The Capitalist Cake

Morgan Spurlock was onto something with Supersize Me, as I discover on ordering my morning coffee . . .

‘Latte, please.’

‘Would Sir like any pastries, muffins or cakes with that?’

‘Actually, Sir would. One of those gigantic Pretzels in fact. Then I’d have an object to stuff in your gob so you can’t try and foist more of your overpriced crap on me, when all I want is a fucking coffee, which should be perfectly obvious to you, since that’s what I ordered.’

Except, of course, I don’t say that – but this: ‘Ooh, go on then, give us a cinnamon Danish.’

Menu English

In the interests of boosting cholesterol, clogging arteries and knocking a further 27-minutes off my life-expectancy, I decide to eat a slab of greasy meat. By happy coincidence, this involves placing an order with a Swedish barmaid.

‘Bacon cheeseburger, please – without the barbecue sauce.’

She stares at me blankly, as if I’ve just spoken to her in Uzbekistani. Perhaps her English isn’t as good as I thought. Undeterred, I stab the menu with my forefinger.

‘This one,’ I say slowly and loudly, in a cod-Scandinavian accent.

‘Oh,’ she replies. ‘You mean you want the barbecue burger without barbecue sauce.’

I Wrote This. Honest

To put the last 72-hours to bed, I’ve – ahem – come up with this:

 I lie sprawled … spewed up like a broken spider-crab on the tarry shingle of morning. The light does me harm, but not as much as looking at things does; I resolve, having done it once, never to move my eyeballs again.

My mouth has been used as a latrine by some small creature of the night, and then as its mausoleum. During the night, too, I’ve somehow gone on a cross-country run and then been expertly beaten up by the secret police.

I feel bad.

… Weekend

Sunday 

Given that it feels like several farmyard animals have deposited the contents of their bowels in my head*, it’s probably not the best morning to go jogging.

But for some reason, I wake up with an irrepressible urge to don my white trainers and gallop around Clissold Park. This is the most idiotic urge I’ve ever had. On arriving at the park, I hobble fifteen yards and am promptly sick on the fence of a deer sanctuary.

Time for a hair of the dog, methinks.

* It’s a good job the animals didn’t deposit their vowels. Otherwise they’d be frmyrd nmls

… Lost …

Saturday 

The first thing to pass my lips today is a pint of strong continental lager. Over the next twelve hours, I supplement this with a further eight pints of strong continental lager, a fried breakfast, four glasses of champagne, tapas, three Mojitos and a cheeseburger.

‘Food soaksh up the alcoshol, yew shee,’ I inform the person who thinks I drink too much.

‘But you just fell asleep in a plate of chips.’

‘Exshactlee.’ 

The moral of this particular story is that three square meals a day are good for your health, unless you eat them all in the same pub.

The …

Friday 

Lunchtime drinking has much to recommend it, like pre-prandial catatonia. Today, it has the added benefit of throwing up an interesting philosophical discussion concerning the nature of coincidence.

During a conversation about music, I mention some of the best gigs I’ve attended over the course of the last five years. By chance, it turns out that a new colleague at work was at every single one of them.

‘That’s flabbergasting,’ I say, and then proceed to get so banjaxed that my own friends start laughing at me.

The secret wearer of jewellery thinks I drink too much. She’s probably right.

Write To Reply

An inspector is doing his rounds on the Tube. With Holmesian ingenuity, he establishes that the man sitting next to me doesn’t have a ticket. The inspector asks man for his personal details. The man burbles something in a foreign language. The inspector repeats his demands more aggressively. The man shrugs his shoulders.

The inspector, who has obviously witnessed this strategy before, refuses to be defeated. Producing a pen, he scrawls the words Do you understand English? on his notepad and hands it to the man triumphantly. The man examines the notepad and takes the pen.

Yes thanks, he writes.

It’s Me Or The Diamante

 

Following a childhood episode involving a plug-chain, I developed a deep-rooted aversion to fiddly bits of metal.

 

Since this aversion encompasses jewellery, accessorizing is problematic for the musician. Last time she donned earrings, for example, I plunged my head into my hands and screeched maniacally, as though somebody had thrown hydrochloric acid in my face. Consequently, she no longer wears them.

 

Or so I thought.

 

We’re not supposed to be seeing each other today. So imagine my surprise when I bump into her by chance – and she has two solar-systemic mobiles dangling from her lugholes.

Her treachery knows no bounds.

Eavesdropping (II): The Maternal Instinct

A woman chaperones her three daughters on the bus. I guess she’s in her thirties, while the children are about ten. They look like a happy family.

One of the girls is talking to somebody on her mobile. She appears distressed by the conversation. Evidently, mum’s unimpressed. Without warning, she snatches the phone from her daughter.

‘Listen, you skanky bitch,’ she spits down the line.  ‘I know your number … I know what you look like … I know where you live.’

‘[Inaudible response]’

‘I don’t care if you’re only 12. Bother her again and I’ll fuck you up.’

See Also: Eavesdropping (I)

Start The Week Refreshed: How To Get A Good Night’s Sleep On Sunday

• Drink 7 pints in the afternoon and pass out in front of Gladiator
• Awake with a start and loudly proclaim: ‘My name is Maximus Decimus Meridus, Commander of the Armies of the North, General of the Felix Legions, loyal servant to the true emperor, Marcus Aurelius’
• Collapse on floor
• Regain consciousness, go to toilet, and discharge 2.33 pints of lager (recurring)
• Repeat twice during night
• Panic about money between the hours of three and four
• Wake up at 6.28am
• Pointlessly remain in bed for three minutes
• Get up, raring to go