Happy Gesture

Happy Good Friday everyone! Today’s the day we commemorate the crucifixion of Jesus H Christ, if you believe in that particular fairytale. Got to hand it the geezer though, he did singlehandedly make open-toe sandals cool, as well as inventing hot cross buns which are bloody delicious, nice and toasted with lashings of full fat English butter. None of that slimy anaemic unsalted Lurpak rubbish.

 

Not forgetting overpriced hollow chocolate eggs, he dreamt them up too, apparently  – although we are not allowed to call them “Easter Eggs” nowadays, it might upset believers in other fairytales who get very angry if we promote our own particular Anglican favourite. No, we have to call them “gesture eggs” like those nice people at Cadburys do. Good innit, most of Central London is festooned with Happy Ramadan lights, as decreed by Mayor Sadiq Kaahnt, but we don’t dare utter the word “Easter” in case it causes offence to those of a nervous religious disposition. Yet another indication, if ever we needed one, of the ridiculous woke times in which we now live.

 

Saying that though, I do have a problem with Easter (sorry, Gesture)-related greetings cards What kind of psycho sends Easter cards, especially with pictures of fluffy chicks on the front? What’s that all about? Nobody I know that’s for sure. It’s definitely a bit odd, like sending birthday cards to your dog. Proper weird.

 

Anyway, we are back in Blighty now of course, not much planned over the Bank Holiday, but the Blonde suggested we could go out for the day. The problem is, living on Brighton seafront, as we do, we can hardly step outside over Easter without being assaulted by the noise of a few thousand geriatric Mods & Rockers racing up and down Marine Parade. Don’t know which is worse, the roar of the “hogs” ridden by fat Meatloaf lookalike blokes in leather or the thoroughly annoying whine of revving Vespas and Lambrettas, and the beep beep beep of their silly little hooters, ridden by blokes in two-tone suits and dodgy haircuts who think they are Paul Weller. At least the two aging factions no longer throw deckchairs about or knock nine kinds of shit out of each other; they all congregate together in perfect harmony, eat chips, drink tea and reminisce about the good old days. Bless ‘em.

 

And if we do get to cross the road it’s near on impossible to walk along the prom, gridlocked as it is by utterly loathsome extended families down for the day, five abreast with double buggies, bedecked in vests and Reebok shorts despite the arctic conditions, ambling along at a snail’s pace, chomping on ice-creams with their uncontrollable dogs and kids, all of whom should be muzzled. Trying to get past these chubsters leads me to reflect, not for the first time since we moved down here, that it is probably just as well I’m not allowed to carry a gun.

 

I guess we could go off for a drive somewhere, but we’d just then become somebody else’s unwanted tourist, and we’d never get a parking space when we got back. Or go to the pub, but it’ll be mobbed with saddos who want to sample every type of real ale on offer before plumping for a half of Fosters…

 

No, we’ll just have to take it on the chin, say home and have a nice traditional roast leg of lamb for lunch. Hang on, make that a joint of pork, and a few bottles of wine, hopefully it’ll offend someone. Happy Gesture!