The Ikea catalogue is not a catalogue, it’s Mein Kampf, it’s The Communist Manifesto, its propaganda.

Right, before you get your vagina in a bunch, I’m not saying it actually has fascistic agendas (maybe some socialist ones though?), the parallel I’m drawing is the stilted unrealistic, unnatural, view of the world it seeks to convey.

It’s full to the medium density fibreboard rafters of aryan toddlers, probably called Prussia and Kursk, adorably tossing salads and playing on invisible computer consoles.

And the worst thing is how horrendously appealing the whole thing is. Looking at it, I just wished each of the rooms in the catalogue were a room in my house, sorry maisonette, shared maisonette, it’s not ex-council, at least I don’t think it is. Whatever.

I don’t care that having cardboard boxes on top of kitchen units is irredeemably impractical, being that I’d need at least a kick-stool to access them, something Ikea oddly doesn’t sell. Probably because they couldn’t contrive a version suitably plastic and kooky enough.

Despite wanting all of it, I’m fully aware it’s for appalling reasons, that stretch beyond merely vacuous materialism. I don’t just want it because I want stuff, I want it for what that stuff represents. Not what it represents to other people, but to me.

How fucking pathetic is that? I need pillar candles, and an aqua chaise lounge to justify my life to myself. It’s all tied up in “image”.

It used to be you only needed an image if you were on the TV, now everyone simply has to have one. They have to be tightly and neatly defined. And everything you own, everything you wear and do is merely a contributing factor to the overall picture of you.

And it’s bollocks. I’m entirely capable of wanting to wear a shirt and shoes one day and a pair of jeans and a tee the next. And I don’t see that this should confuse people, as it invariably seems to. Fuck you Ikea and your lovely, cheap, home furnishings that we all pretend we’ve bought from Habitat.