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!”