Woman only dresses up for herself and the Aztec god Huitzilopochtli

A WOMAN only puts effort into her appearance for herself and the chief deity of the Aztecs Huitzilopochtli, she has confirmed.

28-year-old Lauren Hewitt does not wear figure-flattering mini dresses and layers of makeup to impress men, but to make herself feel good and amaze the fearsome Aztec god of sun and war Huitzilopochtli.

Hewitt said: “All girlies do this. How else are we supposed to boost our self-esteem and protect ourselves from the wrath of his flaming serpent Xiuhcoatl?

“It’s worth the expense and the pain. Rocking a super-chic balayage makes me feel like I could smash the glass ceiling, and tottering around in Louboutins is a fitting blood sacrifice that will satisfy Huitzilopochtli and fend off the infinite night.

“Men would know all this if they ever bothered to flick through an issue of Cosmo. The articles are all ‘Spring fashion trends to drive Huitzilopochtli wild’ this and ‘Ice Spice wows zaddy Huitzilopochtli in sheer stripe catsuit’ that. We couldn’t be making it more obvious.”

Man Wayne Hayes said: “And here I was thinking they were glamming up for Quetzalcoatl like an idiot. I apologise on behalf of all men, we are learning.”

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Kid A, and other records that risk turning you into a wanker

MUSIC snobs love to prove their superiority with their ‘challenging’ choices. But be warned – coming into contact with these albums may make you one of them. 

Kid A by Radiohead

Thom Yorke’s garbled angst can be excused over proper guitar playing, but only the worst musical contrarian ‘likes’ interpretive dance, ambient electronica and horrible horns. Farting in the faces of fans when it came out, time has been both kind to Kid A and hideously unkind to anyone who’s met a weed guy at university. It’s less divisive now, because it’s universally acknowledged as being for twats. 

The Velvet Underground & Nico by The Velvet Underground

Liking proto-punk and Andy Warhol are strong indicators that you might inhabit your own arse. Reciting lyrics like you understand junkie life in 1960s New York is cool for a teenager, but not for an office worker from Swanage who buys posters from HMV. Unfortunately the group opened the floodgates for imitators, creating a never-ending wave of self-indulgent bellends for every generation to put up with.

Hounds of Love by Kate Bush

This art-pop relic is a musical rite of passage for GCSE students who listen to it trying to find better tracks than Wuthering Heights. Most call it a day after the Stranger Things song, rightly baffled by the nonsense to come, but knobs say the deep cuts help to understand the real Kate who likes warbling on about water. Normal people only remember it for the wacky steampunk machine in the video for Cloudbusting. Or possibly Kate’s incredibly bad haircut.

Parachutes by Coldplay 

It’s fashionable to hate Chris Martin and his unknown mates, so now is a great time to stand out from the herd by detailing their old indie darling status. No one really believes that Yellow isn’t pure bollocks, only better than their ill-advised idea to inject EDM fun into their brand of extreme boredom. Playing devil’s advocate for Coldplay is pointless anyway when bigger arseholes know more about the Chapel Hill indie scene.

Surfer Rosa by Pixies

Identifying with Tyler Durden from Fight Club is pretty pretentious, but pretending you’re like Pixies-loving Kurt Cobain is next f**king level. So is commenting at length on Steve Albini’s analogue recording and surreal raunchy artwork for Pixies’ second album, which also happens to be their second best. Noone’s impressed that you prefer songs about deformed bodies to the famous one. 

The Beatles by The Beatles

Not giving it a proper title, hence ‘The White Album’, is a red flag, so beware the Fab Four’s experimental double-album of bloated crap becoming your favourite. Months of drug-fuelled meditation was always going to produce only three songs that normal people enjoy, and most of the remaining 27 are either parodies or ripoffs. And the record’s historical mystique doesn’t stop Why Don’t We Do It in the Road? being more Chas & Dave than The Beatles, and shit.