Yesterday I ventured into the wretched hive of scum and villainy that is, not, in fact Mos Eisley, but Bradford.
Here is a photo I took at the Bus Interchange.
It was wolf fleece central and I overheard the toilet cleaning dude telling someone it was his last shift before he relocated to work in Keighley, “which is much nicer”.
Fighting talk indeed.
I people-watched as I made my purchases in an array of pound shops. The phrase ‘Welcome to Royston Vasey’ sprang to mind.
Brush your teeth kids & pay attention in school. Otherwise you too will end up toothless and gaunt, sucking on a roll-up. Tits deep in weird looking offspring and shopping at the type of frozen food store that sells mushy peas in batter, while your equally unfortunate looking spouse/life-partner/lover of the week, lurches along beside you looking like he is fit for his next fix of Methadone.*
Painting a pleasant enough picture for you?
*Am describing what I saw, not myself….just thought I best clarify that.
Forget expensive moisturisers, spa treatments and aspiring to be one of the Real Housewives of wherever. Just go into Bradford on any given Saturday and look around. You will feel like a million dollars.
I found a store I’d not seen before which sold handmade soaps and bath bombs and, randomly, Ouija boards! What could go wrong with the youth of Bradford tinkering with the afterlife? Although I imagine it could be difficult to tell the undead from the living. It’s a thin line round here my friend.
In my trancelike state listening to my MP3 I accidentally wandered into the Model’s Own make-up stall in the new Broadway Shopping Centre. Before I knew what was happening, I appeared to have agreed to buy an anti-redness primer (which is lovely to be fair). The foetus in hair extensions serving me seemed completely mortified when I said I didn’t usually wear foundation – just a tinted moisturizer. I thought she was going to have me arrested by the cosmetic police.
I’d like to think she was so convinced that my flawless complexion must’ve been the result of hours of careful blending, but more likely she was thinking,“If I were you love, I’d put a bit more effort into that old mush”.
The primer was the only thing she got out of me though. I stopped her in her tracks when she started waffling about contouring. Fuck that! I’d end up looking like a 1980’s Athena poster or Skeletor or something. I’ll leave all that business to the teens. Frankly these days I’m happy if I haven’t got a muzzy or any hair growing out of my mole. After all those early years of having a spotty clock or a horrifically dry chin, I’m amazed I actually have any face left.
I survived anyway and made it home in time for tea (which was not mushy peas in batter, before you ask.)
Got a training day at work tomorrow. Think I’ll give my new Dia de los Meurtos dress an airing. Skeletons are for life, not just for Halloween you know.
Vaya con dios amigos Xx