...whilst Rome (or Belfast. Or Alabama. Or Winnenden) burns, the world carries on, inevitably, as normal. Which, in my case, entails having endless rants in my head about the multitude of things that wind me up.
Obese people, for instance. Not only do they take up twice the pavement and walk at half the pace of normal people - they also compound their spatial selfishness by being unable to hang their chubby ham hocks vertically down by their sides when they waddle, resulting in their piggy big arms swinging wildly out into the thoroughfare at a 45 degree angle as they desperately try to propel themselves with the speed, grace and turning circle of an oil tanker towards the nearest fried chicken shop.
If David Cameron, Nick Clegg, or whoever replaces Gordon Brown wants my vote at the next election, this is what I want to happen.
I want to see everyone with a BMI of 25+ shipped off to a centralised holding ghetto (perhaps somewhere like Swansea can be cleared for them as a kind of Escape from New York-era Manhattan). Gladiators-style travelators installed in every pie-muncher's home, tilted at a 60 degree angle, so that they have to puff and pant their way to the top to make it out of the door. Only to then find that the nearest takeaway has been shifted 5 miles away to an out-of-town shopping outlet, all the cars are now G-Whizzes, public transport doors are only 30 inches wide and a pack of hungry, rabid dogs is waiting in the street to devour any slow moving, moist, flabby flesh. The only way out is to slim down enough to fit through one of the narrow slits in the perimeter fence (which, err, surprisingly the dogs are unable to get through).
Go on politicians - where's yer balls?! Put the public's health first for once, or at the very least leave this great nation's streets to the young, attractive members of the population. By default, the vast majority of these slobbering, wheezing, marshmallows are from lower income families, meaning that 'real' Britain will become a university-educated utopia where Chavs are mythical creatures used to scare small children into behaving and everyone eats falafel bought from Farmers Markets and reads the Guardian.
As you can probably tell, this has been bubbling up progressively in my angry bank for some time; living in the centre of London's Zone 2 means I have lost countless minutes behind the puffing, panting mobile roadblocks. I'm in a general angry mood at the moment because of the feelings of injustice and impotence regarding the Northern Ireland situation, which has resulted in the cork popping on this particular subject.
I was thinking of maybe going out and shooting an innocent civilian or two to make myself feel better, but then hit on the novel idea of writing it down for the public to peruse and see if I had any popular support for my views. A totally bizarre and previously unheard of concept I know, but it might just work. Of course, if no one agrees with me, I may have to undertake some internal reflection and conclude that perhaps it's me who's in the wrong - not the 1.5 million other people who've been asked their opinion and rejected my viewpoint outright.
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