Some things in life seem deliberately, indeed maliciously, intended to bring out the High Court judge in me.
Take, for example, those people who walk in threes along a crowded street, gossiping and oblivious as they force other shoppers into the path of a speeding bus.
Bang them up in a small cell for eternity, and we'll see how much they really like each other's company.
Then there are those who spit on the pavement, those people who can't seem to hold a door open for others, and those people in boom-box Vauxhall Novas who chuck the contents of their ashtrays onto the street as they roar past you.
No defence, no argument - just chuck away the key.
And yet the offence these ne'er-do-wells give is as nothing compared with the harm caused by a vicious canker that is now gnawing at the heart of this sceptred isle, this England.
What am I talking about? All together now: Ring-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding....
It's hard for me to believe it, but there once was a time when, rather like a High Court judge, I hadn't heard of the Crazy Frog.
"What exactly IS it?" I felt compelled to ask the first time I heard that godforsaken racket on my sister's phone.
Wearily, she explained that she hated the Crazy Frog, but my niece and nephew had nagged her to within an inch of her life to get the damned thing as a ring tone.
Ever since, she has had to stop her kids from constantly ringing her mobile phone from the family landline so they can hear it just one more time.
Other mums have banned the Crazy Frog; phones are being stamped on because of it; and now, unbelievably, this infuriating creature has just unseated Oasis and beaten Coldplay to the Number One spot in the British charts.
To be honest, I can't shed a tear for the oafish Liam Gallagher, and Chris Martin, lead singer of Coldplay, has always maddened me because of his apparent addiction to the glottal stop and other scruffy speech patterns.
"I drew a line... I drew a line for you... Oh wha' a fing to do... an' i' was aaw yellow..." Pass the ammunition; come to think of it, Chris is more annoying than that accursed ring tone beast.
Still, here's a thought to strike a chill into your heart. What's next for Mr Frog?
Presumably, he will soon be replacing the sacked Spice Girls in a top slot at the forthcoming 'Live Aid II' concert to help stamp out world poverty. Although, with all the cash he's generating for Jamster or whatever his owners are called, he could possibly wipe it out single-handed without making a mess of Hyde Park one day next month.
With his pedigree, the smart money could be on the Crazy Frog to become the next French Prime Minister; but I dare say it would be a hot day in hell before the 'Ouis' outweighed the 'Nons' in any Gallic referendum on the subject.
He's clearly an intelligent chap, so maybe he could become Britain's first Sodoku Grand Master; or perhaps, given his most notorious physical attribute, he could advertise Viagra.
Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, can you contemplate this vision of the future?
There is another way, and the remedy lies in your hands. Take a good look at the pictures of Crazy Frog that illustrates this column. Go on. You know it makes sense.
Updated: 09:41 Wednesday, June 01, 2005
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