2003-01-29 - 7:14 p.m.

I went to see live comedy in a huge theatre last night, though the theatre seemingly had no idea of its own capacious proportions, at least judging by the queue for toilets at the intermission. This is supposed to be one of the perks of being male � we don�t wait in line to wee, or if we do, we find alternative receptacles that will do just as well as the one we�re queuing for, though theatre lobbies are a bit short on that kind of thing, strangely.

Anyway, the comedic attraction was from (nearly) my home town, and has a fine sharp sense of particularly northern observational humour � in fact, I wondered if some of it meant very much to anyone from the south. Whether it did or not, the way home was made all the more amusing, and then irritating, as the thousand cockneys in my tube carriage who all started to act out parts of his routine in what apparently they imagine we talk like in the provincial wastelands. A bit like that overpaid bint from Frasier, who has an accent unique in its non-existence in real life.

After murdering all the best bits, the group next to me settled down for small-talk, and like all good young professionals, what people did for a living made a scarily early entrance into the conversation. Accountant, blah, Systems Analyst, blah blah, General De-valuer of Everyone�s Existence, blahyadaso-on. Then a skinny, well-presented blond girl, a species of which they seem to clone in the marketing department of our building, chirps up in the poshest voice I have ever heard. �I�m a Fashion Events Manager by trade.�

Whoah there, Looby Lou. Let�s just reel that one in. �BY TRADE�?!

So let�s see, this �trade� you speak of � why, you must have spent four or five years as a dedicated apprentice, learning your intricate craft under the tutelage of a master practitioner, rising slowly and tortuously through the ranks, honing your ability until one day you felt just confident enough to earn your graduation into a select guild of professional, committed artisans.

But more likely you � and I�m guessing, of course � came out of some braying Oxbridge rejects degree for the terminally well funded, �travelled� whilst pops had a year tugging on his chums� old school ties to see if any of them could utilise someone with your particular ability to wear stilettos with flared jeans, and then landed cushily in a job maintained by everyone�s co-dependent ignoring of anything in the world that hasn�t made the pages of Pouting Fashion Slave Monthly lest the whole delicate world disappears in a puff of realism.

Yeah, you�ve really got yourself a trade there, if by �trade� you read �excuse never to question anything ever�.

Anyway. Insert your own patronising cultural stereotype and have fun with the joke.