat, we got ourselves in a bit of a state trying to get out of the car with all our bags. Normally, Billy and Dan would have a field day with this, likening us to a pair of disabled people or the fat slags from Viz magazine before high-fiving each other, but typically – when they weren’t fucking there to witness it – our snail pace paid off. Half way through her journey across the back seat, Lisa found a bag of weed lodged between the cushions – which she swiftly jammed into her pocket. We paid the guy and did a run for it before taking it out in the lift for a good look. It STANK, honestly, it was proper good quality shit bro! Then we remembered that I work offshore and Lisa doesn’t smoke pot so………..yeah…….the end. Maybe we will keep it for guests or use it as a trophy to demonstrate how gangsta we are.

Friday 29th April

Me with my Will & Kate nails. A sentence that is in no way uncool.

Ooh, the big day. We decided against camping in the end because the garden party turned out to be free so we reasoned that there was no point paying £150 to get covered in someone else’s shit and spew when we can just as easily do that at home (which we did). We set up shop in Clapham Common near the big screens and I casually headed to the beer-tent. Because I am technically on holiday and today was classed as a day of celebration, it completely slipped my mind that it was 10am, so I was pretty embarrassed when I asked the barman for a pint of cider and he told me that it was too early to legally sell alcohol. Why the fuck are you open then? Just to make me look like some sort of desperate alcoholic? I’m on holiday you know! It’s okay to have beer for breakfast on holiday. I hate you. “Can I have a cup of tea then?”

 

You could have had a piece of this for free Vogue Magazine, but you chose to throw it in my face. Your magazine's shit anyway.

 

On returning to my seat Lisa informed me that the group of girls which had now congregated near our area were in fact from Vogue Magazine and were interviewing/taking photos of people who they believed looked “cutting-edge” enough to feature in their magazine. Now, obviously all I had to do was get in their eyeshot and the rest would take care of itself. Not true. Apparently dressing like a human being is not good enough for Vogue and yet it seems that if I looked like a special needs retard who had dressed themselves in the dark, I would have got a two-page spread. The girl they chose was wearing denim dungaree shorts, goggles and socks with sandals. She also had very untidy hair and a face that only Matthew Broderick could love.

After the wedding started, however, all was forgotten. It was cheesy, over-dramatic, occasionally tacky but mostly eye-meltingly beautiful with an abundance of crazy traditions that I didn’t even know this country had. The park was totally silent for almost the whole ceremony (although there were intermittent periods of unanimous laughter whenever Prince Philip or Prince Harry’s faces appeared on the big screens). The hats did not let me down either, they were completely ridiculous. Victoria Beckham looked like she had woken up in a navy tent with a wine gum stuck to her face and Princess Beatrice should have been snipered by roof-top security instantly upon stepping out of the car for choosing to wear a uterus on her face. She looked like such a dick-head, her own father couldn’t even make eye-contact with her. But, out of all these hats trying to make all these ‘artistic’ statements- disguising themselves as flowers or birds etc- my favourite of them all had to be the Queen’s hat. If the Queen’s hat could talk it would say “I am a hat”. It was the most hattiest of hats that I’ve ever seen. If you asked a hat to draw a picture of a hat, it would draw the Queen’s hat. Beautiful. It was a wonderful day but after the tonguing on the balcony and the fly-over (and exhausting all attempts at getting Vogue to take my god-damn picture) we decided to head home.

© MTV

 

We were still a bit steamboats from the wedding and so decided to get changed and hit Putney with a couple of Lisa’s friends. I had about five jegermeisters and started a drunken conversation with a guy who, with hindsight, was probably a lot more sober than I was. I was trying to be friendly by asking him what he did for a living, to which he replied “Oil & Gas *sigh* rocks and stuff” in a pretentious ‘far-too-complicated-for-you-to-understand’ kind of way. I took great pleasure in telling him that coincidently that was exactly what I did too. He wasn’t as excited about this coincidence as I was and told me rather rudely that he didn’t want to speak about work. This pissed me off so I called him a cunt. Neither he, nor his friends, were very impressed with my choice of vocabulary and promptly excused themselves from our company. That is pretty much the last thing I remember………..that and trying to belly-dance in a Lebanese takeaway.

Saturday 30th April

Hungover. Sweaty. Mess.

