#0088. PEOPLE WHO'D PREFER IT IF YOU SLAGGED THEM OFF TO THEIR FACE.

Because let's face it, there's no way I'm going to do that. For one, I don't dare, and for two, it'd just be awkward.

Let's say I do happen to think you're a prick. Let's say your name's Tim, and you're loud, and obnoxious, and you're one of those people who's really into fancy dress parties, and you overuse the word 'random', and you do that thing where you 'drink' the last crumbs from a packet of crisps, and you're always the first one to start up a 'rubbish bag' during long-distance car journeys, and every time you make me a cup of tea you comment on how many sugars I have, and you're always going on about how you haven't got the internet at home like that somehow makes you better than me, and you talk about Dave Gorman all the fucking time, and you roll the sleeves up on all your shirts even though it makes your head look way too big for your body. Let's say all that. Well, I can't just tell you that to your face.

Which is why I'll either: A) slag you off behind your back, the good old-fashioned way, or B) change your name and write a blog entry about it.

You know, like a real man.

#0087. BEREAVEMENT TATTOOS.

Sure, there are people in my life that I like and everything. Jesus, there's even a couple I'd probably miss quite a bit if they died. But that doesn't mean I'd want to spend the rest of my life looking at a badly-sketched portrait of their face on my thigh every time I took a shower.

And even if I did, I'd like to think I'd go for someone close to me. Wife, child, mother. And not, for example, the Beverly Hills fucking Ninja. Chris Farley for god's sake. I mean, even his own family weren't that bothered.

#0086. FORGETTING TO A PACK A T-SHIRT TO SLEEP IN.

You haven't seen a shitty T-shirt until you've turned up at someone else's house and asked to borrow something to sleep in.

I stayed over at my girlfriend's mum's house at the weekend. Here was my choice: either A) the XL 'turquoise dolphin' number...

... or B) the XXXL 'turquoise Destination Florida' design (with the hyper-baggy sleeves).

Because it's always a fucking charity T-shirt.

#0085. THROWING A HISSY-FIT WHEN YOU'RE IN THE NUDE.

Nothing makes you look ridiculous quite like throwing a hissy-fit when you're in the nude. "Oh for god's sake! I hate it when I lose my keys!" is a sentence that just somehow sounds better when you've got a pair of trousers on.

Conversely, actual anger -- proper, serious, furious anger -- works really well with no clothes on. Fighting in the nude, that's pretty awesome. I admire anyone who can fight in the nude.

Because if you're fighting a fully clothed man in public, and you're completely naked, that's a fight you've got to win. You can't get your arse kicked and be in the nude.

Then you really would look ridiculous.

#0084. TRYING TO TAKE A PHOTO WHEN YOUR CAMERA IS SET TO VIDEO MODE.

Because this is what you end up with -- 10 seconds of two people desperately trying to maintain a smile, followed by the line, delivered ventriloquist-style...

"Has he done it yet?"

My mum is the master of trying to take a photo when the camera is set to video mode. Seriously, she has more videos of people waiting for her to take a photo than she does actual, you know, photos.

I'd like to think she was doing it on purpose -- that by filming the taking of the photograph, she's deliberately capturing her subjects before they've had a chance to pose and preen, and that, as a consequence, she's documenting the true essence of people in a way that a studied still photograph never could.

But she isn't, she's just crap with digital cameras.

#0083. NOT BEING ABLE TO REMEMBER WHETHER YOUR LOVELY AUNTIE MIN IS STILL ALIVE OR NOT.

Because there's no easy way of asking your parents whether she's still with us without letting on that you can't even be bothered to keep track of who's dead in the family and who isn’t..

"Mum, just a quickie. Vis-à-vis Auntie Min… What a lady! Formidable, in many ways… Er. Now then. Would it be fair to say… What I'm really driving at here is… OK, I'm just going to put this out there -- is she still alive? … Ah that's brilliant. Honestly, I'm made up for her."

(No but seriously mum, is she or not? Because I really can't remember.)

#0082. PUTTING AN ELASTIC BAND ON YOUR HEAD, RAMBO-STYLE, FORGETTING ABOUT IT, THEN SPENDING THE REST OF THE DAY WONDERING WHY YOU'VE GOT A HEADACHE.

Anyone? No?

#0081. PEOPLE WHO BREAK WIND WITHOUT ACKNOWLEDGING IT.

