Post Christmas Oxford Circus Sales: A Review

I've just got back from a stint of post work bargain hunting. In a bit of a panic I hit Oxford Street for some 'Black Tie' related stuff. It turns out that when my office relaxed the dress code, and then refused to take me to task about my relaxed interpretation of the dress code, all my serious job clothes have turned to dust and got replaced with tight little jumpers & colourful shoes ("Okay, the sash is about two things, firstly, I'm not customer facing. Secondly - freedom").

I hit Oxford Street in a mad dash for a New Years triumph, I mean I do have a black tie, but I think I buried relatives in it. So I don't want to take that vibe into 2009, that'll be maudlin enough thank you ("Well, it wasn't exactly rape, but it was in a grey area" - shh, leave that all in '08).

First off, Topman. I got a fair old chunk of Vietnamese finery in there, including a skinny black tie and some trainers, I literally don't need. A couple of observations though, Topman only does clothing in three sizes. These are three sizes that might as well be the Hindu Caste system, 'XXS', 'S' & 'Fuck YOU, you're a disgrace'. I had a lovely chat with a camp chap who worked there and apparently he gets a week off in January as a reward. It didn't sound that bad but he had a look in his eye that broke my heart. Put all my petty bullshit into perspective, he looked liked Beirut. Although instead of massacres his horror was all those paper bits they use to stuff the shoes. A mountain of them... so senseless.

After that it was straight across the road to River Island. The main, instant visible difference between the two outlets? About a stone and a half per sales assistant. The Topman crowd have this whole 'Beautiful People' vibe but when you're in River Island a part of you is also in the Harlequin Centre, Watford. It's a bit grim. That said, I did get myself some crimson pumps. It's almost as if I can't be happy unless I look exactly like Gene Wilder in Willy Wonker (i.e. "Hi, I've just moved into the area... I'm on a certain list you may have heard of").

Then, Uniqlo, which was shut. How arrogant. No seriously, I really wanted some 'Heat Tech' clothing.

Careful what you type

I just tried to get on the blog, but typed 'introversial.blogpsot.com' by mistake.

See what you get.....here. It's literally the opposite of what we are trying to do on this blog, ie. defunct the prophecies of the Lord God Jesus Christ.

The main one

Okay,

Let's drop some of the niceties. I read something the other day, not something I'd usually pick up or read. I wasn't in a waiting room, I wasn't waiting to have an interview with the bank manager. I was trying to look down a cleavage on the underground.

Let's stop pretending that this lovely little tea party, the one where we all pretend to respect each other and know what the word 'platonic' means, is where we really want to be. We're all sweaty, perverted monsters, as Bernie Mac says in 'Bad Santa', it's Darwinian.

Anyway, I was trying to look at a bra, my commute was gruesome. I deserved it. However, it wasn't happening, I couldn't crane my head any further, it'd looked a bit improper so I had to settle by having a little read over her shoulder. It was More magazine, not my preferred read but the heading caught my eye.

'9 Ways to spice up you sex life'. This was written for women, meaning that it was 9 tips to make the experience more pleasurable for the man. I couldn't believe what I was reading...9?! I couldn't understand it. Neither could Lee, we had a sit down and thrashed out some specifics (he's also married, so I'm not sure if that closes or opens some sex doors).

All we could come up with were the three below:

1. Do it dead hard, till it hurts a bit.
2. Up the bum.

& finally:

3. Spit on it.

Real Christmas

Dickens is dead. There is no more white Christmas in London. It's just Starbucks with Christmas themed lattes, Ann Summers selling santa themed cheap lingerie and weird, weird Selfridges windows (Santa with loads of beer cans, I don't get it). So I have escaped for a real Christmas in the Mid West.

Over here in Minnesota, people genuinely want you to have a merry Christmas. They really, really do. The weather is currently hovering round -15C, so there is a real need for a hearth, hot cocoa and wrapping up warm. People carol like they mean it and it's the thought that counts.

I have been sledging, ice skating, and snowballing. We have mulled wine, nogged egg and will probably have a fairytale dinner. The radio is filled with White Christmas, people are carrying round wreaths with a smile. The saccarine could kill.

But damn it, it's real. London Christmas is all about signs on the tube saying 'Don't fall on the tracks, fuckwit' or 'Don't piss yourself, you pathetic piece of shit'. People will drink themselves to death, then crawl on an overground train back to whatever suburban shithole they came from. It will rain, your parents will criticise you for not planning your future and all you will want to do is rush back to the grey metropolis to go back to drink the New Year into oblivion. You will get gifts you hate, wince as you think of the credit card bill waiting on your doorstep then wince again at the thought of another year of drudgery.

I'll probably build a snowman, wear a big wooly jumper and sing round a piano. So fuck London.

Oxford Street at Christmas

Scene: The Somme, Christmas, 1915

Private: "Why sir, 'tis sunrise. Must be Christmas day, cor' blimey"

Sergeant: "Damn you Smithkins, I'm sick of your insolence!"

