Watching Alan Johnston on Panorama last night set me thinking as to whether kidnapping can ever be justified. After hearing Johnston’s story, then considering his former status as the only Western journalist reporting from Gaza, and ruminating on the criminal and cowardly behaviour of his captors, the Dogmush clan, I came to my decision:

Yes, in certain extenuating circumstances.

A controversial stance, no doubt, but allow me to elaborate.

As I’ve stated on numerous occasions, I work next to a complete horse’s arse. One of my colleague’s less endearing traits is to expropriate officeware (staplers, hole punches) off my desk because “they don’t have your name on them”. Possession being nine tenths of the law seems to have little impact on her behaviour; neither does the Golden Rule.

However, things have now changed. Taking the example of the Army of Islam and other militant Jihadi groups, I have decided to take no prisoners, by taking prisoners…

Despite being a woman in her 50s, Doofus has a collection of cuddly toys on the shelves above her desk. One is a polar bear which bears (ho-ho) some resemblance to Knut, the antics of whom she was besotted with during the summer. However, the stuffed toy polar bear has not been seen in the office since around 3pm yesterday afternoon…

Fears the bear may have been abducted were confirmed when photos and a statement were uploaded to a website favoured by militant clericals.

The previously unknown group The Swords of Administrative Justice are claiming responsibility. Their demands are the freedom of their brothers and sisters locked in foreign desk drawers by occupying forces. They will not rest until their demands are met. They will not be paid off, nor their hearts touched by vigils from Eastenders cast members. They are very serious people (one is knitting a bear-shaped orange jumpsuit even as I type)...

Although the office I work in is pretty lax, there is something of a taboo on usage of the C word.

Fuck it.

Let’s get iconoclastic. Let’s release our inhibitions.

Let’s talk about Christmas.

Although there are another 61 shopping days left, I’m starting to panic. It may seem like plenty of time to get the presents bought, wrapped and deposited under the tree, but this doesn’t factor in the logistical nightmare of getting my dad’s Christmas present sorted.

My dad, probably like many other people's, is notoriously difficult to buy for. I’m quite sure he’d settle for a new 4x4 or boat, but this is somewhat out of my price range (not to mention incredibly difficult to wrap).

Asking my mum for suggestions is no good, and every year I’m met with the response of ”How the bloody hell should I know!” whenever I ask for ideas (nice to know that after 30+ years together there can still be some mystery in a relationship).

Recently, I’ve been able to settle for the safe options of DVDs that include the following characteristics: violence, loud explosions, gunfire, loud explosions, car chases, and loud explosions (it must have been working down coal mines that led to my father getting hooked on loud explosions).

The tricky badger in the equation is that in the past year my father has acquired a home cinema system and 40inch LCD TV, and has become a digital junkie, mainlining Sky Digital at a worrying rate. He slides off the settee at the end of a night’s viewing with an expression on his face that makes him look as if he’s been travelling across galaxies at light speed.

This is the dilemma I face this Yuletide. Getting the ideal present for the old man means the apocalypse (now!) for the rest of the family. My mother had the divorce papers ready after a double bill of Batman Begins and the balletic violence of The Wild Bunch. Dare I make Apocalypto a 2007 stocking filler?

Christmas, eh? Complete cunt of a festival or what.

Is Eastenders the Rasputin of soaps?

I frame this rhetorical question in the light of the latest, er, ‘casting malfunction’ by Eastenders producers, as Bobby Davro – yes, Bobby Davro! - is now frequenting Albert Square (Mike Reid must be spinning in his grave).

What will it take to finally kill off this dead soap walking?

Funnily enough, I had a couple of ideas…

The first scenario I envisaged was that due to a convergence of improbable story arcs and character trajectories, everyone in the Square becomes a shadowy underworld figure. Consequently, a full-on turf off war breaks out with a slaughter orgy not seen since the director’s cut of Scarface (1983). Peggy Mitchell is the sole survivor, which would be the only time Eastenders has brought anything remotely authentic to portrayals of East End gangsterism, due to Barbara Windsor's status as the former wife of Ronnie Knight.

The other scenario I had was that the producers make an irredeemable casting faux pas and decide to attempt the premature rehabilitation of Gary Glitter in his role as… a long lost Mitchell brother. I can just hear Peggy trumpeting his inexplicable appearance, despite never having been mentioned once in a Mitchell character exposition, as being due to “his spendin’ a lart orf time overseas on bizness, but now he’s bark in the farmmmmilee”. The 'Enders might have survived the Irish episodes fiasco, but surely Glitter as a Mitchell bro would cue the Eastenders drum roll for the final time.

Then again, considering the amount of wigs, campness and dodgy behaviour that goes on in Albert Square, maybe Glitter would have been better attempting to go incognito in Walford rather than Thailand.

An ex-girlfriend of mine would frequently admonish me with the phrase “You don’t like the many things” (she was Japanese so excuse the superfluous definite article usage), and to a certain extent that is true: I really do not like (the) many things.

However, to maintain the balance in my character, there are (the) many things that I like and am rather passionate about; and only a few things that I hate with unbridled venom. Mainly these tend to be two-bit celebs like Russell Brand (what’s the odds his new show this week is complete shite and despite this he gets another one in a couple of months…) or Kate Nash (just fuck off), people I’m unlikely to come into contact with and serve a useful purpose as love-to-hate figures.

But over the last five to six months I have nurtured a deep-rooted contempt and scorn for someone in immediate proximity to me, someone I have to work next to four days as week.

Initially I thought she was an oddball, a pitiable fool. These days I regard as a pig-ignorant moron. In many ways she is Gareth Keenan in the body of a 56-year old woman.

