Antennas To Heaven 27 Minute Problems
By the time you've been in the newsagents for half an hour you realise it's not a sitcom. No shiny people with shiny, 27 minute problems or comedy pets / neighbours. There's just school kids and dirt. And a sign about bikes. And even after half an hour in the pub you realise that there's no 45 minute drama there. No one-off special. No recurring, locally themed detective, or vet, seen as a hard drinking, loose cannon by the pencil-necked pencil-pushers back at City Hall. There's just punters minding their business and their drinks. And half an hour in the bookies is worse than soap opera. No banter, no recurring characters. No happily ever after ruined by the end of a contract and a dream of going into musical theatre. Just stale desperation and cigarette smoke. But you suppose that's the point. Not his, but yours. You're not standing there because you don't believe mothers die on the steps of a church. Or that there's an incestuous child growing in the stomach of the girl on the supermarket till. There probably is. In fact, the old guy buying four limes in the grocers has probably been mistaken for a local gangster whilst on holiday in Tenerife, and even then his hotel was probably hilariously still under construction. But the point is, not for you. Not today. And as you're standing there, watching a man fray the corners of his slip with nicotine fingers, you realise it was never about that. You weren't there because you didn't believe it. You weren't there because you wanted to prove him wrong. You were only there because he didn't like art house movies. You were only there because he said they weren't satisfying like a coward as you were leaving. You were only there because you still f..cking hate his bastard guts.