Private: "But sir, it's the 'appiest time of the year. Why right na, daaan Laaaandon taaaan, the arfs are bein' lit, the carollers are warming their vocal cords and the little street ragamuffins are 'avin a snow ball fight. All along White Chapel, you can smell the turkey, 'ear the songs and feel the good cheer that comes this time of year. And that warms me cockels, so it does, while us poor souls are 'ere, bein' shot at by fritz"

Sergeant: "I'm sorry Smithkins, you're right. It's this damned war, ye' see? I'm not a bad chap, got a girl back home, mother and father are probably worried silly for me. Nannie will have got the presents round the tree, little Johnnie will be so excited. Even Parsons, the grumpy old gamekeeper will be happy, with a port in his hand and a grouse under his arm. It's wonderful back home, this time and all, snow on the fields, the old cook's wonderful plum duff. Blast it Smithkins, Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas one and all!"

Private: "Oh sir! Merry Christmas!"

(all of a sudden several dozen German troops bound into the trench, the pair unawares as they embrace)

German soldier: "Hey! Halt! Acht! Jetzt! Jetzt!"

Sergeant: "What the....?"

(The Sergeant is cut off as the Germans open fire at point blank range. Both men are mowed down by the hail of gunfire, their insides explode into the stagnant black mud that's been their home for a year. They fall into the mud, hand in hand)

Private: "Sir (coughs blood) I think this is the end. Sir, I'm sorry I failed you."

Sergeant: "No, Smithkins, aaarrrghh, it's me who failed you. If only I'd...arrggghh...damn this war..."

Private: "I can't feel my legs, sir. It's all...it's all cold sir..."

Sergeant: "Ye gads, it hurts, maybe I can get up, maybe...."

(A German soldier sees them trying to get up)

German: Nein! Nein! (mows them down once again. Into the dirt, the excrement and the blood of a million innocent souls)

I would rather be there than on Oxford Street this week. 

"Please sir, Can I have some more?" Greedy little shit.

It's the season isn't it? No, not the season for all your warped family shit to come spewing out over the Christmas Turkey. It's meant to be about the last five minutes of a Christmas Carole (As in the movie, depending on reading speed it'd be dead difficult to judge the last 5 minutes of the Dickens - watched scrooged, it's better), Scrooge opening his window, yelling at that kid to skip away down the street to get a goose that you know'll have been a bit much for someone with a crutch.

That's right, Charity. Giving to others who are less fortunate than ourselves at the most difficult time of the year ("You know what, I could not have a turkey this year & just leave the oven on..."). I get this, I rarely give to others, in any way. It's kind of a personal 'thing' of mine to view any benevolence to others as a weakness in character (I think 'The Prince' ruined my mind). However, I know this isn't the right thing to do, I bitch & moan a lot about being skint all the time when really I spend all my money on buying Pate and silly t-shirts. Some people have it really bad, some people can't have hallumi when they want it & never saw Luche Libre at The Roundhouse.

...However, I'd like to know when exactly the art of soliciting donations for worthy causes became such a blood thirsty, militaristic endeavour. Nowadays you're walking down the street, literally minding your own business (probably for fear of being attacked/witnessing some nastiness and not doing 'the right thing' - that's right, read the fine print on The London Paper, no one saw anything) when all of a sudden, out of nowhere you are launched upon by a mad, wild eyed zealot. That's probably not right, the first thing that hits you is an odd smell, I've figured out what it is. It's the smell of recently removed greasepaint. That's right, they're all drama students who, after many a 'we're really looking for an actor with more range" has decided that those bills aren't going to pay themselves. It's not the end of the world though, maybe one of your victims will be Kenneth Branagh, although he will still probably think you're a twat.

It's just so personal and invasive. I reckon the psychology behind it is similar to that of the crusades, mixed with an acute telesales style logic. Imagine back in the day, a group of Muslim lads, chilling out, playing Hac-e-sac, when all of a sudden over the hill bounds a legion of soldiers powered by their unearthly rightness. My ex used to do it, she had some pretty convincing arguments in favour, ones I couldn't really argue back to. But, to someone who struggles to fill 5 minutes with my nearest & dearest it's a real trial. Especially with the mixture of extreme elation & aggression ("So you want to be my best friend or you'll kick me directly in the face?").

Finally, I've put together some excellent avoidance techniques for minimising the conversations with these types:

• "Scope you say? No thank you, one of them killed my Grandad"
• "Battered women want my help? I doubt it, I tend to contribute to the problem (universal sign for 'drinky drinky'")
• "Yes, you can have £2 a month, all you have to do in return is tell me the most horrific, disgusting secret you have"
• "Yes, I could spare the money, that's my business, I haven't once commented on your weird skin thing"

CX

Sketchbook

"It's bigger than hip hop"