I hate living with people

Living where I do, being anal about hygiene and house tidiness means I can’t turn a blind eye when faeces is smeared all over the toilet, and I prefer the fridge not to smell like it’s got a decomposing family of rats at the bottom of it. My housemates are much more laid back characters. They have a special, yet common condition called Selectively Repetitive Blindness to Disgusting Mess Disorder.

I hate perfumed toilet paper

If my flatmate buys another roll of perfumed toilet paper I swear I’m going to stuff her mouth with it until she chokes. I’m allergic to perfume so every time I wipe I get nervous, like my bum is about to break out into a rash or something. Anal itching aside, what’s the point of it? Who is sniffing her ass so much that she needs to disguise its odour with chemical flowers?

I hate the Animals in War Memorial

This is a monument on Park Lane to animals killed in war. I have nothing against animals but I can’t help but be irked by this. Can you even imagine how much money it cost to construct this vapid pile of filth?

I hate hand dryers

I really hate hand dryers. This is no common or garden hatred. This is seething, seeing red, want-to-rip-my-hair-out-at-the-sheer-audacity-to -even-exist hatred. If I walk into a bathroom and see one on the wall it makes me wish I had a nice weighty flat-head shovel so I could lever the fucking thing right off like I was ripping a rusty old nail out of a rotten piece of wood. Conversely, if I see one of those big roller-wipe-your-hands-dry things I dance a jig of joy right there on the spot like Michael Flatley in the middle of a chronic bout of haemorrhoids he happened to contract while walking bare foot over hot coals.

I hate airports

Nowadays, travelling via an airport to anywhere is a pain in the arse. It’s basically a total waste of time (if you ignore the minor fact that getting to somewhere really, really far away by any other means of transport would take 3-4 weeks).

There are myriad reasons I have grown to hate airports. Firstly, I always fall into the trap of checking in my luggage and then saying to myself, “Hmmm… I’m thirsty. I’ll go and buy a nice, refreshing drink at that handy newsagents over there.” After paying £3.50 for a bottle of water, I breeze along to the next stage of the airport dance - the security check-in for your hand luggage. And what do I find? I’m not allowed to bring my water through with me. Fucking weasels. Why have a shop selling a fine selection of thirst-quenching beverages that are only of use if you are so thirsty you want to pour the entire thing down your gullet in world record time?

I hate Jacobite shirts

Unless you are an extra in a Braveheart-esque epic about Scottish history (that is actually filmed in Ireland because it’s cheaper) you should never have a need - far less, a desire to wear a Jacobite shirt.

Hailing (unsurprisingly) from Jacobian times, these stringy, crinkly, frilly, over the top, wiry chest hair-revealing beauties seem to be most popular at weddings when worn with a kilt and some lovely woolly socks. The Jacobite shirt can also be spotted in more casual surroundings too. In these instances I’ve noticed it’s most commonly teamed with a nice pair of regular fit, stone washed 51 State Dad jeans.

I hate Avril Lavigne

I hate Avril Lavigne for the following reasons: she makes music that sounds like a sewer rat being strangled by an alley cat behind a Blink 182 gig, she has one of the world’s most punchable faces, she has pink streaks in her hair (which could never look good on anyone, nevermind her), she wears ties with T-shirts and she replaces letters with numbers (”Sk8er Boi”).

So, there we have it. These are enough reasons for me and anyone with an ounce of sense to hate her. Yes? Case closed. Not so quickly…

I hate soya milk

This oily, gritty, white puke is disgusting. Even a splash of it renders a cup of tea useless, carpet-bombing the subtle flavours with its crusty granular blandness. It’s the same thing Superman tastes when someone spikes his chips with kryptonite. If I saw anyone putting soya milk in my tea, when I made the next round I’d put my own little cocktail of sewer rags, iron-filings and phlegm in theirs. Then when they complained or went into seizure, I’d say, “Oh sorry, I was just following your lead by putting the most revolting substance I possibly could into your tea,” then walk out, slam the door and never return.

I hate people who talk, eat or breathe loudly

I hate people who need to do things very loudly. London specifically seems to be full of them and I hate all of them. The major problem seems to be people who talk on the phone loudly and for hours. Why would you have a really personal phone call about your boyfriend’s shortcomings in the bedroom on the number 8 bus at 6 PM on a Wednesday? Then, there are people who feel the need to talk loudly wherever they are because they simply like the sound of their own voice. I find it embarrassing if I’m ever with someone like this in public. Just shut up. Nobody else needs to know what you think, do or say.

I hate my flatmate

Imagine all the people that you find annoying (if you’re like me that is probably a lot of people and a lot of annoyance). I bet if you were to combine every little thing that annoys you about everyone you know or have ever met into a dense mass of hate, it would still annoy me less than my flatmate. To begin to prove this point I shall list below a mere handful of the reasons that make him the most annoying person I have ever known:

I hate growths

Growths disgust me. I really can’t stand growths of any kind. They gross me out. By growths I mean warts, moles, lesions, all of that. Just writing those words made me feel slightly ill. I hate looking at them and if people have them all I can think is: why would you not get that removed or at the very least try to hide it? No wonder Sarah Jessica Parker has her chin wart Photoshopped out in (most) pictures.

I hate long nails

When I was in sixth grade I cut all my nails into sharp points because I saw a photo of Glenn Danzig with his nails like that. My knife-nails, as I called them, were evil and menacing and cool, or so I thought. Thankfully, since sixth grade I’ve grown to detest long nails, be they sharpened or dull. They don’t even have to be talon-like for me to hate them; any bit of nail extending beyond the fingertip is enough to make me vomit on my dick and use the puke as lube. Actually, that’s a bit harsh. But just imagine getting a hand-job from that hand. Worse still, imagine her inserting a pinky.