All posts by Grace

Day Nurse is my religion

Despite having enough belligerence to forge a successful Third World dictatorship, no matter how hard I fight it always happens. It starts usually on a Monday or just before a weekend away. That flush across the cheeks, the tickle in the throat, then the long drip of brain juice. No longer can I look at coughing tube travellers with amusement and scorn. For I, yet again, am infected. I have a cold.

As soon as it starts I wrack my brain wondering where I failed. Did I touch a rail near a sickly child? Was I sat under the air conditioning unit at work? Did I lounge about in wet clothing? No. I started my Satsuma diet a few weeks ago, so vitamin C is high. I got the scarf out early. Secretly I even undertook a new line of attack by exposing myself slowly to the cold to build up resilience. No heating for me. Yet still I am overcome with aches, pallid skin and boiling eyeballs.

As a kid I was made to tough it out. As a result I was sent to school with a variety of boiled linen spilling from my pockets. That kid sniffing with the giant glasses and permanent red nose, that was me. Cycling through the snow and rain merely extended the snot life; frequently you would find me attempting to rest my head on the handle bars as the weight of my head increased. On and on it went until some little shit came up with a nickname – ‘germinating bacteria blob’. Add that to hay fever during the summer and I was unable to escape it at any time of year. I gave up fighting it when I was made to use ripped up pillow cases while the decent hankies were boiled. Such is my shame.

As a student, I turned to Aloe Vera loo rolls. Shoving a large wad up each nostril gives some relief from the constant dripping. The small portion of my brain not leaking tells me to breathe through my mouth but like someone shouting “don’t look” I realise one side of my face is blocked. A squeak of air might sneak through, but the fury is too much.

There can be nothing more futile than trying to blow your nose clear of mucus. You blow and blow until air escapes from your ear, yet nothing moves. You may even sniff it back, but two seconds after you gag more slides over your sinuses.

Soon comes the desperation. Anything that might make you sleep through this annoyance is worth a try. Lying with your head off the bed seems like a good idea, or laying naked in the vague hope you get some relief from the warmth. It doesn’t; instead your limbs cramp and lock. Holding your head over a steaming bowl merely causes green to clog your throat.

Maybe a quick flick of the wrist will bring blessed sleep – don’t bother as you cannot feel sexy, and the hacking ruins any climax. Spirits such as brandy just loosen the lung butter making you cry as you see yourself decomposing. Cold flannels never stay cold. You desperately want someone to come and wrap you up with a hot chocolate and a kind word, but in reality they’d never make it through the tomb of snot tissues that encases you.

The Daily Mail tells me that I should stick it out. Our dependence on drugs will make it stronger, more resilient in the future. Well fuck that. Right now I don’t think I will survive until tomorrow. I line up cold remedies like Hunter S Thompson on a trip to Vegas. Day Nurse is my religion (not Lemsip, that battery acid-ridden obscenity that sits ageless behind every newsagent’s counter). Mainlining soup laced with chilli and noodles also burns any sign of virus from my insides. As I burn the evil away, it is almost as if the snot evaporates through my pores. It may just be a cold, but by gum I shall not be defeated.

And once it’s gone, I’ll be immune. That’s how disease works, right?

A lesson in life and commercialism

People make me sad, and as a result I take great delight in any video that promises people involved in epic failure. The recent excitement at the release of a phone that is slightly bigger than the last one left me clutching my sides with schadenfreude – watch as a man who has queued (yes queued) for days rushes to open his iPhone only to drop and crack it on the pavement. You deserve that fail young man. That is a lesson in life and commercialism.

Whenever I feel sad and want to hibernate from office bullshit, I scroll to my NSFW bookmarks and watch idiots. Partly it helps me see that life really is stupid and mean. I am a clumsy motherfucker, I fall down kerbs, walk into walls, trip over cats (they do it deliberately), drop my phone down toilets at the worst times possible (Christmas 2013 – a dark day of family “fun”), but at least seeing other people fall over on ice shows me that we are all fallible.

