It's all in the title

Insomnia has struck once again, so I've been waking up at 3 o'clock most mornings and worrying about the state of the country/world/solar system/universe/my bank balance.

In an attempt to divert my mind from such apocalyptically overwhelming (not to mention pointless) trains of thought, I have been working out some attention-grabbing titles for potential future posts.

Here's what I've managed to come up with so far:

*  A Gallonful Of Arse-Gravy
*  A Little Light Goethe
*  Frumpy Shoes For Frumpy People

Now I've just got to write the articles to accompany them.

Wish me luck, fans!

The crepe list continued

Yes, you can take it as read.  There are even more aspects of modern life that seriously get on my non-existent knackers.  And because I had neither the time nor the inclination to look at them in the original Crepe List post, I thought I might as well put together a follow-up now.  (Cheap, tacky and obvious move I know, but hey, flankers always sell well in cinemas, sweet shops and perfume halls.)

So here they are, again, in no particular order:

Drippy hippies running in slow motion through waist-high meadows of wild flowers against a soundtrack of sensitive singer-songwriters crooning fey paens to childhood friendship whilst strumming a single acoustic guitar – when the mobile phone network in question continues to send you computerised invoices carefully itemising every last text you sent to your ex when you felt ‘tired and emotional’ last Friday night. Don’t forget that these multi-national conglomerates intent on grabbing every last penny of your cash used to advertise themselves as looming behemoth Laputas mistaken for invading UFOs on RAF radar screens back during the Eighties.

Keep calm and carry on posters – why the hell have these Second World War relics from

the Central Office of Information’s attic clear-out become so popular of late? Presumably because they are easy to turn into mugs, tea towels and the sort of ‘ironic’ retro poster that Nathan Barley and co consider an absolute hoot to hang up on the wall of the office boardroom. No-one these days takes this sort of stark, stoical, uncompromising attitude to life at all seriously (hence the existence of such bleary miseries on the literary landscape as Liz Jones). The only variants on this theme that I like at all are: ‘I will not keep calm – and you can fuck off’ (have saved a copy of this on my mobile to make me cackle when times is hard) and ‘Now scream your head off and freak out’ (not managed to track down one of these for my mobile as of yet – though we live in hope)

David Cameron – ugly, moon-faced, ubiquitous windbag of an utter non-entity – yet somehow he’s managed to find himself in charge of our entire country. Just what is the point of his existence, apart from helping to pay the mortgages of Ian Hislop and Paul Merton? Bloody big mortgages to keep going in such financially straitened times as these, is all I can say. Move to a cardboard box on the Norfolk Broads. You know it makes sense!

Spray tans – so walking about drenched in stray off-cuts of reject caramel is supposed to make me more attractive to the opposite sex, is it? I know human beings come in a huge range of colours and finishes, but Tango-Dorito E-number orange is not exactly a Pantone I ever remember encountering in nature.

Pod being a hip, happenin’ sort of suffix for desirable new products (like state-of-the-art computer technology, cool coffee-shops on Islington High Street frequented by urban bike-riding Guardian readers, offices constructed entirely out of plate glass and steel girders so that the inmates end up feeling like tomatoes in a greenhouse every time the sun comes out) – ‘pods’ are what beans live in as they develop to maturity. It doesn’t matter whether they are coffee, vanilla or green. End of story.

Stacks of false eyelashes adorning women’s faces – sorry, but I don’t happen to be either a drag-queen or Ermintrude the cow from The Magic Roundabout. And while Scandinavian-style paper cut-out ones showing the outlines of birds perching on top of chimney pots might well be a work of art, they’ll still peel off and fall straight into your mug of skinny latte the first time you ever wear them, so I wouldn’t bother shelling out that £29.99 in Liberty if I were you.

Britain is great fever – in that case, why all the jokes about sending your rubbish to France? And how comes it was Roger Federer who won the Men’s Singles at Wimbledon for the seventh bloody time? (I’ll say this for him, though – if he hadn’t bagged the title, then it’s guaranteed that Andy Murray would have been given a knighthood in the next Queen’s honours list.) Plus we seem to have conveniently forgotten that, in normal years, some of the most vociferous advocates of bellowing patriotism are football hooligans, extreme right-wing Fascist nutters, Daily Mail readers – and punks taking the piss during tough times. Are you sure you want to be associated with any of these people?

Spanx knickers – aka ‘pull-you-in’ knickers. So you’ve been following the maple syrup and lemon juice diet for the past month and a half, yet you still haven’t managed to rid yourself of that last teaspoon of stubborn cellulite on your bum? Fear not, control underwear is here to hoist you into shape for that red carpet photo-opportunity. Now no-one but you need ever know your dirty little secret – you’re fat!!!!!!!! If someone like me pulls a pair of these vicious piranha knickers on, they simply redistribute the flab. The laws of physics state that energy cannot be created or destroyed – and neither can wobble. So your spare tyres are forced to migrate to sunnier climes – your neck and your knees. Aren’t you glad nobody has ever heard of you, so that no pictures of you appear on the front of Heat magazine with a circle drawn round the offending portion of blubber together with the accompanying caption accusing you of ‘letting yourself go’?

Tons of black eyeliner – in case you hadn’t already noticed, I’m not Amy Winehouse. And I’m not modelling cheeky little polka-dot prom dresses designed to showcase my ‘magnificent bangers’ in the after segment of a Gok Wan make-over, either. Nor am I sleeping with Don Draper in the office stationery cupboard when I’m not typing up letter after wonderful letter for him in the typing pool. Let’s get the photocopier on the case!

‘I’m going on a journey’ type formats for documentaries – always fancied a holiday in the Galapagos Islands or a cruise aboard the QEII, yet have never had enough moolah ready to afford it? All you need to do is get commissioned to write and present your very own documentary. All real-life programmes automatically triple their appeal to the viewers once they can offer a few pretty (and aspirational) backgrounds, so chuck your cute little knitted beanie on and start thinking of some nifty links between the death of neutron stars and a trip round the Galapagos Islands via the QEII. Hint to any glamorous lady intellectuals out there nurturing a humongous crush on Professor Brian Cox – just arrange to pass by a convenient glacier or iceberg whilst wearing your best padded parka – and he’ll get winched in by helicopter to join you. Guaranteed!