Things that piss me off, lot 173.
People that eat crisps on buses: What's that repetitive, annoying, crunching, munching fucking sound behind me on the 25A? It's the sound of some howaya gorging on a packet of Monster Munch whilst simultaneously snapping her Hubba Bubba right in my fucking ear. Please stop it, they won't go stale if you just wait the half an hour it takes to get back to your shack.
KFC ads: Singing in an operatic style about the vagaries of popcorn chicken. What regurgitated phlegm of a suit came up with this? It's worse than the First Aternative ad with Michael Winner. And that was infuriating.
Insurance ads: Do I care how much some old fart's car insurance is in Norwich Union as opposed to, I dunno, First Alternative? No. I really don't. And in most cases being quoted less by one company than another doesn't make one dance around one's sitting room doing the cha cha and gurning like Shirley Temple Bar on ecstacy. Not in my experience anyway.
Queues: I'd rather be in the pub.
Q Bar: Went in there last Sunday to see how the pond life live when they're not out buying shiny belts and having children at 14. Turns out they sit around comparing facial fluff and counting out coppers for their next pint of Bud. And don't get me started on Cork supporters.
That 'Langer' song: It's not clever.
MTV: Pimp My Ride? I'm sorry? And surely a Crib is something you take down from the attic every Christmas if you're of a pious persuasion, and not a dwelling with two swimming pools, a video room, a studio, four living rooms, a brothel, a dildo-shaped couched and a garage with 13 vehicles, all of which have no doubt been 'pimped'. Just fuck off.
Jordan: Not the country, to which I'm benignly indifferent. No, I refer to the blow-up doll that got paid a million quid by OK! Magazine to marry some voidoid in a pink Barbie dress. They got a 27-page spread. Everything that's wrong with the world in two grotesquely oversized breasts.
Eddie Hobbs: I don't 'loike' the way he says 'Oiiirish'. Apart from that he's probably a sound man, if a little bookish.
Ladies who lunch: The kind that sit around in some made up brasserie called, I dunno, L'enchante and talk about who had the more expensive wedding, how that Seoige girl from Sky News Ireland (sorry Eddie, Oireland) SO shouldn't wear her hair that way and why they'd love to do charity work but couldn't possibly find the time.
Or am I just cranky?