I HAD a furious agreement with someone this week, and it got so out of hand, she crashed into a hedge.
We both agreed that Meghan Markle is an unhinged monster, but we couldn’t agree on just how awful she is.
Meghan caused anger by seeming to make light of having to curtsy to the Queen
An argument inspired by Meghan Markle led to a pal crashing into a hedge
We were dreaming up better and stronger insults, none of which can be published here, even though they’re all perfectly fair.
Until eventually, my friend became so lost in the insult thesaurus, she lost concentration and hit the hedge.
Christmas shopping is practically impossible
NO ONE enjoys Christmas shopping. And I disenjoy it more than most as I have six kids to buy for, as well as 17 godchildren and lots of people at the farm.
Every year, I vow that I will start the process in good time.
So I sit down in about September with a pen and paper, hoping to write a list of all the things that I’ll buy.
And my mind always goes blank. I literally can’t think of anything at all.
I know you can’t buy a girl something that has a plug. I have no idea why this is. I just know it to be so.
And I know that boys all want video games. But I also know that buying the wrong video game is worse than not buying anything at all.
It’s like when my mum bought me a pair of Wrangler jeans instead of the Levi’s I craved. To her they were all just “jeans”.
And then my uncle, who knew I liked books, bought me one called “Christian Art”.
To go with a present from my grandad, who acknowledged my interest in prog rock by buying me an LP of African tribal music.
Keen to avoid mistakes like this, I turned to Amazon for inspiration, but that never works because pretty soon I’m looking at generators.
And then I’m fishing around for my spectacles so that I can read the faded little number on the back of my credit card and then I order a rather funky looking number with camo paint.
I was upset to receive Wrangler jeans as a kid instead of Levi’s
So that’s my Christmas present to myself sorted out. But for everyone else, I had to go out to do actual shopping.
Have you tried that recently? It’s impossible. In one shop I visited this week, they wanted my passport and my driving licence before I could buy anything. It had something to do with money laundering, apparently.
In the next shop, there was all sorts of jewellery. There was even a silver dildo.
But I didn’t think that would be an appropriate present from a godfather. Especially to a boy.
So I selected a bit of gold rope which, like everything else in all jewellery shops, had no price tag.
When I found out how much it was, after it had already been wrapped, I went into a dead faint and had to be brought round with wine. I then made my excuses and ran.
And ended up in a funky looking shop where there was a gimmicky looking watch in the window, festooned with all sorts of baubles and nonsense.
As it had a plastic strap, I figured it’d be reasonable, so I asked the shop girl how much. “325”, she replied.
That seemed steep, right up to the moment when she gave me the credit card machine. Which read “£325,000”. For a bloody watch!!!
Going out to do Christmas shopping is practically impossible
So far then, I’d bought nothing. Except a generator.
I tried to buy some cufflinks at one point, but after the suspiciously neat and tidy man had spent 30 minutes in a back room gift-wrapping them for me, I got bored and left.
And ended up in a shop where they wanted my email address and phone number, and the purchasing process took so long, I fled, bumped into a friend and decided to go to the pub.
I can’t remember what happened after that. But I definitely didn’t buy anything. Or if I did, I must have left it in a cab.
Today then, I’m faced with going out there again, poring over stuff that’s uninteresting and overpriced.
And then having to hand over all my personal details before I’m allowed to buy it.
Can you imagine if petrol stations did this, a full background check on you every time you filled up.
It’d be quicker to have an electric car and wait around for two hours as it charged.
I realise, of course, that some people like shopping. They like to linger and peruse. I believe they’re called “women”.
I, on the other hand, am a “man” so I like everything to be done as quickly as possible.
I use a barber in London, not because he’s good but because I’m in and out of there in less than five minutes.
And I want the same in a shop. I want price tags on display in bold type.
And I want to swipe what I’ve bought over a screen, touch my card on a machine and be back in the car ten seconds later.
Which is why, this year, everyone is getting pasta, tins of tomato soup and razor blades. From my local Co-op.
How much Maur does she want?
Maura Higgins’ tantrum was a fascinating insight to what goes on behind the scenes
LIKE everyone else, I was completely unstunned to read about Maura Higgins’ tantrum at some kind of fashion event this week.
I’ve always never been interested in this kind of nonsense.
Apparently, the dress she’d been given – for free – wasn’t to her liking, so she went home.
Where hopefully her mum and dad gave her a smacked bottom and told her to stop being so spoilt.
No, I’m not Piers
Being mistaken for Piers Morgan is no laughing matter
I WAS stopped in the street this week by a Qatari gentleman who thanked me profusely for the speech I’d made defending his country and its right to hold the World Cup.
Naturally, I was very flattered but as he went on and on about how kind I’d been, I was racking my brains and couldn’t remember ever having made a speech about Qatar or the World Cup or what I thought about either.
And then, suddenly, it dawned on me.
He’d mistaken me for Piers Morgan.
The poor man’s probably at home now wondering why, as he showered me with praise, I started to try to cut my own head off.
