Let me tell you a story.

Once upon a time, in a land very much like the one you live in now (except if you live in one of those crap ones, like Middle Earth or Pandora), there lived a man.

This man, who for the sake of argument and a sensibly paced narrative we’ll call Mat, had a problem; he was irritated to the point of frontal lobe liquidation by pretty much everything.

TV bugged him, people annoyed him, fashion drove him to the egde of insanity, wedged a brick against the accelerator and leapt from the swiftly moving vehicle just in time to watch it plummet to its doom, and perfume advertising made him want to stand on a motorway overpass and hurl flaming bags of dog turd at motorists trundling along their merry way.

Textspeak made his spleen hurt, people who use textspeak on the internet made him punch strangers in the face, and those very special individuals who use ‘wat’ instead of ‘wot’ and who remove the apostrophe so that instead of ‘she’d’ you’re sent the word ‘shed’, caused him such physical agony that the only way he found to alleviate the pain was to throw rotten fruit and small animal carcasses at rich people.

He hated beauty products;
He loathed tea drinkers;
He abhored politicians;
and any mention of the word ‘snack’ made him curl up into the foetal position and bang his head against sharp things.

He was, as has been mentioned a few times, a grotesquely angry man.

One day, this man was given a magic box (who by? Oh, probably fairies or goblins or a sexy government official, or something equally mythical and pretend. Stop asking questions and listen to the story), that allowed him to share his poisoned and alarming point of view with the rest of the land and the foreign lands beyond. A box with such unimaginable power that most of it contained pictures and videos of naked people doing terrible things with other naked people and adverts for manhood enhancement medication and casinos.

Given that Mats’ ability to use this box for good and peaceful things was so far outside the realms of possiblity that it had actually begun knocking on the front doors of neighbouring realms in the hope that one of them would have a bed for the night, he began infecting the world with his insidious inanity almost immediately – cackling maniacally and rubbing his hands together as he did so, partly because he’d heard that it was what evil doers did, but mainly because he believed it made him look cool.

Yet, almost as soon as he’d started pouring liquidfied shit into the eyes of unsuspecting individuals, he realised that to ensure the world understood that everything was completely fucked, he would have to alternate his topics every so often, so as to ensure maximum curmudgeonly coverage.

This he did, and everyone lived happily ever after, except Mat who was rendered disabled following a bout of malignant diabetrophy sarcoidanomadosis that permanently ruptured his spleen.

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You read that whole thing, didn’t you. And now you’re wondering what the hell it has to do with anything.

Well, in simple terms, because you’re all simple to me, I’m pointing out to those who may not have realised, that What’s in my Drawer won’t always be about TV.

I’d like it to be. I’d love to be able to focus on one particular topic and squeeze every last morsel of bile from it, but my brain doesn’t work like that. Besides, if I did simply whine about TV, it would only take a couple of weeks for it to stop being What’s in my Drawer and become ‘Ray Romano and Brannon Braga Broke my television’. And nobody wants that.

Besides, I’m not very good at it. Go back and read the previous entries and compare them to things that aren’t gilded tripe. Shit aren’t they. That’s due to the fact that I had to remember what I was angry about; to manufacture a rant out of recalled fury. And all that happens is I produce a faintly glittered turd.

If I simply wait until the 12th hour (the 11th hour is for pussies) and just point my spleen at the keyboard, malignantly brilliant things happen….hopefully. It doesn’t always work like that, but it always works out better than if I try too hard.

And the title? Well, I just like it. It’s a lovely non-sequitur. It’s generally used when you’re in a restaurant, telling a story loudly and you suddenly realise that the every person has turned to listen. It occurs to you that your ending really isn’t going to suffice and you just throw out the first sentence that comes to mind. People who came to the story late assume they missed something vital, and cool, earlier on, and those who had been there since the beginning pretend to understand and laugh, in the hope that you think them interesting and not dumb, dumb people.

It also makes you irresistable to the opposite sex.

And why the story? Why didn’t I just say, ‘What’s in my Drawer won’t always be a rant about TV’?

Well, where’s the fun in that? What are you, the story police?

So, to recap: I’m not good at one topic, prepare to be irritated by my unending, unrelenting and, above all else, unlogical (I know it should be illogical, but then I would have had to use illending and illrelenting and that would have just made no sense)inanity.

But that will have to start next week; I’ve gone on a bit and used a few more words than I needed (I do that).

Oh, and there will, eventually, be pictures. My system appears to be sulking and won’t let me edit any pictures with anything other than Paint; a program with which I am not talented.

For now simply enjoy the fact that it’s over for another week, and fear next Wednesday, when I begin my whinging for real.

Tata