Last night I bought some tickets to go and see the Victorian Christmas exhibition at Portsmouth Dockyard later this year. I’m not telling you merely to boast. Nor am I hinting that you should come along too. Heavens forbid! The thought of you in your clothes with your smells and the way your eye does that thing! Urgh! Keep away! No, my informing you of ticket purchasing is simply the disappointing build-up to an even more disappointing climax of a rather disappointing update. I’ll continue. But prepare to be disappointed.
There are many ways in which tickets could have been purchased for the aforementioned event. The utilisation of Mr Graham Bell’s wired voice transmittal invention – the so-called "telephonatron" – was one option. However, I am not a fan of that particular communication device. It is prone to occasional feedback and sometimes I can hear my own voice echoing back to me, a most distasteful experience since it seems I do not sound half as manly as I sometimes like to imagine. Alternatively, a visit in person to the ticket booth could have been performed. But that would have required beastly acts such as "moving" and "putting on clothes" and my inner sloth would not have been pleased.
Instead I opted for the wonders of the online booking system. I am no novice when it comes to online ordering. Indeed, I order – and I want to use the technical term here – one hell of a lot of crap online. Filling in order forms has become like second nature. In some ways that’s a shame because my prior second nature of walking without hitting walls has suffered as a result. My poor nose.
Last night, however, while in mid-ordering frenzy, I was unexpectedly stopped in my tracks by the presence of a question on the online form. Questions such as "How many adult tickets do you want?" and "Do you promise not to smuggle in a chameleon?" no longer warrant so much as a moment’s pause before completion. In this instance, though, I was stopped by:
"Why do you want to buy these tickets?"
I. Became. Confused.
In the end I responded in the writing space with:
"Because stealing is wrong."
I’ve had time to consider alternative answers though.
- Me want tickets.
- I was a teenage Victorian.
- That’s how capitalism works you commie, pinko ordering form.
- I have a form-filling compulsion. Please make it stop! Help!
- You will not accept my fan-dancing barter offer. I guarantee it.
- Victorian Christmas? Oh no! I wanted to see the King Charles Spaniels On Ice Spectacular!
- The last time I tried to enter the dockyard without tickets you shot me you bastards.
- Just testing identity theft. Please ignore.
- Two words: Victorian. Whores.