For Apple’s Regent Street opening, we sent our UK correspondent, Thomas Henry McCardle, a 19th-century Dickensian child laborer with tuberculosis, to have a first look. Here’s his report.
My fine benefactors at Crazy Apple Rumors have given me a tuppence and a swab of bacon grease on an old newspaper to have a gander at the new Apple Store Regent Street opening up in London! I must say, I’m quite beside meself!
Oh, no. That’s not me. That’s me twin brother, Ronald, beside meself. Sadly, Ronald appears to have expired from influenza. Me mum would be so saddened if she hadn’t already been taken insane by the syphilis.
To make sure I would be admitted to Apple’s remarkable new store, I slept in the line outside in the freezing cold for a fortnight, in naught but me wool knickers and a burlap sack. I didn’t mind, however, as this was far preferable to the treatment I receive at Lord Swithersmith’s Home for the Indigent, where I am roundly beaten about the head by the older boys before being given a stale old piece of Keith Richards for me suppah.
In the rush to get in when the doors finally did open, I was trod upon by a large, angry Scotsman who said “Git outta tha way, ya 19th-century Dickensian child laborer with tuberculosis!”
I could only tip me dirty hat to ‘im and let out a cough that looked like the exhaust from the 8:13 train from Gillingham. That nice Yank Ron Johnson did help me up off the floor and even gave me an Apple shirt! Unfortunately, it’s already become black with the coal soot that seems to form a permanent cloud about me, even after me mandatory bi-monthly dousing in a vat of castor oil at Lord Swithersmith’s.
Once inside, I found meself wondering if this is not exactly what heaven must look like! If only poor Ronald could come down an’ tell us! He did so love to laugh, Ronald. Even when his left hand was eaten by a brace of wicked stoats, he took it all in stride. “Perhaps one day I’ll get a shiny new hand made out of a biscuit tin!” Ronald said. “Then I shall treat all my friends to biscuits from my beautiful tin hand! Ah-ha-ha-ha!”
Then he fell into a fit of coughing and hurled up somethin’ the doctor later said would have better been left in his body.
As I wandered about, amazed by the delights before me, I decided that I would cease my daily labors at the factory that makes ladies trusses and seek employment at Apple!
My dreams were dashed, however, when a blind Cockney flower girl dropped a Power Mac G5 on me hands, crushing them but good. Also, I don’t know one whit about Macs!
‘Tis no matter to me, as I’ve fallen for the blind Cockney flower girl. I’ve a mind now to sell me watch to buy her a barrette for her beautiful hair for Christmas. I wonder what she’s going to get me?
I hope it’s an iPod!
Well, I must be off as the bobbies have said I can’t panhandle on Regent Street. It’s back to the poor house for me! Cheerio!