Gay Pride? FUCK OFF and other cautionary tales

OK,OK give me a fucking break - it's been nearly four weeks, blah blah moan whinge cry.  Don't you people have a fucking life?

In the words of the dead Michael Jackson "STOP PRE-SSUR-ING ME", especially as my current way to cope with pressure is to cry and have to be signed off work.

For those of you still stubborn enough to be reading, a bit of a mixed bag this week.  Bit like my state of mind really - sometimes SOOOOOO happy, then SOOOOO miserable.



Gay Pride - oh FUCK OFF
Bit of a contentious one this!  As per my post around the World Cup earlier this year, this is not an attack on Gay Pride, rather an attack on the fucking airheads who will treat you like a member of the BNP and a traitor to your own sexuality because you're a gayer that doesn't especially like Gay Pride.

I  think my Facebook post from a few weeks ago when we had Brighton Pride pretty much explains my standpoint.

Matt Watson Polite notice to gays travelling to Brighton Pride by train. Screaming camply, talking about cock very loudly and generally being loud and giving it attitude is NOT a brave, proud expression of your sexuality. It is being a TWAT, and is the reason most other people (including other gays) will want to smash your badly fake-tanned smug face in.

06 August at 17:20  · Comment · 

• Emma Brown, Derrie Fletcher, Sarah Fior and 5 others like this.
• • 

    Tony Mcdonald Love it lol x

    06 August at 17:36 ·  · 
  • 

    Mac McDermott lol. But it's not confined to BTown. x

    06 August at 17:43 ·  · 
  • 

    Tony Mcdonald It's everywhere ! Very annoying! U ready for pride matt?? X

    06 August at 18:39 ·  · 
  • 

    Matt Watson 

    How i love Pride - I might spend the day asking gay-for-a-dayers if they have actually donated any money at the door, or if they even like the gays. A procession of bad drag, 50 year olds in leather and manorexic 20 yr olds is such a great statement of how the gays just want to be treated like any other members of society.......baaaaah humbug

    06 August at 19:02 ·  ·  1 person · 
  • 

    Tony Mcdonald Lol! Not bothering to come down this year, wash out the last few year and not just the weather!!!!!! X

    06 August at 19:04 ·  · 

Now, as a lifelong member of the homosexualists I've done a fair few Prides in my time, and yes it's a great laugh.  But that's what it is, a laugh.  Getting pathologically of your nut en masse on alcohol and pharmaceuticals, dancing your disco tits off, paying £4 a can for warm beer from your 'supportive' local gay business,  and shagging whoever asks in a toilet.  Great fun, hardly a worthy fight for the equality of gays.

And the charitable status of Pride, and (in Brighton) its financial problems despite being one of the biggest events to take place in the city.  Don't even get me started on this.   Pride makes a lot of money for a lot of people - local gay businesses being the prime culprit.  And as for the political bleating - OK, how supportive do you think non-gays (and also many gays) would be of Pride if it was simply a march to protest at the inequality that still exists for gays?  Just a march, no steroid enhanced muscle boys on floats, no hilarious men dressed as nuns, no piss up in the park with free dancing.  No, just a march, perhaps in January, with some placards, that's it.

Think about that next time you are rattling a bucket in my face to pay for Pride.  It's a big party, great fun, and that's it.

Let the outraged comments begin....

A Stroke of Genius vols. II and III

Well, no postings for a couple of weeks, then two in two days!  Oh Matthew, you are truly spoiling us.

Well, the real reason is that I am filling time while my hair clippers charge up.  I had a very age inappropriate haircut yesterday in a moment of madness (actually, a moment of greater than usual level of madness).  What seemed like an 'edgy' thing to do yesterday has transformed this morning into the realisation that I look like an utter cock.  And I don't hang with the Hoxton wankers anymore.

I'll just give you a few moments to compose yourself



......have you stopped yet?........



....no really, stop now.....




.....OH JUST FUCK OFF AND SHUT THE FUCK UP - AT LEAST I DON'T GET MY HAIR CUT AT FUCKING SUPERCUTS.........