I'm not talking about old people here. I never expected my granddad to acknowledge the fact that he'd just broken wind because I was pretty certain he had no idea he'd just done it. (My grandma, I'm not so sure.)

I'm talking about perfectly healthy young people who break wind and don't mention it because they seem to believe they've reached a level of maturity that somehow transcends the humble guff.

I had to work with this bloke once. For starters he was a vegan, which really got my back up. Then he passed gas without so much as a cocked leg. Nothing. No "pardon bottom." No "whoops." No "sorry -- I'm just a bit nervous." Nothing.

Like he was better than me. Prick.

#0080. PHOTOS OF GIRLS WITH THEIR FRIENDS.

Fact: the heads of female friends, when a camera is introduced, attract each other like magnets. Hence the photography phenomenon that is 'the Siamese Headshot', wherein two or more girls act as though their faces have been stapled together at the cheek.

It doesn't matter where they are -- in a club, in a restaurant, standing in front of a pair of double doors…

... or even how old they are...

... or even what century it is...

... those heads just can't keep away from each other. Men, on the other hand, are much cooler.

Now that's how you pose for a photo.

#0079. OLD WOMEN WHO THINK I GIVE A SHIT ABOUT THEIR CRAPPY PIN NUMBER.

Hey, old women -- I officially don't give a shit about your crappy pin number. To be honest, I have enough of a struggle remembering my own, without wanting to look at yours.

So you can stop doing the whole 'hand shield' thing. Also, just so you know, those fake-presses aren't fooling anyone. In case you hadn't noticed, when you actually press a button, it makes a sound.

Jesus, what's so special about your pin number, anyway? I wouldn't mind if you were trying to stop me from seeing, say, a Stuart Little-type rambunctious CGI mouse. But you're not.

So pack it in.

#0078. MY LIFE-SIZED CLAY BUST OF JOHN F. KENNEDY'S HEAD.

I used to love my life-sized clay bust of John F. Kennedy's head. Obviously. But lately I've grown to hate it. Where once I delighted in the noble brow and the bold, aquiline nose, now the whole thing just creeps me out a bit.

But here's the thing they don't tell when you're buying a life-sized clay bust of John F. Kennedy's head -- once you've bought it, you can't get rid of it. You can't just toss it out in the rubbish. There's no coloured bin for ceramic busts of influential 20th century political figures. And I can't smash it. It's solid clay. Seriously, it weighs more than an actual head.

So that's it. For the rest of my life, from house to house, I'm destined to lug my life-sized clay bust of John F. Kennedy's head around with me, burdened with the immense weight of a solid mass of clay, like Prometheus chained to his rock.

Kind of.

#0077. AUNT MAY.

Seriously, is she ever going to stop going on about Uncle fucking Ben? He's been dead since the start of Spider-Man 1. You think she'd be over it by now.

But no. And somehow she always finds a way to turn the conversation onto that dead old bastard.

PETER:" Just popping into town. Got some banking to do."

AUNT MAY: "You know, your Uncle Ben had a bank account…"

PETER: "OK bye!"

#0076. CLOWNS WHO ARE CRYING ON THE INSIDE.

Jesus Christ clowns -- get over yourselves. You've got the best job in the entire world. What have you possibly got to cry about? Oh, your clown car broke down again. Boo hoo.

I'll tell you who should be crying on the inside -- coalminers. Last month, the Tower Colliary -- the last deep pit mine in Wales -- was closed down with the loss of 120 jobs.

And did you see those poor bastards singing songs about how, when no one else was around, they were actually really quite sad? No you did not.

#0075. "OOP OOP!"

It's Saturday night, you're out with your friends, in a club, having a good time (stay with me here) when some fanny starts up the "Oop Oop" chant. Suddenly, death couldn't come fast enough.

Here's an example:

Thankfully in this instance it didn't take. But when you're in the club with your friends, it will take, and people will be doing it for literally 30 minutes at a stretch, probably doing the whole 'hands-in-the-air-like-they-just-don't-care' thing at the same time.

And you know the worst offender for starting the "Oop Oop" chant? Hot girls. Hot girls love the "Oop Oop."

Which is why I have to kill them. All of them.

(That's just a joke, policeman. Seriously.)

#0074. OLD PEOPLE WHO JOG (REALLY, REALLY SLOWLY).

Two ways you can tell when an old person is jogging:

1) They're leaning forward slightly.

2) They're wearing a really shitty pair of trainers.

Apart from that, it's exactly like walking. And it's not inspiring. Just annoying.