Picture the scene, dear reader: A beautiful English autumn morning in Hampshire, the rain driving, concrete and metal all around, I walk into Booker's Cash and Carry dressed like the frickin' man from del Monte. It was just an accident: I didn't think about the colours when I threw my clothes on this morning. For some reason, this seemed to imbue me with extra authority this morning, causing the cash-and-carry staff to defer to me rather than the more darkly clothed William, despite the fact that he's rather more used to our arrangements with Bookers.

3 fuckin' hours buying crap for my hall shop. Now I have inflicted some of that time wasting on you. It's not nice, it's not clever, but fuck it.