Not much gets through the fog of spleen that clouds my view of the world whenever I'm getting back into the day thing, but today a couple of issues came to light that managed to force me out of my foetal ball of rage. Or, more to the point, they were sufficiently strong to harness what little remains of my cognitive abilities after a series of night shifts.

There aren't that many hardships that the British have to put up, especially on a global scale, but those we do are very deeply damaging to our society. Two such cultural monstrosities presented themselves to me today.

Firstly, Joe got back from his fortnightly trip to Wales to announce that he'd been dumped by the young woman he'd been hoping to make a go of things with. Thing is, she delivered the news of his consignment to the waste bin of relationship history by text message. Their thing was in very early days, and even though Joe was in quite deep smit he seems to be taking it quite well, but that's a really crappy way to go. Given the elbow by SMS, rejection in 160 characters or fewer - can you get any more crass? The girl just didn't deserve a gentle bloke like Joe.

And secondly, picking up from last night, I offer you the British doughnut. What's that? You don't want it? It's a pathetic, dry, tasteless excuse for a cake?

Sorry to labour the point, folks, but our doughnuts are bland and uninspiring compared to Krispy Kremes, and many other American vendors besides. And it's not just their fresh ones - I'd rather eat a three-day-old boxed doughnut from KK than any from a supermarket or bakery in Britain. I'm willing to be disavowed of this opinion, but I doubt anyone could do it. The fact that they see the need to cover them in sugar should really tell you everything you need to know about what's wrong with the rest of the product: bloody styrofoam with a meagre dollop of insipid jam (assuming, of course, you don't get one of the 33% that seem to miss out on their intended filling).

For years I've tried to enjoy them, but not any more. Oh, I'll eat them, but they'll mean nothing to me, meaningless encounters to be forgotten as soon as the last of my fingers is licked clean of the unsavoury deposits left there.

The UK is crying out for Krispy Kreme, and yet where's there first store outside North America going to be? Fucking Australia. The Divine Kylie aside, what's so bloody good about Down Under that they get the world's best doughnuts before us? The very least the UK deserves for standing shoulder to shoulder with the United States is to be rewarded with being able to fill our parallel bellies with the same high standard of baked goods. Unless you can deliver that, George, you'll make an enemy of the British people with this damned war. I expect we'll be made to wait our turn, though. After all, Baghdad's just crying out for a KK franchise.

I should really go to bed now if I'm going to stand any chance of getting back into the day thing before the end of the week. Sweet dreams, friends.

(Author's note: It might not surprise some readers to be informed that the soundtrack to this post was Tenacious D)