Perhaps it's just Britain but have you ever noticed how when the sun comes out the only people to shed their clothes are the monstrously fat and ugly ones? It never fails. The seasonal forty-minute heat wave strikes in the middle of August and suddenly the streets are filled with white and purple giant amoebas of unleashed flesh swamping the horizon and leaving grease stains on the flagstones wherever their obese feet happen to slide. Reinforced bras that could be used to slingshot cannon balls can barely contain their unscaffolded blubber. Boxer shorts stretched beyond endurance are pulled creaking and screaming around buttocks that are nothing more than taut sacks of skin filled with the fatty deposits of fifty years worth of pies, chips and larger. Everything wobbles and sizzles and blisters and shines and stomps about in flip-flops stinking of bacon and Ambre Solaire and sweat and last winter's damp. It's completely disgusting.
And all the slim young things, the pleasantly rounded as opposed to the shapeless t.v. dinner guzzling masses, wrap themselves up tightly in summer frocks and vanish into the shadows created by the towelling clad heffas that clog the town's narrow arteries.
Somebody pass me a bucket. I'm going to be sick.
Tuesday, August 05, 2003