“Wackiness”
I realised that my recent outpourings have been defensive pieces, taking something that other people dislike and telling you why I think otherwise; if you haven’t anything nice to say etc. Well this one isn’t like that. This is just something I despise.
I have noticed that there are, especially around this time of year, many more “Wacky” people around.
Unfortunately, Brighton seems to attract wacky people.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not talking about the genuinely weird or eccentric. I fully endorse these types. No, no, I’m talking about a far more insidious being who makes me wring my hands involuntarily in exasperated disgust.
Wacky is an omnipresent elasticated dickie bow.
It’s fluorescent shoe laces.
It’s the inability to pass a doorway without hiding behind one side of it and pretending that yours is a phantom hand grabbing you by the neck and dragging you off to your doom. Wacky is a bloke suddenly shouting something like “Bum gravy!” in a crowded room and then looking around desperately for recognition and when some poor bastard accidentally makes eye contact he is instantly met with that excruciating shake of the head coupled with the phrase, “Sorry, I’m mad, me! Kyuuh!”
Wackiness is genuinely looking forward and excitedly telling people that you plan to sit in a bath of beans for red nose day.
It’s that forced eccentricity. It’s comedy wigs and Hawaiian shirts. It’s sunglasses in the shape of the new year’s numeric form.
Wacky is the morbidly obese forty-something in the zebra-print dress who’s running around the bar pinching all the men on the bum loudly proclaiming that she is, in fact, insane.
It’s laser pens and flashing badges. It’s owning and carrying around a joke book. It’s yellow dungarees and lilac Kickers. It’s one of those t-shirts with E=mc2 emblazoned on the front of it and “I do science, me” written on the back. It’s hanging a C90 tape around your neck. It’s collecting scented erasers when you’re older than eight. It’s constantly quoting Blazing Saddles. It’s spraying cream into your mouth straight from the can. It’s ringing a bell in the pub trying to make everyone think it’s last orders when, hilariously, it’s not. It’s opening with, “Good evening, ladies and germs” with a smug look on your face like your the first person to have said that.
“Ooh, look out, I’m a bit wacky, knoworreyemeeeean?”
No you’re not. You’re a twat. And you make me want to scream at the sky until I’m blue in the trousers.
Please. Go. Very. Terribly. Away!!!
Oh, and by the by, happy new year everyone. Don’t mind me, I’m mad. Kyuuh.
