Indignation is not a state of being to recommend itself in a person. In it one lacks poise; the calm reflection of the unfolding of events, and - quite obviously - dignity. I imagine leader writers of certain 'quality' tabloid newspapers spend most of their working lives in a state of indignation over the condition of the world. It's not a pretty look.
That said, the other day I got all indignant in my local Sainsbury's. As I left the store, shopping bags bulging with 'Basics' goodies resplendent in their 'white and orange' packaging, signifying that one really is buying on a budget, my eyes were inexorably drawn to slabs of cans of Carlsberg piled to shoulder height around the entrance.
The 'per litre' equivalent price of the half-price deal being offered meant the supermarket was charging less than 48p a pint for what the Danish-owned brewing behemoth considers probably to be the best lager in the known universe.
I stood there, indignation welling up in my craw. I tutted, hurrumphed and exhaled loudly before wending my way home. 48p for a pint of lager. That's simply bonkers. Who, I wondered, does that help, eh? Who? Well, as it happens, those of my friends to whom in indignant fashion I had regaled my findings. They whizzed round there double quick and snapped up a few cases, expressing their gratitude for the tip-off and inviting me round to their gaff to guzzle some of their booty while watching England take on the USA the following the evening.
I had to decline their offer but the conversation inevitably turned to cheap supermarket booze, largely on account of me turning it in that particular direction. 'Cheap supermarket booze'. For those of us writing about the pub sector it is an unpalatable phrase. And my mates love it. They can't get enough of offers like 48p for a pint of lager. What was my problem with it? they asked.
Wearily I tried to explain the price differentials twixt on and off-trades. I endeavoured to wax lyrical about alcohol abuse in this country, fuelled by the availability of cheap, strong booze in places other than pubs. And I went on about how pubs were brilliant places to visit.
But my friends just yawned and said something about how they used to like going to the pub but that all too often these days many were either too expensive or "just not very nice places anymore".
My heart sank. These were my peers, people with whom I'd grown up and shared many a great evening - experience - in pubs of all descriptions. And now they were driven by the elasticity of price to drink at home. I couldn't blame them, really. I just put the case for pubs as I saw it and then we agreed to disagree, my indignation replaced by resignation.
My mood inevitably worsened on Saturday night, although England's set-back is hopefully temporary. In the short term it's any young West Ham fan I feel for. They will cop hell in the school playground today.
I remember going in to school the day after England got knocked out of the 1970 World Cup by West Germany. Chelsea's Peter 'The Cat' Bonetti had let in three goals in Mexico - one an absolute clanger. And because I was a Blues' fan - and, worse, because I had a Scottish name - as far as my schoolmates were concerned England's ejection from the competition we'd won four years earlier was my fault.
No protestation on my part would change their minds. Gerd Müller's goal in the 18th minute of extra time was down to me. Not a chaotic defence incapable of tackling or clearing the six yard box. Me. I was nine years old. Nine bloody years old. I still bear the scars to this day…