As I’ve had a very long day and I’m not in the mood to form a balanced argument on various aspects of life and the world around us, here is a list of things that annoy me:

I’m fed up with this bloody

weather.

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I hate football. I hate football because I watch it every week and can’t stop myself. Coverage of football is repetitive and in the main merely speculation, uber-rich Premier League footballers themselves are loathsome and the results are predictable. The Premier League is the least competitive league in the world, mainly because all of the crazy billions are stuck at one end of the table. The odd shock here and there, yes, but mostly it’s mostly the same old story.

Sooner the world will wake up and see that the top end of English football is vile, especially if one compares it to the lower leagues.

Even when Villa were six points clear of fifth there was an awful inevitability they would somehow slip up and the Arse would once again make the top 4 tiresome again. Because, as I frequently hear on rolling Sports News channels (sigh), “it would be a disaster for Arsenal not to be in the Champions League.” Yes, my heart would certainty bleed – poverty would have a new meaning.

Take a look at Luton Town; the authorities gave them an impossible mountain to climb, facing Hatters to contemplate an entire season of staring relegation in the face. Yet 40,000 of their fans turn up the Johnson’s Paint Trophy and are ecstatic with the doomed team’s victory. The memory of that will live on for a long time. Magical. The type of football story that brings a lump to the throat.

Now look at Manchester United winning the Carling Cup. To them, the winning of this particular trophy is merely a notch on their quest for complete domination of the footballing world. Soccercapitalism is what it is. In year’s to come, someone will remind a Man U fan that they won the League Cup in 2009, and the glory-hunting arseface will reply, “oh yeah, we did. When we won everything else aswell.” Congratulations; you’re rich. Any other club fan (except three others) would consider having 2009 tattooed on their arse.

I’m going to come clean; I’m a Spurs fan. I can tell you that Spurs would have appreciated winning the Carling Cup way more than any Man Utd fan, and yes, is because Spurs are less successful. But ask a random in the pub who they support – if they say something like “Norwich” or “Bury,” your reply will be “oh, really?” This is a true, thick-and-thin football fan. But hear “Chelsea,” and the instinct is to groan and go and talk to somebody else.

Man Utd have apparently been on a bad run recently. They beat Aston Villa 3-2, and then beat Sunderland 2-1. They must really be staring relegation in the face. I’m sure there are loyal Man U, Arsenal, Liverpool and Chelsea fans out there, and it isn’t their fault their clubs have been over-run with soulless, knuckle-dragging fartheads that support their club “coz dey looked good on duh telly.” But football has become too ugly and horrible to follow –for instance – Avram Grant finishes within a game of the Premier League title and reaches two cup finals and is sacked. That sums it up. Brian Clough is turning in his grave.

The solution – pretend the Premier League doesn’t exist. Either Wolves or Sheffield United will win the league this year despite neither of them being in the top four last season. Now that’s competitive and exciting. (JT)

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Today I’m going to spend my two pence worth on the many nay-sayers having their two pence worth. That’s right. Hold tight.

I read the Metro (because it’s free, and last week there was a story about a local police authority in Tiverton decideding to have some graffiti commissioned to “engage with youngsters…and show that graffiti is in fact an art.” I found this approach by the authority, spearheaded by Sergeant Robin Curtis, rather endearing. But without even reading the article I knew instantly how the paper would react – by collecting the sound-bites of local-something-or-others along the lines of “shouldn’t they be out catching criminals?” or “is this what we pay our taxes for?”

Sure enough, the Metro went straight to Matthew Elliott of the Taxpayer’s Alliance (clearly looking for a balanced opinion), who said the scheme was “pointless trendy nonsense,” and “to waste taxpayer’s money on such a gimmick instead of using it to fight crime is a disgrace.”

Imagine the scene:

(The phone rings. An operator picks it up).

    Caller: Help! Help! I’m being held hostage!

Operator: Just one minute, caller; let me see if the constabulary have finished spray-painting the officers’ nose and we’ll get back to you.”

Incidentally the article was written by John Higginson, the Metro’s CHIEF Political Correspondent. That’s right, Chief. To waste commuter’s reading-time and advertiser’s money on such a small story instead of using it to report on actual news of importance is a disgrace.

