Saturday, 19 February 2011

2,000 Insane Women, Me and Barry Bulsara

I have a nipper on the way. This means I face an unrelenting pressure to fulfill certain "obligations". One of these is attending the supreme agony of the Baby Show 2011. It's a trap. It's like a mouse taking the very tasty cheese, only to find its spine has been spread like philadelphia on a fat bird's rivita by the rapid strike of a metal bar. Within 18 seconds of arrival, I had a crack squad of ninja hypnotists accosting my woman with offers of a visit to the Apeekaboo Imaging Specialist Midwife 3d/4d ultrasound clinic, just a snip at £120. Then we get pounced on by the Baby Sense, Baby Reflex, Baby Rug, Baby's First Calender and Baby Blooms cartel of mind capturing hustlers, who are asking for a street value of anywhere between £50 - £1000 for their services. For the love of fucking Christ. Naturally, the bird is well and truly intoxicated by this web of sinister lies and I'm having to prize these parasites off my wallet with a broken, sterilised, Avent, newborn to 3 months, bottle. It dawns on me that the only way I can escape this mob alive (or financially solvent) is to bribe my pregnant companion with gifts - so she can speak in hormonese to get us pass the guards.

I did have some rebel allies around me. Whilst the ladies discussed the delightful benefits of the SnoozeShade and Buggy Tug product line with one of the stand's fleecer extraordinaries, I exchanged glances with another fella who displayed a look which read simply as "HELP ME". Like men lost in the desert, all round me I could see dads and dads-to-be spotting flashes of heavenly Sky Sports News on the horizon - only to find it was a tragic mirage and quietly sobbing to themselves. Without a shadow of a doubt, I was overcome with joy that 4 o'clock had arrived and the voodoo wizardry of the charlatan sales army was wearing off on the missus. My escape was on the cards!

Just before I left, I nearly decapitated a toddler with the box of my exciting new bottle sterilising kit. His unhappy dad was a fella who had an uncanny likeness to that nutter, Barry George - who obsessively called himself Barry Bulsara (the real name of Freddie Murcury) and was accused of murdering a famous newsreader. That left me thinking - skaramoosh, skaramoosh - did he kill Jill Dando?

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