......and calm, safe place, calm, in with love, safe place, happy place....

And we're back in the room - apologies, my medication obviously hasn't fully kicked in this morning.

Back to the blog.  Frequent readers of Grumpy Old Gay will know that I have reprised my rehab diary from my brush with death ten years ago.  If you haven't read the first instalment (why not?) this will make ABSOLUTELY no sense, so I suggest that you have a look for the first Stroke of Genius post in June.

Thursday 22nd February 2001; calories - loads; thoughts about sex - even more; spots - 0; perplexed neighbours - 2

Thought I'd better rattle off a quick missive before my trip on Monday to Gran Canaria (or 'Manworld' as my friend Laura has christened it - sounds like a kinky theme park; actually not that far from the truth).  Looking forward to a week of sun, and lots of falling over at opportune moments.  Doctors have advised me to wear my lovely support stockings on the plane, so bang goes my towelling crop top/hotpant combo.

Physio took me to the swimming baths for the first time yesterday.  Hadn't realised that it is half-term, so place was packed with screaming kids, as physio commented "I've never felt so unbroody in my life".  Didn't realise that 11 year old boys were capable of "givin' her one" - did they mean their Top Trump collection or am I just getting old?

Talking of age, don't forget it's my 30th in May - I expect it will be classified a public holiday (not that far removed from the Queen's birthday).  Perhaps Fanta could sponsor the party - of course no mixing of esteemed beverage with vodka, would hate to dilute brand equity (Jesus, I'm slipping back into marketing nonsense).  Am thinking of low key affair, with just a few dancing boys and maybe a small funfair.

Made a triumphant return to clubbing last weekend - went for a 'quiet' drink at The Bulldog, and due to excessive peer pressure (or should that be pier pressure?) went to Sunday Sundae.  Was a bit like taller version of Graham Norton - me ensconced on a sofa greeting my adoring public.  All went horribly wrong after several medicinal G&Ts - had to be carried out to the car - not a good look.

Had weekly visit to beauty salon - purely medicinal you understand.  Had back waxed for the first time - hurt like fuck, but physio started on about "sensory stimulation... " so I suppose it has its benefits.  Went whole hog and had mega facial, and nails done - at least if I'm hobbling on holiday I'll do it with some finesse.

Well better get back to the 'mooing' - how surreal is all this?  By the way, my postman seems to be lost, as I haven't received any post for two weeks, so apologies to those who have sent letters, sponsorship money, letterbombs etc.

Back on the 5th.

Matt xx

Saturday 10 March 2001 ; calories - 10,000; thoughts about sex - 1000000; holiday romances - 0

Well I've made it back from that Mecca of white trash, Gran Canaria.  Finally shifted that pale and uninteresting look.

Whole week was a scream - staying in a gay apartment complex, met loads of lovely people - see pictures attached.  Turned into minor celebrity, very amusing.  Have mastered the fine art of walking in bare feet on concrete while totally pissed - quite an achievement.

Greatest source of amusement was "special needs" treatment at the airport - Spanish end went completely over the top and insisted on a wheelchair brought onto the plane - fabulous way to jump the immigration queue, though horribly embarrassing.

Amused whole complex by doing my exercises in the pool - bit like a deranged Wayne Sleep.  Boys we met insisted on me going out (oh, the torture) and so ventured out to the Yumbo Centre (bit like gay version of Brent Cross for the uninitiated) - even raised a round of applause as I staggered down the steps.  Was bloody glad I wasn't in a wheelchair though - the 'wheelchair ramp' is in fact a 1 in 2 drop which descends about 50m - think Whatever Happened to Baby Jane type drama as Matt enters the Yumbo at terminal velocity!

Highlight of trip was evening out to Garbo's - an 'unforgettable' dinner/cabaret type affair.  Much amusement at bad renditions of Celine Dion, Britney and even the Backstreet Boys.  Well I say amusing, the majority of other tables took it very seriously, for them "Stars in Your Eyes" is a classy programme - let's just say the trailer park must have been deserted that night.

