Queen Coleen

Today, I ventured into town to purchase more stock (Blue Coat Redemption is going well). I got some kick-arse deals on Penguins and Kit Kats. Perhaps Jamie Oliver will close me down unless I start offering fruit at break and lunch. Kit Kats only have 107 calories though- it can't be all bad.

After grabbing a selection of saleable confectionary, I continued down Bold Street and arrived in some sort of ration queueing system outside Waterstones. I'm sure in the 1940s people were a lot more civilised when obtaining their daily bread. What I saw here was gangs of teenage girls squabbling over square inches of pavement, all bristling with copies of a peculiarly pink book: Coleen's Autobiography.

"Shit on a stick" I thought. It seemed that some no-mark slag had boned Wayne Rooney and now she is entitled to have her autobiography published and achieve instant national fame. I could understand the hysterics if Mr Rooney him self had visited the dump aka Liverpool to scribble more clumsily than my 6 year old brother over a chunk of paper with his ugly face printed all over it, but come on!

I asked one of the many Waterstones employees crowded around the crowd what was going on and how I was supposed to get inside. He told me Ms Rooney was performing a book signing in "this very building". I asked him what time it was starting. "Half past two," he replied. I consulted my watch: 11:15 it read. "Innit," he smiled at me again, "Most of these people have been here since ten o'clock." "Wow," I sighed and pushed myself round him and into the main foyer.

Now what I was looking for was a copy of Queen Camila by Sue Townsend. When I went inside, shelves by author from R through V had been moved to make way for Queen Coleen and an army of agitated photographers. I asked an employee if I could access the 'T' section. My request was declined. Darn.

I left in a disgruntled manner, knocking over some of the special £1 World Book Day books in protest. Outside, there were more protesters. I'm not sure if this Coleen woman regularly wears fur or something, but there were anti-animal cruelty, anti-fur and anti-footballers wives protesters all gathered round on the opposite side of the street. They were all jostling each other in the most uncivilised manner, vying to get the attention of the camera crew who seemed to be recording the whole book signing affair. Funnily enough, I haven't seen any mention of the event on the local news this evening.

After that intolerable experience, I decided on some soothing retail therapy in the form of browsing aimlessly around, and not actually buying anything, in Lewis', a huge independent department store in Liverpool. To my horror, most of the lower facade of the building had been plastered with signs proclaiming: CLOSING DOWN SALE- EVERYTHING MUST GO. For some explicable reason, I decided to enter to see if there were any bargains to be had. There were none. Instead of the racks of '99% off everything' that I wanted to see, all there was were a few ornate teapots and pointless teddy bear picture frames being mulled over by old women who smelt funny.

I sighed and departed, instead spending my hard stolen cash on an Angus Burger in Burger King. Pretty decent sandwich that.