I ‘ve got a problem (one of many you may say, but let’s focus here). I am, I have come to realise, something of a musical extremist. Basically, the purpose of my existence on the planet is to make radio programmes that traumatise and upset people who have conservatories and cappuccino machines and who laugh at A Question of Sport, and give some kind of hope to the beautful people who find all this stuff as ennervating as I do.

It’s a childish and ultimately futile aim, of course, but it is the only thing that stops me walking into the Stock Exchange with forty pounds of Semtex strapped about my torso, so it’ll have to do.

And sometimes it’s a lonely life, but not today.

For something has happened today that proves that there are 500,000 other like minded(ish) souls who have assaulted the bastions of banality and emerged victorious.

I speak of course of the people, heroes everyone of them, who have put a shouty records full of “fucks” and guitar noises that could strip a picket fence at 200 yards, into the Christmas number one slot.

There have been intelligent, reasoned arguments , to be found elsewhere on this blog , that the wave of support behind putting Rage Against The Machine’s “Killing in the Name Of” at number one is a spoiler tactic . This is true, but it’s so much more than that. It’s victory for passion over manufactured sentiment, refusal over acceptance, and a sign that there are people who hate Simon Cowell almost as much as I do.

It’s like Che Guevera kicking Robbie Williams in the nuts, and who wouldn’t want to see that?

Tomorrow, we will be awash with angry GMTV viewers and Daily Express readers protesting that this hijacking of the season by these foul mouthed communist yobs is a terrible thing and that little Tiffany has been crying all morning because lovely Joe didn’t get his dream after all . (They always use their kids to add weight to their point, these people, that’s why they disgust me so)

But little Tiffany (bless her) will, of course, eventually grow into a gobby teenager and “Fuck You I won’t do what you tell me ” will become her mantra.

On the subject of this phrase , prevalent in the RATM song , it’s been argued that this is the noise of childish rebellion uttered by gangly teenagers when told to tidy their rooms, but to me it’s a beautiful phrase of defiance that could be used in any context and stands alongside “We Shall Overcome” and “Give Peace A Chance”.

Admittedly it’s a crude phrase (Have we REALLY not got used to people saying “fuck” yet?) but it seems perfect to counter the work of a man who makes millions by crudely humiliating perfectly admirable young people , whose only crime is that they can’t sing as well as their mum thinks they can, on national television for an audience of insecure couch potatoes who take great delight in the fact that there is actually someone in the world they can feel superior to .

Fuck Simon Cowell , I mean really ,FUCK him. He’s a professional bastard and his witless, snidey put downs to people who earn about a zillionth of what he earns are possibly the most revolting sight on TV.

I’d like to think that a significant proportion of the 500,000 heroes who put RATM at number 1 at Christmas , are previous X Factor hopefulls who were shown up to look like idiots on a heavily edited TV prgramme, just because they had the temerity to think that singing for a living might beat stacking shelves in Aldi. And this is their revenge.

If anyone would like to join my new facebook group “Concerned citizens for the public cruxifiction of Jeremy Clarkson” please get in touch.

Happy Christmas