Even organised a party one night (I know, never stop working - was a bit worried at lack of risk assessment though - think Coke legal department would have gone into apoplexy).  Music, vodka watermelon (the next big thing darling), even celebrities cut out from OK Magazine.  Apparently, at end of party (though I have no memory of this) I was found on the balcony shouting "OK, who's up for it then" - thankfully, I passed out shortly after.  Just as well, there's nothing worse than a pissed, horny cripple - not a good look.

Well, must go and moisturise that tan - very refreshing to look half human again.

By the way, post is sorted now.  Thanks to all who have sent sponsorship money.

Lots of tanned lurve,

Matt xxx

Saturday Night Telly??? Fuck right off....

Well, apologies for the break in communications people.  I'm back at work, and I'm so knackered I can barely function - and the fact that I'm on a doseage of happy pills that would floor an elephant makes it VERY difficult to get remotely enthusiastic about anything.

As my Saturday nights now consist predominantly of getting drunk at home, shovelling Thai green curry down my neck, drugging myself with happy/sleepy pills (delete as applicable) and watching TV, a critique of the current state of Saturday night telly is long overdue.

101 Ways to Leave a Gameshow
Mmm, must have taken, ooh, ten minutes to think this one up.  Think 'Total Wipeout' (and what a gem that is) meets the shit National Lottery quiz.  In a nutshell, self-obsessed, posturing contestants (*see disclaimer below) answer 'hilarious' questions, and if they lose they get thrown off the side of a Waterworld/scaffolding type structure.







But that's where the Beeb have missed a trick.  When the cuntestants are flung screaming over the edge, it becomes obvious that they are attached to a safety rope, and actually descend pretty slowly into a swimming pool.  BORING!!  If they were being pushed off a footbridge over the M25, now THAT would be entertaining.

Its one saving grace is having some decent man candy as a presenter.  Steve Jones - you are fit, you are going places - so why god why?????  Probably a big fat cheque from the BBC actually.....respect.











* Disclaimer.  OK, I was indeed a needy, show-off quiz contestant once myself.  On The Weakest Link.  But Anne Robinson is cool (god she's grumpy).  And I won over £3,000. So FUCK OFF.

Tonight's the Night

OH

MY

FUCKING

GOD


This is one of those programmes that is so unbelievably atrocious that you are glued to the set, as if under some form of 'Children of the Corn' hypnosis - or possibly because your brain is struggling to process the scale of visual horror that is assaulting your retinas.

And what makes it worse, THIS IS A SECOND SERIES.  Yes people, this isn't a trial series that has gone horribly wrong, but the Beeb continues as they have a hole in their programming to fill.  No, this has been RECOMMISSIONED!!!!  I can feel a Noel Edmonds stylee rant about the TV Licence brewing....

The ubiquitous John Barrowman (I quite like him in Torchwood, but enough already John - stop saying yes to every shit programme you are offered) stars in an opening scene a la Summertime Special.  For those readers that weren't born in the 70s, Summertime Special was THE prime time BBC1 Saturday night show - a sort of variety show with acts such as Marti Caine and Les Dennis, and the most amazingly bad dance troupe.




Anyway, back to Tonight's the Night.  The opening scene features La Barrowman, crooning his way through a Jennifer Lopez smash (from memory, it's painful to think about too closely), with a troupe of backing dancers. You really need to watch the show to appreciate this - some things just cannot be put into words.

Add your typical BBC1 studio audience, who of course are on their feet gurning, dribbling and clapping along in ecstasy - until the Variety Club minibus arrives to take them home.

The clip below is actually from the first series, but believe me it gives you a taster...



The premise of the show is that JB will make dreams come true - yeah, dreams that involve bad singing/dancing and West End show tune wankathons - it's really a bizarre bastard hybrid of Britain's Got Talent, Noel's Christmas Presents, Surprise Surprise and Beadle's About.  Which is never going to be a good thing.

Of course, all of the dreamers that JB helps have got tragic back stories - one a miscarriage then cancer, one lost his father in a road accident, one lost their best friend to childhood cancer - Jesus Christ BBC, be ashamed, be very very ashamed.  Coming up next week, JB cures a cute child's leukaemia using the power of the lyrics from 'Wicked'.  GIVE ME FUCKING STRENGTH.

