LAST week I exclusively revealed that this blog was going to involve a lot of griping about things I hate.
However, I didn't go into detail about what those things were.
An omission that shall now be rectified.
When it comes to people, there's really only two types I can't stand.
People I've met... and people I haven't.
Of course there are a few honourable exceptions to this rule.
Nelson Mandela, for instance.
Him, I only despise.
HELP - somebody hold my hand!
I'm being sucked into the terrifying world of the Internet - a place I've always avoided visiting.
Unless I'm searching for 'artistic' photos of Raquel Welch, of course.
In my day job, I'm a print journalist, which means I prefer my words to hover over the greyish-white surface of pulped wood. Then, if people don't like what I've written, they can always turn me into a paper aeroplane.
But now I've gone all 21st century, which makes me feel like Dorothy, only without the calming proximity of Toto and a pair of shiny red shoes.
Somehow, I don't think I'm in Kansas anymore.
To tell you the truth, I feel a bit claustrophobic, trapped inside the hidden recesses of your computer.
When it comes to new technology, I'm still struggling through the pop-up book stage of computer literacy.
It's my own fault, really.
Years ago, when I was a kid, my dad attempted to turn me into a techno-tyke by shelling out on a Dragon 32 for Christmas. A computer built in Wales, you didn't have to plug it in.
It was powered by coal and the stirring, melodic harmonies of male-voice choirs.
I certainly wasn't amused, especially since I'd pleaded with dad for a BMX bike for Crimbo.
Still, he made it up to me the very next year. He bought me a Commodore 64.
It didn't last long. Wondering whether it really was a high-flying marvel of the modern age, I lobbed it out of a second storey window.
Dropped like a stone.
Didn't bounce either.
Although my head did. Off the walls of my house, when Dad discovered what I'd done.
I guess that explains why I'm so allergic to computer hardware.
And clenched fists.
Still, now that I've joined the modern world, I promise to do the best I can with this blog.
By the way, what exactly does 'blog' mean? Sounds like the name of Shrek's evil twin brother.
But enough philosophical speculation. Down to business. Let me explain what I intend to offer on my fertile little patch of the Internet.
There will be no carrots, potatoes or alfalfa nurtured here, folks. It will all be spite, spleen and spittle. Animosity for all ages.
Because, as my dear Mum is so fond of saying: "You're never too old to hate."
Or young, for that matter.
Of course, it's true that I also dispense large dollops of rancour in my weekly column for the Sunday Mercury.
But this blog will be a tad different.
I like to think the newspaper column supplies well-reasoned and articulated arguments. Rational rants, not rash ones.
But my blog? It's gonna be a shriek, a snarl, a howl.
A belch of brimstone and bilious bellicosity. Rationality be damned!
Sounds like a plan, huh?
After all, Ricky Hatton never got anywhere by asking his opponents if they had an alternative point of view.
He just squished their noses.