I must admit I also take pleasure in seeing stupid people neuter themselves. There are so many people walking the streets who plough through me, or shout random nonsense that seeing such shit stains on the pants of life hurt themselves gets me through a day. The incredibly obese girl who spends her disability benefits on a trampoline, which she proceeds to burst straight through – a joyous sense of calm comes over me. There really is some sort of karma. The rich kids who attempt to skateboard down railings for their YouTube posse – that crunch of balls against metal should remind us all that nature will always find a way. No more little Tarquins in your family line. Usually these idiots live a charmed life, doing stupid things that would cause most of us irreparable harm or a prison sentence. The internet now shows us that there is a justice – a shallow, fucking hilarious one.

The internet even levels the precious idols – politicians, celebrities and sportsmen. Keegan’s rant against Manchester United or falling from his bike in Superstars is a perennial favourite, guaranteed to raise a smile. Oh you poor man.

This was well before such things became manufactured for our enjoyment. My wonder at humanity’s utter pointlessness stops at the cringeworthy made-for-television fails that exist solely to make a Z-lister a minor C-lister for a few months.

I’m A Celebrity takes this to the extreme, with idiots attempting to eat kangaroo anus for our putrid obsession. I remember The Word’s “I’ll do anything to get on TV” feature. It was painful to watch, but in keeping with the period. It should have died, but now it is everywhere, the get-famous-quick scheme that starts with up-skirt shots right through to ‘accidentally’ released sex tapes.

Saturday night television is filled with wannabes trying to get famous quick, or those who used to have a talent selling their souls to make people laugh at them. Exhibit A: Hole in the Wall. Exhibit B: The Jump. Exhibit C: X Factor. There are many, many more exhibits. It’s cheap, and it fills me with contempt. Fallibility should not be created, it should be accidental. I watch these people with pity that they’re so desperate and dominated by a need to get somewhere quickly with no effort. It feeds on our need to see people fail, to make us feel better, but this feels like something far dirtier and more corrupt.

Then again, if it leads to a Running Man or <shiver> Hunger Games-type programme, then maybe all of this is worthwhile. It’ll take Darwinism to the extreme and get rid of a lot more idiots in one fatal bloodbath. But for now I refuse to partake in these grubby, manufactured celebrity embarrassments and will stick to fat people falling through trampolines.

The best way to dispose of a body

Everybody knows the best way to dispose of a body is to feed it to pigs. Or so I wrongly thought as I mused on the latest topic of fucking idiocy my office pod sisters embarked on.

For once they’d bounced onto a subject I could contribute to. Stupidly I‘d jumped in without thinking. You see they hadn’t thought about it at all. Their tiny bubble heads had never contemplated the horrors of life, or what exactly you would do if you one day flipped and smashed one of their empty heads through a glass door, severing an important artery.

I am not a violent person. I may exude the aura of violence, but you have to; it protects you if you’re prone to a less than sugary outlook on life. I frequently sit and watch crime drama or real life documentaries, on a constant search to work out what makes a person do that, or try to solve a mystery. It is pure coincidence that as a result I know many ways to kill a person. Everyone should know the basics.

Not if you stick your head in the ground and shout “Kim Kardashian’s exercise tips” apparently. Sigh. Oh you pretty things.

There are things every person should know. If you cut people up, don’t flush it. Acid won’t destroy it all. Burying things in a basement will cause a stench. If you meet a guy on Craigslist who sounds too perfect, he’s almost definitely a psychopath. Never wall up a cat unless you want to go mad and kill your family. Avoid hotels in isolated areas. For God’s sake, rub the lotion on your skin. Oh, and never take a knife to a gun fight.

You cannot help but be surrounded by murder, it’s a preoccupation. Could you be pushed to it? What would you do if attacked? Does that man shadow you as you walk down a dark street? Is that cabbie licensed? If you laugh at Man Utd’s entertaining decline one time too often, could it lead to spousal homicide? Be aware people, it could be you.

It astounds me that there are large portions of the community that really do not consider the wider world, those fringes where humans are pushed into moments of madness, right through to the more committed predatory beasts. The extremes teach us more about ourselves than all Piers Morgan’s Real Life Story bollocks. It is interesting, shocking, depraved, eerily logical and stupid.