John Barrowman - you're fit, and I definitely would (TMI warning)  if the rumours about your tackle are to be believed.  But why???????  (See reasons for Steve Jones above).  My personal dream would involve Freddie Ljundberg, Puck from Glee and out IT Manager from work on a desert island.  You gonna fix that for me John, are ya?  I've got a really shitty back story, it's heartbreaking.  Are ya?  ARE YA GONNA FIX IT JOHN??

Other 'celebrities' who appeared on this shitstorm.

1. Dionne Warwick - WTF - why woman??  You are an actual global superstar.  Have you sold your soul to the devil, or were your millions all invested in Lehman Brothers?

2. Diversity - TV prostitutes, on 50% of all TV programmes, so no surprise really.  See that toe curling advert for a furniture shop "If you like Diversity you'll love The Range" - fucking marketing genius.



3. Lee Meade - ditto - he's Denise van Outen's baby father don't ya know.  Smart move Lee, otherwise no one would remember who the fuck you are.


OMG, next week they have Miley Cyrus and Michael Bolton......I think I might die.....

Come fly with me

OK, so I might have forgotten to tell you that I was taking a trip to Geneva for a week, and that there would be a break in the torrent of general abuse while away.


"But Matt, the beauty of a blog is that you can update it ANYWHERE IN THE WORLD, perhaps on your i-Pad while you sit at the airport and send smug messages with "sent from my i-Pad" on the bottom".


Answer - you are absolutely right.  I could also access my work email, or stab myself in the eye with a pencil ANYWHERE IN THE WORLD.  What do we learn from this kids?  Just because you CAN do something doesn't mean that it's necessarily a good idea to do it.


But I digress - back to Geneva.  Not to a beautiful sanatorium overlooking the lake for some 'behavioural therapy', not even to Dignitas, no, to stay with my big sister which is the best therapy anyone could ask for EVER.  And the fact that my sister shares the same genetic programming as me to drink too much sauvignon means that the trip was more of a retox, I feel SO much better as a result.

You would think after all of the relaxation, sun and mountain air (and alcohol) that I would have nothing to grump about this week.  (Excuse me while I cackle at your utter naivety). Aah, that's better, nothing better than a good laugh at other people.  Right, onto today's moan.

easyjet

OK, you're thinking, time for a cheap shot at budget airlines.  Well no actually (easyjet have decent red wine and wasabi-covered peanuts on board now - I fucking love easyjet).

My gripe is about the 60+ yr old travellers, newly retired couples (NRCs) that frequent easyjet flights, flying off to their little holiday home (that they have bought with their massive pension pot, which is the reason I will retire on £2.47 per year).

OH MY FUCKING GOD.  I'm sorry, but you often hear bleatings about how utterly bad mannered the young people are nowadays, blah blah blah.  That may be true in some cases, but you haven't seen anything until you witness NRCs queueing for an easyjet flight.  My experience started at check-in.  Let me explain, I had paid for Speedy Boarding (never has £14-50 been such good value).  Gatwick on a Sunday afternoon in late June was HEAVING, and the communal queue for easyjet check-in was massive.  If  I'd been in that queue, yes I would have been a bit pissed.

However the joy of Speedy Boarding is that you have a dedicated check-in desk, separate from the main check-in.  Now, as it was so busy, obviously the number of people of Speedy Boarding people was proportionately bigger, hence I must have queued for, ooh at least 5 minutes to check-in.

Not really a problem, you would think.  Well, Mr and Mrs Beige in front of me in the Speedy Boarding queue didn't think so.  Obviously they weren't actually called Beige, however there is an unwritten law that when you are above 60 and travelling by air, you must wear beige slacks and a navy blazer with brass buttons - and of course comfortable shoes.  They were very vocally tutting their disapproval, and totally slagging off easyjet to the whole queue.  You know, the sort of people that have Watchdog, Homes from Hell and Tonight with Trevor McDonald on series link.

