(Ad)mission statement

I am on a mission to be awkward. You will not like this mission. Indeed, you will probably end up disliking me intensely, and will want to call me needy and demanding and self-centred and selfish and everything else under the sun, some of which may involve gratuitous amounts of swearing.

But I don’t care. I am being completely and thoroughly and unreasonably unreasonable, and I am going to enjoy it. Growl.

It is Tuesday, and I am feeling monumentally dissatisfied. With you. With life. Even with cheese and Vegemite on toast. And cheese and Vegemite on toast is my favourite new snack of the moment. The snack du jour, if you will. Cheese and Vegemite on toast has not done anything to me except be delicious, and yet I am horribly dissatisfied with it. Please forgive me, my mouthwatering snackette. Forgive me for ever doubting you.

However, although I am dissatisfied with everyone and everything else, I can’t bring myself to call any of you anything rude. Not like I can when addressing, for instance, the entire Catholic church today. I could call them a very rude word. A very rude word indeed. And what’s more, it would be aesthetically pleasing because it would alliterate. You bigoted bunch of Catholic, er, caterwaulers. Yes, caterwaulers, that’s the word I wasn’t looking for.

Cardinal Cormac Murphy O’Connor, I am officially giving you the finger. I am giving you the finger and an angry, withering look besides. You’re scared, aren’t you? If I say enough nasty things about you, the entire UK blogging movement will follow my lead and will rise up as one against you to put you at the top of the Google rankings for the phrase “Catholic tosspot”. I am that influential, you know. I’ve written to every A-list blogger out there (and I do know a few, believe me, because sometimes they even talk to little old me) and asked them to do it. The guerrilla campaign of British blogger petulance starts here. Be afraid, Cormac. Be very afraid.

Hello, and welcome to An Unreliable Witness, the home of incisive political and social comment. Come in, make yourself at home, and wipe your feet on the bigoted doormat as you enter.

None of this applies to you, though. You’re lovely. Ish. I won’t call you anything rude. Rude-ish, anyway. For you, I will just growl and look vaguely menacing - an expression that you will probably misinterpret as trapped wind. And then I will go and do that selfish, awkward thing to which I referred at the start of this pointless post. How much do you hate me right now, on a scale of, say, one to six hundred and seventy-three point six recurring?

Yes, I thought so. That much. You can be quite impressive when you want to be, can’t you? But not as impressive as I can be when I’m growling and being ridiculously petty and moody and suchlike.

If you don’t like this post - which is perfectly understandable, frankly - might I suggest that you go and read something else? Like a comically corrupted credit card statement or an entry that mentions sex a lot? Ah, see, now I’ve reached your level of interest. I knew it.

More of this stuff soon. Probably. When I’ve stopped sulking and acting like a big drama queen. And when that Cardinal Cormac Murphy O’Connor has finally tired of calling me up and asking if I want to take this outside to the car park and have it out like real men. Oi, Cormac! Shut it! There.

I think that’s my taxi to hell outside.