Room 101 – the room in George Orwell’s book 1984 where innocent people’s worst fears and most hated things are inflicted upon them. Or, for a more pop culture version, a television show presented by Frank Skinner where various celebrities are asked to discuss their pet hates and if they should be banned to Room 101 for eternity. Either way, Room 101 contains the hates and fears of humanity. (I think this was also where Donald Trump was born.)
Anyway, these are mine…
Band Tees in High Street Stores
So, a huge fan of The Ramones are you? How about Black Sabbath? Ah, Metallica…always on repeat, eh?
Look, I know it’s not your fault. There is a certain je ne sais quoi about the fashion status of band tees but its a sad state of affairs when this happens. I can no longer take The Rolling Stones seriously knowing that they have whored out their famous lick symbol to H&M for pre-teens to wear and feel somewhat edgy. As a rule, if you have never listened to the band…or even seen them live…you haven’t earned the right to adorn yourself with the apparel. And, no, I don’t care if it was on sale in TopShop. That just makes it worse.
I know I sound like a pompous, hipster prick but maybe that’s because I am a pompous, hipster prick when it comes to these things. I am full of self-loathing and self-righteousness in a precarious balance, unfortunately.
Clean Eating Instagram-mers
If I see another picture of a Protein Bowl, Kale, or Pinterest’s latest overnight oats recipe, I’m going to cry. Legit. What the fuck is with this clean eating crap anyway? I still don’t fully understand and I really don’t think the people who live by it fully do, either.
I mean, I know pizza isn’t exactly high on the list of “Things to Eat Daily if You Want to Live Longer” but this is a whole new extreme. I think the thing that really grinds my gears (after reading the ridiculously long caption about how many reps they did at the gym, their personal history, “trigger warnings,” and #strongnotskinny) is that these motherfucking pictures are posed as much as their selfies. You know. You know. The almonds placed a little too carefully down the centre of the protein bowl with bananas on one side and blueberries on other like some kind of fruit apartheid…
Just eat your dinner, Susan, for goodness sake.
Pet Owners Who Call Themselves ‘Mum’/’Dad’
I’ve got something to tell you – you know that Mother’s Day card that Mr Fluffs wrote you last year? He didn’t write it. Your partner did. Why? Because Mr Fluffs is a fucking rabbit and can’t read, write, nor hold a pen.
You are not a parent. You have a pet. And, likewise, Whiskers has a human who puts up with him shitting on the floor, scratching the bejesus out of your brand new DFS sofa, and still feeds him at the end of the day. In his eyes, you are a less than a mother and more of a mug.
Madge, darling, at one point you had it. And you had it good. And then you just got a bit crazy and now everyone watches you on stage like they’re watching a build up to a low-budget horror movie.
Mexico. What the fuck, bro? Tequila is Satan’s tap water. I never will enjoy it and the moment someone comes over with a big grin on their face holding a lemon, balancing salt on their hand, I want to weep because I know what’s coming. Serious. I’d rather swallow bleach. Or watch Madonna in concert.
“I know what would make this caramel better…Salt.” said no-one ever.
I’ll tell you what happened. One day Bill the Baker went out on a Friday night with the lads and was mad hungover on Saturday morning. Anyway, time is money, so he opened his bakery and put out his best selling batch of Caramel Donuts. However, Bill was a fucking state this morning due to aforementioned sesh and instead of sprinkling sugar on top, the daft bastard grabbed the salt instead. What to do? He was opening in 10 minutes and he didn’t have time to make more. So he just spun it like a pro and added “NEW!” on a sign next to them.
Turns out they were a big hit and caramel was ruined forever.
You know what else has protein? Food.
There’s a time and a place for protein shakes – after a gym session, or a long ass run, but not throughout a normal working day. (Unless you are the size of a London bus trying to bulk not sulk.)
Walking around the office with your My Protein bottle like a status symbol? Not the time nor place. Just…stop.
…Or, more specifically, the Amazon reviewers who leave something the length of War and Peace. They act like they’ve got their own column in The Telegraph, for gods sake. They’ve only bought a can of de-icer and they’re off, setting the scene…
“It was a cold and frosty morn’ when I awoke Tuesday of last. The winds were blowing and the snow was but a whisper away; despite my reservations, I required to leave for work in less than 35 minutes. I tip-toed past little Timmy, my wife’s Chihuahua, and crept outside to find my fears a reality – my car was, indeed, frozen. I recalled I purchased a de-icer akin to this one a few Januarys ago; for, indeed, that were a bitter winter thou shalt not forget. It’s memory still sends a chill to my core…”
Listen, Charles Dickens. All I want to know is it going to work, was it worth the money, and should I fucking buy it.
I still don’t understand the necessity of these. You pop into Matalan to buy a few tops for summer, maybe a pair of pants, and some slippers for Aunt Julie; you arrive with your stash at the till and they ask – nay, demand – for this card.
This card which, to my knowledge, gives you fuck all in return except for a sworn loyalty to the most beige retailer in history. No points. No Christmas benefits. Its just a club card to access the tills and pay for stuff. The moment you say you haven’t got one the cashier looks at you like you’ve just dropped a massive fart. “Do you want one?” they ask.
Well, Colin, I don’t have much of a choice do I?