There is only one good Christmas song. It’s called Fairytale of New York. The Pogues sing it, with their grumbly friend Kirsty McColl. And they sing it well, with all the enthusiasm of two people who can’t stand Christmas and the lies, treason and crap gifts it promotes.
The rest, without exception, are shit.
They’re not a bad invention, overall. Sometimes I’m quite glad of the fact that I’m able to walk around without crashing into things, wearing no glasses and looking not at all like the Milkybar Kid.
And so another week of commuting has passed, and with it my daily rage has grown to unprecedented levels. This is mostly because of a different breed of commuter, though.
Please allow me to introduce The London Cyclist.
My past week has been spent in Sharm el Sheikh, Egypt. Prior to departure my mother assured me that if I left the hotel at any point the likelihood of me being struck by a bomb would increase dramatically. Nevertheless I appear to have arrived home in one piece.
Sometime during the easter of 2010 I finally decided to see what all the fuss was about and register with the new social networking fad… twitter. Shortly after I commenced use of this site, however, a number of things began to trouble me. If you would care to read on I will divulge the reasons behind my uncertainty.