But whatever, Brighton is the place where a ‘strike’ of six- and seven-year-old children took place - actually organised by their parents (or guardians) and various cretinous leftie-green activists. Granted, it is a mild surprise that there any people left in Brighton predisposed towards procreating in the normal manner - although maybe all the children are adopted. It’s also the place - of course - where parents have objected most stringently to Sats tests for their unspeakable children. Hell, if the people of Brighton can’t be arsed to make the short journey to Beachy Head, I would pay towards having Beachy Head transported to Brighton, so that it is even handier for them, and personally chaperone them towards the precipitous edge: ‘Look, look - it’s France just over there! Doesn’t the water look a lovely blue! Now take a deep breath…’ They’re all in favour of assisted dying, after all. It makes Islington look rational and rooted. It had a council leader called ‘Jason Kitcat’. The council has a fleet of eco-friendly electric cars which, of course, never work. This is a city which has abolished men and women so as not to offend people who aren’t entirely sure which of the two they are. I would happily drive charabancs of right-on Brightonians eager to end it all the 20-odd miles from their debauched and smug little bijou seaside residences to the terminal pristine clarity of those majestic white cliffs. Perhaps Beachy Head should advertise itself a little better in the city, maybe with a helpful map - ‘This Way To Top Yourself - You Know It Makes Sense’. As a reliable termination-of-life venue, it is quite close to the city of Brighton - and yet despite its great convenience and pleasant surroundings, all too few Brighton residents avail themselves of the opportunity of killing themselves here. Unhappy people throw themselves off the sheer and stark white cliffs and down on to the rocks 531ft below. I can no longer buy the product because of the offence caused to a handful of people who have skin as thin and fragile as the surface tension of water.īeachy Head, in East Sussex, is a famous suicide spot, hence the punning name of the product, the peachy/beachy joke which so enraged. Anyway, Urban Outfitters of course caved in and pulled Peachy Head. I assume this last broadside was a case of economic self-interest on the part of the fantastically deranged individuals who inhabit cyberspace - they will be needing that assistance one day soon. Suicide is not a laughing matter, you bastards! The perpetually furious internet denizens - obsessives and compulsives all - bombarded Urban Outfitters on Twitter demanding that the firm withdraw the product forthwith and also donate money to a mental health charity to atone for their sins. The screeching, the howl-round, the mentalisms. But unfortunately the product is no longer available to me, because of the furore that was occasioned. It is called ‘Peachy Head - Peach Shampoo for Suicidal Hair.’ That would do the job. What I needed, then, was a brilliant haircare product available from a shop called Urban Outfitters. In my case, Gorgonzola, with a subtle undertone of raw sewage. Maybe, to adapt Orwell’s mordant observation, at the age of 56 everyone has hair which smells exactly as they deserve. I don’t know why, because I wash it frequently enough. It smelt like that rotten cheese Italians eat. ‘Probably the dog, again,’ I replied - but I knew that was a lie. What’s that appalling stench, my wife asked recently while sitting next to me on the sofa as we watched a rerun of the old racist editions of Midsomer Murders starring the excellent John Nettles. I am having terrible trouble with my hair at the moment.
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