I like to pretend I am getting crankier as I get older. But I’ve been aggrieved about one thing or another since the age of eight. Just a little George Costanza type running about in frilly socks in constant agitation with the world and those in it. Actually, it started earlier, according to my preschool report. In terms of performance, I excelled. There’s a healthy row of ticks down the key performance indicator column. Yes, I did know my shapes. Yes, I could put my jacket on all by myself, which I’m proud to say I can still do to this day, even after a few pints. I could wait my turn. I played well with others.
So when it came to the teacher’s comments at the bottom of all these superior results, you would be expecting a congratulatory note to my parents for raising a stellar student, the star prodigy of the class of 1994. But no. I got one sentence that read: “Brianna is a lovely little girl but can easily get upset.”
How dare they. I wanted to yell as I read the report recently. I’ll show them (in a harshly worded email about something that happened more than 30 years ago) just how hard it is to upset me. That’s the key to looking rational and justified. That, and sprinkling in OdD CaPiTal LettErs so people don’t think you’re some loony on a rant. How do they know I was easily upset? Maybe my upset was justified. I went to school with kids called Jesyka and Kye. Confident, brash blonde-headed Australian children with y’s where there should have been i’s in their name who had no respect for rules like not mixing all the colours of Play-Doh together so the only available one was a big lump of brown. Was I easily upset, or did I just like order, respect and social cohesion?
But three decades on, I think I can finally admit that I will always be a little bit upset about something. I don’t want to be in a state of perma-annoyance, but how can I not be when these things exist?
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- Documentaries that are glorified ads. From Molly-Mae to the Beckhams to Melania, these soapy, feature-length ads have less editorial integrity than late night infomercials shilling ab exercises on the home shopping channel. I wanted to like Melania Trump’s recent effort. I really did. What woman hasn’t empathised with her standing in the mile-long supermarket queue on December 23rd with an elf on the shelf to sort out? She spoke for all of us when she said “Who gives a f**k about the Christmas stuff? But I have do it”. But the most insight I gained from her “documentary” was that she likes Michael Jackson and uses the same L’Oreal Elnett hairspray as me. Will I watch the next one? Absolutely, yes.
- People who try to board a train or tram while others are still getting off. How did you make it this far in life without understanding the basic laws of physics? You cannot move into a space with someone already in it.
- Online entrepreneurs who tell you they’re really rich and successful and you can be too. If you just buy their course. People who are actually rich and successful don’t have to sell courses. They’re too busy on a yacht. (I can tell you’re filming TikToks in your ma’s gaff from the Celtic Tiger-era curtain rods.)
- Refusal to do basic research. Please stop asking AI questions you could easily Google and find the answer in the first three hits. It does not make me think you’re using technology efficiently. It does however make me wonder if I can trust you to handle a sharp object without hurting yourself. The same goes for the modern scourge of people who demand answers to things they just need to figure out themselves. I love to help people in Irish and Australian expat groups by sharing specific knowledge I could only pick up by living there. I will not answer “can someone tell me how to get a visa?” or “can someone tell me what licence I need to drive a dumptruck?” it’s a simple search engine query away, and there’s a question over whether someone this prone to half assedness should be operating heavy machinery.
- Our lack of scientific ability to make tights that don’t ladder but also look nice. We put a man on the moon. We made computers nearly sentient. But we’re still putting a fingernail through 15 denier tights while in a rush. We still aren’t free from the shackles of hopping on one leg, very stressed and very late, cursing “these b****rd things” in the morning.
