SHITTY LIVING VOL 2: REMEMBER ME? MMM?

That last entry ranks as a runner up as one of the most horrifying things to happen to me in a single week. This is so high up at number one, it'd qualify as a legitimate Kanye West lyric.

So town is full of tossers, but that's a veritable given these days. Though Nottingham does seem to have more than a plentiful supply of first-class shite peddling miscreants (bested only by Mansfield), some of which are more interesting than others.

Today as I mooched around, having visited all two shops worth going in, I'm confronted with one of the most incredible displays of disregard for one's ability to choose whether or not to laugh uncontrollably, that I have ever witnessed. I almost stopped completely mid-mooch, time slowed to a near enough standstill and everything around the object blurred into anonymity, a bit like in films where bullets and bits of exploding brick are flying around in the background. I became panicked, much in the way you would if you saw an old lady being attacked, or if a bear tore your face off (Something that'd turn Werner Herzog on). What was this strange creature? Why was it allowed to walk down the street attached to some poor girls head? Worry is quickly replaced by confusion and anger as it dawns on me what I'm looking at. Fake Dreadlocks.

Now we're not talking a small amount of fake dreadlocks here folks, we're talking an amount quantifiable only in Biffa binfuls of the shit. Precariously attached to some otherwise normal looking girl's no doubt stinking head. Her boyfriend walking alongside her has a strange look in his eye. The look explained his predicament in an instant as he glared back at me, silently stating "I know, man. I know". She pranced nearer and nearer with that teenage defiance looking all "so what? you can all judge me, at least I'm DIFFERENT", in reaction to the fact that not a single person at her school had ever expressed any interest in having sex with her (probably). So she totally got back at the world by piling a fuck-load of SYNTHETIC dreads on her head.

I chuckle to myself and continue walking. "CHRIS?....CHRIS?". Hmm is someone shouting me? Can't see anybody I know around he....Oh my fucking god it was her. I was being beckoned by the dreadlocked shame factory, and not on some cruel-fated whim, it would appear she knows me. Again time slows and I swivel on my feet to greet the

"How are you chris? Its been ages"

"Heh, yeah, ages I'm okay. How are you?" (and how the fuck do I know you please?)

"Yeah good thanks. What have you been up to?"

You get the picture. The whole time her (still don't know who she is) boyfriend stood looking awkward and avoiding eye contact. Bless the poor sod, I bet he feels like he's trapped in a perpetual nightmare. A powerful inner battle of helpless justification for the mess on his girlfriends head. I feel for the guy.

I made my excuses and scuttled off. Just with my last offering, there's no real moral to this story, except probably just don't associate yourself with people that might turn out to be really embarrassing, if they aren't already...

PIMPING AIN'T EASY WHEN YR A PIECE OF SHIT

For fucks sake. Here it comes, a shining tube of white shit representing almost everything wrong with the world today. Toward me it slithers, a potent metaphor of unsubtle Americanisation in its shoddy craftsmanship and sickening exuberance. A fucking limousine.
I’ve arrived at the junction without enough time to cross, its too late, I’ll have to stand here and look at it a bit longer. Shit. The window’s down and I’m exposed to the tacky LED lit strip-joint décor. Even worse, its full of screaming 15 year old girls.

“WOOOOOOOOOOO” exclaims a wailing gobshite from within, a girl that The Sun would refer to unashamedly as a ‘reveller’. I’m cringing; I don’t need this, not least because I’ve spent the last 2 hours receiving a multi-sense shellacking courtesy of Neill Blomkamp’s alien-apartheid epic: District 9, something I’ll go into elsewhere.

“CHEER UP YA TWAT TEEHEHEEHEHHEHE”. Who’s idea was it to let an already clearly retarded 14 year old, get pissed on Appletini, and send her out into the city’s centre in an extended American joke-mobile resembling a long stiff stick of semen? Mmm?

My massive eyebrows are working overtime in expressing as much silent disgust as possible as the ‘limo’ begins to pull away. Freedom. Or it would be if I weren’t walking down one of Nottingham’s shittiest central streets. I reach the other side, greeted by a pair of aging alcoholics no doubt fresh from blazing through their dole money on pints of wank guest ale, one of which remarks, “mis’rible git, she were only sayin’ ello!”. Brilliant, not only am I being singled out by a traveller in Nottingham’s premier pimped up special needs wagon, but I’m being lambasted for not dignifying the little gimps with a warm response.

I hate city living sometimes.