Yet showing such interest or knowing about these things leads to sneers and fear. “You are such a Goth.” (I may wear black, but I am not a true Goth.) “You are a witch.” (Don’t believe in magic, sorry.) “You’re just weird.” (True, but for things you have no idea about.) “I bet you’ve killed people.” (Only in my mind, and right now you are being shovelled in the face.) The difference between me and them is that it may well take a lot more for me flip into actual violence as I know the many consequences and mistakes that will get you caught. If you know what murder actually looks like, well, you wouldn’t. It is a lot less picturesque than films would have you believe.

Oh yeah, and if I do flip, you’d better run. I always plan in advance.

The smell of bleach

Growing up, the smell of bleach was associated with the mystical ‘sick bowl’. This would appear when any projectile vomiting threatened the sofa or bedroom carpet, and it’s hard to know whether the smell or the virus made chunks of orange rip my throat to pieces. But the smell of bleach is something we must all get used to, because we all have to face fucking cleaning.

I’m not a slovenly soul, but cleaning can fuck right off. Life is short and the less time spent moving items from one place to another the better. There are some things I don’t mind; vacuuming is entertaining, as I watch the endless balls of cat hair desperately try to flee the bag of doom. Washing clothes is also a piece of piss that doesn’t interfere with my life. Pop it in, leave it, shake, done. The lack of an iron has enriched my life, but there it ends.

The pure hell of tidying involves moving items and the inevitable dust that flies right up my fucking nose. I will never understand the point of dusting, moving tiny particles into the air where they inevitably land just where they bloody started. Dust for me is a burglar alarm – if anything is moved, I can see it instantly.

Tidying things away is usually a waste of time. If it’s out, then I need it for something. Why put it away, then spend seconds getting it out of a cupboard again? That is plainly stupid. Once a season the many boxes get too much and I spend a weekend shoving things in bin bags, dragging them down the stairs to the bins, and does it make me feel happy? Do I fuck.

Seeing more floor means the bleach and cleaner must come out. Rubber gloves go on, the heat rises and I desperately scrub the marks which merely move from one place to another. The entire bathroom gets sponged until the fumes make me heave. Where does the hair come from? What is that stain? Did I chuck a kebab into the toilet? My skin starts to peel, my head sweats as slowly my body sucks in the dirt I am moving.

But the worst task of all is still left to do: the bloody washing up.

A large amount of my time is spent avoiding washing up. The fear of the orange goo left at the bottom of the bowl scares me more than the bomb. I shove everything in with half a bottle of Fairy to kill any germs. I deliberately own very little cutlery as I will leave everything until I am desperate for utensils. I’ve developed a unique way of eating salad with chopsticks. I pick a new scouring pad, roll up my sleeves and tentatively grab a mug. One down, another to go. Then the plates. They at least are easy. The huge amount of cleaning liquid makes them shine.

Slowly the water becomes fetid with whatever juice was on a bowl. I try to weaken it with more hot water, but it starts to overfill. I balance more and more on the rack. Oh no, a pan. I forgot the pan. It has pasta stuck on it. I just cant. But I must. So on and so forth I toil. A sodding hair gets stuck in the sponge. I look through the window at the world passing, trying not to sob at the waste of time. I’ve done many shitty jobs, I’ve flicked shit, I’ve made boxes, but there is nothing so horrific as washing up.

When it is finally done I nearly always take to my bed. I lay there in shellshock muttering about the dregs, the soggy bits of rice or unknown orange. Always orange. Why does it always come back to orange?

I’m sorry I made you punch me

Stan Collymore is a cunt (allegedly). I say that without a lawyer present. Despite being accused, though not charged, with domestic violence he got on his high horse a few years later asking people not to call him a ‘wife beater’. They could complain to his employers TalkSport instead and get him off the air if they hated him so much. This man, despite having punched a woman in the face, received no reprimand. Nothing.

We recently saw the League Managers Association backtracking on racist and sexist texts they called banter. I personally think that looking through someone’s personal texts is a little underhand and doesn’t take into account the relationship between two people. Imagine Lenny Bruce’s twitter account if he was still about? That would be a whole different use of the terms we shy away from. To brush it off as banter, though, shows that those in staid old football boardrooms really don’t have a clue about decency.

My ire is of course bent out of all proportion at the latest domestic violence story to rock sport; that of Ray Rice of the Baltimore Ravens. That’s American Football to us limeys. He punched his fiancée in the face. Then dragged her out of a lift, unconscious. What awful things would rain down on him?

