Hollister: What a cunt of a shop

On a nice spring day like today, what is an ‘in-between roles ‘ soap character like me to do other than hop on the bus to town for a mooch round the shops and enjoy a few bevies with old friends?

I fancied myself a new pair of denims, as my favourite stone wash Wranglers are getting a bit old now, so I was wandering through Liverpool One trying to find this G-Star shop that @TinheadFTM recommended and I came across this strange smell.  It smelled like the scent of really pretentious rich teenagers who would pay more for a popped collar polo shirt than I paid for my first car.

I looked to my left to see where this overpowering odour was coming from, and saw some kind of strange surf shack / beach house thing, with loud funky music blasting out of the dark window shutters.

“What. The. Fuck’s. This?”   I said to my double denimed self. I thought it was a nightclub or something, so popped in for a Babycham. 

“Hey, welcome to Hollister”  goes this posh-non-scouse- bird wearing a checked shirt 4 sizes too big for her and some denim hotpants.  *note to self:  get some of those hotpants for Summer*    I just about heard her over the ear-rapingly loud music.

Once my eyes had adjusted to the fact that it’s darker than a Chilean mine shaft in there, I realised I wasn’t in a bar, but was actually in some fucked up Californian fraternity house type shop that would fit right in on the set of the 90210 remake.

Piles of overpriced t-shirts resting neatly on a dining table that defo used to be me Nan’s... A load of trackies rolled up stored in a bookcase ...  A load of hoodies folded with a ruler and spirit level placed on a rustic wooden bench...   fuck me.. Never seen such bad grip in my life.

“Hey, what’s up.”  Goes this open shirted-non-scouse-bloke.

“I’ll tell you what’s up, I can’t see fuck all, I can’t hear myself think, and WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS PLACE? And why can’t you just turn the big light on?”

Instead of answering me, the beaut just flexed his muscles and flashed his Hollywood smile.

I was then distracted by two lads trying to decide which t-shirt was most, and I quote, “epic”.  Who the fuck calls a T-shirt epic?  I’ll tell you who DOESN’T...  scousers!  These two were obviously Uni students who need to bail the fuck out of Liverpool the day they graduate before they end up another statistic on the Echo’s gun crime map.
 

Another waft of aftershave (Eau de Pretentious) came through the air conditioning and I nearly vommed,  I had to get out of this non-scouse hell hole and fast. But then I seen that the shopping bags have a proper fit guy with no top on them, so I had to buy something didn’t I.   

Ended up with this monstrosity.....  --->

Thought it was beige coz of the light in there, didn’t I. Turns out its the colour of a Mr Kipling lemon fondant fancy and now @TinheadFTM is calling me “a bad nonce and a wool combined”.

Moral of the story is... 
 

Hollister is not scouse.

Hollister = wool

Popped collars = wool

Clothes that are solid primary colours = wool 

Wanting to look like you're off the set of 90210 = wool

Saying a tshirt is epic = ThunderCuntish

AN OPEN LETTER TO PIERS MORGAN

AN OPEN LETTER TO PIERS MORGAN

Dear Piers, 

Whatever happened to you at that posh private school you went to? Were you bog flushed on multiple occasions? Locked in cupboards for hours on end? Was your teddy bear beheaded? Were you de-kecked in front of hundreds of people?  Did you get forced to eat the ‘soggy biscuit’?  

I ask these questions not because I care about your troubled childhood in the slightest, but because I wonder what is behind you growing in to a despicable, embarrassment of a man.

You genuinely make me cringe so hard that my testicles invert.

“Why?” I hear you ask as you check your Twitter for “top blokey banter” from Alan Sugar.  Because you are quite literally the definition of an UtterTwunt. 

There are a million and one reasons why you are the definition of an UtterTwunt. I can feel my blood pressure rising just thinking them through. I will probably end up dead if I write too much.

I deliberately swerve you on TV. As soon as your face appears doing one of those god awful manufactured life stories programmes with some FameRat like Peter Andre where you just talk over them anyway and hardly let them answer, etc – the TV goes off. 

But what I can’t avoid is your god awful tweeting, even though I don’t follow you, it keeps getting retweeted in to my timeline.  To be honest, I did follow you one time, just so I could UNFOLLOW you immediately to see if it gave me any respite from this eternal hatred. It did, for about 10 seconds, then I hated you even more. 

Annoyingly, I am a glutton for punishment, I see one of your tweets RT’d into my timeline and I just have to open it up and read it.  And time after time, I see you doing one of three things:

1) Namedropping a massive celeb, like a desperate Z-lister would /  RTing a “praise” tweet from an aforementioned massive celeb like a desperate Z-lister would.

2) Chatting shit about how great you are, how many followers you have, how many viewers your chat show has, how many countries it is broadcast to..etc.

3) Continuing to embarrass yourself by having “top blokey banter” with footballers that hate you / people that hate you / Alan Sugar who hates you etc.

What annoys me the most is that you are AWFUL at “banter”. Your comebacks are just so awful and cringe worthy, you act like a stuck up rich boy at private school, trying to defend himself from bog-flushing, de-kecking, cupboard locking and soggy biscuit eating. Hence my opening lines.

You are SO BAD  that you make the likes of Rio Ferdinand, Michael Owen and Wayne Rooney look good.  You make them look like they have won; which of course makes my blood boil so much that my ears whistle, as they are all absolute CuntKnuckles.   

Stop correcting their spelling and grammar. They are footballers – they aren’t meant to be able to spell.  Stop getting the red pen out and how’s about you actually lash a proper insult their way.  Tell Rooney that he looks like he got his hair cut in St. Helens for a fiver. Tell him that you’ve upped the security at your Mum’s nursing home so he doesn’t go and back end her.  And tell Rio that his top lip proper looks like a slug. In fact, tell him that his mouth actually looks like a badly packed kebab. Tell him that his Mrs has GOT a badly packed kebab.  And as for the Welsh Midget, surely you can muster something up about curling out a shit that was bigger than his entire body or something? Or something about United extending his contract, by putting a piece of paper at the bottom saying “he’s shit” ?  

Meanwhile, the thought of you broadcasting to millions of Americans in your newfound CNN fame makes me ill, purely because the WHOLE of America will think all English men are absolute bell ends. Simon Cowell and you are flying the flag. Good job I’m scouse and not English, isn’t it Piersy?

One other massive thing that infuriates the balls off me:

You called your three sons Spencer, Stanley and Albert. What kind of chance do they have of NOT BEING TWATS with names like that, and a Dad like you?  And even more annoyingly, combined, they sound like an utterly thundercuntish estate agents, or investment firm ... “Good Morning, Spencer Stanley Albert, how may I help you?”   

And one last thing, if, heaven forbid, I was an Arsenal fan, I’d get a petition going to get some kind of court order preventing you from associating yourself with the club.

Good day to you, you massive massive blert,

Jimmy Corkhill x

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