Women carry bags. Given the design of tiny jeans and short coats, both of which lack pockets deep enough even for a small phone, I get it. What I really pissing object to is the giant fucking boulders that women currently deign to carry in packed spaces. You know the sort, large enough to carry the torso of a murder victim, with impossibly short-arse and plainly impractical handles. This results in one of two stances – the Cheryl or the cancerous tumour position.
The Cheryl requires space to observe the wonder and beauty of Le Chav. Ooooh look at me, I have a giant bag draped in my elbow crack. Can you see the label? I can carry this and take up the space of two Texans airlifted from their bedroom. I’ll stop right on a busy street corner, so you can gaze at me while attempting to defy the fundamental principles of mass. Suck it in, find a way to absorb yourself into the wall, door, window or fellow human troll who dares to be trying to get somewhere civilly.
I warn you, don’t touch them or look remotely aggrieved or they’ll fucking tear the shit from your bowels, through your eyes. With hair extensions or a Chelsea facelift, you’ll have nothing to grip onto; even the boobs detach but let’s be honest – you’ll not get close enough to defend yourself with the foot long talons. Their ire is mainly saved for women or ugly men, so chuck a footballer at them and you might survive.
At least the Cheryl sets her stance. You move through fear into acceptance that they know no better. Those who adopt the cancerous tumour however are the worst type of female on Earth, and bearing in mind the praying mantis and black widow spider, this may seem a bold claim so let me explain. The shoulder boulder holder doesn’t understand the fashion of these bags, but buys the label as they have the money. They bought it, and they’ll bloody well fill it with bricks if they want to. This expanse is then shunted up their arm until it sits right in their armpit, creating a dangerous arc of terror. These ‘women’ have careers, they wear suits, they are trying to break that glass ceiling but dammit, the man is keeping them down. And boy, are they bitter, twisted and above all spatially egotistical.
Try getting in a lift at rush hour, go on. You get in, plenty of room, everyone looking elsewhere or the occasional allowed head-nod. On the first floor the doors open, and in walks the shrivelled corpse carrying her leathery trophy of past victims. She’ll probably be on her iPhone (white earphones) berating someone just because she can. Prepare yourself as she squints and huffs that the lift dare have someone in it, then…breathe in.
The speed and sense of entitlement to the entire square footage harks back to suffragette fervour, with a touch of old school IRA belligerence. The first swing of the bag will take off a nipple before she reverses into you, crushing your ribs or your entire face with her mass of scrotum-like Chanel. Don’t expect her to apologise. You wouldn’t exist if she didn’t work her ass off. They only keep her at this level because they feel threatened you know, and you, pleb, will fucking appreciate her.
As the rest of the lift shivers in horror or blood loss, she now has space to swing the bag, searching for her pit bull pink lipstick when clearly she could wait the one floor descent to rummage. Finally, freedom. Well nearly, as she’ll block the bloody door as she continues to rummage oblivious that some of us would like to get the fuck out.
“You’re being a little harsh; maybe she needs it to carry laptops and papers to work.” Then explain the sanctimonious little prig-nosed bitches who turn up at gigs hunched over these globes like vultures drinking G ‘n’ T (darling). Firstly, why the fuck would you take such a gigantic holdall to see a band? Secondly, why would you not realise that it will be crushed as the main act comes on? I do love the sarcastic “do you mind” exclamations as I attempt the sideways crab to squeeze by. No offence love, but I paid to see this band, not to get a crocodile skin abrasion down my arm or hear about Sandra’s issues with her cleaner.
Mind you, at least it’s not a fucking bag on wheels. You know who you are.