Cold hatred, and the cold truth

I hate Jamie Oliver.
He’s a tosser.
I’d like to be able to write a reasoned, intelligent essay about him and point out his defects and convince you all to hate him as much as me, but I can’t. The more I think about it, the more unreasoned my hatred becomes. It’s just one of those things. One of those clashes.. The hatred I bear for him is one of those all-encompassing world-shattering hatreds that occasionally crops up and affects all around them. The sort of hatred that Johnny Marr developed for Morrissey. The hatred that Judas bore toward Jesus that led him to betray him, and start a religion. If I had the opportunity to kiss Jamie Oliver and watch him dragged away to his untimely death by Roman soldiers, believe me I’d do it. He’s a tosser. And I hate him. Nuff said.

I’ve started drinking earlier in the day. My happiest moments are normally after I’ve had my first drink, and no-one wants to employ me at the moment, so why not start earlier? Why not have a can of cold Guinness at 10am while working on my daily blog? Why not numb the pain of a pointless existence by experimenting with cocktails at lunchtime?
The answer to all those ‘why nots?’ is, of course, ‘because your family is riddled with alcoholism and you’re on a slippery slope to oblivion.’ but stuff it. I’m not Ray Milland and this ain’t “The Lost Weekend.” so for today, and until I’m happier, stuff it.

RC 9-10-08
1605 BST