RANT

Met Steven for a lunchtime coffee, and he once again happily obliged as the model for a blip to illustrate a point. It seems, again, from yesterday's rant that my reasons for writing such things aren't that obvious. Tonto McDuff asked me at the Unstaged event if I was always angry, and I honestly replied that I can only normally be bothered writing so much when I'm in a good mood. Other times (but less common), like last night, I need to get stuff off my chest, and unable to go into the details of the real traumas another outlet for a bit of a shout has to be found. And the Daily Wail is a good outlet because it's full of rank stupidity.

I thought about going into detail, expanding on the reasoning in that first paragraph, but instead hit on an idea. A further rant. Not on something that I hate; not on some Daily Wail nonsense; nor some random and pointless hatred; or crime against common sense committed in my vicinity. But rather on a little sepia shop, owned by a girl called Emily, with an Old Fat Furry Catpuss in it.

----------------

What sort of a 'shop' is it anyway? Nothing gets sold there, everything is just put in the window for people who lost things to recover them. It's sort of like the Wombles but without getting that practical use out of something found just lying around. And if she doesn't get any money in for the things she finds, because she explicitly doesn't sell them, though I guess that would be verging on extortion if you're the rightful owner, how on earth does she afford the rent on the store?

Actually, she's about 7 bloody years old, what's she doing with a shop anyway? She should be out playing and mucking about and getting scabby knees. Instead she's got some OCD about picking up manky stuff that people have most likely thrown away before displaying all manner of tat in a window making the street look shabby after having talked to a useless pink sack cloth cat. Where are her parents for crying out loud?!?!

The cat itself is the most pointless lumpen splodge of fur you could ever imagine anyway. I guess it's like a cat to sleep all day without serving a useful purpose, but really, he yawns awake and then acts like some grand overseer while everyone else scuttles around after him. He's like the shop enforcer or gangster. He's got his intelligent sidekick (and I'll bet that Yaffle thing doesn't have a real doctorate); his moll (and explain this, why, when Madeleine is normally the one telling the stories, does the thought bubble appear above the head of the cat, hmmm?); and his little sycophantic mousey followers who act as his 'fixers'. Oh yes, we know what that means

Seriously. Fat and loathsome showing little intelligence and somehow has everyone hanging on your every word. Don Corleone. Jabba the Hutt. Bagpuss.

-------------

Now, if I can rant about Bagpuss you should hopefully see that the purpose of the rant is not actually the subject so much as the rant itself. A chance to express that side of my psyche that I keep under wraps as much as is physically and mentally possible (I'm possibly genetically pre-disposed to anger - if my dad is anything to go by - which is a personality trait I abhor, and is much better in written words than targetted shouting). Okay, so sometimes the subject matter is something which touches me - but seriously, I enjoy this type of thing. Years back I used to run a website which had restaurant reviews on it, and while I always wanted a good meal, you just knew when you'd had a bad meal that you were going to get some great text out of it. It's simply more fun to write.