And the poor underpaid girl behind check-in that had to deal with their tirade once they reached the desk - they actually uttered (loudly) the immortal phrase "I'm writing to Stelios", at which point I and several other people smirked very loudly.  I didn't realise that people actually said that - I just thought it was people that had been paid to kick-off and create some TV drama on Airline.

OK, the above may have been an isolated incident, but HAVE YOU SEEN NRCs once they get to the gate for an easyjet flight?  Every time anybody with a high-vis vest, a clipboard, or even just a badge walks past the gate it's like a pack of meercats that have just spotted something exciting.  It's a bit like a reverse game of musical chairs - but rather than the music stops and you sit down, it's ANY announcement on the PA and you stand up.  And once the incoming plane actually arrives at the gate, well that is of course the signal for tension levels to increase by a factor of 10.

Now the NRCs will obviously have positioned themselves close to the gate, ready to spring into action when someone makes the first move to start a queue.  A friend of mine says that her favourite game at the easyjet gate is to stand up early and be the first to start the queue, then watch as a hundred people automatically stand behind her - fucking genius.

But what I now take great delight in (as a dedicated Speedy Boarder) is the looks of utter contempt and disgust as I push through the NRCs to the front when the Speedy Boarders are called - bearing in mind that most NRCs must do this regularly on their frequent trips to their bolt-hole on the Continent, has it never occurred to them that a £14-50 supplement is not a lot to pay to avoid the nail biting tension of the easyjet boarding gate?  And then on a busy flight, NRCs that board late and stand blocking the whole aisle looking around in shock, as they couldn't possibly sit apart on a 1 1/2 hour flight.  AAAAAAAAAGH.

Even better, on boarding my return flight from Geneva I was sneerily asked by an NRC if I realised that I was actually in the Speedy Boarding queue - the overwhelming desire to spray them in the eyes with my Duty Free Gucci by Gucci Sport eau de toilette was overwhelming - but at £40 a bottle a piercing withering look/raised eyebrow combo had to suffice.

Right, enough venting.  I need to spend some time telling myself how fabulous and special I am, as instructed in therapy.  Or, drink a bottle of chilled Sauvignon - as instructed by the secret wine voices.

Au revoir

Matthieu xx

P.S. To counterbalance the misery above (OK, I'm shoe-horning this in) a really good opportunity to mention Pam Ann - possibly the most pant wetting stand-up you are likely to see.  If you are a gayer you will automatically love this, but for those less fortunate readers in a nutshell Pam Ann is every nightmare cabin attendant you have ever encountered - but worse - and on coke.

A Stroke of Genius

Morning followers.  Not really a rant this morning (sorry to disappoint, if you want a shot of depression check out The Budget), but a bit of background to the origins of Grumpy Old Gay.

I read the most inspirational article by Tim Lusher in The Guardian this morning about his recovery from a brain injury, which struck a real chord with me.

If you don't already know, I suffered a stroke nearly 10 years ago, which left me completely paralysed down my right side, unable to stand up, walk, or speak properly.  Without going in to massive detail (as this is rapidly turning into a Piers Morgan stylee probing - eeeew, wrong word) I was taught to walk, speak and generally live again by an absolutely awesome group of doctors, physiotherapists, psychiatrists, stroke nurses, speech therapists and occupational therapists, first at The National Hospital for Neorosurgery & Neurology - I will never be able to thank these people enough, they literally rebuilt my life.  (Thanks also to all of the friends that have had to put up with me since!).

My care continued back at my flat in Hove, with an amazing mobile team of rehab workers from the local stroke unit - a bit like The A Team in navy blue uniforms.  One of the many rehab activities I was encouraged to do was an email recovery diary - predominantly to get me using my right hand again, but also to get me to concentrate on something for more than 30 seconds.

Hence me bringing up the subject in this blog.  'Stroke of Genius' as it became known was ultimately the precursor to this blog (sad old man fact, 10 years ago blogging didn't exist really).  But what I really think it shows is the beginnings of my sardonic, caustic (ok, miserable) rantings - there is no doubt that my stroke had an unavoidable effect on my character - however at the time, laughing at my utterly ridiculous life situation was the only way to avoid slitting my wrists.

