Harry Potter and the ownage of Bloomsbury

There I was. July 20th, 11.55pm, standing in line at Borders, dressed up as Harry Potter, waving my wand enthusiastically whilst being eyed up by passing lesbians and paedophiles (as so many pass borders on a regular basis). I silently giggled at some complete loser wearing a like, total obvious fake wizard costume. I mean, this guy looked like he had just raided the wardrobe department of Disney’s ‘Fantasia’.

The stores doors opened, at exactly 12.01am, I knew this as I had set my uber cool alarm system to alert me the moment 11:59:59 had passed. I entered slowly,  cautiously. There it was, in my seeing range, my heart started beating fast, it was right infront of me now, I was reaching out, I touched it.

It’s smooth hardback cover sent shivers down my spine. The sense of euphoria I got from fingering it’s um, page things. I rambled to the checkout, not daring to take my eyes off it, incase it would be prematurely snatched from my grasp. I handed it to the bored looking clerk, and my heart jumped and started to beat rapidly, not knowing if it would ever return to my touch. I left the store in a daze, and pulled from beneath my ‘Toys R Us’ robes, which were a steal at £5.99, my copy of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.

What is the destiny of my hero? I opened the first page with utmost glee. Then, in a delicate fashion, flipped to the end.

‘Ninteen years later’ it read.

For fucks sake, I already read this shit on the internet.