No charges were pressed and the team (and NFL) gave him a tap on the wrist. The Ravens even included an apology from the woman for her part in the affair. “I’m sorry I made you punch me.” He apologised to the team and fans (not her) and it seemed to be filed away as meaningless.

Then, some weeks later, the video emerged. What can be seen is fairly shocking; he punches her hard, knocking her clean out. Now all of a sudden he is banned indefinitely and the world is in uproar. Reporters are shocked. Really? He knocked someone out! There’s video!

In other words, bruises and the words of a battered woman (or bystanders) mean very little without the gory imagery. If you can persuade her to deal with it for the greater good, then fine. He can get away with it. “That’s the power of video” one tweet replied to me, after I went on a rampage at anyone that exclaimed “wow” to the NFL response. So I’d better make sure I am recorded everywhere I go then, just in case?

No, Mr Tweeter, no. It shows the power of rich people to make domestic violence seem minor. If you can’t see the damage actually happening, then it was probably nothing. Just persuade her to look loving and make people believe she asked for it.

Meanwhile, other players are banned for smoking a spliff, not because it enhances performance but because it breaches the personal conduct laws of the NFL. Cannabis…bad. Smashing up someone’s face…acceptable. It’s all for the greater glory. Show me the money!

It appals me that we still live in a society where domestic violence can so easily be excused or forgotten, especially in sports people. These are not golden gods, they’re humans who happen to have the ability to run or jump a wee bit faster or higher than the rest of us.

I remember the bruises on Ulrika Johnson’s face after the incident with Collymore. It was as shocking as the video of Ray Rice is now. Both are evidence of nasty spoilt bastards with no control over their anger. The press after the Ulrika attack no doubt gave Stan a kick up the arse and yet the NFL’s original response was almost to reward a star player to do it again, and again. Many fans were complicit in the cover up, preferring to think of their fantasy football teams.

The NFL is no stranger to violence, even murder. Their initial response shows exactly how things can escalate. All I can hope is that his now wife finds the courage to get out of Dodge before she is blamed for his fall from grace.

Domestic violence has spent too long being pushed under the carpet. Injuries and the description of an event should be enough evidence to kick these fuckers up the arse. The sooner sport’s overarching bodies wise up and clean up, the sooner you can really hold up your stars as role models.

Every available hole slammed shut

Sit me in a pub with enough sugary drinks, and I am more than willing to compete in a Quint-like scar competition. Not many can beat having their legs sawn off and replaced with well-disguised metal limbs, if they’re not Wolverine. Some silly beggar always reduces it to a face off over what is worse out of giving birth or being kicked in the bollocks, as if there isn’t anything remotely worse. I have no sympathy for either situation; you had it coming.

But there’s one pain that plagues us all, and for the short time it occurs (and it always will) it’s the only pain the whole of humanity can share.

I’m fast asleep, it’s probably 3am, and suddenly I wake with the pain of a thousand nightmares. My insides feel as though I’ve been probed by an alien race intent on filling me with enough water to end the drought in Africa. If it was oil, one of the Bush family would have invaded my belly button and started exporting my bladder’s contents to Nascar. I have the twilight lake.

As always, the lovely pull of sleep tries to make you turn from the pain splitting your sides, as your brain tells you that dream really should be returned to. The sleep voice is strong and calm, so you attempt to drift off. No matter what, you don’t move or roll, just in case it dislodges the finely placed dam in your bladder.

Tap, tap, tap, your normal voice starts to wake up, explaining that you really should just get up now. It will save time in the long run. You’re stronger than that though. Squeezing your eyes shut, you try desperately to ignore it until the phrase from a thousand mothers’ mouths forces you awake a degree too much: “If you hold it in, your bladder will explode.” Pissing the bed is one thing, but exploding like a fat man given a wafer-thin mint is quite another. Still the voice of sleep holds you back. If you move you will never get to sleep ever again. Never! You are stronger than this, you can hold it in. You are strong like bull!

You will now fall into one of two camps. There are those of us who jiggle. This will ease the pain, distributing the imminent eruption across the body. Others will breathe as though we excrete discomfort through our lungs. But eventually you will reach the dreaded point of no return.

