I wanted my first ever blog on here to be clever. It didn’t need to read like an Orwell novel, but to have some coherence and a thread that ran through it like a pulsating aorta, right until I got to the heart of my thoughts and feelings. You may sense a drop intro coming on and you wouldn’t be wrong. Only you may be underestimating the size of the drop. We’re talking Niagara not the Avon Gorge. Although both are pretty vomit-inducing if you lean too far forwards.
I had hoped to plan this blog, a word that doesn’t normally enter into my cognition. You know, pretty colours, proper paragraphs, maybe even a sparkling of italics.
But in truth, I am just too angry. I am sure everyone feels this type of rage from time to time. It’s the kind that simmers like a stew coming to the boil. Someone is cranking up that gas and I am bubbling like a test tube full of potassium.
Being angry at people is easy. A colleague told me the other day that anger is a pointless emotion. My nostril twitched with rage. It is not pointless, it is full of aim and direction. My targets are varied. Yesterday it was two young mothers in Poundland (I had asked for it by shopping in there I am aware but I needed rubber gloves and knock-off toothpaste). They were swearing and generally abusing their two little children in public. No shame. No awareness of how they were most probably bringing up the knife-happy hoodies of tomorrow. I like to think most people would get mad at that kind of thing.
But what about inanimate things? Is anger fairly directed at objects? Are they a better target than bad mothers?
Listening to a crappy TV show, I heard that the thing that made British people the most angry was queue jumpers. I find this hard to believe. Not drivers who make indicators look like unnecessary accessories? Not even Richard Hammond? Now I know this is a survey of about 10 people, 90% of which said that queue jumpers were annoying; 90% of which were probably standing in the queue in Poundland with the bad mothers when asked (and yes, they did push in and I was too much of a pussy to say anything). I did try and eyeball them though, but their eyeballs back reminded me I had a bladder so I looked away casually, pretending to check the price of a bag of Rowntree’s (£1 of course, d’oh).
As annoying as queues are, nothing (check me out) is annoying as computers and their poncy softwares (and bad grammar, but I’ll save that rant for another day). CMS. Apparently it stands for Content Management System. More like Cunts Make Software. It’s the system that lets you put stuff on a website (not one like this that’s programmed so that even my boss could use it). Our CMS is inflexible, stubborn, temperamental and finnickity. It is like working with a donkey (albeit one that has been shaved and bleeps instead of brays). At least you can attempt to reason with a donkey – offer it a carrot or some sweets from Poundland. A CMS is about as reasonable as a rock. It defies logic, sense and invokes such a deep and ferocious rage in me that I actually could kill. And I suppose that’s the difference. I couldn’t kill a donkey. Even if it shat on my foot. But even if I twatted my computer with a giant club, it would never really die. Like The Terminator, it would keep on reforming and one of its many millions of clones would be wating for me each time I got into work, ready to inspire in me pretty much all of the Seven Deadly Sins – disregarding Pride and Lust of course.
A problem shared is a problem halved, or something, and I do feel better for getting that off my chest. Plus, it’s 17.25 and I am out of here in five and Poundland shuts at six – I have got some serious eyeballing to do.