(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.