This morning, as if by fate I dug out an old email back-up which had some of the Stroke of Genius emails.  Hence for your enjoyment/ridicule below is the first instalment of my rehab diary.




Saturday 17 February 2001

Calories - 10000; thoughts about sex - 5000; spots - 1; Valentine's cards - 0


Welcome to the first instalment of my new diary, hopefully more 'Bridget Jones' than 'Adrian Mole', but at the moment probably more akin to 'Anne Frank'.  My physio is keen for me to start doing things with two hands (bilateral activity in rehab speak) so typing seemed a good place to start - will have to think what else I can do with two hands.


Very excited about my forthcoming holiday, only 9  days to go.  A whole week in Gran Canaria at an exclusively gay apartment complex - have a feeling I will have lots of difficulty in standing up and require assistance from nearest kind man.  Mind you, spending time lying on my back has its advantages.  Desperate to get a tan, grey may be very chic darling, but not as a skin tone.


Must stop thinking about sex - am turning into nymphomaniac, good job I can't run yet.  Mind you, don't really stand out too much in Brighton - most men here are limp wristed, I go one better and have an entire limp side!  Must perfect sympathy pulling technique - don't want people to get the wrong idea about why I am walking like this.  Nice to have an excuse for slurred speech and dodgy walking which doesn't involve the GNP of a South American country.


Neighbours think I have gone completely barmy - speech therapist (insane version of my mother) has got me 'mooing' at volume and singing from 1 to 10, plus physio has me standing on my right leg which involves lots of swearing and falling onto beanbag.  Coupled with obsessive playing of 'Who Wants to be a Millionaire' computer game, with sultry tones of Chris Tarrant, the noise coming from my flat must be quite disturbing.


Despite animal noises, therapy is going really well - have to eat lots of chocolate, play lots of computer games, and have a facial once a week (sensory stimulation blah blah).  Can get quite used to this therapy lark, may need another rehab to return to normal life.


Eating like a trooper at the moment - quite amusing, as where I have no ab muscles, I have a love handle on one side, but not on the other.  Do love handles come in pairs?  If so, can someone please return the missing one as soon as possible.


Went for a walk with friend Lawrence this week - bit like being a dog "Time for Matt's walk now" - Thankfully not obsessed with lampposts and sniffing other peoples' bottoms - well, maybe the latter.  Got all the way to the seafront where proceeded to be overtaken by little old ladies and toddlers - think I might start wearing rollerblades to increase speed, but would probably go round in circles.


Spending lots of time on the internet, thinking of starting a live webcam - 'Cripplecam.com' - slight problem that Nike are unwilling to have a hyperlink from the site - can't think why, whole ethos behind rehab is 'Just Do It'.


Was very brave and walked to the off-licence on my own last night.  Took me ages to cross the road coming back - was imagining headline "Local Stroke Victim knocked over clutching Thresher carrier" - plus, bottle of wine was very cheap - must buy nice Sancerre in future in case of accident, could not cope with humiliation of being found with £3.49 bottle of Chilean plonk.


Well, have been wittering enough, and attention span is drawing to a close (great excuse for not doing anything that takes more than 30 minut es).  Brace yourself for next exciting instalment of recuperation ramblings.


Lots of love, and big thanks for the sponsorship money, £400 and rising.


Speed Queen XXX








OK, well enough of the sentimentality - normal grumpiness will resume as soon as possible xxx






STOP PRESS - GRUMPOLDGAY QUOTED (WELL MENTIONED ANYWAY) IN THE GUARDIAN ON FRIDAY - OH YEAH BABY  http://www.guardian.co.uk/theguardian/2010/jun/25/the-g2-readers-room

Normal service will be resumed shortly....

OK, for those that know (and if you don't you do now) I have had a bit of a grumpy overload - AKA being signed off work because I'm a bit CRAAAAAAZY.  Hence, due to the cash and carry dosage of happy pills currently flowing through my veins, I HAVE LOST MY GRUMPY MOJO.

