Jesus I hate Mondays, those stern, officious humourless days of the week. Mondays are so downright fucking evil that they're quite capable of bleeding into the previous day and ruining your Sunday too. Mondays in Auschwitz must have been unbearable.
They're the vote-rigged, 'My brother runs Florida' George Bushes of the lunar cycle. If days of the week were celebrities, they'd be a totally pointless Peaches Geldof. If they were comedians, Mondays would be Jim Davidson.
Monday is the High Holy Day of The Man, when you pay for your attempted debauched weekend by going back to fucking work with your body clock out of sync because you left some godforsaken overpriced room in Shoreditch and decided to walk back to the West End to catch a nightbus bus home only to pass out unfulfilled at 5am.
I'm fucked off again, in case I've not made that clear, fed up with this useless spinning ball of Arse, where nothing ever happens, or else something happens and it gets flushed down the toilet. It is the world of meeting your friends at the weekend who greet you with 'Look at you, you fat bastard,' repeatedly.
It is a world where you cannot think of anything better to do on your day off than visit a pub and drink heavily because everyone else is, plus it's a party you've been invited to and you should really join in and end up singing 'If I Were A Rich Man' by yourself on karaoke to bemused looks.
This is a planet where you indulge in a little drugtaking at the weekend which only makes you panic the next day when you remember that you've applied for jobs that feature compulsory drug testing.
It's the random, godless universe where you read about rapists winning the lottery, where you cycle to work in a vain attempt to get into shape, only to leave after nine hours to find, in the darkness of the evening, that some weasely, slit eyed little cuntpacket has stolen your lights.
In this world, you're forced back onto fucking Facebook because a job you'd just applied for actually required it, only for half your friends to write 'WHERE'VE YOU BEEN?' all over your profile which may prove to your prospective employer that you'd left a while ago.
It is a world where personal emails pile up and make you feel stressed, where your boss hands you a full pack of cigarettes on the day you vowed to give up forever (again), but you're just too damn weak and pathetic to say no to free fags.
It is a world of cold and wind and rain where you have to wear two shirts, a jumper and a coat, as a tourist saunters past obliviously in a t-shirt and shorts, making you feel like a walking icicle with a circulation problem. It's fucking February, for christssakes.
It's a world ten days away from a cruel global celebration of being Loved and In Love, perfectly designed to make everyone else feel like a useless, smoking, single fat bollock.
A world where I'll never earn enough to buy my own house, where I'm getting older to the point that all my hopes and dreams are beginning to look really fucking ridiculous, and where I may never see my enormous feet again as I can't seem to shift a single fucking pound of excess fat.
In this world, payday is a full and painful bladder, and the working month a steady series of visits to the urinal of life. At the end of it, you've got nothing to show for another 30 days of ageing but a headache and a bad haircut.
Women don't look at you in this world, and you're not sure you want to be looked at anyway.
Your chins hate you.
Paedophiles look at you in disgust.
Trains and buses take off seconds before you approach them.
Customers yell down the phone at you for giving them exactly what they fucking asked for the week before.
You begin to envy gnats.
Fucking hell, I'm in a foul mood.