Right now she is talking about how she has to cover her face when she watches Casualty because there’s too much blood in it. Well let’s hope she never watches the Texas Chainsaw Massacre, then.

Actually, let’s strap her to a chair, prop her eyes open with matchsticks and put it on a permanent loop for the next 48 hours..

The worst thing about slipping into hate mode with someone is every small irritating thing they do is magnified to the point that they may as well be invading Poland and conducting pogroms.

Is someone masticating gum for an hour after they return from lunch really that annoying, TKK?

Yes.

Is someone battering the keyboard repeatedly because they can’t access the Trust database really that irritating, TKK?

Oh yes.

Is someone watching irritating YouTube vids with the sound too DAMN LOUD really worth gnashing your teeth, TKK?

Yes, yes and yes!

Things are getting to the point that a couple of weeks ago as she was crouching over to pick something up I had the urge to just boot her up the arse, sending her headfirst into the mailbag. That may well merit not just a P45, but a gold P45 with all the trimmings.

So how toxic is this hatred? Well this morning when I left for work I noticed a few things. I was wearing black trainers. Black jeans. A black top. A black coat. A black hat. Then I looked at my hands… I was wearing black gloves…

So I may well be turning Vader. Or going goth. Fuck.

Over the last few weeks I’ve been mocking a regular visitor to our office who, it is fair to say, is in something of a man hungry state.

Although I’m nowhere near as desperate as her, and certainly in no way in a man hungry state (unless it’s lunch and I’ve skipped breakfast), I can’t exactly say I’m reaping much of a harvest myself these days.

As tends to happen during times of drought, past experiences / memories rise to the surface, and an almost mythical era of past lovers and bountiful opportunities is shaped, to the point I wonder how I managed to leave the house without a bodyguard and walked without support.

A golden age where I frequented the haunts of London with the loucheness of Hugh Hefner in his best robe and throwing a house party?

Fat chance.

My last date was back in April, and while it went to plan (in the short-term) there most definitely was the occasional misplaced step during the evening.

At a certain point I felt the night time was the right time, and to move in a little closer for the kill.

However, my alcohol level clearly affected the quality of my motor control and balance. As I shifted my seat nearer to my beau, shortly after the lights in the bar had been dimmed even lower, the chair’s legs scraped the floor with the subtlety of a limping t-rex walking on bubble wrap.

Smooth.

I couldn’t have been less subtle if I’d stood up, unzipped my fly, then sat back down again.

Anyhow, my move was met with a “No, not just yet”, although I’d like to think I rescued the situation somewhat by exaggeratedly dragging my chair back to its original position.

Whatever your mental image of me may be, tune it to ‘wistful expression mode’ right about… now.

When the cat’s away the mice shall play, and whenever our big cheese manager is out of the office we get the dailies out, plonk our feet on the table and switch the radio on.

In order to avoid the fights ‘musical differences’ that were a regular feature of life at my last employer, the same station is always selected: Gold.

Gold!

You’re indestructible! (etc…)

Gold is a ‘classics’ station, which means that every day is a timewarp. After about an hour of listening I find myself sinking into Life On Mars territory and wondering whether it’s 2007 and I’m in a coma, or if it‘s 1973 and I’ve travelled back in time.

Keeping track of time isn’t helped by the playlist remaining the same almost every day. Listen to this station for long enough and it’s almost as if people stopped making music a couple of decades ago.

Frankly, I’ve had enough.

It’s time to declare a two-year (at least) moratorium on songs by the following artists

Beach Boys – God Only Knows, California Girls, Good Vibrations
Beatles – Help, I Saw Her Standing There, Love Me Do
John Lennon – Imagine
Mams and the Papas – California Dreamin’
Byrds – Mr Tambourine Man
Rolling Stones – Satisfaction
U2 - Pride
Lulu – Shout
Status Quo – Rockin’ All Over the World
Bob Dylan – Like a Rolling Stone
Any 1960s Motown tracks
Thin Lizzy - their entire back catalogue
The Police - Roxanne
Free – Alright Now
Carly Simon - You’re So Vain
Rod Stewart - all his solo stuff
Eurythmics – their entire back catalogue

Now I’ve nothing against the above artists (ok, that’s a lie; about half that list I’d like to see exiled to St Helena), and in fact in several cases I own the odd longplayer or two by them, but I really do not need to keep hearing the same ‘classic’ track by them, especially as most of them were kind of prolific and all and did record other songs.

Most of the above truly are 'classic' songs, but hearing them repeatedly reduces them to musical clichés or irritants a la the ‘I feel like Chicken Tonight’ ads.

So my request to Gold is: Please, Please, Please: Stop (In the Name of Love).

A friend and I were recently discussing who had the weirdest workmates. Even though I had the ace up my sleeve in Doofus, I have to say his two colleagues came pretty close to matching my hand.

Until last week.

Doofus took a week’s annual leave a fortnight ago… to wrap Christmas presents and her mother’s birthday presents.

Even though I’m crap at wrapping (there’s always one side that looks incredibly deformed), I think I could get my wrapping done within seven days. In her defence, Doofus does have to post them to America, and it’s the whole customs declaration labels that are part of the problem (surely it must really take the surprise out of Christmas presents to receive them with an item description and its value stuck on the packaging).

A minor spot of lateral thinking could get her around this problem. She could simply order online from a US supplier and have them shipped domestically, and even gift-wrapped, to her mum. But that would make life too easy.

But even though the wrapping and posting was done, there had to be further complications. Doofus had bought her mother a Thermos flask, but then started to panic:

“I really started to worry about the shape of the parcel. What if the customs officers thought it was a bomb?”.

One of my colleagues tried to reassure her that bombs aren’t normally in the shape of a Thermos flask.

Mind you, just as well she didn’t try sending her mother an alarm clock…