Shop of Fools.

Even though I am President of Polite Club, a very civil organisation with only one member, I find it incredibly difficult to keep politeness while under pressure. Admittedly, it doesn't even have to take much pressure to make me snap. 10 seconds ago I shouted cunt at my laptop because an email looked a bit funny. That's not the work of a man in charge of overseeing Britain's, no, THE WORLD'S biggest club for people who believe in the constant use of good manners (membership: still just one). Of course, Polite Club isn't really about showing good manners, it's about standing up against bad manners. But there are times, dear reader, so many times when I think to myself "Are bad manners really that bad, dickface?" Surely there is something far worse than bad manners. By that I mean over-friendliness. Creepy, unnecessary, ice-cold friendliness.

Most of my living nightmares happen in Lewisham Shopping Centre. It is pretty much my Hellmouth but at least it has a Holland & Barratt. Try to get fucking vegan food in Hades, mate, that's all I'm saying. I walked through the God awful shopping centre on Saturday and decided, like an idiot, to buy something. It was a sort of a jumper thing. Yeah, that's the best way to describe it. It was stripey, you know, the way I like things. I saw it in the window of Next and actually thought it wouldn't be a horrible, uncomfortably stressful thing to just go in and buy it. What a fucking idiot. I should be shot dead for thinking of thinking that never mind actually thinking that.

I picked out the jumper from the rack, had another look at it and took it to Happy Hitler, the man who worked behind the counter. Happy Hitler just takes his big, bastard smile and shoves it down your throat. YAY! Happy Hitler's smile says. IT'S SATURDAY AFTERNOON, IT'S RAINING OUTSIDE AND I WORK IN NEXT IN LEWISHAM SHOPPING CENTRE! ISN'T EVERYTHING JUST FUCKING BRILLIANT. WHOOOOOO!!!!

I would gladly have knocked every one of Happy Hitler's teeth out one by one with the butt of a revolver when he smiled at me. It was too big, overbearing and icky. No man should be that happy no matter what the occassion. I am buying a jumper in his shop and he is high on fucking life. If he ever won the lottery he would just spontaneously combust. (Note to self: always buy Happy Hitler a lottery ticket) After I reluctantly gave my pathetic and scared half-smile back he jumped at the opportunity to talk. He took me recognising him as a living being on this planet as interest. He was wrong. "I like this", he said, meaning the jumper and not the quality time we were spending together. "It's really nice, isn't it? Really lovely. A nice top. Really like it. It's nice, isn't it?"

LOOK, DICK. I'm already buying your fucking jumper. I can't buy it anymore than I'm already buying it. You don't need to sell it to me. I'M BUYING IT! STOP FUCKING SMILING!

He basically then started groping my jumper. He's groping my jumper! How can I pick up an innocent seagull in this filthy rag now? He caressed it and stroked it and made me sick. His hands all over my jumper but his eyes never once moving away from my face and his neon grin burning into my soul. Then he decided to prove to me that he was useful: "It has a pocket, you know?"

I did know. I knew because I had seen the jumper before I decided to buy it. It's my system when it comes to jumpers. Of course I know there's a fucking pocket. I LOOKED AT IT. This is a jumper, not a Russian bride. He continued: "Yes. Yes, there it is".

He then pointed to the pocket. Sure enough, there was the pocket, that I had already seen, sitting completely camoufalged right on the front of the jumper. THANKS. I NEVER FUCKING WOULD HAVE FOUND THAT. "You can put something in there if you like". AAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRGGGGGHHHH!!!! Shut up. Just shut up, you smiling pointless bastard. I'm buying a jumper. I've bought jumper's before. I know how to do it. I don't need anyone to show me where a jumper keeps it's pocket and I definitely don't need some cheery cunt telling me how a pocket actually works. My heart started to thump it's way up my throat and out of my mouth. Even my internal organs wanted to punch this evil and friendly dick. I took the jumper and left as steam poured out of my ears. This probably explains me mishearing what he said as I left. "See you again". No. He can't have just said that. It would be the worst thing that could possibly happen. PLEASE don't let him see me again. PLEASE.

Halfway through writing this blog I left the house because a fitness instructor somehow found his way into my living room. Don't ask. I walked down to Lewisham Shopping Centre. When I got in there I started thinking about Happy Hitler. Maybe I was too hard on him. He was a happy and friendly man who just got too excited about the geography and abilities of a pocket. Surely happy smiley people are better than misery guts.

Then a smiley man came up to me and spoke. I had to take my earphones out to hear him. Earphones mean go away but not everyone understands that and this was a friendly, smiley man who looked very pleasant. I had already condemned one of his kind today already and I feel bad about it. Let's give this guy a chance.

"I'm from the Free Missionary Church", he said.

I really don't know why I fucking bother. Right. I'm off to China.

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