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Two Thousand and Seven, The Twenty-Fourth
22/03/2007, 00:59

I’ve been off work the past few days as I’m a little unwell at the moment, and it has to be said, that sometimes being off work can be rather stressful.

As you know very well by now, The Smash, yours truly, is a very laid-back, easygoing rockerdude.

But having had three days off work on the sick, my situation has altered irredeemably.

You see, usually when I book time off work it is to actually do something. For example, visiting friends, going on holiday or taking a day off if there is a massive alcohol fuelled night out the night before.

But when you are off sick – genuinely sick – all you want to do is get well, no?

Obviously being full of cold and icky-ness, one does not want to bring oneself into contact with people who may be unfortunate enough to catch it, so one naturally turns to the PC or the television for entertainment. (I can’t read you see.)

Imagine my horror, my dismay, my utter fucking distress when I see an advertisement for one of those daily mini-yoghurt drinks.

Horror, Smash? I hear you question. Dismay? Distress?


I’m so worried now. The nice lady in the television told me I need to have the recommended daily intake of pro-biotics to ensure that I remain healthy, and don’t succumb to feelings of bloatedness of discomfort during the day.

Imagine! Just imagine the havoc that could be being caused by the heliobacter pylori within my gut! I could be pray to anything.


Gastroenteritis! Upset tum tums! Unusual farting sounds!

Though the farting sounds might be quite amusing.

My mother naturally calmed me down and assured me that my guts were fine without “healthy” yoghurt drinks – her scorn was quite obvious – and that I should cease worrying.

A few trauma free moments were infinitely pleasurable, but then came an advertisement for face cream.

“Oh, no!” I yelled out loud.

Why did I yell, you ask?

I yelled because then the nice lady in the television was telling me that I needed something called pentapeptides to keep my skin looking young, healthy and fresh.

Pentapeptides! Oh, my dearest pentapeptides, how have I ever survived without you?

What if I look like an old bastard before my time, I thought, stricken with grief for the younger self that I never was – would never be – because no one had ever thought to buy me anything infused with pentapeptides.

Selfish bastards!

All they did was buy me drinks and t-shirts bearing my favourite bands with graphic and violent images on them.

“How dare they!” I growled to my mother, who looked shocked and saddened that her son should have made such thoughtless and selfish friends.

Her calming influence won through, and I had a small nap to help me over the traumas and dramas that a day at home ill should bring.

After my nap I awoke refreshed and realised how silly I had been to worry about silly, inconsequential little things like that.

I ran my hand through my cool long rockerdude hair and proudly thought about how I was a rockin’ dude. A survivin’ dude. A cool who-gives-a-fuck-about-the-world-dude.

Until the nice lady in the television told me that my hair would never survive without the all too brilliant hair product containing that essential ingredient, elastesse…