Going absolutely nuts
THIS WEEK: Sleep, Sainsbury's Bird's Eye Chilli Coated Nuts, Uncoupled
I don’t know about you, but spinning around on a dying, burning planet that's being run by absolute maniacs is really affecting my sleep. We should all be getting 8 hours of luxurious, dreamless shut eye, but how many of us can really say that? This is how my nights tend to go:
*One second after the lights go out*
Remember when you shat yourself in Debenhams? What’s for tea next Thursday? Am I really fulfilling my life’s purpose or am I just a piece of meat? What was the name of that shop I bought some socks from in 2008? Is the front door locked? I wonder what the actress who plays Sonia from Eastenders is doing right now? EXACTLY HOW WILL I DIE AND WHEN?
*Starts rewriting Slide 18 of a Powerpoint presentation until 6.17am*
Apparently when I do sleep, I snore like a pig being run over by a train. That can’t be right, though, because I’m a beautiful and feminine lady. However, all the signs – husband lying with his arms wrapped around his head and ear plugs in, traumatised dog, smashed windows – point to yes. Nobody wants to share a hotel room with you if you snore, though, so it’s not all bad.
What was that? Was it a) a burglar with a sack marked ‘Swag’ jimmying the back door open with a crowbar b) the Zodiac Killer c) the ghost of someone who used to live in the house and died in mysterious circumstances d) the pipes? (Answer: always all of them except d).
HAVE ONE STUPID DREAM
When your sleep is constantly interrupted by your addled brain, you quickly realise that dreams are not prophetic or important. They are batshit mind collages based on tedious events, stuff you saw that day, and your pathetic fears and desires. And that’s why Harry Styles tried to kiss you but you couldn’t kiss him back because he was eating a banana, and you had to go home and put your herbs and spices in alphabetical order to prepare for your upcoming appearance on Come Dine With Me where you had to cook a chicken korma against the clock for your boss, your mum and Dermot Murnaghan.
GO TO THE NIGHT TOILET
After you reach a certain age, a nighttime trip to the toilet is a given. I tend to wake up at 5.45am, worry about death for a bit, start sweating, go to the toilet, pee like a racehorse, and go back to lying numbly awake thinking about Sonia from Eastenders playing the trumpet until…..
Oh, well, you've had six minutes’ sleep. What phone alarm sound would you like to wake up to?
The devil playing a glockenspiel in hell
An Enya song that builds to a terrifying, ear splitting crescendo
A sparrow jumping up and down on a zither
Woodpeckers hammering their heads repeatedly against an enormous anvil
The opening bars of John Craven’s Newsround
An ancient Yamaha being played in the back room of a pub in Barnsley by a Spandau Ballet covers band
The emergency alarm on an MRI machine
A goose crashing into a windchime
Too late! It’s 7.30!
VERDICT: NO Zs
THING: SAINSBURY’S BIRD’S EYE CHILLI COATED PEANUTS
These days, the only snacks you get in bars are small plates (one bollock shaped croquette: £7.50) and the lime wedge from your tequila shot. What happened to the wall of crisp boxes behind the bar? And where the hell are the Hot Nuts machines?
I blame espresso martinis and cocaine for their demise, because hot nuts used to be ubiquitous. They provided a natural pause in the evening before hitting the Aftershock, and I can tell you first hand that they are a real boon during a cost of living crisis (I often found myself drawn to the warm glow of the Hot Nuts machine because my gas fire was condemned.) But nothing can beat the mysterious rush of being a bit drunk and chomping into a weirdly warm nut encased in a crunchy, salty, spicy coating.
Anyway, these Sainsbury’s chilli coated peanuts remind me of them. They don’t even need to be heated up because they are covered in powdered fire. Have one of these dry sandy nuggets and say goodbye to your sanity AND the roof of your mouth because these babies are MOREISH.
If ever there was a show that would feature a joke about hot nuts – delivered in a sassy undertone during a bris in a penthouse apartment in the Meat Packing District– it’s this one. Written by Sex and The City and Emily in Paris writer Darren Star, Uncoupled is a gay romcom starring Neil Patrick Harris, who splits up with his partner Colin after 17 years and has to start dating again.
The Great Works of Darren Star are like crack to me. It’s clunkier than one of Emily in Paris’ social posts (the one about dog shit, maybe) but I LOVED it. Everyone is well over 40, has a glass of white wine welded into their hand in every scene and has no wisdom or insight about life whatsoever. And while I was watching it, I realised that I’m dying to see more wrinkles, scales, freckles, saggy jaws and gnarly hands on TV. Honestly, I’ve had just about enough of young people. Give me regret and cigarettes and terrible choices. Give me bitching at art openings and bitter recriminations in fabulous restaurants. GIVE ME OLDER GAY MEN FIGHTING ABOUT MONOGRAMMED TOWELS.
VERDICT: A wryly arched eyebrow over a frosty Cosmopolitan
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