Archive for the ‘The Apologist explains’ Category

A regular feature called The Apologist Explains. This is where I explain why something or someone is totally offensive to the laws of God and the Universe and must be punished, unless the perpetrator apologises IMMEDIATELY…

Look. I’m pretty angry, but I’ll keep this brief, ok?

Crisps are brilliant. What I want from a bag of crisps are as many deep-fried slices of potato as you can cram in a bag while still having room for a generous portion of salt. I do NOT want this wankery.

Cocking non-crisps

These aren’t a delicacy. These are not even crisps. They are the shavings of other, lesser vegetables – vegetables who cower in the face of that most mighty of tubers.

Just because they are different colours, and curl up into funny shapes, and don’t taste quite as nice, the Artisan apparently thinks they are better. Well, the Artisan is a total nonce.

AND the beetroot ones dye my fingers red.

But the artisan doesn’t leave it there. He wants to add insult to injury with his non-crisps, by lying to your face about them. See, if I buy a box of cereal, and it’s a big box, and it costs twice as much as the smaller box, I expect to see at least twice as much cereal in there when I open it.

Well, the Artisan doesn’t follow these laws of natural justice. Instead, when the Artisan sells you a big bag, for twice the price of normal crisps, what do you get?

Hardly any non-crisps in a massive bag

Hardly any sodding non-crisps in a big sodding bag. That’s what you get.

Shame on you, The Artisan. For crimes against decent hard working people trying to enjoy their lunch-hours, I hope you’re sorry.


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Ok, so, you’re on your own in the flat. And you’re standing in the kitchen and washing the dishes. And you have the radio on so you’re singing away, doing the Axl Rose impression you hadn’t busted out since I was you were 12.
So anyway, the wife comes in, and you don’t hear the front door bang ’cause your blastin’ out Welcome to the Jungle, and you’re a rock star, and you’re in concert, and that spatula is a mike and every bubble in the Fairy soap suds is the face of an adoring fan, and it gets to the bit where Axl starts moaning (Axl, you dog…), and for a fraction of a second you hesitate, but then you join in with that bit too, right? Because you’re on your own and besides, Axl wouldn’t let down those soap suds with a half-assed performance…


Ok, it really is just me.

The point is that finding out you aren’t alone is a shock.

The divorce papers? Less so.

And that’s why Axl Rose should be bloody sorry.

– The Apologist (now just an urchin livin’ under street)

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