I sit slumped in the chair, vodka screwdriver in hand. I’m filled with rage, the level of rage only a king could feel as he watches his subjects rise up in revolt. But my rage isn’t because of people, my rage is the fault of a pigeon. This feathery bastard’s shit on me.
Bird poo was on my shoulder and I’m still pissed. When folks are mad they express it. Some cartwheel their anxiety away. Other hurl themselves out of planes. I like to fill a glass half empty with society’s favorite poison, turn on the television and scream obscenities that would make Mel Gibson blush.
I’m ready for the catharsis, but wait! What in God’s hell is this? I’m staring at floral-designed, cigarette-stained chairs, clutching sunken, deflated pale orange cushions. It’s C4’s Gogglebox. I am watching the watching. I see kings and queens sat upon their thrones, commenting and snarling into the disfigured face of that medieval jester we call light entertainment.
I can’t watch this. It’s what I do; I sit, I snarl. I ramble and rant while babies are crowning their soft heads into our reality. How am I supposed to be disturbed when I know Steven and Chris from Brighton are chuckling at One Born Every Minute?
I can’t enjoy shouting at the TV because the TV is shouting louder, and it has wit. I hate it having wit. TV commentary was a game I played and won. I was playing by myself but I was still winning. Now it’s a competition, me vs the TV; who is the most creative when calling Jeremy Clarkson a prick. “Top Gear is like a rose bush, it looks pretty but it’s filled with pricks” I used to joyfully preach. Not now, no because Linda, George and Pete from Clacton-on-Sea have outdone me, the witty arseholes and they have an upstairs living room. I don’t have an upstairs living room.
I have lost my vent, my outlet. What am I supposed to do now? Get angry at people being angry? That’s ridiculous, I’m moving my anger one more stage away from the root of the anger. It was pigeon shit then rage at TV, now it’s pigeon shit, TV and now rage at people raging at TV. It’s getting far too meta.
If only I’d got that beak-headed mutant-toed fuck in the first place I could of written a poem about cats wearing mascara.
If there’s one good thing to come out of Gogglebox it’s this: it has shown me what a completely idiotic swine I am, mindlessly perplexed by a glowing box. I rant and ramble not thinking about the venom pouring out of my hypocritical skull. I am as dumb as the rest of this doomed nation and I should just turn off the TV. I will keep it off!
Until the next time a feathered foe fires faeces into my face.