Ironing

This one really hurts....

Dear reader, when I was eighteen years old I ironed something. The Sweeney was probably still on telly (and not a repeat - lets talk about that later....) A shirt, a t-shirt, a pair of gold lame underpants, whatever, I ironed something. It was possibly the worst 10 minutes of my life. I resolved never to iron again. I haven’t. Haven’t wanted to, haven’t needed to, haven’t been asked to, haven’t asked anyone to, just simply haven’t done it because it’s like being dead.

Occasionally someone will assume this is because someone irons for me. This is not true. If I catch anyone ironing for me I will tell them to stop immediately. It’s a filthy waste of time and you shouldn’t do it. Think of the sort of person who irons a shirt – not pretty is it? Think of the sort of person who wears an ironed shirt – disgusting isn’t it?

It’s simple – don’t iron, ever. It’s easier than giving up television because not all television is shit whereas all ironing is shit.

So imagine the humiliation, the sheer pain angst and screaming agony of being forced to iron a shirt – by your own band! Imagine when you’d done the desperate deed the drummer of the band shouting ‘who ironed that shirt? There are creases all up the front’. Well dear reader, the humiliee was me, Whole Sky Monitor were the humiliators. They dressed me up, criticised, made me wear other people’s clothes and generally pushed me about. They didn’t even do this for base sexual reasons apparently. They just have no sense, taste, decency, manners or nous. Set of ****s, I really hate them.