Friday, January 11, 2008


…was today’s newsstand headline on the Argus stand.

My vision:

A hospital ward at midnight. I imagine rabbles of children clutching bottles of yellow Reef. Surrounding them are laughing men and women in green cotton suits - the doctors and paramedics - uncorking champagne and going ‘waaaaaaay’ when it makes the big pop and fizz.

Their smiling parents, comfortable on the accommodating furniture, look on in satisfaction, pleased that the NHS is able to fund this joyous alcoholic carnival.

As the booze flows, balloons are released from the ceiling and TV’s Jamie Theakston pops in, nursing his career, to wish everyone a lovely evening. He cracks open a bottle of dark rum and winks to the youngest father in the room – the one pointing to his nose – before nipping off with him for a double toilet break.

While sweets are passed around, the doctors smile at this harmless drunken fun and make witty banter with the party, gregariously puppy-punching the arseholed kids.

Jamie pops back in and decides to chink his credit card on a wine glass. The chinking quietens everyone down, ready to raise their drinks and hear his impromptu speech about how glad he is that everyone’s here because “it’s just so important to show these kids how to have a good time. Anyone want an autograph?”


As I suppose the Argus meant to suggest, these red faced parents (angry and embarrassed, perhaps pissheads themselves) shuffle in to casualty to see their devil children prostrate on a fought-after hospital bed. Hassled doctors in white coats, manoeuvre machinery and tubes to draw vomit from these addled youth vessels. Retching and crying, bloated and wheezing, their lungs filled with regret and confusion. Dark times and a reality check.

And a bloody excellent story for Monday’s classroom. “I was in the paper! For being drunk! Waaaaaaay!”

Today, The Metro ran a story with a large portrait photo of an eighteen year old girl, with a barely contained headline. Words to the effect, “Ugly slut girl fucks 50 men before 18th birthday.” There she was, some hideous genetic experiment, a bum-faced lolita with a face like an un-painted fence. Why anyone had deemed her as a suitable sexual partner, I daren’t hazard a guess. Perhaps she is a charming conversationalist.

The story goes that she was at some dubiously titled BBC3 sexual health discussion thingy with her parents, and was asked to count every sexual partner she’d had and write their initials on the board. After apparently spending a suspicious amount of time finger counting and having to make notes, she popped over to the black board and wrote ‘half a century’ before giving up with the initials game.

It apparently hadn’t occurred to her that getting doggy-styled four times a week by a different man, and without thinking to ask their names, was a bit, well, flamboyant. When her mother wrote three, this girl could barely contain her contempt. The internet obviously hadn’t existed when she were a lass, and the idea of being groomed and boned by strangers wasn’t the potential lifestyle option her cock-weathered daughter currently enjoys.

Following the public shock appraisal of her approximate head count, she realised that perhaps she’d been a bit over-eager, and that phrases like 'slag' and 'receptacle in a spunk gale', were unfortunately invented for bad girls like her. The article ended with a quote from the girl innocently hoping that no one will think badly of her.

Can you imagine the day she’s having at school today? It would be ugly to see. If she isn’t in tears by first break, I’ll be amazed.


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