You know what, kraken-feasters? There’s not much that I hate about living in Britain. In fact, on the whole, I love it because it gives me more blog-fodder than a kraken like me could ever deserve. However – aye, you knew that was coming – what does make me want to scale the Cenotaph, like the fevered spawn of a Pink Floyd guitarist, is this: the deification of some of the nation’s celebrities and institutions. So I shall list them here and lose almost all of my Twitter followers in the process:
Military Wives: putting aside the wonderful, noble and admirable reason for this endeavour, the music makes me want to pour cyanide into holes drilled into my skull. Just as an antidote to the suppurating blandness and saccharine sickliness of every single fucking note, you understand. It’s as if Gareth Malone took a tune, sucked the melody out of it and then dipped it in Essence of Fuck All.
Miranda Hart: being a bumbling toff does not a comedian make. Neither does it make a personality deserving of the lavish attentions of the British public. It does, though, seem to warrant every fucker at the BBC trying to crawl up her arse just to milk her like a wet-nursing giraffe.
John Lennon: what is it about him that makes me want to tell the arrogant, egotistic, presumptuous, smug Yoko-poking pop-fumbler to just fuck off?
Parent bloggers: not all of them, just some of them. See, exploding your vagina over a delivery table doesn’t necessarily mean that every time your son or daughter takes a shit it deserves 500 words punctuated with nothing more than exclamation marks. Debate any aspect of parenting you like but for fuck sake make it even vaguely interesting to the poor bloody readers.
Stage-school kids: it’s the jazz hands, the rictus grin, the en-un-ci-a-tion of every fu-ck-ing word. Cbbc looks like a roll-call (or role-call) of wannabe telly presenters, all of whom would willingly flog the parents who paid for their opportunities for so much as a wink from Dick or Dom. If a kid wants to be an actor/ singer/ dancer/ presenter go for it. All I ask is that they aren’t so pretentious and annoying that I want to flush my eyeballs down the toilet whenever I look at them.
Race for Life: again, it’s not the intention that’s the problem. The problem is that it shoves women into female-only races as if we need special dispensation because we have tits or periods. What in the fuck is wrong with raising money for cancer research by running with men? They won’t mind. They won’t point and laugh. They’ll be too busy stopping their knackers from bouncing and chafing, for fuck sake.
Children in Need: see, it’s the day itself that makes me want to dispense Medieval torture to any given tin rattler dressed as a jaunty panda. Yeah, I’ll willingly give money to kids who need it but you can shove your enforced jollity right up the pyjamas you’re wearing to raise cash. I don’t want to do the can-can through Tesco and I don’t want to fall into line with the BBC’s idea of family fun. I just want the world to stop telling me I’m a wanker because I’ve decided to not hop from Land’s End to John O-fucking-Groats.
So what about you? Is there anything you despise even though everyone else seems to love it? Spill the beans in the comment box. That is if you’re still talking to me.