Yesterday, my girlfriend Rebecca dragged me through a Primark shop to grab a couple of last-minute Christmas gifts. For anyone who doesn’t know, Primark is a horrific place; perhaps the closest representation of the Christian interpretation of hell, on earth. It is a never ending jungle of cheap, tatty clothes, patrolled and overpopulated by a vicious breed of horrific rhinoceros women, clawing at one another for that last little frilly top, as their suicidal boyfriends sit on floor; their souls almost visible as they slip from their bodies. Fourteen year old girls with push-up bras and mini-skirts trot around the lingerie section with their new born babies, while barking insults at the kid who may or may not be the father, as he begs to be allowed to leave after the third hour. It truly is humankind’s worst offering to the retail universe.

Anyway, so there I was, thinking fond, warm thoughts about the fact that I would eventually be dead, and would never have to set foot in a shop like this again, when I came across a particular item. It was called the ‘Extreme Pushup’ bra, and it was “designed to majorly enhance a lacking cleavage”.
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