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2004-03-04 - 12:51 p.m.

Yesterday I had the opportunity to visit the lobby area of a particularly swankeriffic hotel in the heart of London�s not very trendy NoHo, itself an area clinging to fashionability merely by its apparent ability to be reduced to an acronym.

I wouldn�t normally loiter around such places in fear of bumping into a celebrity of any kind and being mistaken for a chirpy orphan beggar, to whom they hand a shiny sixpence, sending me off with a friendly clip round the earhole and a stern word to �spend it on food�.

I was there under duress, as it was the only place in central London that sees fit to sell a certain, well, let�s just call it a publication. And before you start up, no it isn�t �Pureed Monkey Glands Aficionado� or �Lurid Spatchcock Monthly�. I get those delivered.

So the doormen are straight from Central Casting, that is if you�d gone in and ordered two snotty male models who wouldn�t know good manners if you gave them a civility enema. I know I�m only here to patronise your lobby kiosk, and I�m sorry I don�t have cheekbones you could use to hang your jacket on, but let�s have a bit of respect here, shall we fellas? You may be nice to look at and be nine feet tall, but you are OPENING DOORS FOR A LIVING, not that there�s anything wrong with that, but it�s no position from which to start dishing out attitude and having hissy fits just because someone wants to buy a magazine.

That obstacle overcome with a sliver of dignity intact, I approach the kiosk, which shone like a golden Aladdin�s Cave in the corner of the lobby. As I enter, the one arched eyebrow of the shop assistant tells me I�m in for more of the same. She�s head to toe in pristine Gucci, and I�m feel like the losing contestant in a �Who�s got the Smelliest Grundies� competition.

She eyes me up, clocks I haven�t just blown a squillion quid reserving the penthouse, and the party begins.

Me: Hello! Do you (realise you effectively just work in a shop) stock BLAH magazine?

Her: No, I (am not even going to turn my head one inch to check the shelves you malodorous crust of runthood) don�t think we do, a-HEM, SIR.

Me: Oh, are you (a condescending ice witch with a stick so far up your arse you get splinters every time you clear your throat like that) sure? The magazine said you stocked it.

Her: What�s (the point of living if you�re you?) it called again?

Me: It�s (a pretty pass when newsagents are giving this kind of shit) called BLAH.

Her: Sorry, we must (only just be from the same species, I think) have stopped.

Me: Can I just (use your face for croquet practice) check?

Her: I (want you out of this shop, you�re polluting the air with your non-designer particles) really don�t think we have it.

At this point, I almost grab the last edition out of my bag, to show her in bold print where the hotel is listed as a vendor, then I realise that the cover is of Willem Defoe in just a towel, and it looks like the porniest gay porn ever, and decide against it. I try to scan the shelves, but my continued presence is getting embarrassing, and I�m on the ropes.

Me: OK, well, thanks for (nothing except the kind of shallowness I usually associate with evaporated puddles) your HELP.

Her: Don�t (ever even think of coming back in here) MENTION it.

I beat a hasty retreat, confounded by the insurmountable rock face of instant snobbery, and convinced that the magazine was on that shelf somewhere. Why must life be such a complicated frustration stew?

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