This afternoon, whilst engaging in a thorough rearrangement of my living room furniture, I happened across a plastic figurine I had bought on the internet.
I often find myself spending an inordinate amount of time and an unhealthy proportion of my meagre income on what might charitably be described as juvenile tat. My recent purchases include, but are not limited to, a sticker from 1982 of the French footballer Michel Platini (£3); two small Be@rbrick figures, one in the French drapeau tricolore, the other in the Argentinian Bandera Oficial de Ceremonia (£5 each); a canvas print of a pair of Adidas trainers (£50); an XBOX 360 (£200); a pair of miniture Adidas SL72 trainers in a metal box (£30) and a Star Wars AT-AT toy (£80). I won’t debase myself further here but believe you me, the list could be so much longer.
I am very nearly 33 years old. In other words, I am a man. If I live to be as old as my father lived, I am over halfway through my life. By my age he had emigrated, fought a war and started a family. I’ve got a Scalextric and a guitar. And a plastic figurine, still pristene in its plastic bubble, still affixed to its backing card, onto which the vendor, clearly recognising a fellow traveller, had written the following statement before posting me it from New York:
YOU’RE AN ASSHOLE FOR BUYING THIS.
