Ode to a blogger.

Right. Tuesday, one of my favourites.

I'm back once again (like the renegade master), using the free WiFi in Starbucks and thinking about stupid but interesting things to throw into the void, also known as the internets.

I'd first like to start with a nod of approval to my friend, Mr Will Shaw, who this week got hit by a 4x4 in China. After initial worry, I realised that only Will Shaw could be hit by a car, but insist on completing the last 4km of the run immediately after.

"It will surprise no one that I have absolutely no intention of reporting to a Doctor, nurse or witchdoctor about being hit by a car. I feel to do so would be to destroy the aura of infallibility created by my ‘more machine than man’-esque exit from the scene after being mown down by a 4×4. And I don’t really like making a fuss."

Inspirational stuff. Norfolk LADS til eye die. YEAH.

The next point I'd like to address is something I recently heard our lord and savior, Charlie Brooker talking about. Now normally, I wouldn't comment on anything he'd written because it's entirely unnecessary. If he brings something up, it needed to be addressed. And whatever he says about it is right. But today I feel like adding to his perturbed riflings through the human condition.

The subject of debate is how you treat people in the service industry. Not you personally of course, but like, some wankers, and by extension how your conduct in these situations is a direct representation of whether you are an inherently shitty person or not.

If you phone a help line, and you're angry because there was a logistical error and it's briefly inconvenienced you, apparently some people think it's fine to act like a bellend. Some people even think it's impressive to speak to another human being like they literally just formed in the bottom of the shower at a leper camp, out of the severed remains and belly button smeg of the afflicted.

Some people start talking to Julia at BT like they are well hard because theres nothing she can do about it anyway. It's what she's for isn't it?

Well guess what, Julia likes to eat bon bons in the garden and read books about space. Give her a fucking break.

You know those guys that swear at other motorists because in the little bubble that is their car and by extension their singularly linear existence, it's them that are abusing Julia down the phone. They said goodbye to their ugly wives this morning and couldn't wait to accelerate towards you at a Give Way point, only so they can beep when they get closer and it's apparently your fault.

I like to imagine the terrifying acceptance of doing what other people do as being like broadband. Millions of little beams of lights, carrying quite individual, potentially affecting moments of brilliance careering down a tube, following a direct path from start to finish. Birth, to mortgage, to death.

Alright so along the way you get to feel a little bit better about the impending doom of the path you put yourself on by asserting some sort of superiority complex on Julia who may or may not have had cornflakes for breakfast (Just like you, Fucko) and indeed wasn't switched on at 8.59 in order to indulge whining inadequates for the day, only to be turned off and popped in a stasis chamber overnight.

But what do I know, I just think being nice is better.