Trapped between multiple varieties of human fat in the train station newsagent I had a fleeting vision of my new life as a publisher.
The woman in front of me – wider than she was tall – and smelling a bit from the heat – was eagerly scratching the inside of her purse with her pudgy fingers looking for enough coins to cough up for Scottish Bride Monthly.
(I thought it was a cake, but sure enough, on closer inspection it was a bride, m’lud)
I got to thinking – Scottish Groom Monthly! Reports from corners of the world to cheapen with weekend stag break deals. This month; Prague. Next month; Dublin. Come on, scream and shout, get the cock out, visit the local A&E and boak on foreign cobbles! Free calendar featuring twelve dockers omelettes. Special report on breath fresheners – lose the tequila reek before the vows. Our bikini health babe reports on how to get through the big day while courting a hangover without puking or fainting. New special feature on Robin Hood Shirts and shit kilts. Shag that drunk idiot in the fanny pelmet – its your last legitimate chance, big boy. The mother in law; would you? Would your best man?Has your best man done your wife – six tell tale signs.
I think it could sell. I have seen the competition on the shelves, I never miss an episode of Booze Nation, and I chuckle at the government’s idea of turning around the descent into national alcoholism by putting tuppence ha’penny on a Breezer and Bad Jelly. Like that’s all it fucking was, Gordon!
As the doorman howls in one of the emerging scenes from Human Greed’s “Dalkeith’s next top model” suite – “It’s closing time. It’s fucked. Look at the moon. Look at yourself. It’s over. Closing time. Get out. Get up of the floor. Go home”
I. Think. It. Could. Sell.