I’ve got the urge to write but I don’t have anything to say, I mean, I have shit to say, but nothing that would be interesting to anyone who doesn’t live inside my head. But I have got the urge to write. I just read this story about Alan Partridge having a go at the Daily Mail, comparing it to paedophilia, and I thought ‘Yes, Partridge!’ for no other reason than I hate the Daily Mail with a passion. One of the reasons I hate them is because their existence means that I have to walk around with the burden of hate in me, if that makes sense. Here I am at a point in my life where I am trying as best I can to harbour no resentment, anger, envy or hatred to any individual on the planet, and yet I can’t shift this overpowering loathing I carry about with me for the Mail. And it’s not that I hate the Mail because it’s cool to hate the Mail. In fact I find that idea ridiculous. I don’t believe there’s anybody who hates the Mail because it’s cool to hate the Mail, that’s just some silly remark the Mail’s supporters will throw out there. People hate the Mail just because they hate the Mail. It is as simple as that. It is in our human DNA to hate the Mail, just like it is in our human DNA to hate rats. And I don’t even hate rats. But I am shit scared of them. All rodents. I don’t even like being in my sister’s place when the hamster’s running around the room in his ball. Every time I see a hamster running in one of them balls I remember the Crystal Maze. Remember when the surviving contestants would have to go into that big hamster ball at the end and collect the golden tickets? When I say ‘surviving contestants’ I don’t mean the ones that hadn’t died during the earlier segments of the show. I’ve completely lost my trail of thought here. Writing shit again that is only interesting to anyone that lives inside my head. Which is just me. And whoever the other four voices belong to. One of them is German. And shouts instructions to me at night. But until now I have never acted on them. Not because I know better, but because I don’t speak German, so can’t understand what the person in my head is telling me to do.
That last bit is not true. I just made it up. Entertaining myself. I’m writing, at least. He’s actually Swiss.