The Sucker

A friend confesses that he used to work for Ikea.

I crack: “So that’s how you’ve always got a pencil!”

Through the haze of my hubris, my friend frowns.

“Yes,” he says, “I seem to recall you told the same joke last time I mentioned this”.

And now:


Speaking of those crafty Vikings, I’ve been duped by their seductive genius once again.

Waiting in line to pay for a plant and a lint roller, thinking to myself I sure am glad we travelled out of town for this, my eye is drawn to an opportunistically positioned boxfull of washing up brushes.

I liked. It looked as though NASA might have been involved in their development.

Surely this thing could talk to my iPod. It looked as though it had been born rather than made.

Their handles were molded into seductive ergonomic shapes with sporty go-faster-stripes running the length of each striking implement. Available in three colours: blood red, periwinkle blue or ass black.

Picking up a red one, I was positive that it was the third best thing I had ever held in my hand.

Best of all, I notice there is a sucker on the end so that I can stick it schlup to the draining board without fear of it getting into the wrong hands.

There would be no stopping me now.

At last my bid for godhood.

And all for £1.

Thank you, Sweden. Or rather tack, Sverige.

I get it home and immediately generate some washing up. Boyohboyohboy I can’t wait to get scrubbing.

Needless to say, it is a huge disappointment. Far more difficult to use than a simple brillo sponge. Food sticks to the knives and forks. Egg to spatula. Butter to pan. Day-old cornflake? Forget it.

Beware the scrubber not of woman born.

The worst thing about it is the sucker. It sticks to the draining board for all of two minutes before clattering brittle to the floor.

There’s only one real sucker in this kitchen and his name is Wringham.

I don’t think it is hyperbole to suggest all out war with Sweden.

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