The danger and the dark make it feel like an episode of 24. Shuffling quietly, edging out of the duvet with hand outstretched, you will attempt to emulate Helen Keller. Over the vacuum, around the table, through the door, you tackle the Kypton Factor-like assault course to the loo. Eventually it builds to a mad dash of terror, knees together, every available hole slammed shut as you scamper to the water closet.

Don’t turn the light on the voice says, it’ll definitely make you too awake. So in you go, and deposit yourself onto the toilet seat. You’ll want to evacuate everything quickly but the fear of the noise waking the neighbours makes you squeeze everything, until you just think ‘fuck it’.

And peace floats over you, like a finding a classic action film on when you’ve got home with a kebab. The pain is gone. You almost float back to your duvet, which is now soft as a cloud and cool as ice. Soon you will sleep like the happy dead, blissful with an empty bladder and a sense of calm usually only available through very illegal drugs.

And yet, despite this bliss, there’s no avoiding tomorrow night when you’ll repeat the dash yet again. Damn the sleep voice; damn the ageing process. So much for evolution.

Cords, a bowl cut and a terrible jumper

Social media apps: I can find a point to most of them, if I bend it to my own will. Facebook I can use to keep up with certain obscure hobbies, Twitter I can use to mock breaking news on rioters, Pinterest I can use to store pictures to study (not cupcakes or bent penises before you ask). Blogs have their point – I can say fuck and soapy tit wank, and the whole world can read it if they’ve nothing better to do.

But there’s one app I absolutely despise with a passion usually reserved for the films of Eli Roth. Fucking Instagram.

In a dark, dark wood there was a dark, dark house. In the dark, dark house was a dark, dark room. And in the dark, dark room there was a pillock with a camera wafting a Polaroid image in the vague hope it would turn into a masterpiece of photography. Instead it’s an orange and brown out of focus shot of you and your sibling sat in your brown and orange living room, probably with a chocolate gateau, or cheese and pineapple on a stick. You’ll probably have cords, a bowl cut and a terrible jumper that Noel Edmonds would happily kill you for.

Seventies photography was shit. No-one looks at seventies photos with happiness. All you remember is the flash bulb that blinded you for 20 minutes or the memory of that dirty basement where Uncle Pete told you to get changed into your swimming costume. So why would anyone invent a heaving pile of app dung that takes clear images and turns them into a brown seventies mush?

Hipsters. Hipsters with social media followers they have never met. About a year ago some cock I know started posting Instagram pictures on his news feed every two hours. Of beer. Or a glass of wine. Selfies in a bar. I’m of an age that I know what a glass of beer looks like, and I can even remember how it looked in the seventies: pretty much the same. This grainy, distorted image is not clever or arty – it is fucking brown. Coffee, chestnut, sepia, sienna, copper, rust, BROWN.

Fifty shades of the fucking thing does not make something attractive. You’ve basically put a filter on to make it look old and shit. You might as well wear flares, nylon and waltz about drinking Babycham.

Still the pictures flood my news feed. “Here we are at a party, doesn’t it look great all smudgey.” Nope, ‘fraid not, you look like wankers. “Oooh look we’re in the countryside; don’t these leaves look great in sepia?” Wait for Autumn you bellend. The Instagram app seems to make these clowns feel they’re artistically retro, and yet current. It is zeitgeist.

Pass the sick bowl.

And above all, it’s the choice of subjects – so incredibly boring. Who the hell wants to see a grainy picture of your cat, some food you’ve paid too much for in a restaurant, or your mates attempting to do impressions of Kanye West?

No-one with half an ounce of sanity. But I’ll say this: it has one use. I now use it as a way to cull my Facebook friends, so separate the multi-coloured wheat from the brown, brown chaff. If you use Instagram, you’re clearly past the point of no return and deserve a good culling, among other things.

Dentures and incontinence pants

If you believe certain soaps, “family is everything”.

This is a concept I struggle with. As much as I miss one of my parents, I was quite happily made an orphan when the second died when I was in my twenties.

Family seems to involve traditions I struggle to see the point of. Take Christmas: you turn up at a relative’s house, with a gallon of presents for ungrateful children you never really see. You sit surrounded by decorations and bowls of nuts listening to conversations about people you can barely remember who you merely share DNA with. They talk over Doctor Who or Boxing Day sport, and you have to step outside to avoid a massacre. You’re asked repeatedly when you’re planning on settling down or how your exams went, like an endless Freshers meet-and-greet with added dentures and incontinence pants.

