The Tale Of The Sadistic Shoe Maker

Sometimes shoe shopping can be a bit laborious for The iLL Man. It inevitably turns into something akin to hunting for the Elephants Graveyard and I usually return home either with nothing at all, or something that "wasn't quite what I was after", not that I knew what that was either, but it's always good to have an ideal in mind in these situations. Other times shoe shopping can be a piece of piss. Like when I'm looking for work shoes.

"Fuck style!" I yell, "bring me something black, comfy and inexpensive!!!.

So naturally I head to one of those self service warehouse type outlets where you can try the fuckers on to yr hearts content. Such was the case the other day and lo, I found myself a pair of size twelve slip-ons (handy in the morning when you're too numb and fucked to be bothered with anything as complex as tying shoelaces) which felt remarkably comfy. Nice! Anyway, I boxed them up and paid the £14.99(I really should know better) and off I went.

The following morning I put them on and found, to my horror, that my feet had a great deal of difficulty sliding into them. Had the shoes shrunk in the night? Had my feet mutated and gone beyond an already impressive size 12? It being about 8.25 am by this point, and time I was gone, I had no choice but to cram the ill-fitting shoes onto my feet and high-tail it out to work. Half an hour later, I waddled in agony to my desk and groped about for my old pair. There are so many holes in them that people can see what colour socks I'm wearing, but fuck it, there's only so much pain a man can take. It felt as though someone had put tiny little razor blades in the heels and I skulked off to the bogs to survey the damage. It wasn't too bad, a small raw patch of skin on each heel and the beginnings of a couple of blisters. The problem was that I couldn't resist bursting one of them and the cold air on new, raw skin had me wincing in agony. I resolved to leave the other one alone and decided the only way I could get home that night was to cram bits of paper towel into my socks

There has to be a name for this phenomenon. It crossed my mind that I might have picked up a pair of elevens by accident, but no, the stickers on the soles and the size stamp resolutely say '12'. Why do a pair of shoes feel roomy and pleasant in the shop, yet seem to have turned into medieval torture devices the following day? Yes the socks I was wearing the next day were marginally thicker, but surely not thick enough produce the vice-like effect I experienced.

I do believe the shoes will serve me well in time, but I just need to wait until I grow some new skin on the back of my feet before I go back to them.

Anyway, a few announcements. First up, The Scottish Idlers Guild meets for the very first time on Saturday. Hit the link for the details, but needless to say, if you live in the Glasgow area, crave a life less tiresome and can spare some time this coming Saturday afternoon, then feel free to join the Guild and you'll be welcomed, probably with a request to get a round in.............

Next up, I see that Steve at Dr Feelgood is back in the saddle again. Steve was one of the first people to link to me and his blog has never been anything other than essential reading. He's been away for a fair few months, but he's still as good as ever. Check his majestic Fisking of the malodorous Jon Gaunt of the Sun. OK, it's shooting fish in a barrel, but it's deserving of it. He also provides a couple of very amusing Richard Littlejohn related links. Welcome back!

Finally. Am I the only one who hates this fucking album? Am I the only one who thinks the Beatles are shit? If I am, please ignore me. I am quite wrong and my views are of no consequence.

On the other hand.............