Spam comes through the front door. Unwelcome, useless and hated. A relentless wave of gloss paper pumping me to buy sofas, fast food, women, men, computers and services - washes up on my doorstep day in, day out. Flotsam and jetsam. I have considered a sign, 'No unsolicited mail' - but I know that the messengers of the vermin horde of spam are doing it because they can't read. I bend over, groaning and muttering filth-flying-filth-flying-filth, day in, day out, to pick it up and drop it all in the paper recycle basket some 2 feet away.

I'll set off for the underground. Outside all the houses and buildings are recycling baskets filled with the orphaned leaflets, neglected and starved of recognition. Never been read. Immediately aborted. It spills out, into the streets and sidewalks. Another reason why we should have snipers randomly placed on rooftops.

Embankment tube station. If I'm in synch with the next tube, I'll have time to walk down to the east end of the platform for a quick exit at Blackfriars. Blackfriars station, there are two exits on the platform. The masses are like cattle, sheep with blinkers on. They all follow the first person through one exit, leaving the other free to move through. The stampede continues as I reach the turnstiles. The sheep and cattle cram themselves through the first 3 gates their blinkers allow them to see, leaving the other 4 available to sail through. Once I've negotiated my exit, a mad rush ensues, dodging human shrapnel, clipping heals and shoving bags, stray cattle meandering in morning confusion searching for the front-runner, the alpha-commuter who'll lead them to the light at the end of the tunnel.

Just past the turnstiles a few steps are coming up. I could easily see my arse in these Italian leather shoes. The stairs are clad in metal, all worn out and shiny, making it even worse. Size 11 shoes and stairs 8 inches deep, I pay attention not to cause a human landslide. At the foot of the stairs 2 chinese people are trying to force-feed holiday maker weekly or some other useless spam related publication. I want to extend my arm and pick up pace, I figure with my height and momentum and her low center of gravity I could send her flying at least 10 feet, carefully placing her at the break of the human wave. One spam dispensing moron down, trampled. One to go. The look on their faces as people refuse to collect their add-ware makes me skip a beat as my heart rate jumps. You dish out spam, for free, and get upset when you stand in the way of several hundred people who walk over you and refuse to acknowledge your existence? I'd have a good mind to speak to them, show them my face, shout at them - 'You see this face? Remember it! Don't ever offer me your shit you spamming rodent. When you see me coming, move out of the way!' I should rant to the underground staff to remove them at busy times, obstructing human traffic. That won't help for one simple reason, these spamming rodents are in fact one level up the evolutionary ladder. Underground workers are retarded. Yesterday they subjected London to a tube strike. Why? So that they can work a four day week. There are hundreds of people lining up to take those jobs - sack them all, rehire! Unionism does not work in a capitalist society. If you don't like your job, quit. Sleep on the streets and eat fag-ends.

I make my way to the light, exit 8. I'm pre-gasping for air and space, eager to exhale my anxiety, even if it is only mid-level. I look up to the light as I approach the exit, like being born, every day, five days a week. My first breath relieves me. I want to stand still for a second as soon as I reach the outside. Breath.

There are two more vultures at the entrance to the light. Their right to exist gaumed by their actions. A piece of paper is pushed into view. I read the word 'Iraq' on it. I wonder if I should push him down the stairs. I'm sick of it, the pieces of paper, the war, Iraq. Yes, I'm sorry Dubya, uncle Donnie and big fat Dick rased your country, I'm sorry that Blair, the yes-man that he is got bitch-slapped into joining them, he's just a dog you know, on a leash, led by a monkey. I'll kick him down the stairs, you're not helping Iraq standing in the heavenly light of Blackfriars exit 8 tunnel dishing out glossy flyers like confetti. Fuck off mate, out of my way, if you want to help Iraq, go to Iraq.

Just my luck the first thing you see on exit is Unilever house. I make my way to the coffee shop for the sanctity that is bacon roll and cafe latte. Bow to mocha, pray at the altar that is service counter, offer sacrifices of money for such Godly gifts as the fat and flesh of swine, unholy leavened granary bread, enter the land of milk and caffeine. Safety, comfort.

The elevators don't work, they never do, they get confused, not morning lifts. From the ground floor, you can only go down and from the second floor you can only go up - I am stuck on 2nd floor purgatory. Why should I walk when corporate transport should be available to me? Besides, walking with hot drinks is against the health and safety rules.

I get to my desk, boot up my computer, administer sugar to my coffee and prepare to eat all as if it were the body and blood of Christ, 'I do' muttered from under my breath, and I hock in. The spam faeries have been at work, there is a t-shirt and a wee note about the corporate logo, which has recently been redesigned to make more money masquerading as a new-age, modern, user friendly people's kind of company. Have I ever seen such shit in my life, yes, i've seen worse, but this ranks pretty highly in the a-lot-of-people-need-to-get-fired department. The new logo looks like a 12 year-old Blue Peter fan designed it. Pathetic, there's even a jelly mould in the new one. There was nothing wrong with the old one, established, simple, it had a certain status to it.

The t-shirt is an XL size, an american XL size, I'm over 6'2 and I swim in it. The people are talking of actually wearing them in protest. It's just more spam, my world is being taken over by spam.