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How can you have self-doubt when your locus of responsibility is placed in a Tesla car and fired at the moon?

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The Bath Represents Society

Piers Morgan's mental health must be amazing. Unlike us decent folk, who bottle up every significant emotion until it all bursts out on our premature deathbed, Piers Morgan observes a daily ritual where he climbs to the top of the nearest tall building, dislocates his jaw and ushers forth a cloud of inky black moths which blot out the sun.

Morgan follows in the footsteps of a cultural heritage where every four years someone is appointed as the main cultural commentator whose angle is that everyone who doesn't live inside their house is a lunatic and ought to be in prison.

The most important thing to remember is that the outpourings of Morgan et al aren't the slicked-back opinions of an outsider cultural agitator. We're not looking at the Malcolm X of decent, disenfranchised British folk; we're looking at the Baby Shark of Generation Gammon. He's the furious old man sat in the corner who tuts loudly to his dog when someone under 30 enters the pub, a Rosetta Stone for all facets of cultural conservatism. If he didn't have so many sluice gates for his rotten offerings he'd be reduced to the same method of catharsis as other men of his demographic: kicking over the barbecue because their wife bought the wrong kind of lager.

How can you have self-doubt when your locus of responsibility is placed in a Tesla car and fired at the moon?

Piers Morgan is lashing out at the world in every direction with all the confused energy of a spider in the bath, but when the spider is a 53-year-old tabloid journalist it's hard to understand if they're lying about their credentials as someone who observes and writes on society for a living or whether they're pretending not to understand baths for attention.

Social norms are forever changing at a pace which might seem like an unbearable glacial lurch to some, but to others is like being thrust headlong into a warp-speed kaleidoscope of preferred pronouns. To some degree I can sympathise. For those who didn't have the time to mark those steady changes in attitude because they chose instead to concentrate on publishing fake pictures of British soldiers torturing Iraqis, or on hacking into the mobile phones of dead teenagers, it's an understandable impulse to feel you should use your access to vast media empires to lecture the country on its moral failings.

Piers Morgan has repeatedly criticised our modern obsession with mental health and I am certain that his is fine. How can you have self-doubt when your locus of responsibility is placed in a Tesla car and fired at the moon? If anything he's too healthy. Drunk on certainty. Crumpled by the weight of his own self regard.

It's not my fault. The world is attacking me. The walls are closing in. I'm being censored. But what about free speech? It's not my fault. I'm being attacked. I'm trapped. If you're offended that's your problem. I'm trapped in the bath. Someone on Twitter called me a dunce. My legs can't grip on the fibreglass-reinforced polyester. My many legs. The snowflake generation did this. They did this to me. When I die, I want you to scatter pork scratchings on my grave to keep vegans away. I don't care if it will attract rats.

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