Competitive carbs and other distractions

I have become obsessed with winning.

Yes, thats right, me the least competitive person in the world has developed the taste for success. And it all began with an ill conceived luncheon of soup and a bag of Kettle Chips as they were on offer. I bought the two, and looked at the bag of Kettle Chips that had a code on it and the words “enter your code to see if you’ve won in our promotion”.

Well why not I thought. Type it in, see how you get on kid. You may win.

I dutifully filled in the boxes. Tick went into the box, no thanks I dont want to add the e mails about Kettle Chips to my daily list of e mails to delete unread. Achica already seem to be firing e mails at me with such regularity I summise that their business plan must read that they exist now solely to dent my cast iron British reserve. You wont win, Achica, no matter how many updates you send me about Orla Kiely bath mats. I will stand strong, you bastards, you.

Some chief chef at Kettle Chips told me to click on his larder and I may find a prize. Surely theres a euphamism in there somewhere. But guess what? I won a tea towel. An actual tea towel! I love a tea towel!

I am now desperate to win more. I want the Kitchenaid Mixer, or the Le Creuset. I would love the bowls, or the wine glasses. I want them all! I very rarely get so darn competitive. I think its just because I see this as a relatively low risk gamble to take. Even if I lose, I get a bag of crisps. So its win-win. I have yet to win again, and I am furious about it. I must keep going until I win again. I wont stop. You watch me become housebound in the process.

Isn’t my life exciting. Some people get hooked on thrilling things. Im hooked on a prize draw attached to a brand of crisps. Its like that film Shame only no one would want Michael Fassbender to walk around naked if he’d gone method and put the necessary weight on to play me. Have you seen that film, Shame? Honestly you spend the first 25 minutes rewinding and watching Fassbender striding so confidently naked around that apartment, totally getting, by the way, why he is so confident with himself. It was like a python. Then you start watching the film and my word its dark. If anyone had any aspirations for sex addiction it would put you right off.

Similarly have you seen Magic Mike? The worlds hottest troop of strippers. How could it lose? I couldnt wait to see it. Instant classic we all thought. It was about a relatively charmless guy wanting to make furniture for a living. A young kid with bad tattoos ended up taking all his money to pay off drug debts. The wannabe Terence Conran ended up with some lass who seemed a bit mardy. The end. I could have cried. So much promise, so little delivery. Shite.

I still have a few rogue crisps on my desk. its been an ongoing siren call all day today. Talking of siren calls, I avoided the soul draining that is watching The Apprentice this week. Watching The Apprentice is like following people on Twitter who say awful things, or remaining friends with people on Facebook who post endless photos of their unattractive children in their tastelessly decorated living rooms. You do it because that repulsion/hatred/irritation is quite addictive. I thrive on some of that negative energy at times, but at other times I have to cull it. Cut it dead. I am currently removing that negative style energy from my life, and I started with Lord Sugar and his egocentric minions.

Instead I went upstairs with the dog, cuddled on the bed and watched Nigellissima: An Italian Inspired Christmas. I must admit I had a little cry at one point. It was when Nigella was in a beautiful public square and Maria Callas sang O Mio Babbino Caro. It was the oddest thing. It seemed to seep into my soul, it was so moving. I shazammed and bought it. Perhaps its been my Desert Island Discs obsession, but yesterday a piece of music that I have heard a million times, without any effect, suddenly shook me and it genuinely moved me. Very odd. Im sure it must have been the fact that as I listened to Sir David Attenborough yesterday chosing an array of classical music, I thought that my Desert Island Discs would probably consist of Girls Aloud Call the Shots, half a dozen Kylie classics and Bananarama Love in the First Degree. Im not sure it would be a classic. Whilst I’m sure I could cry as I discussed the memory of performing a synchronised dance routine to Your Disco Needs You in Essential in Manchester who two drag queens and a lad called Ian I worked with in a pub off King Street, or discuss the sheer joy I felt dancing to All The Lovers euphorically through a rum and coke haze past midnight outside Jackie O’s in Mykonos with Pete, Alan and Marc, its hardly an inspirational tale. Saying that, some Desert Island Discs are better than others. You quite often come out the other end and think “im not sure I like you very much my dear”. And I cant listen to many Sue Lawley ones. She may be from Dudley, but im not fond. Unlike gorgeous, gorgeous Kirsty Young. Voice like butter, and the most wonderful interviewer.

Right, should shake a tail feather, its steak for tea tonight. One of the benefits of my passing Waitrose on the way into work and calling in for a free coffee. They know what they are doing you know. Todays free coffee cost me £27.

Look at me, 2 posts in a week. Im like Jessica Fletcher in front of my keyboard at the moment. If only I had Angela Lansbury’s plastic surgery kitty as well. It comes to something when im a third of her age and twice as jowelly. I’ll also be three times the size if someone doesnt take these bastard Kettle Chips off me. For the love of god Adam, step away from the potato based snacks. They are not your friends. Bread is your friend, not crisps. Walk away, son. Save yourself.

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