bad taste

After Christmas my stomach felt (or so I imagine) like Homer Simpson’s in that episode wherein he repeatedly has a cannonball fired into it. Wrecked, basically. So not much was capable of amusing me; although one day, seeing a huge Iceland lorry bearing down upon me in the street, I was mildly tickled by the thought of being squashed by a vehicle bearing, as this one did, the slogan: ‘Because Life’s Too Short’.

Of course I’m forty now so I know that. Can feel myself hurtling madly through time even as I sit in my armchair. My party is still to come. Foolishly, I decided to do the music myself, despite knowing a perfectly good DJ. I had the idea of compiling an MP3 which would play all night on random, catapulting hapless dancers from Tina Charles to My Bloody Valentine to Vanilla Ice. It would be the only party anybody’s ever been to where anyone who throws up afterwards will legitimately be able to blame the music rather than the twelve pints they consumed. However, that idea hasn't quite worked out, so (if you're reading this you're probably invited) feel free to make - or just bring - your own compilation CD’s. Or suffer mine.

Talking of nauseating music, I recently caught a glimpse of a headline in one of the tabloids: ‘Shayne Ward: I Love My Rapist Father’. Is that a direct quote? “Oh yes, I love my rapist father! He’s such an impulsive, hands-on kinda guy!”

Do I know how to party?

In a couple of days I’ll be forty. The age when they say life begins. Which might well be true, but is it necessarily a good thing? I’ve not made things any easier for myself by deciding, for the first time in my life, to have a party. I have to fill a hall with people I know. I can’t help feeling I should have gone for something more practical - like a very small room. Already I’m stuffing invitations into the carrier bags of our more presentable customers. And replying (invitation attached) to spam e-mails. Hotmail member services seem a friendly enough bunch, but McAfee definitely won’t come until I renew my trial subscription. Which isn’t likely to happen anytime soon.

Failing that, maybe I could get an up-and-coming artist to fill space with some kind of installation. Or invite a lot of broad-shouldered people.

If all else fails and nobody turns up, I’ll have to make that a feature. Play grim industrial ambient music (I’ve no shortage of that) and force everyone to stand at least ten feet apart to exacerbate the atmosphere of isolation and dread. When the tension finally cracks in some kind of mad outburst of hysterical activity, the result will be surprisingly similar to a really good time. Won’t it?

dregs factor

Somehow I ended up watching X Factor. It was incredible. The audience were so hyped-up they would have cheered a turnip if one had been dropped onto the stage - although to be fair, Shayne isn’t that bad. To get the contestants used to the celebrity lifestyle, they took them to the premiere of King Kong. It was an appropriate choice, given that most of them were so intoxicated by this taste of stardom, you could see how - given the real thing - they’d immediately turn into monsters. In fact, Brenda the soul diva was there already. During her performance of Respect, she grabbed one young male audience member by the shirtfront to illustrate the song’s demands (his confused reaction - was he being assaulted? should he fight back? - was something to see). Some people were surprised when she was voted off. If you ask me, they stopped her just in time, before tranquilliser darts were called for.

Finally the show seems less about voting for the best performance than voting for the one most ‘desperate’ (a word they’re happy to use) for fame. ‘Vote for me’, they mouth at the camera, or openly plead (perhaps David Cameron should try this). If Shayne didn’t actually change the lyrics of Unchained Melody to ‘God speed your votes to me’, then the implication was still very clear. The big problem with this show, of course, is the songs: they should force them to perform challenging stuff, not play to their supposed strengths. I’m sure Shayne could turn even Fuck Tha Police into a smoochy love ballad (to himself); it would certainly be fun to see him try.

one reason why you don't see me on the shop floor

At work of course it’s busy. And not, of course, as busy as last year, or the year before that. I’d prefer it if it just stopped dead, instead of this slow decline. Stop teasing the retail trade, shoppers. Make up your minds and stay away. Then we can all go home.

In a futile bid to reverse the trend, Ottakars have introduced ‘the sash’. It says ‘Can I Help You?’, and you’re meant to wear it with pride, like you’ve just been voted Miss Ottakars. Reaction from staff has been decidedly mixed. On the intranet discussion boards there were two schools of thought: one that ‘the sash’ was a ghastly symbol of corporate oppression, and the other (from more career-minded - or naturally flamboyant - contributors) that it was ‘fun’. Naturally I was more inclined to sympathize with the first argument, especially as our assistant manager, in a spirit of hysteria (or ‘fun’, if you prefer) decided to supplement it with a gold tinsel crown. Clearly they have stumbled across a formula at Head Office dictating that the more stupid staff are made to look, the more sales improve. Next year we’ll all have to come in wearing fluorescent fake fur bikinis and fishnet tights. And that’s a look I prefer to confine to evening wear.

For the record, I wore ‘the sash’ (so far, the shop has only one) for five minutes before it unaccountably wriggled free of my body and slumped to the floor like the cast-off skin of a snake. Frankly, it made me feel bad about myself. As for the crown, I just don’t feel I deserve it.