A family member who shall remain nameless, and who really should know better, sent me an amount of David Jones vouchers for my birthday.

So off I duly trundled, to go and cash in my present for… well, I wasn’t quite sure. This got me thinking: I can’t even remember the last time I visited David Jones. Ever. In fact, I’ve never once in my life spirited up the notion: “I must purchase (random product) and purchase it ONLY from David Jones!”

After a bit of wandering around, I honestly had no idea what to spend the friggin’ things on. I mean, the Food Hall is full of nice food, but it’s also full of designer spring onion bundled together at $14.95 a punnet for yuppies who can’t lower themselves to fruit and veg shopping at their local Woolies.

David Jones’ DVDs are too overpriced, and their CDs are, well… CDs are just artefacts now (warning: if you’re feeling a little too clingy to your CDs lately, and are secretly mortified over where this whole MP3 player thing is going, it’s time to take the next exit from the information superhighway. God, I actually just wrote “information superhighway”. Where do I purchase the latest copy of NetGuide for Seniors?)

There was a brief moment of consideration regarding my hair… maybe I could get another wacko hair dye colour. I’m a bit of a fan of spontaneously turning purple or green now and then. This, however, would mean I’d no longer be able to maintain my neverboughtexpensivehairproductosexual livestyle, and my arse would promptly begin flying open like a hydraulic door at the mere presence of anyone with biceps and a music collection featuring more than one Minogue sister.

This, however, was ruled out by an impromptu decision to grow my hair long again. It’s not been really long (like, heavy metalllllll long) since I was 20, so this could be a bit of a bad move. Especially as I’m now going to be forced to wear a cap for the rest of the year, to cover up any awful in-between hair stages that result in me looking like Pugwall.

A final burst of inspiration suggested I should just be done with it and surrender my voucher for some jocks. But David Jones jocks, I fucking tell you what. Now I know why so many poofters walk around with their jocks clamped around their bellybutton - it’s so everyone knows how much money they were forced to spend on their ridiculously ugly underwear. Adam and I must be the only gay blokes who not only wear Kmart Bonds jocks, but will voluntarily trumpet how great they are of our own accord.

So, be buggered if I know what to get with my DJ’s voucher. Perhaps I can offer some of their snooty, over-important staff a $10.00 voucher each if I can smack my fist in between their eyes.

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