the world around me is full of cretins. I go to the gym and listen to the dimwits having their chit chat about the last girl they linked or how they are going to some club on Friday and how some girl send them photo of her gash by iPhone. Then I listen to some Sex-in-the-City depressed dimwit of an admin woman who is telling her personal trainer about her break-up while the trainer half has pity half doesn't want to know. The bint is basically paying £40 an hour for an ear to moan into. The rest of it is sleazy fitness instructors trying to run their shitty pitch on you to make you feel like you are 'that special client', showing you some bollocks maneuver on a resistance machine and chatting some shit about eating a balanced diet, bang, there's your free introductory session, before a month of bumping into the smarmy, slick-back shit-for-brains as they try to buddy-buddy shake your hand in the hope you might be mug enough to give their unqualified meathead selves a bit of your money. Pity I'm on the dole, eh chaps?

That's just the gym, on the street, in the shop, at the bus stop, it's nothing but young morons who look like a cross between Kidulthood extras and X Factor rejects, using their crap slang and trying to act poor when in fact they are as middle class as they come and are probably sloshing around in the oppressed-minority aesthetic before bouncing off to a redbrick in order to go and quaff champagne and prepare for a job in daddy's firm up London, or whatever. Preposterous wrinkly naturalised Mediterranean 'MILFs' clinging on to their youth with their bicarb-whitened gnashers wallow in the abject awareness that the older they get, the more of Stav's money they are going to pour into facials, gym instructors, Juicy Couture tracksuits and Gucci print accessories to be mistaken for their daughters at a distance of less than 50 metres.

One local pub, which has always been the haunt of drug-addled English non-working class fuckups has recently been redecorated. Hundreds of thousands of pounds have been spent on marble flooring, marble tables, candles, leather chairs, the whole kit, only for it to remain the preserve of drug-addled English non-working class fuckups. A fat line of coke lets a failed estate agent become Tony Montana for a night and spout hours of drivel to a table of vacuous blonde abortion candidates. A group of young neanderthals, all in sportswear and sporting the familiar 'french crop' or 'skinhead' hairstyles of dress, derive boundless amusement from simply popping balloons, providing a poetic impromptu illustration of 'why England needs immigrants'.

The mass of pulsating idiocy is inescapable even in your own home. Ring a council employee to make a general enquiry unrelated to your particular case, and he asks you for your national insurance number. The hourly telesales moron pretending to be the 'er, Health and Safety Executive' calls and gets hung up on.

Go to shopping and a manager in a suit will tell a checkout girl to 'stop interacting with the cheese'. Trumped up supermarket middle managers strut around with the swagger of FTSE 100 CEO's. Weekend rock-stars pile into the pub to down jug after jug of fizzy, industrially produced piss, at exorbitant rates, for the 2423rd time in their life, but every minute feeling like a somebody, albeit a small-town somebody. A face. A legend.

Trends wash over the docile population. Ed Hardy t-shirts, Ugg boots, denim skirt over leggings, foot tattoos (so edgy), beanie hats, and lumberjack shirts on pubescent girls from families who last did manual work seven generations ago. A sense of decay is present, the stagnation of an elephantine mutant in its death throes. This is the ugly face of in-denial consumer Britain, no longer able to conceal its hastily bandaged warts, the warts of cheap credit, buy-to-let, status-symbol toys, money chased and caught to the detriment of soul and intellect, the tentacles of reality television reaching into the living room and stealing the minds of our children, and of course, the omnipresence Cheryl Cole.

On bus hoardings, on the telly, on the radio, in the magazine, at the bottom of the toilet bowl when you take a shit, this singing and dancing rent-a-pleb stares at you with the vacant expression of a 36 year old checkout operator from Macclesfield. Turned into a 'star' by Simon Cowell, Cheryl Cole is the racist, toilet attendant-battering beacon of inspiration which the nation's youth has been missing. Trumped as an 'artist', any discerning music lover would be hard-pressed to name one of her songs or recall one of her lyrics. Yet this individual is forced down our gullets in a sinister fashion by a media machine which births idiots of ever increasing magnitude. Jordan, Jade, Calum Best, Paul Danan, and other inefficient allocations of sperm bound across our screens and sign million pound deals while Gail Trimble, the "relentless juggernaut of intellectual Blitzkrieg" who astounded the nation with her brains barely fluttered across the media radar for about as long as it takes Calum Best to run through a botoxed club strumpet.

How fucked up is that?

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