This morning, your writer made the commute into work in a state of such extreme agitation that an aggressive, totally f*cking badass soundtrack was necessary.
This soundtrack did not work. The gale whipped the headphones out of my ears.
The rain was torrential in the north east of England, in August, and helpfully, the wind was howling. The pound shop umbrella crumbled under the weight of the weather, curling inside out, cruelly, into the shape of a smile. The umbrella laughed as my hair became a mess of wet, tangled, glorified pubes. Some piece of sh*t on the train decided that the integrity of his coat was more important than the comfort of his fellow man, and laid it beside him. That man received a stern tut and his coat was likely crumpled when I sat down as if it wasn't there, let me tell you.
Aggressive music is a requirement in this bullsh*t world of warped power structures and vile hatred spewed by the vermin who think they're clever because, like toddlers, they've just learned how to use semantics to twist a narrative in their favour.
If those f*cks hadn't ruined the planet by being too thick or arrogant to recognise climate change, this was the intended soundtrack.