Ghostbusters

Into town to get in a quick bash at a couple of clothes shops before closing. I thought the crowds were admiring the Picasso outside the National Gallery, but no, they were watching an entertainer who was probaly doing something with fire. But I was on a mission - shops here I come. It was horrible: teenagers, tourists, murderous musak in H&M. The only way to do it is to have my music in my ears to blot out whatever R&B, pop-dance or acoustic singer-songwriter pish from the latest mobile phone ad is playing in the shop. H&M is the worst. Zara is beyond bad - usually unlistenable Spanish Lighthouse Family banality. Top Man goes for the hey kids, we play the music you love: safe, popular, jumpy guitars, regional accent, some witty tale about drinking too much, sounds like The Jam. It used to depress me - full of 14 year-olds making me feel about 54, but now I don't care. You can stick your Ghostbusters t-shirt. I'm waaay cooler than you'll ever be. Sod it, I can't be bothered trying anything on. I'm getting the hell out of here. I hate this place. I'm past it. I need a drink.