Don't Worry, Be Happy........and Join Exit.

I have been blue (emotionally, not colour-wise, although that can't be far off) over the last few days for one reason or another, but quite what I've got to be down about beats me. I'm approaching 40 from the wrong side, going bald, I'm overweight, smoking myself to death, drinking too much, heading for a divorce and I have an overdraft only £2.47p short of Bolivia's. On the plus side, however, I ..................
Anyway, I decided to take a trip into the village to take a look at all the Christmas decorations to lift my spirits. I'm a big fan of Christmas (not the religion bit, just the mindless commercialism and re-runs of The Great Escape) and so the twinkly wonderland did the trick and I soon started to push thoughts of my meaningless existence to the back of what is left of my mind. So cheered was I by the festive atmosphere that I decided to treat myself to a dinner out so I went for cash to the building society, the one financial institution which doesn't have a large poster of me on the wall.
I walked in, straight up to the counter, and the young lass at the till took one look at me and said: "Do you have life assurance or a pension?" Thanks. Thanks a fucking bunch! I expected her to follow that up with "I don't know why you bother getting up in the mornings?" or "Don't go out and buy any LPs, will you?". Jesus, it's now got to the stage where I not only scare myself, I scare other people!
Confused and aged as I am, I suddenly forgot what I had gone in for, turned dejectedly on my heel and headed out, back towards the personal grief-hole which is Pither Towers.
My mind being fuelled by sarcasm as it is, a tune entered my head as I trudged home and I couldn't stop humming it. It was that classic ode to people who haven't got a fucking clue about what's going on around them - "Don't Worry, Be Happy" by Bobby McFerrin.
Don't worry! Be happy!! Are you fucking real? The only way to achieve that is to have a full-frontal lobotomy and walk around doped off your tits, and I can't afford either. Mind you, a few people I have worked for seem to manage it.
No, Bobby, sorry mateypops, it's Grantham for you. Just walk around singing your little ditty and see how long it is before the townsfolk do a Mussolini on you.