I’m told the point of family is that they provide a constant – people who will always be there, no matter what. I’ve been through a fair few whats and, bar two specific relatives, I’ve not received this genetic play-it-forward bonus. This makes me wonder what the point of family really is. It reminds you of time passing, of your misguided youth (remember when you fell of the bunk bed – not really a moment I wish to relive), of dependence, of traditions that go on and on like an endless tribute to Gormenghast.

Families survive through guilt. “You have to turn up, or…”, “You must remember her birthday, or…” It’s all for the children of course, forcing them to endure that excruciating moment when they have to call their evil grandparent who sent them a Boots voucher. “A £2 voucher is just what I wanted. I can spend it on that Pears soap I had my eye on. Thank you Grandma.”

This isn’t ingratitude, before you get on your high horse, it is honesty. What eight year old wants a fucking Boots voucher? It’s lazy and selfish sending something so fucking useless. Family reminds children that they’re surrounded by wrinkly relatives who lack imagination. They are the dying of the light. Parents: this may be the ultimate revenge for your miserable childhood, but for fuck’s sake break the chain!

It makes me wonder exactly what people get from researching their family history, or the programme “Who Do You Think You Are?” Taking a celebrity and attempting to prove their ancient family inspired them from beyond the grave in some way confuses me. We live in an age of free will and no longer have to follow the trade of our fathers, so what the hell does their past have to do with me?

First there was the Tracey Emin exposé that showed a distant part of her family lived in tents. You see, a tent – we’re poor people, it’s destiny! I don’t doubt that one of her relatives probably once slept in a bed of filth. Then there was Jeremy Irons’ search to prove his Irish ancestry; he’d bought a house there, he was sure. Imagine my laughter as the stirring in his loins proved not to involve a single leprechaun stashing a pot of gold.

I couldn’t give a penny-farthing what lurks in my pedigree, be it Black Death, witchcraft or the odd killing spree. I have very little in common with those still living who share my last name, and I thank free will this is the case. The majority of them are cunts. I am a cunt of my own hue, so fuck off and take your Boots vouchers with you.

A bloody great vase of flowers

First there are the camera angles. Everything is taken from the neck up, limiting any possible interesting dialogue pieces with other characters. Suddenly our heroine will be sitting down a lot, behind a desk, or holding large folders for no reason at all. Sometimes they’ll put a bloody great vase of flowers in the way. Clothing will become oversized, which never hides the bump just merely shouts “Look, the actress, the real person, is up the duff! Fuck trophy alert!”

Is she or isn’t she? This has become an all-consuming pastime for me that ruins many a good film or TV series. Believe me, I am not a rabid consumer of Heat magazine, desperate for information on celebrity breeders. It’s that when a director attempts to hide that an actress is clearly pregnant, the subterfuge is so obvious it ruins every single thing I watch. It’s so fucking obvious!

The fourth wall is broken and I sit on my hands, desperate not to bow to the inevitable and search Google to see if I have correctly spotted the pregnancy. The satisfaction that I’ve spotted the truth is nothing compared to the complete ruination of the story I am watching. Every shot, I sit there pointing out when I see it – there. There. Can’t everyone see it? It’s there, look. So what if someone just died horribly, I can see that woman is clearly pregnant.

The point of an actor is to dispel belief. Once my eyes alight on a possible bump, everything is ruined. I stomp about like a disgruntled Kevin, lamenting the blatant destruction of any dramatic tension. Clearly that isn’t Johanssen kicking ass, it’s a stunt double. How can Nikki Alexander carry on her will they-wont they with Harry if she is hiding the fact she is ferrying an embryo that isn’t his? It just isn’t right. I don’t want to see your real life. I want immersion! Pop the brat out between series, don’t flaunt it at me during the limited opportunities I have to watch good drama.

I ponder whether they should write it in, just to stop my own anger. Sadly this leads to the jumping the shark moment that killed The X-Files. Anyone remember how terrible it was to discover Scully’s baby was Mulder’s? Just me? It might work for soaps, but I hate any baby storylines. It kills anything of interest happening in the future, as you are always left (literally) with the baby. Think about Ian Beale, just think. My point is made.