Today I did not leave the couch, did not get dressed and did not eat anything that wasn’t delivered directly to my door by someone foreign. Lisa and I spent the day in the recovery position watching the whole wedding again from start to finish followed by four back-to-back royal family documentaries. It was a good day.

Well, it was a good day apart from the horrendous flashbacks of my very un-ladylike behaviour in the club the night before. See, I love the ‘C’ word and use it frequently in the company of my friends and family but only ever in a light-hearted, jovial context. I do not like the ‘C’ word if it is used in an aggressive manner (unless it’s in an Irish accent). Last night, I used it in an aggressive manner and although that guy was a patronising bell-end who thought he was some sort of corporate hero, he did not deserve to be called a cunt. I should have called him a fat cunt – far more amusing. So kids, if you’re going to say it, say it with a smile on your face and no one can accuse you of being offensive.

Sunday 1st May

Lisa’s boyfriend Dan arrived home from Australia at 5am today and surprisingly turned down the offer to come shopping with us for six hours in Camden Market. Last time I checked, jet-lagged shopping trips with the Dingwall sisters was a highly sought after commodity, but exhaustion must have been clouding his judgment.

When we got there we discovered, slightly predictably, that Razorlight were playing on the street so we had some nice (if a little cliché) live music as the soundtrack to our market experience. We bought many a garment, all clearly created by an array of nimble-fingered slave children, including a ‘onesie’ for Dan. He didn’t ask for an adult baby-grow but we decided that he very much needed one.

There were a few homeless people scattered around too, and it was nice to see that they were using talent to fund their drug habits. They were selling their own paintings, playing guitar or letting people pet their very well-behaved dogs. It made a refreshing change from Aberdonian homeless people who just hang around the Castlegate drunkenly shouting at unsuspecting shoppers whilst masturbating with discarded rubbish.

After I ran out of money we called it a day and organised to meet Dan for dinner in Putney before going to Blockbuster to buy a DVD to watch that night. Dan wanted to watch ‘Machete’ – a Tarantino spin-off about a Mexican revolutionary. We wanted to watch ‘William & Kate – The Movie’. We were always going to win. From what I can remember it was one of the worst films I’ve ever seen, but I couldn’t really hear most of it over the sound of Dan trying to saw through his wrists.

I think I fell asleep around 9.30pm. What a gay.

Monday 2nd May

Sightseeing day, yay! After getting my medieval boner on at the Museum of London, the three of us decided to see what all the fuss was about outside Westminster Abbey. Turns out it was the hour-long, blue-rinsed queue to pay £16 to get into the Royal Wedding venue…………sounded like a bargain to me!

Now, there are three things in life that I try my hardest to avoid at all times: Roman ruins (boring), religious establishments (creepy) and people with AIDS (risky). Westminster Abbey is a heavyweight in terms of religious establishments so it was unusual to find me in there, however it is amazing how a society wedding can block out all evidence of a haemorrhaging Jesus. I don’t think I even thought about him once the whole time I was in there. Now if all churches were like that, I think more people would go.

The stolen flower.

I was surprised to find that nothing had been moved since the wedding. The chairs were still in the exact same places, the trees were there, all the flower arrangements and even her bouquet was still sitting on a cushion on the grave where she left it. It was kind of weird. You were strictly not allowed to take any photos so I took about six and stole a flower from one of the arrangements near the front door. Yeah, pretty rebellious.

Once we were satisfied that we had destroyed any dignity left in that place, we headed to Soho for some dinner to celebrate my last night. With all this time whoring around London, I had expected to see some sort of celebrity creature and although Soho is usually crawling with them, the best I got as I walked out of the tube station was Jenni fucking Falconer. What a let down. I barely know who she is, but I made sure she was down-wind of my 48-hour hangover fart as punishment for not being famous enough. Think about that the next time you watch her present the Lottery. Think about that.

So there we have it. In the short time I was in London I managed to watch the wedding, get drunk, offend a fat guy, spend an entire day beneath a duvet, shop, go to a museum, go to an Abbey, steal foliage and fart on a celebrity. Pretty productive, I think you’ll agree. I spent my final day trying to get from Putney to Luton airport using every form of transport known to man before joining the freak-show that is an Easyjet check-in queue. There’s nothing I love more than an airport WH Smith’s so I ended my little holiday by spending the dregs of my money on the OK! Magazine Royal Wedding Souvenir Issue and a family sized packet of hula-hoops. A very satisfying end to an offensively self-indulgent weekend.

Bye! Have a beautiful time!