by Daisy Cutter
Twitter’s spleen nearly exploded on Sunday evening when the trust-fund Wurzels took to the Pyramid Stage at Glastonbury and played the same dreary song twenty times in a row. But unlikely as it may seem – and despite the fact the plastic Pogue f***ers make you want to rip off your ears and parcel force them to your worst enemy – there are actually some things in life more annoying than even Mumford and Sons. Twelve to be precise…
Fasten your seatbelts and embrace the hate.
Always female and usually ignorant to the concept of basic grammar these wannabe Angie Watts love nothing more than to slosh their gin-soaked misery across social media seeking the attention and faux-sympathy of people they hardly know.
The moment a well-meaning sucker has been reeled in however they bafflingly turn coy.
“Why is the world so crool? Reely had enuff this time L”
“What’s up babe? xxx”
“Nuffin hun. Its personal”
Within this increasingly homogenised world where every iota of detail and information is merely a fingertip away it has become almost impossible to be surprised anymore. So maybe I don’t want to know that it’s going to be gloriously sunny this weekend. Maybe I wanted to discover that for myself and briefly wake with the wonder of childhood.
So that Sopranos box-set you’re trawling through in the wake of Gandolfini’s death….he gets whacked at the end but you don’t see it. There, your knowledgeable expression from simply watching a weather report is not so smug now is it.
You’ve encountered a misfortune and worse yet you are fully aware it’s partly your fault. All you want to do now is tell a friend about it and see a sad sympathetic expression on their chops. It will make you feel slightly better. A bit warmer inside.
Instead you’re sternly informed of what you should have done to avoid said misfortune in the first place. This is imparted because
a/ That’s just what you want to hear right now
b/ With such startlingly obvious advice it will give you the chance to test-run that time machine you’ve been meaning to fire up for ages
Blatantly false transfer rumours concerning your club
During the season you are a rational man who knows full well that such an illustrious talent is far beyond your club’s reach. Across the summer months however the rules must change. Because it’s now in your best interests to believe – or at least pretend to believe – these fantastical rumours if only to get through a boring football-free July. You hate the website for putting up such garbage almost as much as you hate yourself for regurgitating it later down the pub.
Punning news reporters
Time was when such infantile wordplay was reserved for Newsround. Now every supposedly serious news network is guilty of reducing any item to a five minute sub-par Tim Vine comedy skit. We’re genuinely only a few years away from a tragic house fire being reported thus –
“This is the hot topic raging through the town as feelings are ignited in anger. And as the suspect is grilled by local police the burning question is whether the victim’s old flame matches the witness’s description. The last embers of the evening flicker and dwindle and the thoughts turn to the children whose lives were cruelly extinguished by this awful deed”
Due to being uttered by Sebastians and Jemimas at ‘Glasto’ Glamping – the notion of camping in style – is the latest in a lexicon of buzzwords mashed together and hopeful of its very own place in the Oxford English dictionary. And while such bastardised terms are an annoyance in themselves the true target of our ire should be the originators who, due to coining them in real-life versions of Sugar Ape magazine, sit back and consider themselves Hoxton’s very own Carrie Bradshaw.
According to a recent scientific study undertaken by individuals who really should be working on a cure for cancer it requires seven full stirs of a mug to dissolve two lumps of sugar and make the perfect brew. Which makes the additional ceramic-scraping vigorous whisking and subsequent clanging on the rim like an ADHD toddler with a toy drum nothing more than an ear-shredding act of pure madness. Just stop it.
Hot and cold neighbours
We’ve all got one: a local resident who one day offers a wave and cheery hello, the next walks past you like you’re personally responsible for Auschwitz. Let’s settle for mutual blanking. It’s just easier.
The stupidity of flies
Inspired by a new-age book found on a train you resolve to no longer kill a living thing. Maybe that Ghandi fella had the right idea. Unfortunately this even stretches to annoying insects, including the little buzzy bastards who exist solely to raise your hackles to the point of bloody murder. Eventually, after grinding your teeth to powder at the constant droning, you can withstand it no more so, in a fit of temper, you open all the windows. The fly – who was previously busy banging itself against the pane – now decides to noisily zoom over to the doorway. No problem. The door is swiftly opened. Suspicious of yet another escape route to freedom the chainsaw impressionist now zips to a far corner whereupon it circles in a blind fury. SPLAT. From Ghandi to Idi Amin in a matter of seconds. Thanks a bunch fly.
Mums in men’s toilets
The morning coffees take their effect and you head into the supermarket loo. As you whistle a merry tune and aim for the urinal cake, attempting to dislodge it with the sheer power of your jetstream, the door opens and a child appears…accompanied by a woman of a similar age to you. Should you walk in on her when she is splashing the pan next door you’d rightfully be screamed at and called a pervert. But because this complete stranger opened her legs five years ago to a bloke who only drinks in pubs with a flat roof it is apparently okay to flout social mores and inflict a highly uncomfortable piss from hereon in, an experience only made worse when she starts ordering her boy to hurry up. You know she is talking to her son, your beef bugle however is not so discerning and regresses to a childlike state from the authoritative tone, your previously stallion surge now a sorry dribble of awkwardness.
Due to the recent popularity of all-things baking cupcakes are now very ‘in’ whereas rocket is fast becoming passé. Kale is on trend whilst ‘retro’ fare such as jam roly-poly are making a comeback. Those pretentious sauce-scrapes across plates meanwhile are now considered old hat. The people who decide such matters are all crazier than a box of frogs and should be avoided at all costs. Some food is delicious while other ingredients are not so nice depending on your personal preference. That never changes whether it’s 2012 or 2013.
The internet – or so we’re led to believe – is awash with erotic and exotic possibilities. It is an endless cornucopia of sleaze and tease; an insurmountable multitude of plastic breasts and bad acting heaved and groaned in a Californian twang. It is a world within a world. So that moment when you realise all before you is now a repeat – that you’re no longer watching porn but rather you have watched porn…the whole thing – is as dispiriting as they come. Great men from centuries past also conquered entire worlds. You are not a great man.