Well, possibly not lost it, but living life through a rose-tinted haze of Citalopram and Zopiclone is not exactly conducive to blood pressure busting rants.

However, be strong my people.  I'm going to try - go with me on this - I know that your happy lives will be thrown completely off-balance without an injection of utter misery from your favourite moaning 'mo.

I could just lie back, eat fruit pastilles and focus on my happy place, but NO - I'm going to try just for YOU - never let it be said that it's all about me my friends - although it usually is to be fair.

So to follow is a truly random outpouring of negativity completely off the top of my head.  Oh yeah, I'm freestyling baby.

Sophie Dahl's cookery TV thing - The Delicious Miss Dahl
If you have never witnessed this utter utter piece of televisual SHITE, I implore you to check it out (I'm sure that BBCi will be playing it for an eternity - just to rub in your face the fact that your TV licence paid for this). I'm obviously a bit late in my slagging of la Dahl, however it's being repeated on the tellybox on Saturday mornings - so now you get the experience with a hangover to boot.

So, if your life is so empty that you have never needed to tune in to cooking tips from an over-privileged  fat model turned bulimic model, let me explain.  Imagine Nigella's show - you know, cutesy 'no really, this is MY kitchen' set, props from the Conran Shop, self conscious 'I'm so naughty I am' guilty looks as she troughs down a whole foie gras.

Yeah?  Now, turn up the smugness dial by a factor of 100, and the level of cookery knowledge down by 100 (Nigella may be annoying, but her recipes are awesome).  The 'delicious' Miss Dahl is so excruciatingly smug, it actually hurts to watch.  And the little recitals of poetry between the recipes - WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU THINKING?????  And don't get me started on the set (sorry, Sophie's own kitchen) - think a cross between Mrs Tiggywinkle's country kitchen, a Notting Hill interior designer's messy orgasm, and a scene from Alice in Wonderland.

Examples of utter utter utter smugness:
- ...when I lived in my beautiful apartment in New York, I missed England so much that I would make myself afternoon tea.....
- ....on her day off, Sophie likes nothing better than going shopping for cheese.  That's cheese people.....
- ....now I've prepared tonight's dinner party, I'll just pop out to buy something fabulous and vintage, at my local fabulous and vintage boutique...

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA - while trawling YouTube for a clip to illustrate the sheer smugness of la Dahl, someone has beaten me to it.  Quite simply the best parody of The Delicious Miss Dahl EVER - I am laughing so hard it hurts (it's the drugs, don't get used to it).



Oh, she's Roald Dahl's grandaughter, she's a national treasure, she's a role model to people over a size 12 (oh, hang on a minute) - SO THE FUCK WHAT??  And allegedly, Sophie can't even cook.  That's right, a model that isn't obsessed with food (and let's face it, Sophie would have had servant people and nannies to cook anything for her anyway).  Allegedly, Sophie had to be given emergency cookery lessons because the first few takes of the TV filming were so unconvincing.  And allegedly the whole shebang was thought up by some TWAT of an independent TV production house, who saw the dollar signs around a TV series with a cooking model, plus associated book deal.

And the rest is history....

OK, off to drug myself into something resembling sleep.  My shrink says that I need to keep busy (presumably to avoid stabbing people) so I'm sure I will be back soon with further morose mania.

Matt x

It's time for a dance break

Hello people, welcome to the first in an irregular posting of random music videos - some that I like, some that I don't - shoehorned into this grumpy blog BECAUSE IT'S MY BLOG SO DEAL.

I was trying to think of a witty title for this, but have not had my medication and nearly enough coffee yet.  I was playing around with the Channel 4 T4 Music thang, but that would have made this Grumpy4 or G4 Music...not quite the look I'm going for.

The photo is provided for you to print out and destroy in a manner of of your own choice, as punching your screen hard may break it.  Pay particular attention to the blonde one please.

If you have nothing better to do, perhaps you can think of a better name.  I might use it, I might ridicule it, who can say?

