Any day now I expect to receive my invitation to appear on the new talking heads show Grumpy Young Women, in which I will, for some inexplicable reason, be allowed to air my grievances about random collections of male C-list celebrities [no link; they really don’t deserve it] who complain about how damn DIFFICULT life becomes when some hapless call centre worker doesn’t fully understand that in fact the world revolves around THEM and THEIR apparent inability to follow recorded instructions even when the lack of an option to do so would result in about 12 hours more of that hold music they so despise. Bill Nighy and Lemn Sissay, I’m disappointed in you. You can DO things, so why don’t you DO them instead of whoring yourself to BBC 2 and whining on like a schoolgirl who got a pony for Christmas then found out that it shits a lot? At least Will Self gives REASONS for his heroically petty gripes. (I could also use my airtime to say a few things about the really quite annoying throbbing in my right temple every time I see or hear Matthew Parris, but who on earth would be interested in that?)