When I’m ass deep behind enemy lines….I’m talking so far into the bad guys territory that the only way to prevent myself from taking a high velocity round to the face is by growing a stupendous beard through sheer force of will…when I’m in that much trouble, and the A-Team nor Chuck Norris are anywhere around…then I would appreciate some kind of headup display informing me of what’s coming up, what I can expect to see in the next 25 minutes or so.
It could save my life.
Look, I’m not a grammar Nazi or anything, but when are we going to stop allowing any illiterate twat that can string a couple of words together near a microphone?
Why am I so vitriolic this week? I’ll explain, though I should point out that it isn’t a long story. In fact, it isn’t a short story, but more of a micro tale.
So, 2011 appeared. Awesome.
Ya know, I kinda hoped that the new year would bring with it some form of relief from the bloated, off-colour, tumescence that my spleen has become. Relief in the form of more happy, smiley thoughts than dark, brooding, evil, murderous thoughts at the inane world around me.
But I was too hopeful, too enthusiastic at the thought of my brain being filled with more than bile and venomous rage, and volcanic anger.
Because we went bed shopping at the weekend.