Status: Finished, but never forgotten.
Live Forever
And so began the story of a charmless man.
“You have GOT to be kidding...” he moans balefully as I pick up my tape of Country House, “I saved you so that you could give money to the Colchester cocks?” I smile beatifically at him and meander over to the counter, pretending to be oblivious to his evidently well-practised evils and concentrating instead on the horrific hairdo – more like a hair-don’t – perched on top of the till girl’s head. The till girl, a GIT [Goth In Training], rolls her eyes unpleasantly like she’s heard this exchange millions of times.
“Why, got something better to be listening to?” I retort, handing over the necessary coppers. And then I gape because...
He’s picked up a copy of Roll With It.
He’s picked up a bloody copy of Roll With It.
Roll With It.
Why?
No.
I don’t care HOW beautiful his eyes are. I don’t care that he’s passably attractive in comparison to the utterly repulsive trolls that patrol my street, and indeed my school. I don’t even care that he saved me from certain doom. There is absolutely no way I am associating myself in a friendly manner with someone who thinks that those bloody arrogant Gallagher brothers are worthy of cash for their gobby antics.
“You’re buying THAT?” I hiss, venomous saliva attacking him from my outraged outburst. He looks slightly hurt, and then realises that this is a game which one of us will win tomorrow, at about 7pm. It stuns me when the GIT pokes me with the plastic bag containing my musical saviour. I’d forgotten I was doing something other than restraining myself from bashing his head in with a Take That CD. Which just riles me even more and...
“Yeah, I am.” His eyes, dull with bored fury, dart towards my bag, which I am clutching at like a weapon. “Aren’t you going to let my obvious musical superiority pass on this instance, considering that I saved you from getting mutilated?”
No. No, I’m not. This is war. The GIT has perked up slightly, having heard the word ‘mutilated’. So every cloud has a silver lining.
“I’ve got to go... and purge my ears of this filth. Oasis? Never gonna make it. Fifteen years from now, they’ll be shop assistants at Somerfield’s...” With this prophecy limply lying in his ears, I flounce out.
***
“...Roll With It... our new number one is COUNTRY HOUSE!” The hateful opening bars of this week’s number two poison my inner soul.
But it’s nearly ok...
Because I’ve won.
“Why, got something better to be listening to?” I retort, handing over the necessary coppers. And then I gape because...
He’s picked up a copy of Roll With It.
He’s picked up a bloody copy of Roll With It.
Roll With It.
Why?
No.
I don’t care HOW beautiful his eyes are. I don’t care that he’s passably attractive in comparison to the utterly repulsive trolls that patrol my street, and indeed my school. I don’t even care that he saved me from certain doom. There is absolutely no way I am associating myself in a friendly manner with someone who thinks that those bloody arrogant Gallagher brothers are worthy of cash for their gobby antics.
“You’re buying THAT?” I hiss, venomous saliva attacking him from my outraged outburst. He looks slightly hurt, and then realises that this is a game which one of us will win tomorrow, at about 7pm. It stuns me when the GIT pokes me with the plastic bag containing my musical saviour. I’d forgotten I was doing something other than restraining myself from bashing his head in with a Take That CD. Which just riles me even more and...
“Yeah, I am.” His eyes, dull with bored fury, dart towards my bag, which I am clutching at like a weapon. “Aren’t you going to let my obvious musical superiority pass on this instance, considering that I saved you from getting mutilated?”
No. No, I’m not. This is war. The GIT has perked up slightly, having heard the word ‘mutilated’. So every cloud has a silver lining.
“I’ve got to go... and purge my ears of this filth. Oasis? Never gonna make it. Fifteen years from now, they’ll be shop assistants at Somerfield’s...” With this prophecy limply lying in his ears, I flounce out.
***
“...Roll With It... our new number one is COUNTRY HOUSE!” The hateful opening bars of this week’s number two poison my inner soul.
But it’s nearly ok...
Because I’ve won.