IF you’ve ever had the dubious pleasure of working in the office of a big company the chances are you’ve done this.

You’ve looked up from your own dull, banal work and focused momentarily on someone on the other side of the room.

This person never does a tap. You know it, they know it – everyone knows it. Every time you see their annoying grid the thought is there: ‘What does he do? Why does he work here? Why’s he getting paid for this? How the fuck does he get away with it?’

Every time I switch on the telly and Mark Lawrenson is ‘analysing’ the football this is exactly how I feel.

My hatred for him and his methods have been growing over the years like the alien in Sigourney Weaver’s womb, only without the benefit of hypersleep.

Lately, Lawrenson’s got worse – more misery, less knowledge, more bullshit – and the thought of another season of the bellwhiff’s bollocks means I’ve got to let it all out.

This is the alien bursting out of my chest moment so I apologise in advance…

EVERYTHING about the fella does my head in: the shit haircut, the crap shirts, the bulging belly, the camp voice, the I-know-better-than-you pose – EVERYTHING.

Bit personal? Maybe.

But Lawrenson’s made it that way by so utterly taking the piss in a job most of us would walk across a field of broken glass barefoot to do.

Here’s a fella that’s chauffeured around and paid handsomely to watch games for nothing and talk about them.

Meanwhile, we pay through the nose to watch those very same games and pay via our licence for this misery arse to tell us everything’s shit.

Well thanks for that, BBC. Thanks very much.

The fella acts like he’s adding gum to labels in a bottling plant or dishing out peanuts to pissheads in backsteet boozers.

I could understand his can’t-be-arsed demeanour if he was making cardboard boxes for minimum wage or delivering papers in the rain while simultaneously being legged by scallies.

Well ‘Lawro’ (that’s fucking annoying as well) I’ve done all of the above.

And believe me they’re infinitely more boring and soul-sapping than being paid a six-figure salary to watch football from the comfort of the press box or sitting in a plush studio.

Why can’t the Beeb see what the rest of the nation can see?

The fella’s a tit; a bore; a shit sneering parody of Victor Meldrew; an enthusiasm-sapping dinosaur who’s as relevant as Betamax.

He brings nothing to the table – no insight, no knowledge and definitely not any humour. The only time he cracks a smile is when it follows one of his own quips. And he’s the only one laughing.

Then there’s the cock ups. Time after time, he’s made gaffes, offended people, put his foot in it. Ample opportunity to move the fucker on, frankly.

Yet seemingly he’s bulletproof. He doesn’t even seem to bother his arse to apologise most of the time.

Has he got naked pictures of the BBC’s director general or something?

Because I find it hard to believe that someone somewhere believes he’s actually any good at his job.

The fella’s omnipresent as well – telly, radio, newspapers, he even popped up when I was playing a footie game on my fucking X-box once. Why? Why him?

WHY?

Someone please tell me why….

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