Had to work in the shop at the rugby match today. Was really pissed off. What is it with this rugby shit? I mean who really cares? Apart from the 82,000 who attended that is. Bloody feet are killing me and had to do bloody 12 till 8 pm. I mean sod this!
For some insane reason I walk home. Its actually less hassle than trying to get a bus in the high street thats full of pissed rugby fans urinating by Waterstones. Whats the point of drinking all that bloody beer?
I walk along the main road yearning for 10 smokes. But it has to be Smokes from Fatso somehow, or they would lose their significance. I haven't seen Him all day and feel he deserves
a kick up the arse.
Disappointed to see that Fatso was not in residence, the idle git. It was his Son who, I must say, was not remotely fat, in fact he was extremely svelte. This scores points against him from the start. I scowl at him for this reason, the selfish git and he, in turn, scowls back.
"Where's that fat...your Father," I ask innocently.
Son gives me a deep and significant look.
"upstairs resting. Suffering from mental and physical exhaustion"
"Oh? Had to fill up an extra shelf did he?"
(And i bet he even did that wrong)
"If you must know," he hissed, "The shop was innudated today with Movie fans and Bloggers. One even brought their bloody dog for Gods sake!"
"Oh?" I ask innocently "And how is Fa....your father now?"
"Fat... I mean Dad is in a state of delirium . Muttering things about that Bloody Woman and
He gave me my change coldly. The silence like a huge weight between us.
"And how did you do?" , I venture tentatively.
"Not bad. Tenner a photo, great demand for White Sliced and Superkings, and 3 coach parties booked for next week!"
I go back out into the street. Broken glass crunches beneath my worn cheap soles.
They'd need a bloody wide-angled lense, I tell you.