A Polarisation In Neon

I took a trip to the other side. While walking down the concourse I came to the realisation that I have never entered the duty free shop. I see it every day, its glare burning my eyes, its empty, plastic promises slicking my brain. Well, I ventured into that place, preparing for the worst. I was faced with odd images, false flashes of erotica, an overtly sexual yet empty atmosphere. The billboards advertising perfume do so with orgasm-faces of women, men licking necks, and movie stars "caught" inflagrante. This was combined with the heavy, tight, alcoholic air that is only found in places like this. Past my nose floated hundreds of different smells, perfumes mingling at some hideously glamorous cocktail party. Oddly I wasn't disgusted by this, I was swept up in the glamour, the red-carpet chic of the counterfeit. And just when I thought the scene couldn't get any more sparkling, I saw a bona fide celebrity browsing the racks, mobile phone to his ear. At first I took it for another hallucination, a coffee induced psychotic break, but this was just too real.
"Hello Darling," Russell Grant barked down his phone in a sing-song voice. "Just at the airport luvvy. I just wanted to confirm that appointment..."
My mouth hung open, not because of the fact he was famous, just because he was stood in front of a huge billboard containing the airbrushed image of Nicole Kidman. My mind was split in two. Here, right in front of my eyes, was the most glamorous and the most tawdry ends of the celebrity spectrum. Juxtaposed with Kidman's glacial beauty was Grant, looking like a testicle with legs.
I retreated, past all the orgasms, through the mist of perfume, and to the safety of the concourse. I felt as if I was fleeing the scene of a crime - the same feeling when you buy something from Tesco and you reach the car park, nauseated.