Last week, I noticed a registered Brighton & Hove taxi parked outside the Muslim community centre. Prominent on the dashboard was a hardback copy of Richard Dawkins’ The God Delusion. A couple of days later I saw the car (and the book) again. This time the vehicle was being attended to by two of B&H’s terrifyingly efficient traffic wardens. They were finishing up as I jogged past, and the older male warden said to his younger female colleague: “I think it’s about time for a chocolate digestive.”
As the singlest man in Britain, I was pleased to notice earlier this week that the local Co-op is selling Hovis Granary™ half-loaves. I was less pleased to notice that they are selling them Buy-One-Get-One-Free.
I have a friend from university who, having three degrees in mathematics, can be a little other-worldly. Her partner once told me that he had referred to Franz Ferdinand in her presence and she had neither heard of the unfairly popular band nor the assassinated Archduke. As an undergraduate, she invited a mixed race former schoolmate of hers to stay. When we were introduced I said to her, in my gay-trousered way, “I like your hair. How do you get it straightened?” My friend was amazed. She’d always thought that her mate’s hair was naturally that way.
I was reminded of this yesterday, during a telephone conversation with a former flatmate of mine—also PhD’d. She was discussing her gay friend’s chest hair problem with me.
POOTERGEEK: That’s one advantage of not being white, I suppose: a rug-free upper body.
POOTERGEEK: When was the last time you saw a black man with a hairy chest?
FRIEND: Well, er. I always thought that was from waxing.
Huge, untapped African market ahoy! Buy Immac!