No. 76: Internally Rant

It’s like having a small child sworn to secrecy on pain of never being allowed Octonauts again, sitting in your midriff. It’s like trying to ingest a wellington boot. With someone’s foot still in it. You may get a little taste of it whilst listening to people from TOWIE talk about anything except fanny-glitter or themselves. You need to share because you cannot bear this burden of rage alone, but you also know that if you start, bile will pour forth from your eyes and it’s possible you will breach-birth an Anger Calf. You cannot physically articulate your emotions about whatever may have just occurred because the fury sounds do not exist in any language that can express how much it makes you want to stamp on a kitten or punch Felicity Kendal. There may be a Nico album that comes close.  But, we suspect, not close enough.

Internalising is very often the safer option because society seems to have evolved two things. (1) Corporations whose code of practice seems to be ‘we can treat you howsoever we wish. But for expressing YOUR displeasure or objection you will receive a £25 fine/passive-aggression from one of our BTEC-achieving customer services representatives/sweet F.A. for weeks until we decide to send you another fine or letter that suggests we don’t know or even care who you are. Despite insisting we do in all our company literature. Which, incidentally is funded by your fines.’ Reacting externally with bile to this rarely gets you anything. Except an ulcer and/or some Virgin Vie vouchers.

And (2) human beings whose reaction to any reasonable suggestion that they are perhaps engaging  in some possibly slightly anti-social behaviour isn’t what it should be, ie. shamefaced acquiescence and potential apologia for being caught out. Oh NO. Rather, they will heavily coat their embarrassment at being unveiled a douche with a flurry of F-based Anglo-Saxonage and/or The Finger. This includes even middle-aged women with expensive hair who look as if they should be benignly browsing pate in Waitrose with a copy of Grazia rather than telling someone to ‘mind their own effing business’ after it has merely been pointed out that  letting their dog shit all over the pavement and just wandering off squawking into their Blackberry isn’t really cool. And so internal ranting here is the only way to avoid a faceful of swear. Or a faceful of Elizabeth Duke’s finest if the dog owner is wearing a hoodie rather than Per Una.

(We can’t even let it go. Because it wasn’t a tiny dog poo that arguably could have been tapped into the gutter in an emergency. It’s was a big Alsatian poo from a dog that clearly consumes the equivalent of a family-sized tub of hamsters daily.)

And so we wander about, muttering like lunatics.

Thank Christ someone invented Twitter or Anger Calves would literally take over the world. And no-one’s going to tell an Anger Calf that their Alsatian can’t shit right by a bus stop, are they?

 

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