“You can get your tits out, and snog your poster of Indiana Jones away from judgemental eyes. The only thing judging you is the cat, and he’s only paying attention because you’re using a chorizo as a microphone, and he’s hoping you’ll pass out before returning it to the fridge.”
*This article also appeared on The Huffington Post. Read the article here.
Take a look outside, and answer me this…do you really want to go out there?
It’s cold out there. The wind seems angry about something again, and the sky’s that ominous shade of white that could mean rain, could mean snow, could mean alien invasion. We just don’t know, and the associated risks are too high for my liking.
I’m going to stay inside. It’s safe inside. It’s warm.
Inside, there are multiple places to sit, and chances are high those seats will be cushioned. You just don’t get that level of comfort outside. Benches are shit, and where else can you sit? A bus stop? No thanks.
Also, because it’s cold, any journey you embark on is basically just a quest to find somewhere else warm to sit down. Why not save yourself the tube fare, and treat yourself to a pizza?
At this time of year, you’ve got more important things to worry about than the guilt associated with battling total strangers just to secure a chair. There’s Christmas biscuits to get through, Secret Santa presents to waste money on…the last thing you need on top of that hullabaloo is to have to deal with is the Hunger Games of seating every time you venture outside. Ignore me if you want, but know this – you’re going to need to steel yourself for battle every time you enter a new establishment because otherwise the sly will prevail, I assure you. You must be prepared to ignore the fact your sofa-competition has a screaming babe in arms. You need to be capable of overlooking the octogenarian shuffling towards the same table as you. Are you prepared to do that? If not, you should just resign yourself to sitting on the floor. At home you can put your feet up, guilt free, safe in the knowledge you’ve been instrumental in providing comfort to new mothers, and the elderly. Now that deserves a biscuit.
In your house, things are free…because you already bought them. There’s no entry fee to enter your utility room, and no one’s going to demand you give them a quid before entering the toilet or else they’ll squirt Anais Anais into your eyeballs. There are no strangers with elbows just cluckin’ to dish out dead arms, or to nail you in the tit, no one to shove you out the way as you make you way to the fridge. Absolutely no unexpected hazards will be thwarting your enjoyment of any evening.
Another huge plus is that you’ll no longer need to pay thrice what you would down Budgen’s for a bottle of chablis, just to perch on the end of a reclaimed church pew that wasn’t comfortable even before it was sanded down, sprayed gold, and put in a bar in Shoreditch. Church pews aren’t comfortable, neither are seats made from crates, cutlery, bike tyres or the heads of old Girls Worlds. You know what is comfortable, your sofa…and sleeping bag suits.
By staying home, you’re winning at life. You’re protesting the system, man. Refusing to feed the machine. No one will know you’re protesting of course, because even heat-sensing helicopters won’t be able to detect you under nine blankets, but who cares. You know. Toast your peaceful protest with a whole bottle of the wine that only cost you £3.99 because you heroically braved the walk to Lidl. Take that consumerist Britain! Take that right in your diamond-monocled eye.
While we’re on the subject of booze, lets discuss the fact you can get absolutely spannered at home and you haven’t got to worry about how you’re getting home, what you’ll get up to when boozed, or who’ll see you. You can dance around your kitchen to classic hits from Grease 2 before barfing in your recycling bin, and no one ever need know. You can get your tits out, and snog your poster of Indiana Jones away from judgemental eyes. The only thing judging you is the cat, and he’s only paying attention because you’re using a chorizo as a microphone, and he’s hoping you’ll pass out before returning it to the fridge. You can rap along to Shaggy, or do naked forward rolls down your landing for all he cares. This is a creature that licks his own bottom, and is scared of cucumbers. All he wants is to be fed. He’d eat your face off in 20 minutes if he knew you wouldn’t fight him off, the last thing he gives a shit about is you crying at the X Factor again because you’re drunk, and you just love Reggie and Bollie so damn much.
Look, I’m well aware there are advantages of going outside. I know that’s where the magic happens, where life’s affirmed, and friendships are formed. I was there (sulking) when my psychic arched her eyebrow and told me if I ever wanted to meet the love of my life, I’d have to ‘actually look”, but meh – can’t all that jazz wait until the sun is out? If the sun goes in at 3pm…why can’t I? She clearly knows there are better places to be. I do too. The sun is my spirit animal, and for now, I’m flat out refusing to go anywhere without her. End of.