Do I know you?
Aren’t you on TV?
Aren’t you one of the lesser diggers off Time Team?
Not the one with the long hair and the dirty fingernails,
Nor the one with the horizontally striped jumpers.
Certainly, you are not Tony Robinson.
But one of those other ones.
Lurking in the background,
Passing off miniscule fragments
As a large vessel for storing aromatic oils.
That’s you, isn’t it?
Then it must have been Masterchef.
Didn’t you fail the invention test?
I seem to recall your hollandaise split.
And then you cried.
Greg gave you a little pat on the shoulder,
But John couldn’t have given less of a shit, frankly.
I am almost certain, then, that I saw you last week
On that show involving any one of:
You had a hat on.
Now I remember you.
You’re the bastard that hit me in the leg,
Last week, with your suitcase,
On the tube.
I hope you enjoyed your holiday,
You oblivious prick.
That left a bruise, thank you very much.
I expect I should have used my psychic powers,
To detect your presence.
You snuck up behind me,
With your massive arsed suitcase,
And bashed me right in the back of the knee.
This, no less than two days after
That woman got me with her pushchair.
Apparently motherhood gives you a free pass,
When it comes to other people’s ankles.
An apology would have been nice,
That’s all I’m saying.
One time, that Adrian Chiles,
Accidentally jostled me in the street.
He was very nice about it,
After I caught up with him,
In Debenhams, and demanded an apology.
He was buying a toaster.