Curs-ed boots. That’s what I’ve got. Not cursed. Curs-ed.
I got a new pair of Paul Smiths recently but they have been haunted by some eeeevil spirit.
After less than a week’s happy use out of my new size elevens, it appears that they are not all that they seem.
“Just what IS that smell?” asked my fragrant friend as I entered her divine presence recently.
And: “What’s crawled up your arse and died?”
But – for once – it wasn’t my bottom. Nor was it beef-flavoured farts dealt by her small yappy type dog.
It was my brand new hardly-worn-at-all boots.
Boots which smell like they were mined from between the very buttocks of Satan.
“You’re not coming inside my house with those boots, Yer-Man,” she said, meaning it.
And so, they are consigned to my garage, where they may fester in peace.
There can be only one explanation for this hideous spectral phenomenon. My new boots are haunted. Haunted and curs-ed. Haunted and curs-ed by the restless spirit of my poor, dead dogs arse.
And there is, I fear, only one course of action to be taken, and it was spelt out to me from the Other Side via a late-night Ouija board session in a darkened room at Derriaghy Towers.
K-I-C-K
D-E-R-E-K
A-C-O-R-A-H
I-N
T-H-E
F-A-C-E
So must it be.
Bless you Sam.
Or to put it another way.
If yer out partying and staggering around totally rat arsed. Be careful not to step in any festive pockles of dog shite.
It’ll ruin yer boots!
