The end of the affair

I, mister nora, of the Slovenly Pit of Mutual Filth, do solemnly swear that never again, not even in the pits of alcoholic slothfulness, will I purchase alcoholic products from the Northcote Wine Monkey.

I swear not to believe the Wine Monkey when he says the wine is “Good, yes that’s a good wine, very good, very good. It has medals, see, it’s good.”

I swear not to smile at the Wine Monkey as he slurps cash from my credit card so that he can keep himself in sweaty shirts, garlic, aging hookers and dirty Bulgarian vodka.

I swear that not even in the midst of detoxifying desperation will I ever again buy and drink bottles of “$18.99! Is good!” liquor, liquor that any right thinking person would use to dissolve the battered bodies of murder victims in a steel bath while smoking a cigar and chuckling to oneself in a quietly sinister fashion.

I swear that next time I am thirsty, I will make like a fox straight to Liquorland. Even if it does mean walking an extra 500 metres. IN THE RAIN.

I swear on my mother’s grave, on Jarvis Cocker’s pants, on Vladimir Motherfucking Nabakov, I swear that I will not continue to support the filthy wine merchandising of the filthy Northcote Wine Monkey and the filthy bat’s piss he insists on selling me at outrageously filthy prices.


Fuck you, Northcote Wine Monkey. I may be a lousy lazy drunk, and you may run the nearest bottlo, but I’ve had enough. You’ve pushed me too far.

You and me, Northcote Wine Monkey: it’s over.


xoxo nora