I hate you so much right now

While I may not hate many people (preferring instead to adopt a 'live and let live' attitude), I harbour what may be considered an inordinate amount of hostility towards those I do. In most cases, it is impossible to determine the single biggest contributory factor behind this intense hatred - the mere existence of the hatee seems to be enough.

I despise TV3's Alan Hughes. Why? I can't say. (That's 'I can't say" in a I-have-no-idea way as opposed to a I-could-tell-you-but-then-I'd-have-to-kill-you way). All I know is the very sight of him is enough to send me into an apoplectic rage. It could be his voice. It might be his vacant laugh. It could even be the fact that despite being yet to reach middle age, he has a personality identical to any number of Granny Ambassador's 90-something, tea cosy wearing, tartan shopping-trolley dragging, "it's awful hard to get good turnips this weather" moaning friends. So this morning, sipping coffee over the Sunday papers, I sat trying to quantify the amount of stress I could relieve if, while in possession of a crowbar, I found myself in the company of Mr Hughes.

Of course I wouldn't want people thinking I was the perpetrator of a gay-hate crime. That just wouldn't do. So, on the basis that a man camper than a row of big pink fluffy tents can't really be accused of 'gay bashing', I decided that, if the opportunity ever presents itself, I'll have to camp things up a bit. I shall dress a bit sharper. I will moisturise regularly. And most importantly, crucial in fact, I will wield the crowbar in my left hand so I look a bit awkward and uncoordinated.


Of course all most of this is strictly theoretical.