I don’t — but let’s say I did.
The last thing I want under these circumstances, as I’m bombarded by targeted advertising aimed between the bollocks of my assembled profileritude, is any kind of twat (or bunch of twats) whistling at me in a jokesy manner.
Look! Over there! Dangling from a mocked-up aisle in DIY Nirvana, clutching all the handy electrical paraphernalia anyone could ever need, is BOB (it says so on his name badge) — an actor called Alan from Dagenham whose cheery advice to “pop in to Heap-o-Crap RU now” and “sample our unparalleled range of monogrammed spirit levels” is accompanied by the playful whistle of a young Norman Wisdom gadding about an innocent 50s terraced street.
And there! Tinkering at an internet router box like he was stroking a prone Siamese cat is DYLAN, his smiles and winks of reassurance to the young family looking on in wonder mirrored in matesy whistles only a fool could fail to interpret as meaning et voila! The 20GB superhighway to the world whose installation you previously believed would consign you to the loony bin of stress for a thousand years, delivered to your suburban haven of contentment in a trice, ‘sif the Gods themselves had presided over every miracle moment!
And again! The woman from Debts Begone! (Till Next Friday!)!!, tucked away behind her laptop, easy-as-pie-ing the shrillest of ditties from her pursed and lipsticked lips as computer generated cartoon images of your pounds and pence skip towards a restful looking sunset — a sunset that whistles, along with the graphics and the laptop and the desk and your TV, in a nightmare squeal of mock ease and jollity destined to drown the canine ear in a future evolutionary backwater.
I get that, from time to time, people will try to sell me stuff.
But STOP FUCKING WHISTLING, you clowns.