Calling Kurt Cobain |
The girls sit around in time-honoured fashion at the round tables in the middle of the room, while the men do the serious mouse-pressing stuff on the benches. This is probably because the high stools you have to dangle from at the terminals are unsympathetic to cellulite on the arse. On the plus side, if you haven't made it far up the evolutionary scale, they also prevent your knuckles from scraping on the floor.
A lot of the chaps were obviously in their Nirvana - and were most likely trying to reach Kurt Cobain on the other side. 'Net-snooping' (surreptitiously looking over someone's shoulder to see what they're into) confirmed some of my worst suspicions - the guy with the anorak tied round his waist really was on a tour of the Starship Enterprise. Oh dear. I'd rather get off with Beavis or Butthead, either of whom would have a better idea where the G-spot is. These are the people who are responsible for the birth rate declining and I'm not surprised. They smell. They are untidy. They have the sexual allure of a rancid dead goat and the sexuality of a hermaphrodite worm. In my day we would have demanded wine on tap and boycotted the place unless a vaginal douche and Clarins moisturiser were provided gratis in the toilet. No expensive orthodontic treatment has been squandered on this lot. I wouldn't risk spit-swapping with the most virile; is that lime green tooth fungus infectious? Luckily, I wiped the rim of the coffee cup before drinking from it. |