Tuesday is Rubbish

My life experience of forty-three years and some months and a few days, seasoned with too many idle moments mindlessly soaking up the trivial mind-farts of hundreds of Twitter abusers, have combined to bless upon me the profound and perhaps even divine revelation that of all the days of the week, Tuesday is the most rubbish.

I say RUBBISH, because to call it SHIT would be to bestow upon it some degree of character that would elevate it above the mundane and arguably credit it with some kind of charm, albeit a crunchingly, hate-inspiring, nasty charm that would put it on par with Monday.

Tuesday ducks the hatred we hold for Monday.  It bears none of the curvy attributes of Wednesday, which teases us into believing that we are halfway to the weekend; it is a poor cousin of Thursday, who can sometimes be so welcoming that he tempts us into premature Friday-night-style behaviours; it shouldn’t be on the same planet as Friday and Saturday, never mind in the same row on a calendar; and it certainly isn’t Sunday, because Sunday is God’s day, and God lets us do what the fuck we want until the evening, when we get maudlin about the death of the weekend and Downton Abbey and ironing our work clothes and shit.

Tuesday has nothing to love or hate about it.  It just hangs there.  Like a barely detectable dried bogey in the nostril of someone you don’t know on a station platform on a grey day, not even gruesome enough or stalactite enough in its formlessness to elicit any nausea, as you nonchalantly glance at it without any subsequent emotion to make you even unconsciously afford it a second glance.

Tuesday is like that uncle that everyone has, the one with the moustache that he’s had since the 70s, who’s just THERE at family functions, whose name you’d forget if your aunt didn’t write it in Christmas cards to you, and even then it’s one of those names that is so characterless and ordinary that you still get it wrong sometimes, especially when you make that one effort to speak to him and you have absolutely fuck all to say; and after your depressingly pointless exchange in regard to the mildness of the day’s weather, you turn away and you would have instantly forgotten if he still HAD that moustache if you even cared to wonder about it.  That’s Tuesday.

If you want to give someone a particularly shit present ever, and I sometimes do, then I can highly recommend a nice beige nylon t-shirt bearing the words EVERYDAY IS LIKE TUESDAY; because that is so utterly VAPID that not even Morrissey would write a song about it.

The only thing that is funny about Tuesday is the phrase See You Next Tuesday, unless someone fails to work out that you are calling them a cunt and instead takes the comment at face value and instantly drops it into their deep brain-well of forgettable and useless things they’ve heard.

The pure fact that after a day’s work, I fill a gap between more work in the evening and loading the dishwasher with the writing of a blog post about how rubbish Tuesdays are, is in itself testament to just how fucking rubbish Tuesdays are.