I kicked the door open and schlepped my bags across the threshold. Something stirred in the artificial darkness of the hallway. �Fuck off, Agamemnon, you heap of bastard � you�ll trip me over.� Onwards to the kitchen I strode purposefully, gratefully dumping the bags on the floor once there, and lifting my hands to inspect the welts of fat between where their taut plastic had cut into my flesh. �Nothing as bad as what Dad had to put up with, Julie!� I rebuked myself as I started to unpack and place my items in the cupboards, eating a sausage roll as I did so, and reflecting further upon the misery wrought upon millions like my father � heroes who had died tiny, insignificant deaths under the oppressive yokes of bourgeoisie. The former shackled until the end by the latter�s vulgar, formless notions of superiority, hidden beneath the repulsive veil of a stiff upper lip. (Like the veils worn by Muslim women, who are really totally oppressed, and yet we protect their foul abusive husbands in the name of liberalism!!!)
Yes, give me the ruddy red face and sun-puckered arm of a working class man any day...
I finished putting away my shopping and went for a little lie down. Despite it being Woman�s Week, I couldn�t resist a little go: the boy who served me in FarmFoods looked for all the world like a young David Beckham and so I was well on for it. My maxi-pad got in the way a bit, but I just squeezed eyes shut and pretended it was my young Adonis lover bearing down between my thighs. At the moment of my pleasure, David Beckham disappeared, and a thousand images flashed before my eyes instead. Some were too quick and bright to see, some lingered a moment � Mr Hatfield from O-Level Maths, Philippa Forrester running her fingers over Melanie Blatt from the All Saints� naked breasts, hateful Tony (not long enough to spoil it for me � thank god!), David Tennant clutching his engorged phallus � and finally, as always, Thatcher. Looming above me, her nostrils flared and her cheeks flushed with passion and frightening, primordial rage. A royal blue strap-on held tight on top of her matching skirt. �Turn over now, Julie,� she says in a commanding, yet level voice, �I want to put it in the back.�
Nerve endings still distended and trembling, I clutched down blindly at the side of the bed until I found my laptop. I checked my emails and found nothing of worth. I checked Toby Young�s Facebook and was immensely gratified to see that he had gained no new friends since I last looked this morning. FYI: I have chosen not to have a Facebook, as I see social networking as a vast and insidiously far-reaching conspiracy by the vile middle-classes to colonise the once utilitarian and utopian arena of cyberspace and recreate it in their image as an anodyne future wherein only the well-born, the well-connected and the well-Islam�d matter, whilst the brave, romantic underclasses remain crushed and supplicant underfoot (under keyboard?). Instead I have a Bebo, as I believe they are a site of resistance of equal importance to the class war as Harlem was to the African-American civil rights movement, or as Greenham Common was to feminism and the CND (not that I think we shouldn�t have nuclear weapons, when there is such a clear and present danger in today�s world as the evil Muslims, and the evil things they do, evil Muslims).
After having a quick look at Amazon (Man and Boy back up to #1253??!), I slipped into my muumuu and prepared a supper of Smash and corned f followed by Angel Delight, before settling down in front of my CSI DVDs. Just after I started the commentary on episode 13, a tingle in my bean told me Maggie and I weren�t yet done for the night...