When Spike Milligan appeared on Room 101 - the sporadically excellent television show on which Paul Merton invites celebrities to rid the world of their pet-hates - one of his more crowd-pleasing bête-noirs turned out to be Chris Evans.

"The man is clearly an idiot and the best thing I can wish him is an early death," expounded the former Goon to appreciative applause from the studio audience. Playing devil's advocate, a highly amused Merton enquired why Milligan couldn't just wish him a happy birthday instead, but his interviewee was having none of it, and voiced his fervent hope that the narcissistic buffoon in question die a slow and painful death, preferably from cancer. Resigned to the fact that any argument he could put forward in Evans' defence would be peppered with more holes than a Swiss cheese, Merton did the decent thing by adding his own two cents worth of vitriol before dispatching the ginger-bollocked broadcaster down the chute. It was heart-warming stuff.

Unfortunately, with Evans consigned to oblivion in a show of contempt made all the more withering by the fact that it was venomously instigated by one of British comedy's most mild-mannered legends and vociferously endorsed by another, it did not take long for the TV gods to groom an heir to the enormous throne reserved for British television's biggest arse. Indeed, the mere sight of him walking through Hampstead hand-in-hand with his wife the other day was enough to make this reporter's blood boil.

At first I wasn't sure whether or not it was actually him. It certainly looked and sounded like him, so a betting man could have been forgiven for wagering that it was him. In the end, it was only the conspicuous absence of the television cameras that seemingly record his every move that suggested he might not actually be who I thought he was, thus saving him from a volley of verbal abuse and an untimely demise. After all, bearing an uncanny physical resemblance to celebrity chef Jamie Oliver and his drippy wife Jules is enough of a burden for any young couple to bear, without them having the additional worry of being the subject of frenzied assaults by enraged Paddies who pass them on the street. But make no mistake, it was him alright.

It is a sad state of affairs that it has come to this. Those who know me will vouch that I'm a fairly amiable bloke who likes to see the good in everyone and rarely, if ever, loses his temper. I remember being totally appalled on one occasion when, walking down a street in Cork with Dara O Briain after a gig, my comrade in comedy was subjected to a tirade of Don't Feed The Gondola's-related invective by a couple of drunken passers-by.

"Do you get that a lot?" I enquired nervously, as we moved swiftly along. "Yeah, all the time. You get used to it," replied Dara with a weary sigh of resignation. So, never having been of an aggressive disposition, you can imagine that it was with a certain amount of surprise that I passed Jamie Oliver on the street and found myself gripped by an overwhelming urge to end his life.

I could, and perhaps should have done it. It would have been so easy to just turn around, sneak up behind him, wrap both my trembling hands around his neck and squeeze tightly: "You horrible little fucker… I hate you and I'm going to wring every last breath from your scrawny body. No, really, I am and do you want to know why? I'll tell you. Because you annoy me. Because every single time I switch on my telly you're on it! No matter what channel I turn to, you're either there already or you turn up eventually, grinning like an idiot and saying things like 'pukka' and 'palaver' in your stupid mockney accent. I despise you and I loathe your wet wife Jules. I can't stand the way you call her your 'missus' and I detest your grandmother in her novelty tiger slippers, and your parents and Jules' parents and your nieces and nephews, uncles and aunts and disturbingly trendy friends. Most of all, I hate the fact that I see more of your fuckin' family and friends than I do of my own. And then there's your poxy white big girl's blouse of a Vespa and your stupid helmet and your sky blue VW van, not to mention that stupid smirk that adorns your chops when you rub your belly and pretend you're stuffed after nibbling on two olives and a spoon of cottage cheese at the 'Try Before You Buy' counter that I've never seen in any branch of Sainsbury's anywhere, ever. And did I mention that I can't stand the fact that you've sold yourself so far down the river that you even endorsed a compilation album of bland tunes you allegedly like to cook to while aping Keith Moon on those pots and pans dangling over your head. And don't even get me started on your cookery shows, which I know for a fact weren't filmed in your house, because a mate of mine's da worked on the series and he thinks you're an egocentric little tosser as well. In fact, I would go so far as to say that I loathe every single thing about you because you're a chef with no sense of taste, I've never met you before and yet I know everything there is to know about you except one thing. Your surname, you little runt! What is it? In the name of God tell me… Jamie Oliver What? "

Like I say, I could have done it… but I didn't. Instead, I settled for biting my tongue, burying my hands in the pockets of my overcoat and nodding in recognition. With that, young Jamie nodded back and chirruped a friendly "Alright mate?" before continuing about his business of being young, rich and in love. Maybe I was a bit hard on him. Maybe he's not such a bad lad after all. Now, if only Chris Evans had bought a sports car for Spike instead of that teenybopper who looks like a chipmunk…