Saturday, June 16, 2007
The sun's out and bathing the lawn in gold, the bees are bumbling and the butterflies flitting, and holidays beckon. What better time to wallow in the cesspit of bitterness?
Here are some things that are causing me more annoyance than a hypothetical recrudescence of Herpes simplex.
Harry Potter. Will the world just get over him, for Christ's sake? It's only a series of children's books. Who gives a rat's arse if Magwitch dies in the end, or whatever? Note to grown men and women who openly read these books in public: you look like big babies. Especially when your lips move and you have to follow the text with your finger. May Harry catch crotch-rot off what's-her-name.
Asparagus. Not content with possessing a bitter, repugnant taste like those root vegetables your mother always forced you to eat, these bastard sticks make your urine stink so that even a few drops give the whole house the character of an 18th century Parisian pissoir. They're often served up as the main course, with a bit of garnish on the side. A handful of vegetables as the main course? I don't think so.
Gordon Brown. So he's going to be the next Prime Minister. Yes? And then what? Judging by the way this whole thing has been drawn out, the man is clearly a monstrous ego with legs and a false eye. Watch taxes on everything that's fun in life rocket into outer space.
Rose wine. Oh my God, I'm so happening because I like this strawberry-flavoured water all of a sudden. It's not at all because I've read that it's fashionable, I just... kinda have a taste for it, y'know? Bollocks. (Yes, I know there's supposed to be an accent on the 'e', I just haven't worked out how to do this.)
Music. I've started to realise that music is a colossal waste of time. I bought one of those iPod things two years ago and loaded it up, but do I listen to it? Ever? Do I f. Sometimes I look at my quite extensive CD collection and think, God, what I could have done with all that money instead.
Adolf Hitler and Joe Stalin. There are new books out about these two. How original. Please, just stop.
Psychotherapists. I met a psychotherapist acquaintance the other day and asked how he was. 'What do you mean?' he replied.
Foot Eater. He's become a real irritant to me, especially when I reread his blog. In fact, he makes me want to chew my own face off.
Alcohol. It doesn't work that well any more, have you noticed? I find I have to consume more and more to get the desired effect.
Serial killers. The golden years were the fifties to the eighties. We had Ted Bundy, Ed Gein, the Boston Strangler, Son of Sam, the Yorkshire Ripper, Jeffrey Dahmer and others. The nineties gave us Fred West and Harold Shipman, which wasn't bad. But lately? Not a peep. Come on, chaps, pull your fingers out.