In Ardeelee's Shadow

I feel ill when I watch black-and-white movies; they leave me feeling cold and clammy. Hollywood Buddhists have a similar effect. I dismantle children’s jigsaws and walk through cobwebs. Last night I dreamed I was snogging my own brother. I hate ring doughnuts. In restaurants, I feel cheated by sorbets. I hate old Tories and yet I, too, resent having to learn new things. I cannot swim. I am unable to resist alcohol even when I know I’m becoming boorish and losing friends. The extra pint is more important. I cannot dance the foxtrot. I hate poetry. I cannot write poetry, but even if I could, I wouldn’t. I hate pretzels and seafood and apple cores. I hate people who refer to kiwi fruits as kiwis. A kiwi is an animal; it’s not likely to be in your yogurt, is it? I cannot be relied upon to turn up. Don’t arrange to meet me. I went to a comprehensive school but still came out a socialist, despite the government’s apparent intentions. I gave away my most prized possession to someone who doesn’t value it. I sometimes imagine I should take music seriously. I have 30GB of space on my Creative Zen Juke Box and about 300 tracks. I hate wearing a suit and tie and hardly ever do because I never get invited anywhere. I hate heavy metal T-shirts, but especially on Brummies: We have a hard enough time as it is. I can't bear elastic bands. Once I forced two boys younger than me to fight each other. I eat frogs legs, but I hate greedy pigs and wine connoisseurs. Just drink the fucking stuff, for Christ’s sake. I hate the tyranny of blogging. I loathe people who want to convert me because otherwise I’ll never know true happiness. I hate cat lovers. I hate slot machines in pubs. Why should the friendless be allowed to inflict their suffering on us? What do they think online gambling is for? I hate Middleton. I hate Wembley. I abhor Weoley Castle. One of my best friends killed himself. He lived in Chelmsley Wood for a while. Charles Dickens is a pain in the arse. I cannot speak any foreign languages fluently. At the age of 9 I ran away from home and got as far as the shops. I detest philosophy even though I have a degree in it. I despise reading. I have three broken hi-fi systems in the attic. I get increasingly depressed the more I write and the older I get. I stole a locket from the Bronte sisters’ house. I have gratuitously broken the hearts of several innocent young women. I hate gammon with pineapple: What is this, the 70s? I pick my nose. I hate celebrity self-deprecation. I am suspicious of the permanently cheerful, like they’re sick in the head or something. I haven’t had an original idea in five years. Even this list is a tribute. I’m probably the most boring person you’ll ever meet. I hate travel. My wife is a better human being than I’ll ever be. I don’t have to travel anywhere if I’m with her.