This obsession with directors’ attempts to hide reality has recently reached new territory with the Expendables trilogy. Every scene where Arnie or Sly jump off a building, or roll away from an explosion, I wonder how they manage it. Of course, they don’t. Younger stunt doubles come in, concrete floors are made of soft eiderdown, beer guts are hidden by lofty camera angles and giant clothes. Argh! Why? They are old, that is the entire concept of the film. Sure they have egos, but let it all hang out. You’re too old for this shit!

I have no issues with people getting older. I myself cannot hold back the tide of aches and pains; my ability to bounce after falling over has all but disappeared. I don’t expect anyone to pay to see an old me defuse a bomb whilst jumping through the air but if it was my career I’d at least show that it bloody well hurt at my age.

But if you decide to drop another unfortunate child into this world of war, then don’t bring it into my living room. Wait until the series is cancelled, plan it so it isn’t noticeable, don’t cry feminism at work and demand it is ignored. I can see it. There. Look, it’s a bump. Have some pride in your art and the deception you weave for us. I have no interest in you, or the baby – I want my stories!

Sitting in a bath of cold baked beans

There are many things to hate about office life. If I started a list, its completion would probably signal the dawn of the apocalypse like the Tower of Hanoi. What tops my list changes with each futile day, and this week I am mainly incensed at the dreaded emails that start “Sponsor my trek across the world”, or similar.

Recalling the origins of such Friday night filler as Children In Need and Comic Relief, the idea of sponsorship is based on paying someone a certain amount to do something they will hate – for example, sitting in a bath of cold baked beans. Either that or something that is at least challenging. And that’s fine; should Shackleton pop up now, I’d be there sponsoring a husky they’d no doubt eat at some point.

Lately, a new type of charity fundraiser has emerged. We’re now frequently asked to sponsor people for huge amounts so they can go on fucking holiday.

You want to walk across Iceland? That’s a great idea; pay for it yourself. The huge amount you’re raising is basically paying for the airfare, hostels and equipment, with a tiny bit left over for the charity in question. In most cases you originally decided to do this activity without even thinking of a charity. You self-serving twat, you should be ashamed!

Above all else, you will enjoy this event. Why the fuck should I pay for an enjoyable holiday, which no doubt the company allow you to take off as paid due to some corporate responsibility loophole? I’ve been to Iceland, I did a bit of walking. No bastard paid for me to go, didn’t even offer. I even took leave.

In a fit of hysteria I raised this point to the happy charity-ers. I did not consider walking the Three Peaks in Yorkshire that difficult, and certainly not the way they were treating it, as a jolly time outdoors. “They’re hills you know.” Yes, hills. In England. Hills with hostels at the end. Hills that don’t require anyone to have a trickier talent than an ability to walk.

Above all, this is an event they planned as a few days out with friends. Why the hell should I pay anything for a bunch of cunts I don’t know or like to go for a nice walk together? I suggested they wear costumes, or drag things, just to make it worth sponsoring the hardship. “That will make it difficult.” Yes, it will. That is the point.

Slowly I spread my dissent, and other curmudgeons join my rallying call. People ask where the money will be spent, whether the weather will be a bit windy or wet, asking for any justification at all that this is worthy of the meagre pittance we earn churning over words no-one reads. “We are in training for it; that requires effort.” Training. To walk. This seems to involve buying new trainers and not taking the lift for a single floor. Bravo, your commitment astounds me.

More and more my mailbox is deluged with people who want my money for their own good times. Parachuting from great heights, climbing tiny mountains, driving across the desert, running a marathon in New York – the list goes on and becomes increasingly obscure. None of this is about raising money for a good cause; it’s about enabling you to do something you want to do on the cheap. The huge amount required is your entry fee.

Why not run the 25 miles here, without an event? Pay for jumping out of a plane yourself – why should I waste my money when you splatter yourself on the concrete? My hard-earned coins from labouring in this hell hole are used to justify my reason for living. They are spent on me.

Jog on you middle-class, conscience-free arseholes, I despise you and your request. Don’t ask me to pay for your jaunt abroad. I am not here to make your life happier. If I want to donate to a charity, I will do it directly or do something I truly hate to raise money. Then my friends will pay, just so they can taunt and mock, for that is how it should be.