1-0 to me.

Whether the police officer’s idea of trying to recreate the youthful art is a good one or not, I can’t say that I’m totally against the use of tax money on things to make life a little easier and happier. I don’t begrudge the government for attempting the Millennium Dome project, for instance, as it seemed like a wonderfully courageous and grand thing to do. If they hadn’t arsed up the administration, spent  way-way too much on it and filled it with absolute guff, then we would all be celebrating it. Well, actually, we sort-of are, as the re-branded O2 is a massive success. And think about St Pauls, the Houses of Parliament and even Stonehenge – we celebrate these landmarks now but I wonder if a mass of petitions and Matthew Elliotts protested about them at the time.

Sergeant Robin Curtis is just trying to make life a little bit better. Even if it fails, he’s at least trying, which is more than I can say for you, Matty boy. Nice one Robin.

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When the English language was being concocted I’m sure the boffins in, oh let’s pretend it was Oxford, had the intention of creating words and sentences of the upmost intelligence and usefulness. It is testament of this modern age, therefore, that the English human race has conjured up sentences and phrases of such pointlessness and irritation that even describing them now will make me want to end this blog with a controversial and foul expletive.

Now, I am not as condescending and sanctimonious as to start going on about the state of education and how youffs don’t speak proper. Nearly every manager I’ve had has failed to write an e-mail with every word spelt correctly and the tenses fully up to scratch. I rather like that. But let me give you three phrases that infuriate and drive me to my other hobby; killing:

1.     “I’ll tell you what you should have done…”

Oh, fantastic. I’ve clearly just cocked something up and you have come to the rescue retrospectively. That’s just marvellous. I’m hosting a party in five minutes and the meringues haven’t risen properly, then you’ve popped up with “I’ll tell you what you should have done; you should have ra de da da da…” It takes a great deal of arrogance yet spinelessness to cockily proclaim how a disaster could have been averted. If anyone starts a phrase with this prefix, please hit them.

2.    “you tell me”

The blood-boilingly awfulness of this phrase was brought to my attention by those cruddy adverts for the well-known telecommunications operator featuring Kris Marshall. This three-word barrage of arsewipe-edness is said by people that do not know how to answer questions and have never apologised for anything in their life. If anyone says this to you, shoot them.

3.    “Chill out”

Gone are the days when ‘chill out’ had cool and positive connotations; one gets imagines of bearded carefrees in tents smoking magical substances and listing to plinky music. Now ‘chill out’ is used by housemates that have stolen bread without asking and aren’t prepared to fully justify themselves to the loafy victim. It is important to confront those that steal bread, otherwise it sets a precedent, and should the reply be “chill out,” you have my full permission to ram sharp objects into their eyes.

I have been party to conversations that have included all three of these phrases, causing my toes to curl so much you may think I’ve stapled onion rings to stumps on my feet.

Person A: “I’ll tell you what I should have done.”

Person B: “You tell me.”

Person C: “Chilled out.”

Piers Morgan. Sorry, but I had to do it. (JT)

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Food, not-so glorious Food

Jack Dee once commented, “What kind of a family eats out of a bucket?” And he’s right to ask this question. The kind of company that endorses eating food from receptacles usually reserved for coal or gravel needs to employ more chefs and fewer marketing and cost-cutting types.

The introduction of fast food has been a major contributory factor to the declining standards of etiquette in society and the destruction of the human palette. Not do these fat-covered liberal-interpretations of meat clog up our arteries but they have destroyed the food cycle.

Take the cinema – it is baffling to think the average person (in every possible way) can’t go two hours without shovelling sweaty, crunchy lumps of nothingness down their gobs. Many a time have the deep and meaningful segments of films been ruined by the sound of the salivary crunch of the world’s most inappropriate film-watching morsel.

The way to cure the scourge of food served in cement mixers and high-decibel snacklets is to eat meals. Proper meals. Watch Saturday Kitchen and Gary Rhodes, put a cooked slab of meat next to a couple of piles of roughage and you’re set. Your body will be thankful, your senses more satisfied and I won’t be tempted to remove your head and bury it in the residuey filthiness of an empty fried-chicken scuttle. (JT)

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Thank you for reading blogrant services. To help us get to the source of your anger more quickly, please tell me your bank’s sort code. If you don’t know this, after the tone give the location of your first projectile vomit.

