Rehab is for Fannies., another c/o : sofia de lockhart.,

I am quite sure that most of us feel the same way when, sitting on a tube or bus on the way to some soul destroying workplace, we glance across the pages of a free newspaper to find that another pampered celebrity has been having way too much fun and simply needs to chill out for a while in an expensive clinic. Because, the truth be told, a lot of people enjoy excessive pleasure. Let’s face it, lots of people drink too much, plenty of people take drugs and we all like a good orgy. Hearing that earning filthy amounts of cash whilst drinking too much champagne in exclusive bars constitutes some kind of disease is like being told the Queen has been rushed of her feet of late and is going on the sick with stress.
Turning up at work still pissed from last night typically receives little sympathy from your boss. This, I believe, is a good thing. A hangover is the perfect reminder that you acted like a complete gizzard the night before and without them it is possible that everyone would be completely hammered all of the time. The negative effects of this would quickly trickle down into all aspects of society and we would become vulnerable to attack from aggressive seagulls, communists and major corporations. One hazy morning we would all wake up to find that somehow Jim Davidson had been voted into power and Tesco had bought the NHS. Shit jokes about foreigners and gays and 50% off Onion Rings with every hip replacement. It would be a nightmare.
Going back to the Rehab issue, I wonder what on Earth they tell them in there? Don’t worry, it will be alright. Maybe stop taking drugs? I know what I’d tell them. Get back to work you little Fannies! Because there is nothing like the paranoia of looking your colleagues, who hate you anyway, square in the eye and talking about spread sheets when you are in the midst of the existential crisis that is, a good speed come-down. Going to the toilet cubicle to eat your sandwiches through fear of small talk is my idea of rehab. I should start my own clinic. I’d wean the Notting Hill gimps of coke by making work a 14 hour double shift on a checkout, or a production line next to a man called Tony who has dermatological problems, scratches his cock when he thinks you’re not looking and is probably, in broad terms, a paedophile.
Call centre paranoia is unique and luxurious punishment. You might think that being on the other end of a phone, when the customer cannot smell the cider on your breath or see your squinting red eyeballs, protects you from metal breakdown. This assumption is quite naive. There is something really special about ringing someone you have never met, shivering and with a bone dry mouth, and trying to convince them to buy an encyclopaedia when you know that your boss is probably listening in from his office. It is a strange and unusual method or torture. I have heard rumours that the phone calls you may have received from Indian call centres are actually from Guantanamo Bay, where Marines hold terror suspects at gunpoint and force them to sit with telephone headsets, hands immersed buckets of cold gravy, and make them to sell insurance. It takes on average 3 full package life policies before you crack, dribbling and sign any gravy stained confession put in front of you.
I am no expert, but I having a feeling that would bring any drugged up ex-boyband member crashing down to Earth. I would oversee all of this personally of course.. Not that I’m sadistic or anything. I just care, that’s all.