"Even if I got rid of all my problems, I'd just go out and get new ones..."

I hate (with a passion)...
1:19 p.m. on 2004-07-28

...shiny, happy, over enthusiastic guitar players.

If this were a Morecambe and Wise sketch, the player in question would be played by Rolf Harris. Beard neatly trimmed, big stupid grin on his face, big stupid knitted jumper on his chest, a rainbow strap across his shoulders and stickers on his guitar (wooden, acoustic, possibly named).

A girl at work, Lizzy, is off to 'Catholic Camp' in a few weeks, where she will spend her time trying to avoid the shiny, happy-clappy guitar players and their off-key (but enthusiastic) renditions of "Shine Jesus Shine." Not, of course, that happy-clappy guitar players have to be of the Christian faith (although Christianity does boast some of the worst culprits, and vindicates them by allowing them to produce albums.

Oh no. My most frightful encounter with the happy-clappy species had no connection to religion.

Picture the scene. The Ecuadorian rainforest, somewhere near the Amazon. A moonlit lake. All you can see is the shadows in the trees around you, and the glinting of eyes in the water. All you can hear is a faint trickle as your canoe passes silently through the water, and jungle sounds: birds calling to each other, monkeys crying, the whisper of leaves in a soft wind. Your guide sits at the head of the boat, finger to his lips, guiding us silently through the night in search of cayman and bats.

And then...

And then the terrible, horrifying, bloodcurdling melody of Oasis' "Wonderwall," as murdered by a hippy woman called Michelle, come floating across from our lodge and across the lake, assailing our ears and frightening the wildlife into their hiding places.

When we returned to camp, it took a great deal of effort to persuade several members of our party not to garrotte Michelle with her own guitar string.

Perhaps when I die, and have my aetheistic beliefs proved wrong, I will be condemned to a particularly nasty circle of hell, forever to be taunted by shiny happy guitar players insisting I "Come On and Celebrate," or join them in a rendition of "Memory."

Or perhaps, and I think this is far more likely, when I die, I will be sent to work in an inner circle of hell, where I can spend eternity poking these shiny happy guitar players with a giant pick, whilst laughing maniacally.

I rather like that idea.

Listening to: Bryan Adams "Summer of 69" (wails "I'm so uncool!")

Quote: "Don't believe what you read; in person Andrew Lloyd Webber is really quite handsome, his face covered with a fine downy hair that gives the appearance of Fuzzy Felt." - Harry Hill

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