OmigodOmigodOmigodOmigodOmigodOmigodOmigodOmigodOmigodOmigodOmigodOmigodOmigodOmigodOmigodOmigodOmigodOmigodOmigodOmigodOmigod.... This was the sum total of the conversation in the aftermath of the great X Factor Tour night. Actually, that's a lie because it moved on shortly after that to a chorus of "Harry Styles SMILED at me, Matt Cardle blew us a kiss, they're all so much fitter in real life, we saw loads of people we knew there and it was just BRILLIANT! OmigodOmigodOmigod" etc etc.
They had a better night than me and the Shah. I eventually made it to Ikea (damn you, Wembley one way systems and the North Circular Road), expecting a nice quiet visit, a trot round the Market Place and a rendezvous with His Lordship. The car park was mobbed. It was worse than the first day of the sales. Trying to find a parking space was a bloody nightmare because not only were there none, there were several dozen drunken, spaced out teenagers using the place as a skate park and in grievous danger of being mown down by a passing car too laden with Swedish tat for its driver to be able to see through more than three square inches of windscreen.
Inside, it was like the 7th circle of hell. Where do the good burghers of Wembley go for their Saturday night entertainment? Why, Ikea of course! Sad bastards. Wild-eyed children, way past the point of exhaustion, rampaged around the room sets, leaping out of wardrobes and hurling them selves off sofas while their parents affected selective blindness and deafness and ignored the little gits. There was a huge queue in the cafe and downstairs in the Market Place, dead-eyed women pushed monstrous buggies around teetering pyramids of glassware and china, missing them by millimetres. It took me ages to realise that I had no mobile signal there so the Shah, by the time he found me, was in a right royal strop. One that was not appeased by the offer of fish and chips. Hey - we know how to live on a Saturday night....
In the Market Place, I think they pump strange chemicals into the air. If not, why is everyone buying all the crap that is on offer as if their lives depended upon it? I suffered the irresistible urge to buy 480 picture frames, several dozen duvet covers and a print of Charlie Chaplin. I hate Charlie Chaplin. I hate Ikea and, most of all, I hate Wembley.
The traffic outside Wembley Arena was horrendous. We got home at midnight. I'm knackered, the Shah is knackered and worst of all, the teenage One Direction fan has found the ideal desk for her bedroom.
Guess where? aaaaaaaaaaaagh.
They had a better night than me and the Shah. I eventually made it to Ikea (damn you, Wembley one way systems and the North Circular Road), expecting a nice quiet visit, a trot round the Market Place and a rendezvous with His Lordship. The car park was mobbed. It was worse than the first day of the sales. Trying to find a parking space was a bloody nightmare because not only were there none, there were several dozen drunken, spaced out teenagers using the place as a skate park and in grievous danger of being mown down by a passing car too laden with Swedish tat for its driver to be able to see through more than three square inches of windscreen.
Inside, it was like the 7th circle of hell. Where do the good burghers of Wembley go for their Saturday night entertainment? Why, Ikea of course! Sad bastards. Wild-eyed children, way past the point of exhaustion, rampaged around the room sets, leaping out of wardrobes and hurling them selves off sofas while their parents affected selective blindness and deafness and ignored the little gits. There was a huge queue in the cafe and downstairs in the Market Place, dead-eyed women pushed monstrous buggies around teetering pyramids of glassware and china, missing them by millimetres. It took me ages to realise that I had no mobile signal there so the Shah, by the time he found me, was in a right royal strop. One that was not appeased by the offer of fish and chips. Hey - we know how to live on a Saturday night....
In the Market Place, I think they pump strange chemicals into the air. If not, why is everyone buying all the crap that is on offer as if their lives depended upon it? I suffered the irresistible urge to buy 480 picture frames, several dozen duvet covers and a print of Charlie Chaplin. I hate Charlie Chaplin. I hate Ikea and, most of all, I hate Wembley.
The traffic outside Wembley Arena was horrendous. We got home at midnight. I'm knackered, the Shah is knackered and worst of all, the teenage One Direction fan has found the ideal desk for her bedroom.
Guess where? aaaaaaaaaaaagh.
