Shit off, Potter
The thirty-something man, dressed in generic supermarket jeans and a grubby polo shirt, gleefully ferreting through the last few pages of the new Harry Potter in the entrance of our local Tescos, eager to find out who dies immediately so that he could feel part of some ridiculous national/global obsession. That was the moment when I realised how sick to fucking death I am of Harry Fucking Potter.
There were grownups in wizard costumes outside Waterstones at quarter to midnight last night. Grownups. In wizard costumes. Oh, fuck off. Fuck off with your adult edition of the new book. Fuck off with dicking around in fancy dress in the high street on a Friday night so you can go to work on Monday and breathlessly recount to your indifferent colleagues (who all hate you anyway, except for that strange girl from Accounts with the wonky teeth and one boob bigger than the other) just how much fun it all was and how, like, really great the book is and how sad it is that there won't be any more.
Because, do you know what? It makes you look a twat.
Far be it from me to dictate what people should or shouldn't read, or like, or do for fun at the weekends. It's the smugness that irritates me. The air of belonging to some exclusive group of people who are prepared to queue for endless hours on a rain-lashed pavement so they can buy a flabby, third-rate children's book that will still be perfectly available at nine the next morning (and probably in the remainders bin in Woolworths by christmas). Do what you like. I just really, really don't get it, that's all.
Plus, I have a sneaking suspicion that Dan Brown and JK Rowling are one and the same person. I mean, you never see them in the same room together, do you?
Fucking Harry Potter. Bollocks to him.