Embrace your inner YOU

Crewe is in Cheshire. Cheshire is apparently the poshest county in England (or at least one of the poshest), due to the high footballer population. So there is an abundance of tacky, mock Tudor and Georgian mansions, Range Rover Sports, BMW X5s and Bentlys and women caked in fake tan living in and driving the aforementioned things.

However, Crewe is nothing like the rest of Cheshire. It is nasty and common and I hate it ("...but tell us how you REALLY feel" I hear you cry). It is full of chavs and fat people, who have the nerve to watch me up and down, as if I owe them money...which is technically true since my and my husband's taxes pay their benefits. Anyway, I believe Crewe to be the most depressing town in Cheshire. The bus station alone is enough to make anyone suicidal, so there's no need to discuss the covered market and the fact that people's entire wardrobes seem to come from the boot of someone's shitty 1997 Ford Mondeo.

So living in Crewe isn't really good for my inner me. You see, my inner me is HUGE snob. My outer me is black, so a lot of people over here just assume things about me. But whatevs. My inner me makes my outer me shop at Selfridges and wear Ralph Lauren and Cavalli and walk around with D&G handbags. My inner me is the reason why my outer me gets this super-scornful look on her face whenever I even drive past Crewe bus station. My inner me is the reason why I roll my eyes at the thought of going to Asda or Morrison's. You get my drift.

So today I went out to Cheshire Oaks, which is this big outlet mall about forty-five minutes' drive from where I live. It's where I go when I have nothing else to do, if the weather's good and if I'm looking for something in particular. There are enough shops there to keep my inner me happy- Burberry, Kurt Geiger, Mulberry and the like. I was also able to pick up my tea- Green Tea and Earl Grey. Yummy! Anyway, I'm preparing to work on my Carnival body. T-five! As such, I obviously needed to get some new work out clothes. Surprisingly enough, maintaining this flabby temple does not require a sports bra and running shorts.

I didn't think there'd be a problem. I mean, sure they closed down the Puma store (which was MAD cheap), but there's an Adidas store, Nike store and a Reebok store. No sweat. Well, problem numero uno, they closed down the Adidas store. Normally I wouldn't go in there. I stopped going in when my husband picked up a shit-brown velour tracksuit top with every intention of buying. The only colour that would have been more revolting, would be the colour of the vomit that would spew forth from me if he brought that thing anywhere near to our flat. BUT I thought I'd pop in, pick up a few things, then pop back out. But, 'twas not to be.

So I went to the Reebok store. They seemed to have received a shipment meant for the Barbie store. I do not recall seeing that much pink in one place meant for the bodies of grown women. It was awful. And what wasn't pink, was grey and diaphonous. Yes. Size 26 running tights. Oh my! Sigh.

No problem I thought. Nike won't let me down. I mean, c'mon, they're Nike. I've been wearing Nike and Reebok all my life (punctuated by a brief stint with the LA Gear crew and before, in my later teens, I was seduced by the simplicty of Keds) so I was like "Hell yeah, Nike!" Turns out it was "Fuck me! Nike?" Black velour trackie bottoms, white paper-type three-quarter length trousers and a whole rack of XS things that I would have actually bought, if they were my size. Steups.

Oh no! Whatever was I to do? All three sports shops turned out to be as useful as tits on a fish. Looks like apart from my tea, it was a wasted trip. Well, not exactly. There was one more shop. But my inner me began to break out in a cold sweat at the mere thought of going in there. My inner me was begging my outer me to just call it a day, jump in the little Focus and get the hell out of there. But what my inner me seems to lack, is a bit of foresight. You see, my outer me would be absolutely mortified to play mas looking the way I do now. So she won out in the end.
I decided to go into Sports Direct.

Sports Direct is best described as cheap as fuck. Everything there is heavily discounted already. This is so those who live on the margins of society can afford the sportswear they need to go about their daily lives- smoking, not working and watching Jeremy Kyle.

As I was walking in, a man with tattoos on his neck and wearing a Man Utd t-shirt was walking out, pushing a fat toddler in a stroller. It did not fill me with confidence. I actually took a deep breath and submerged myself in their world.

I went over to the womens' section and started sifting through the racks. While I was doing that, I notied a little girl, who could be considered obese for her age, following my every move. I didn't mind actually. And I minded even less when I realised that her mother was equally overweight and commanding some spotty-faced youth to fish down a swimuit from the rafters (they put them so high so the commoners don't steal them. They know their clientele!). The poor boy. Perched atop a ladder being barked at by a fat, middle-aged woman on benefits. That surely isn't worth the minimum wage.

Anyway, I found a couple things that passed the Bunny test, so I picked them up and started to head to the till. But I got distracted by some more things that were only four pounds, so stopped to have a look. It was then that I found myself trapped by a rack of clothes. They'd just been pushed into place by one of the employees. She was obviously hired by someone who either had a whopping great sense of humour, or was completely blind in both eyes. I turned around just in time to catch said employee lift up her t-shirt to scratch her back. It was not a pretty sight. Why, you ask? Well, the only way I could get you to imagine what she looked like is to describe her as such "Fat as fuck." How fat is fuck? Well, as fat as she is. A woman the size of a mini-van, working in a sporting goods store. Oh, how we laughed. After she finished scratching her great rolls of back flab, I managed to squeeze past her without being sucked into her gravitational pull and went to the cashier.

I paid as fast as was humanly possible and got the hell out of there. Job's a good 'un!

So I came home, to the sanctuary of the world's tiniest flat, put on my new jogging tights and scarfed down my lunch of chicken and vegetables. All is right with the world again. My inner me is slightly traumatised, but she'll thank me when she's looking fabulous on the road come Carnival Monday.

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