Young Jamie – Confessions of a Serial Douchebag (Part 12)

If you're old(ish) like me, this one will really take you back. Remember when WH Smith used to be called John Menzies, and all of their shops were inside blue coal bunkers? Those were the days, eh? They certainly don't make shops like that anymore, by God. In the olden days, you got yourself a few hundred magazines, dumped them in a big metal tin, buried them under a half-tonne of coal, threw in some kids, shut the lid, and waited with a bag of sweeties to see how many of them would make it back alive with a copy of the Beano. They're soft, the kids of today, that's their trouble. Doors on their shops? Windows? Breathable atmospheres inside them? Pah! Pampered pussies! Real men choked on coal-dust if they wanted to do something unforgivably sissy like reading. ** One important question springs to mind here. What in the name of Jesus WH Smith were tongue lashers and PADS? I've no memory of them whatsoever. It sounds like the sickest combination of words a horny young boy has ever typed into Google. Yet again, the teacher simply puts a bloody great tick against the work, questioning nothing. “Yep, tongue lashers and PADS, trapped inside a blue coal bunker, quite a typical weekend for you really, Jamie.” ** No alarm bells ringing, Mrs Teacher? None at all? Don't you think that instead of dismissing the obvious terrifying subtext of my writing you should've invested your time in composing an urgent note to my parents? -- “Listen, word to the wise, I think your kid's really, really fucked up. I mean really. Like, if he gave me an apple, I'd have it tested for strichnine, you feel me? Don't you EVER visit Colin again, right? Don't do it. FUCK Colin. And don't you ever leave that boy in that house alone again... especially if you've got live pets in there. These maniacs, they always start off with cats, before you know it they've stabbed the lollipop lady. If you do nothing else then for Christ's sake get a grip of this pads and tongue lasher thing and start taking a regular inventory of your sanitary drawer.”

If you’re old(ish) like me, this one will really take you back. Remember when WH Smith used to be called John Menzies, and all of their shops were inside blue coal bunkers? Those were the days, eh? They certainly don’t make shops like that anymore, by God. In the olden days, you got yourself a few hundred magazines, dumped them in a big metal tin, buried them under a half-tonne of coal, threw in some kids, shut the lid, and waited with a bag of sweeties to see how many of them would make it back alive with a copy of the Beano. They’re soft, the kids of today, that’s their trouble. Doors on their shops? Windows? Breathable atmospheres inside them? Pah! Pampered pussies! Real men choked on coal-dust if they wanted to do something unforgivably sissy like reading. ** One important question springs to mind here. What in the name of Jesus WH Smith were tongue lashers and PADS? I’ve no memory of them whatsoever. It sounds like the sickest combination of words a horny young boy has ever typed into Google. Yet again, the teacher simply puts a bloody great tick against the work, questioning nothing. “Yep, tongue lashers and PADS, trapped inside a blue coal bunker, quite a typical weekend for you really, Jamie.” ** No alarm bells ringing, Mrs Teacher? None at all? Don’t you think that instead of dismissing the obvious terrifying subtext of my writing you should’ve invested your time in composing an urgent note to my parents? — “Listen, word to the wise, I think your kid’s really, really fucked up. I mean really. Like, if he gave me an apple, I’d have it tested for strichnine, you feel me? Don’t you EVER visit Colin again, right? Don’t do it. FUCK Colin. And don’t you ever leave that boy in that house alone again… especially if you’ve got live pets in there. These maniacs, they always start off with cats, before you know it they’ve stabbed the lollipop lady. If you do nothing else then for Christ’s sake get a grip of this pads and tongue lasher thing and start taking a regular inventory of your sanitary drawer.”