Flat move, rail cards, murderous appliances and ALY & AJ: Things of October

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If this month was an s club video...

...it would be 'Say Goodbye'.

Only featuring the band line up as it now appears - aged, weary, embittered by successive scandals - and a recently adopted Marie Kondo-fuelled intolerance of all unnecessary clutter. 

"Jo, why are there six hundred boxes of Relentless in the garage?"

"Did anyone recycle Jon by mistake?"

"For fuck's sake Tina, you've not worn your Never Had a Dream Come True shrug since 2001. BIN. NOW."

Flat move went SO well, thanks for asking!!
 


E-mail subtext of the month

Hot on the heels of last month’s seeded cod fillet, there has been further unfolding intrigue chez RW - namely, WHERE THE FUCK ARE MY FAVOURITE BLACK TRAINERS?

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Driven to distraction after turning over both shoe baskets, braving all four spider-infested corners of the living room and raking through my phone inbox for photographic evidence, all to no avail, I decided to drop my cleaners a line.

Totally chilled, you understand. Barely a hint of suspicion.

We found the cod by the way. It was in the freezer after all. 


Unsettling sentience measure of the month

The onset of Daylight Saving Time, once simply a test of Scottish farmers’ patience, now doubles as an annual barometer of human obsolescence in the home.

Nothing warms the heart quite like that dwindling collection of quaintly clueless household appliances still in need of my healing hands. Kitchen clock, shit Sony iPod-dock, oven: I'm here. You're back in the present. No need to thank me, that's what owners are for. 

But then there's the other lot. That growing squadron of white goods sliding silently and malevolently into Daylight Saving Time without a second's hesitation. They are sentient. They are self sufficient. They are most likely conspiring together while I sleep an extra hour, mortal dolt that I am.

Phones. Laptops. Virgin TV box. BOILER (?!?!). I see you. Don't make me trip the fuses.  


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 Troll of the month

Despite an inspired last minute effort from Prue Leith (gets drunk in Bhutan; spoils ending of £75m baking show), the recipient of this month's Troll Award is whichever train wanker saw fit to design and greenlight the new 26-30 rail card

A third off train prices for cash-strapped millennials? Ace! Launching six months after I turned 30? FUCK THE FUCKING LOT OF YOU.


TUUUUUUUUNE of the month

What little residual goodwill I had for Aly & AJ - originally accrued by 2007 megasingle Potential Breakup Song, largely spent following some interesting interviews on evolution - had all but dissipated over the course of their 10 year hiatus I'll admit I didn't really notice. 

But like Daphne & Celeste before them, blazing a newly credible trail for formerly derided 00s pop duos, the Michalka sisters have only gone and BLOODY SMASHED IT. It's the 80s homage feat. vampires literally no one was waiting for, but oh how we needed it. 

I mean. I MEAN. And that's before you even start on the single art

Aly and AJ, we had you so wrong. Never again will I write off a pop act on the word of a long-dead Victorian biologist. 


Number of Pret skinny pumpkin spice flat white's on-the-house'd of the month

 
 

All down to my autumnal jumper a-game? Or the unbearable pathos of a grown man ordering skinny pumpkin spice flat whites? 


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This month I was mostly having...

Prosecco, IN THE BATH

  • 1 x ostentatious flute
  • 1 x dregs from Saturday night’s binge
  • 5 x impulse-bought Lush bath products
  • 1 x bath

Life, man. Does it ever let up? Take this month: having to move flat, hold down a day job, occasionally phone my parents AND limit Deliveroo to twice a week? The burden on these gaunt, burger-deprived shoulders is all but unbearable.

Happily, I have found a soothing balm to the ague of modern life: SUNDAY NIGHT BATHTIME.

Simply spend all one's leftover Deliveroo money on a range of aggressively glittered Lush products, remember to chill a bottle of fizz, figure out how your bathroom taps work and a half hour of absurd bubbly indulgence can also be yours.

Just be careful not to get bits of bath bomb in your prosecco flute. It does not taste good. 


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