I'm often mistaken for an angry type. A ragey girl. Someone with 'issues'. Or it's assumed I have permanent PMT. Which, by the way, really pisses me off.
So anyway, I thought I'd channel some of my pointless rage and just take a moment while in the throes of caffeine induced insomnia, to catalogue my top ten petty hates.
So, just to be clear, I'm not including Nazis, child abusers, politicians and Jordan. Just take those as read.This is more about the things that really dick me off on a day to day basis.
Some of you on bookface will be familiar with number 1: buskers. Specifically accordian players. Even more specifically, Leamington Spa's inexplicably vast array of shiteous accordian players. They appear to be mostly of the Polish variety (and I'll explain how I know this, and no I'm not being racialist, I'm just pointing out a fact) and their repertoire consists entirely of three bars of The Godfather theme over and over again. My aquaintance with these accordian players began a couple of years ago when it became clear that this dickless wonder was actually going to stand on my street outside my window 'playing' his tunes for eight hours on a Saturday and then eight hours on a Sunday. All year long. Not one to not confront my deamons, I went out and had a little word. This was after many Saturdays were destroyed as I sat in my house wearing ear plugs and gently weeping.
Long story short, we had a fracas. He accused me of being racist. I said I don't give a fuck where he's from, he needs to leave the area stat. He refused. I called the cops (oh yes, I did) who informed me that no buskers in Leamington have rights to be there and can be moved on. Oho I thought. And I went out to see him once more. I informed him that I will come down and move him along every single day of the year until he fucks off. I did also give him the option of actually learning how to play his instrument.
There are now no accordianists on Regent Street. I expect to be knighted shortly for this service to the community.
Number 2: people who sniff incessantly. I used to sit next to a woman at work who spent the whole day snorting great big flobs of phlegm. I can only assume she would let her nose run right until it was about to drip onto her desk and then take an almightly double inhale so that you could hear it juicily reentering her nasal passageways. Every five minutes. For the entire day. I fantastised about ways to make it stop. I would sit there and think: "It would be OK to ask her to stop, wouldn't it? I mean, that would be OK, right?" But no. It's just not something you can do in an office. Along with putting up with bodily odours not normally sensed outside of an abbatoir and people smacking their lips through their tenth packet of crisps of the day, it's just something that you have to put up with in an office.
I now work freelance.
Number 3: the man who I sat next to on the train from York the other week. The man who systematically and noisily chewed, gulped and yomped his way through the entire refreshment trolley. I felt like I was eating with him, so visceral was the experience. And every time I thought he must be full, he'd buy something else and masticate away, for all the world like a cow chewing that cud. But with more sound effects. Sir, I despise you and everything you stand for. Which is mostly eating by all accounts.
Number 4: urinating. It's such a goddamn waste of time.
Number 5: whistling. That kind of aimless, tuneless whistling that old men do in bookshops. Who are they being nonchalant for? Why do they feel the need to make a noise for no reason? Are they drowning out thoughts of their own pointless existence?
Number 6: Liz Jones. Liz is a columnist for The Daily Heil. She is a bigoted, unpleasant, bizarre creation who is very possibly a sort of paid troll. In which case the whole thing is actually quite amusing. I suppose. She likens herself to a kind of hybrid Carrie from SATC and Bridget Jones character. And yet she's 65 if she's a day and most closely resembles Alice Cooper. She chronicled her appallingly bad marriage in graphic detail and writes like a pre pubescent teenager with questionable grammar. The Mail sees fit to send her on actual journalistic assignments and invites her commentary on famine, war and murder, which she always brings back to the fact that she was stood up on Millenium Eve. Seriously. Horrible.
Number 7: The Daily Heil.
Number 8: The Finkler Question. 2010's Man Booker prize winner and six hours of my life I'm never getting back. Just shit.
Number 9: Jamie Oliver. I was struggling for a second there and then his fat tongued face popped into my head. An average cook got lucky, coasting off the 90s love for blokey, laddish culture, Jamie burst onto our screens with The Naked Chef, where he pretended to cook in a pretend house with pretend friends. Heinous. Since then he's reinvented himself as a christ-like saviour of our health. Which translates to him moaning a lot about school meals and then going to the US and being laughed at by transfat-soaked American fatties. He proudly states he has no time for his family - that's a wife and four children - because he wants to spread the message. He's a 21st century missionary and he's fecking annoying. Also, before preaching to others about their weight, he might want to have a wee look in the mirror. His face is expanding at a rate of knots and soon won't fit onto our screens at all. He also spits when he talks, which can't be at all hygenic when it comes to preparing food.
Number 10: Indian summers. I don't want to be sweating half way into October. I don't want to be viewing endless arses squeezed into ill advised hot pants. I don't want to see chavs with their shirts off for any longer than strictly necessary. And, please, for the love of god, stop telling me to get out and enjoy it while it lasts. I cannot wait for winter.
Tomorrow I will be scraping together for a top ten of things I like.
Maybe top five.