Utter Intolerability of Everything

Does anyone else find that everyday life in London propels them into an inexorable rage on a near-daily basis? I arrive at the tube station at an ungodly hour, where, half-awake, I am assailed by absurd 'health and safety' announcements made in a strange semi-English tongue. Boarding the inevitably packed train, the next thirty minutes are spent
standing up, someone's elbow jammed into my windpipe, whilst having to listen to a ghastly cacophony of repetitious hissing and popping noises emanating from numerous poltroons' iPods. This distracts me from my attempts to read the morning paper, in which I can learn about rampant gun crime, government lies, and on a lighter note, the latest indignities and degradations that our vacuous 'celebrities' have most recently and proudly subjected themselves to.

Alighting from the station in an intermittently-operational lift (so crowded that I feel I must be an extra in a Merchant Ivory recreation of the Black Hole of Calcutta) which London Underground insist they do not have the money to repair, despite charging the highest fares in Europe, I then try to dodge a multitude of red-light dodging, pavement-surfing cyclists as I walk to the office, where I then spend the next 8 hours engaged in a series of meaningless, unrewarding and repetitive tasks. Any attempt on my part to alert the management to the fact that - in the names of 'modernization' and flexibility' - they have installed a whole series of ludicrous, unproductive and contradictory workplace procedures, will be met by accusations of 'negativity', or of my not being a 'team player'.

The highlight of the working day is my lunch hour, most of which is spent being jostled in a supermarket so overrun by crazed mobs that it resembles the last days of Pompeii. I ponder (as I do each day) whether to choose a 'char-grilled organic vegetable tortilla wrap' or to plump for the 'sun-dried tomato and buffalo mozzarella panini' accompanied by a packet of 'hand-cut kettle chips'. Such is my empowerment as a stakeholder in Brown's New Britain, that this is the only meaningful decision I am now able to make that will have any impact on my life.

I then return to the office for more futile number manipulation and purposeless paper shuffling activities, until I feel I may safely go home, despite having worked the last hour as an unpaid overtime serf.

Perhaps later that evening I may relax by watching some football on TV, as a crew of overpaid, strutting, foreign popinjays bring disgrace and shame upon my once-proud team. It only remains for me to pour myself a third glass of overpriced, disappointing French red (from a supermarket's 'Finest' range), in order that I may be sufficiently anaesthetized as to fall unconscious for a few hours. But not for too long – as I must soon wake up and repeat the entire process the next day, and throughout the working week.

The notion that I will be performing this ghastly routine for the next 30 years or so, or at least until I succumb to some sort of major illness, is becoming increasingly intolerable, and one which fills me with suicidal despair and unmitigated rage in equal measure.

Does anyone else feel that modern life makes them want to literally vomit with fury? Or is it just me?