Pseudo-Mathematics And Marker Pens

Some hours after my last feeble attempt at begging for attention using words oft found in your local dictionary, I managed to cast off the shackles of monotony and - by extention - stop using clichés by entering into the social realm of public houses, or rather public house, singular. This allowed me an opportunity to evaluate human psychology and witness ulterior motives, which may transpire amongst competitors, through the medium of pseudo-mathematics and marker pens. I speak, of course, of Bingo.

The opportunity to experience the respective insanities and mundanities of human existence, however, flew over my head quicker than explaining the definition of the word 'existentialism' to somebody from Essex. From the moment my eyes latched onto the skin-thin slips of paper and multicoloured blobbers (which I believe are called 'dabbers', but I'm calling 'blobbers' for the purposes of perceptive accuracy), my whole being became transfixed with the idea that this game of chaos was, in fact, the most important moment in my life thus far. When that round inevitably fell through, the next round of number-mentioning became the most important moment in my life thus far. And so on, and so et cetera in that fashion, until either the night ended or the random number generator ran out of double-A juice.

All concept of human behaviour, social interaction and bladder functions suddenly need not matter in this domain of fat ladies and little ducks - none of whom, unfortunately, made it. The announcement-of-the-numbers ceremony took place in a much more civilised manner, without any berating of overweight women or undersized Anatidae. Naturally, I felt somewhat cheated by this, but you know what, fuck it, I'm playing bingo, and damn it all if I don't win.
     I didn't win.
         DAMN IT ALL!
Except that's a lie. I did actually win, and my life's sole purpose as far as the night was concerned had been fulfilled on the final game of the evening. My prize: no selection of prize.

The Generation Game-esque conveyor belt of mediocre prizes graced the bar with its presence for most of the evening. A toilet brush here, a money box there, a set of men's deodorants, a toaster, a desk fan, a pack of bingo markers, a cuddly toy; it gave all the feel of a village fête raffle or an explosion in the SmartPrice section of Asda. However, along with my prize-selecting abilities being relinquished, I was granted ownership of the final prize of the night. (I'm going to stop using the word "prize" now, for reasons which will become apparent in the next string of words or so.) So lo, and behold, the white box with the green stripe and the picture of white plates blending into its purgatorial scenery: a plain, bland, Asda-brand Dinner Set.

Huzzah! Now I can dine! Joyousness and other such jubilant feelings. Except not really because I could do that anyway. And even if I couldn't, I could've anyway. Explain? Alright, regard:

When I set up dwelling in this new house, the three of us (the people what live here) brought along our own belongings. For the kitchen, this means the cupboards currently overflow with three mismatched sets of cutlery, utensils, cheese graters, three mismatched sets of pots, pans, baking trays, three mismatched sets of cups, mugs, glasses, and a whole mindfuckery (which I'm using as the collective noun) of plate, bowls and dishes. For three people, it's fairly difficult to get through nineteen plates in a short space of time, and believe me, we've tried. There have been times when the pile next to the sink has multiplied drastically, growing like the mould on the very plates themselves. We don't need any more plates. On my Christmas list to Big Red Dumbledore, I will not be asking for plates. Trust me on this. Meanwhile, as part of the moving-in ceremony, the woman what birthed me (whom, I'm told, is commonly referred to using the name "mother") granted me with the very same SmartPrice Dinner Set I'd go on to 'win' some weeks later. Cheers Mum. Excellent foresight.

Now the white and sparing green boxes live in my kitchen, along with all the other white and sparing green items of food which grace my cupboard so. I live the SmartPrice way now. And no, I'm not advertising Asda. I'm not advocating Asda. I'm not a plant, nor a mole, hired to attract more customers to the consumer conglomerate that used to have adverts that condoned self-spanking. I'm not getting paid for using their name in this way, for Tesco's sake; I just told you I'm living SmartPrice!