Apologies in advance – bit ranty this one.
In an earlier post about being elected mayor of London, I listed the number one thing on my list to ban was golf umbrellas. I hereby declare it my mission to get the damn things banned long before then.
On the London Underground, it’s packed. This evening I found a rare seat but some git with a soaking wet bloody parasol stood in front of me. You’re damn right there’s nowhere to put it sunshine – it’s too big! Don’t give me and the other passengers who now have wet legs an apologetic look. And another bloke – when you’re walking through the carriage with your dripping brolly leaving a trail of wet people behind you- THINK! Leave the thing at home and take a brolly just big enough for your head next time even though I know it won’t cover your ego.
Even worse is when you’re walking up the escalators. It’s not a sword. Keeping it by your side and knocking all the people on your right… How can you not notice!? How can you not feel the death stares in your oblivious skull?
Ban Golf Umbrellas now!
In my Goth years, I used to permanently carry an umbrella, for rain is the known mortal enemy of Goth hair. It was a small brolly with a hook. I used to hook it to the inside armpit of my leather jacket. Thus not impacting anyone. If you carried your golf umbrella on the inside of your stripey suit, we’d all be a lot happier.
What cheered me up sightly was noticing the irony of so many people absolutely soaking wet whilst declaring through the medium of brand advertising that they were in fact “Super Dry”.
Some Pilot You Are 