Rage!

There seems, to me anyway, to be a lot of rage around these days. I think one of the reasons for this is that people feel victimised by nebulous forces of oppression beyond their control and that, when they get something to focus their aggression on, they turn from a seemingly normal person into a red-faced screaming quivering bundle of pressurised vileness, spittle flying from mouth, one step away from peeing themselves in anger or developing a nosebleed.

The other day walking across the railway station concourse, I saw a swearing young woman rushing in that way women do in high shoes, a sort of clip-cloppy run, knees bent and arse out as a counterweight to maintain balance, pursued by a ticket inspector who was trying to stop her without actually grabbing her by the boobs.

The scenario that fell into my mind was that she had caught a train but been unable to buy a ticket and, on getting to her destination had thought better of queuing to pay a penalty fare for the privilege of standing for twenty minutes on an overcrowded train that was running late and smelled of wee. Those exit barriers became the focus of all of the bottled resentment about public transport.

The problem is that there is no direct redress for the indignities we cannot escape from. That’s why blogs are so full of bile, vitriol and shite - we’re punching fog.

For example - the documentary about the death of Diana. (Why is it even on? Educating people or cynical exercise in rating grabbing - what the fuck are they trying to prove? ‘And so, we see, it really is safer to travel by pumpkin coach if you are a princess!’) I was fairly wound up by there being a(nother) (bloody) documentary. Then wound further up by the documentary team showing photographs of a dying young woman. Then wound even more up by their refusing to pull the photographs even though the woman’s young sons asked them too. But the capper was undoubtedly the defence that ‘her face would be obscured’.

What. The. Fuck.

That’s okay then is it - face obscured so it’s okay to show the pictures.

Well. I’m taking direct action. I considered chartering a Lancaster bomber loaded with 12 tonnes of horse shit and charting a course for the C4 building but, finally, decided on a boycott. That’s it for Channel 4 and me.

Actually, this is not so much of a sacrifice. The C4 schedules appear to be solid Big Brother for (checks paper), er, the rest of time. Still, must be easier than actually, you know, thinking up a programme idea.