For most of the covers I’ve sworn at, sorry, reviewed, I have a good deal more contempt for the authors than the poor deluded saps who shell out for them. ffice
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They’re either easily fooled ‘cause the inane blonde Claire in the office’s brainless cunt of a mate said she read it on holiday and couldn’t put it down or they’re just plain sad, under-endowed, knife –collecting, camouflage-wearing tools who buy Chris Ryan books ‘cause they reckon he can immobilise a man by launching marmalade at the nape of the neck.
Well perhaps not a good deal more contempt, but more, nonetheless.
Not this time. Not this time at all. I have to say, fair fucks to the fuckers writing this book.
I fucking hate weddings. The heady combination of mediocre catering, meanderingly, sweaty speeches, middle-aged, am-dram DJs and with a helping of religion stapled on top makes me long for a revolver and a nip of brandy.
And what price am I to be paid to endure the stinking shitheap of enforced fun? What’s that? I’m not to be paid? I have to buy THEM presents? Yes, I have to buy my so-called friends presents, so they can wave their fucking relationship around as THE ideal for the rest of us to live up to. Yes, if you’ve not gone through a quasi-religious masquerade ending with a cunt playing Relight My Fire you can’t be in love.
Fuck off.. I’ve had e-fucking-nough. You can fuck off. I absolutely refuse to turn up (unless Rosie fixes me with one of her steely gazes).
Tell me “Oh, OURS is going to be different,” like everyone else, it won’t make any difference. It’ll still begin with some cocking religious thing that you had to sign up and lie to the priest about. “No, father/.rabbi, I come every week but my Sunday best is an invisibility suit”..
Then there’s possibly the worst part of an awful day. The interminable wait, as fruitless as a Scotsman’s diet, for some fucking photos that no cunt worth their salt would ever cast an eye in the direction of – let alone actually LOOK at. Just cut out the middle man and glue shut an empty photo album.
Followed swiftly - but never swiftly enough – by the chicken in a woodland sauce, not enough wine, unfunny speeches and shit dancing.
I tell you what, here’s a good idea, too. If you’re getting married, in the next year or so, remember to bring it up in conversation at every single opportunity. Everyone will, after all, be thrilled to hear how expensive flowers are. And what a cunting nightmare your in-laws are being.
