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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