Thanks. We now have four options; If you are reading this blog in your own trousers, press 1. If you are having this read out because your eyes are tired from a heavy bought of Celebrity Masterchef, Press 2, if you are a fan of the number four, press 3, for any other query that exists in the world, press 4.

Right – let’s get you some help. If you spend all your home-time talking to the speaking clock and prefer not to speak to humans, press 1. If you consider the last novel you read to be the label on a Worcestershire Sauce bottle, press 2. If you like to hold up small electrical appliances up to your ear causing one side of your face to heat up, press 4, for all other enquires please read a different blog.

OK. So you’re bored stiff. We now have forty options for you. If you would like to hit the person who records automated messages, say “weasel.” If you have a dangerously bland voice and would like to train to be one of those people, say “ferret…”

If you have grown a beard since calling (which you must have) please read our blog for beardies, as we can’t help you now. (JT)

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When did this happen? When did our society become so obsessed with news? News. Breaking news. More news coming up. Newspapers on the way to work, three on the way home.

Arrrghhh, too much bloody news!

I liked it much more when it was acceptable to read just one really good newspaper and it was ok that it took all week to read that.

It's not even the case that we have suddenly all become news junkies. Can anyone really tell me what is going on in the world after reading The Metro?

And how many people claim to read a newspaper everyday? But if you’re reading The Metro/LondonLite/LondonPaper (*delete as applicable) then you must understand that it doesn’t actually count.

(** If you read the LondonPaper, I judge you – harshly).

And where did all this news suddenly come from?
Gordon Brown sneezing in the Houses of Parliament isn't news and doesn't constitute a "breaking news" news flash. It just doesn't.

Rant over!

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A carcrash of tits, tans, tears and tantrums - yes, Paris Hilton is back poisoning UK soil in her bid to replace poor starving Nicole Ritchie with a new mate. Tune in, turn off your brain and let 'My British Best Friend' twist your body into an empty shallow pit of nothingness.

Representing Britain and competing to win the hotel heiress’s affection is a group of desperate orange whiny wannabes who all start to morph into the same person after two minutes - I challenge you to be able to identify a single individual or remember a name. I'm not sure what the collective noun for them would be, but this great 'wallop' of lap dancers, glamma models and token gay male, all fawn, simper and foam at the mouth in an attempt to avoid elimination.
 
Taking part in highbrow tasks such as: 'make Paris her fave pudding' and 'design Paris a pretty party dress', they go out of their way to impress their It-girl idol with murderous looks of complete and utter desperation in their unblinking eyes. Even so much as a disapproving head twitch from Paris is enough to make them drop to the floor, cut off a limb and beat themselves with it to show they can, and they will, do better next time.

The best thing about the show is Paris Hilton's complete disdain for her 'B.B.Fs' (Paris' words, not mine). In fact she can't even seem to understand their British accents - especially the scousers, they make her wrinkle her little nosey up in confusion. She'd quite clearly pepper spray any one of them who dared approached her whilst the camera wasn't rolling. And, fair play to her, I don't blame her.

BUT, there's only one person that I'm really angry with. It's not peahead Paris or the TV company that gave her squiggle loads of money to buy even more rat-sized dogs to put in her handbag. It isn't even the wallop of wannabes, no, not even the giggly nasal blonde who squealed, "I'd be the best person she could be friends with, coz we both luv dogs" - Hitler liked dogs dum dum, doesn't mean you're on a level.

No, it's myself. I'm not angry, just disappointed. I wasted 60 un-refundable minutes of my life transfixed, plus another 60 minutes writing this. That's two hours I'll never get back. And I know that it's on tonight, and what time… and who’s going to know if I watch it? Half-an-hour won’t hurt. It wasn’t really that bad. Sunbeds aren’t harmful. Chihuahuas are cute and Paris is cool. OMG!!

