I'm guessing Steve Jobs doesn't eat many Wotsits.
Because if he did he'd realise that having a white computer can be a real pain in the balls when you've just bought a multibag of highly orange corn snacks.
And it's not just an aesthetic thing. I'm pretty sure that if my girlfriend is ever going to find out about my grubby little secret hobby, it won't be the internet history that gives me away:
It'll either be that or the orange fingermarks on my penis.
Because there is no peer pressure in the world that compares with the one where everyone just stands looking at you going:
"Sing it."
"Yeah go on sing it!"
"Just sing it."
"Don't be such a nob, just sing it."
"Sing a bit of a it."
"Yeah at least sing a bit of it."
"Oi everyone -- Sing it! Sing it! Sing it! Sing it! Sing it!"
"I'd sing it if I knew it."
Until eventually you just give up and say, "OK, fine! I'll just sing a bit of it. God!"
And then you look down at your feet, and you let you let fly.
Happy now, bitches?
It's only been 24 hours and already I'm getting the urge to text him with the big news. I'm 99% certain this is the final proof I'm not racist.
But I'll wait. I'll wait until we're next on the train together, then as soon as there's a natural lull in the conversation, I'll hit him with it.
ME: ... Oh god yeah by the way. FYI sort of thing -- I've seen it.
HIM: What sorry?
ME: You know, 'The Film.' I've seen it. Slumdog.
HIM: Right.
ME: Yep. Slumdog Millionaire. One third of the dialogue in Hindi.
HIM: Yeah?
ME: Oh yeah, easy. And loved it and everything. Oh and before I forget -- my favourite bit was the big dancing bit at the end. Shits all over the big dancing bit in Mama Mia.
HIM: Haven't seen it.
ME: Slumdog? Oh you really should. Mumbai though. So colourful! Colours! Vibrant! God it's vibrant. Too bloody vibrant, almost.
SILENCE.
HIM: Can't believe they're only running a four-coach service out of Euston.
ME: Hmm? Yeah.
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