I hate people who need to do things very loudly. London specifically seems to be full of them and I hate all of them. The major problem seems to be people who talk on the phone loudly and for hours. Why would you have a really personal phone call about your boyfriend’s shortcomings in the bedroom on the number 8 bus at 6 PM on a Wednesday?

Imagine all the people that you find annoying. I bet if you were to combine every little thing that annoys you about everyone you know or have ever met into a dense mass of hate, it would still annoy me less than my flatmate.

There’s little worse than being emotionally blackmailed into going to see your friends play a gig. It’s bad enough watching a dreadful, sleep-inducing band. But when your friends are the members of this soporific group, unlike at any other gig, you can’t leave early for fear of offending anyone.

I was starting to worry that my capacity for vitriolic rage and hatred was depleting of late. Then, on my way to work today I saw something that brought it all rushing back: bicycle couriers.

Yep, I hate every single person, place, object and entity in America. Okay, I don’t. But that doesn’t mean I don’t hate a great number of things that America has given to the world. And it also doesn’t mean that I won’t list a selection of these things for you now.

Living where I do, being anal about hygiene and house tidiness means I can’t turn a blind eye when faeces is smeared all over the toilet, and I prefer the fridge not to smell like it’s got a decomposing family of rats at the bottom of it.

God, can normal people stop doing these? I don’t know whether to laugh or puke when I attempt to shake someone’s hand and they manoeuvre this gesture into a weird clenched-palm, elbow-in-the-air urban greeting.

This oily, gritty, white puke is disgusting. Even a splash of it renders a cup of tea useless, carpet-bombing the subtle flavours with its crusty granular blandness. It’s the same thing Superman tastes when someone spikes his chips with kryptonite.

If my flatmate buys another roll of perfumed toilet paper I swear I’m going to stuff her mouth with it until she chokes. I’m allergic to perfume so every time I wipe I get nervous, like my bum is about to break out into a rash or something.

Over the last decade the title of CEO has turned from one used to describe someone in an undeniably esteemed position of substantial power – the person in charge of total management of a company – into a cheesy hip-hop cliché.