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Hoopla over Hula Hoops

One (oh yes, there are many) of my absolute bugbears in life is that I can't stand rudeness. I don't mean Benny Hill or Carry On style rudeness (oh-err mrs). I find myself being thoroughly rude to people who are just generally rude, abrasive, condescending (or is that a different issue?). It really does put me in a bad mood. I can't think of any time when being rude has ever been a bonus? It's just bloody rude to be rude.

The reason why I chose this to be my first of many daily rant, is that it's absolutely fundamental to me as a person and therefore this blog.

And the reason I mention this is because this morning on the tube, in a relatively empty carriage, a young girl was eating a packet of Hula Hoops. Not the healthiest of breakfasts for our future generation I agree, but still, she wasn't sniffing glue or drinking cheap cider, she wasn't shouting, being abusive or rude and wasn't doing anything else of note, except listening to her Ipod and eating a packet of crisps.
 
Harmless enough, until a middle aged chap got on the carriage (bit square looking, probably reads the Guardian) and starting giving the girl the evils. Tutting outrageously loudly at her eating habits (which weren't particularly loud I hasten to add). Glaring over at her repeatedly for daring to eat crisps at such an unreasonable hour. She then started glaring back at him, shifting her body language to that of a lioness protecting her cubs (or her crisps, presumably).

I don't understand. What has happened to Britain of late? Why are we so hell bent on doing anything and everything that can be pre-fixed with rage; road, air, train, tube, crisp - to name but a few.

Why? Can't we all just back-off?  Why not be a little nicer to one another? Say “please”, “thank you”, “no, after you”, “let me get that door for you”?, “here, take my seat”, (have I gone too far?). And if you can't manage that - just live and let live.

In this time of a recession, what does it actually cost to be polite?

All hail the goddess of politeness and those who sail in her.

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Where’s my train? Oh, here it is.

“Mind the gap.” Which gap? I don’t see any gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa…(thud).

No, that doesn’t happen. Because the gap isn’t a gap unless you are a borrower. Besides, you have enough on your mind what with trying to remember to keep your belongings with you at all times. Had it not been for that warning you would have flung your possessions across the platform.

Once you’ve made the great leap onto the electronic locomotive it’s time to tetris yourself into a comfortable position. Make sure you cough into someone’s face. “Please use all the room inside the carriage.” Thanks, tube voiceover. Will do.

But this raincoated man won’t.  There is usually a slicker from the city that usually blocks a carriage usually with a copy of the economist usually opened across the fleece of another commuter.

It takes a brave soul to tap someone on the shoulder and ask politely, “I’m sorry, could you move along please?” Why is that person apologising?

“I’m sorry, could you turn your music down?” “Apology accepted. Yes I shall.” Never happens.

“I’m sorry, could you stop eating your Egg McMuffin in my ear?” “Apology accepted. Yes, I probably could.” Chomp, chomp, chomp...

It’s that same Economist-reading, music-blaring, McMuffin-chomping city-gibbon that squeezed the bodily fluids out of everybody on the carriage when he crammed himself onto the train. Clearly the intimidating call of “please stand clear of the closing doors” and the light-hearted beeping didn’t stop him from ram-raiding a proportion of the city’s employees.

Once the train has taken its breathers to help the passenger alarm at Oxford Circus to turn itself off and to regulate itself (everyone hates an unregulated journey), it’s time to margarine your way out of the urban cylinder on rails. And once again destiny is in your hands. You can choose the speed with which you chicane past the inevitable snails that clearly don’t need to start work until tomorrow morning.

Thank the lord escalators have a fast lane. If only that one woman’s mind worked as fast – but she’s failed to grasp that you need to keep walking at the top. For some reason the silent leaning and looking-up from the frustrated urbanites behind hasn’t given Little-Miss Jennifer Saunters the hint.

With only two minutes to spare before you’re declared officially “late” there’s only the barriers to tackle. Shame the female half of a couple hasn’t worked out she needs to put money on her Oyster Card. And that her husband has reading difficulties when it comes to interpreting “Seek Assistance;” clearly in his language that reads “please repeatedly touch your oyster on the pad and maybe something will eventually happen.”

Beep. You’re free. With only thirty seconds to spare before the world melts. If only there was an alternative to this one-stop journey into work, but you can’t think of one. I can’t wait to get the Bacon McMuffin in my face at six o’clock. (JT)

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