Torment in Thorrock

I had a wander round Lakeside today. Conveniently located on the junction of the M25 and A13, Lakeside consists of a vast acreage of what our friends across the Atlantic would call 'malls'. It has an irresistible, magnetic attraction for the flotsam of estuary Essex, who travel here from the length and breadth of the 'magic triangle' (that's Romford, Southend and Chelmsford) to snap up trainers, reasonably-priced jewellry, cheap fags and tight-fitting, tarty clothes. Visiting this high temple of rampant consumerism is not, as I'm sure you can imagine, one of my favourite pastimes, but I had to go. I badly needed a new pair of shoes, having discovered to my cost last week that if you have a hole in one shoe in Scotland in late October, you get a soggy sock and exceedingly cold feet; for all its multitude of faults, Lakeside is renowned as the premier spot for footwear in the county.

Anyway, with the shoes in the bag, so to speak, I was having a mooch around W. H. Smiths. Unless you want to buy a cookbook, some miserable paperback trash-lit or a dreary celebrity autobiography, the place is next to useless. The world's only bookshop that doesn't actually specialise in books. Disappointed but not altogether surprised that there was nothing there to take my fancy, I found that the upstairs exit (and my route to a sit-down and a nice cup of tea) was blocked by a big security guard. I tried to shuffle past, only to be told that I 'couldn't go through without buying a copy'. Peering past this uniformed buffoon, who did I see but none other than celebrity nonentity Chantelle Houghton, busy doing a book-signing. Or not.

So much about this is wrong. Look, I bear this woman no malice, but how her agent (or whoever) can justify her 'writing' an autobiography is beyond me. She was on Big Brother, she copped off with a minor pop singer, she got married. Fifteen words is all it takes. Stretching this out to a 300-page hardback would challenge the finest of literary minds, let alone Britain's favourite Paris Hilton impersonator.

I felt a bit for her though. Sales were slow to say the least. Almost nil in fact. I thought about buying a copy and getting her to sign it to show support, but it was £14, and at the end of the day I only wanted a cup of tea. So I retraced my steps to the downstairs exit; going back up I found that a fairly sizeable crowd of non-book buying passers-by had gathered to gawp at Houghton through the plate-glass window. Most fair-minded commentators would say that her 15 minutes of fame is long since past, but it seems Chantelle remains a box-office draw in these parts.

I eventually headed off the Waterstones. Surely they wouldn't let me down, and I would actually be able to buy something sensible to read. But no. Another horde of star-struck shoppers was clustered around the door. Another book signing. Another bloody Big Brother contestant.

This time it was the poor-man's Norman Wisdom, grinning simpleton Pete Bennett. Enough was enough. I wasn't prepared to fight my way in, and I certainly wasn't prepared to pay for a book I'd never read and have the dubious honour of being sworn at by some z-list celebrity for the privilege. There was nothing for it but to wave the white flag of surrender, call it a day and head off home, stopping off to watch the football results in Dixons, of course. You'll be glad to know that neither John Tickle, Shahbaz or Jade Goody was anywhere to be seen.


Recommendations:
Wayne 'Hawaii 501' Mardle. Oh dear. His 50-1 price was for a reason - beaten in the first round by a genuine fat-bastard darts player, Andy Smith. Oh well. Undaunted, this week I am backing West Ham to continue their magnificent, erm, 1-game winning run and trump Arsenal tomorrow at 9/2 (William Hill).
Tiffany Stevenson's blog - well worth a read.
Mashed up electronic beats - featuring a great deal of Yazoo - by the spectacular Divide & Kreate.