Johnny Borrell, the rakish front-man of noughties rock band, Razorlight, has been squatting impatiently in abandoned Mayfair flats, whimsically hoping for the day the vapid decade is reminisced as: ‘not as shit as we thought whilst living in it.’
‘Look what happened with the eighties,’ he told us, speaking from a yellowed mattress and surrounded by empty Pringles tubes. ‘And now the nineties. That decade was just as shit as the two-thousands. Now even Texas are making a comeback. Texas!’
‘We’re just waiting for nostalgia to kick in so people in their mid-thirties forget whether they liked us or not in the first place. We’ve started a Facebook page with The Kooks called, “I heart the 00’s”, but ‘heart’ is written as an emoticon, like a cartoon drawing of a heart, you know?’
‘The day Urban Outfitters stock Von Dutch caps will be our Bat Signal. Then we’ll know… we’re back in business boys.’
With the demise of free plastic bags, a new menace has taken its place; bags for life. However, whereas plastic bags merely polluted the earth, bags for life have given rise to a more severe issue; the pollution of our homes.
Nancy, from Isleworth told us, “Look, I’m all for protecting the planet and that, but we’ve just replaced one problem with a much worse problem. Every time I open the cupboard under the sink, a flock of bags lunge out, covering the kitchen in hemp. Ever taken a hemp bag in the face? It’s shit.”
Billy, a resident of Guildford, said, “I enjoyed tutting and shaking my head at the old plastic bag problem, safe in the knowledge it will never really be my problem. But now I’m fucking drowning in bags for life. The dolphins are fine, but I’m fucking drowning. Where’s the logic there?”
News broke this week that the ‘bag for life’ population in your cupboard has increased by 85% since you started reading this sentence.
The Glastonbury forecast is in and the outlook is muddy, to the delight of thousands who were unable to secure tickets and scores more who didn’t even try.
George, an elated non-reveller told us, “I went to Glastonbury once and it rained. Everyone pretended it was OK, but it wasn’t. Booze and ketamine helped, but I can do that at home, thanks very much.”
Jane, owner of eight cats, has never been to Glastonbury and has no intention of ever going. “Nothing makes me happier than a wet Glastonbury. I watch all the coverage on television, but only to see the mud-caked crack-heads dressed in fluorescent bin bags swaying in misery to a band I’ve never heard of.”
We spoke to one unlucky ticket holder, ‘Fred’, on his way to the site. “I really don’t care if it’s raining, mate. I grant myself these five days a year to ingest a range of illicit powders and I’m not going to let fucking drizzle get in the way of that.’