So back to the music which in the words of Madonna "makes the peeeople, come togeeeether". What a load of old tosh Madge, music must be one of the most devisive things around.  The utter snobbery that surrounds music never fails to wind me up - some music is described as serious, quality music (Coldplay) against frivolous rubbish (Britney).  I don't exactly like to sit and listen to a bit of Mozart, but I would never be so up-my-own-arse to dismiss  Mozart as rubbish just because I personally don't like to listen to it.

Hence, the grumpy music slot will be a celebration of music that does not take itself in the slightest bit seriously, and if anything will be the antithesis of worthy, self-righteous music bores everywhere.


1. The Vengaboys are coming
Oh yes, the Vengaboys are back peeps.  Can you believe that it has been 10 years since they were last serenading us with such classics as Uncle John from Jamaica, Boom Boom Boom Boom and We Like to Party??!!

Well, the VBs have teamed up with Perez Hilton and Pete Burns (what a combination) and have released a new single Rocket to Uranus.  Now, without detailed research I have a feeling that the boys in the line up are new, as I remember that they used to be quite fit.  But in terms of sheer, unadulterated fromagery the song's a winner.




2. Eurovision
Now, to take a pop at Eurovision would just be too easy, especially in regard to our most recent efforts.  For those of you that think it is compulsory for the gays to like Eurovision, well let's just say I must have missed that tick box when I signed up to a life of sodomy, along with a love of show tunes and idolatry of Liza Minnelli.

Don't even get me started on this country's recent efforts.  With the greatest of respect, while Sir Andrew Lloyd Weber and Pete Waterman are (or in Pete's case were) giants in their respective musical fields, their suitability to craft a Eurovision entry is questionable.  This country is renowned internationally for its pop music, which is on a par with the US, so why can we not get our act together for Eurovision?  Or alternatively, why bother at all?

When we've got homegrown pop-writing royalty such as Cathy Dennis (Google her) or La Gary Barlow, why do we end up with such dross?  And as for leaving it to the British public to decide on an entry via a lame BBC1 TV format, well that's just asking for trouble.

But we're not the only ones.  Sweden, which has a legendary history of pop music, is no better.  The reason that Sweden springs to mind is that I was listening to Gaydar Radio (too awesome to describe, let's just say as a soundtrack to washing up, cleaning or decorating, it's like audio amphetamine) recently, and was introduced to the pure pop ambrosia that is Agnes Carlsson.

Agnes is one of those rarities, in that she won Sweden's Pop Idol in 2005, but has then been successful rather than appearing at a Butlin's near you.  Her music is pure Eurovision fodder with a dancey edge (OK a gay club edge), lots of swooshing strings, piano, pained lyrics about love being crap and stuff - my new guilty pleasure, perfect for singing into the mirror.







Well that's all folks - cleaning and laundry to do (accompanied by Gaydar Radio - try it, you don't have to be a gayer, but sadly they don't play Keane).

STOP PRESS
OK, JUST A LITTLE BIT OVER-EXCITED - GRUMPYOLDGAY HAS JUST BEEN NAME CHECKED ON GAYDAR RADIO PEOPLE!!!  Hello to all the 1000s of gays that are now causing meltdown on the blogger.com servers by accessing my blog.  By the way I'm single and can be tracked down quite easily on Facebook (even if I did still do Gaydar, I wouldn't publish it here - work colleagues having access to pictures of your cock is never a good look).

Get me - I'm only on fucking Twitter

Yes, you did hear that right.  Despite my reservations about the impact and longevity of some social meeja channels (I'm not the only one, even Marketing Week magazine are at it), in the interests of a balanced rant I have signed up for a Twitter account.

Some of my best friends are on Twitter, and they're really quite intelligent (mostly), rather than sheep blindly trying to keep up with the latest trend for fear of looking outdated.  And I must say, anything that allows me to stalk my grump hero Charlie Brooker is a good thing.  Which reminds me, congratulations to Charlie for the recent announcement of his engagement to Konnie Huq - that is one headline that I didn't see coming!

Anyway, back to the world of 140 character life updates.  I suspect that I will tend to follow comedians, journalists etc. who will have amusing tweets (get me with the lingo kids), rather than tweeting to the world what I am having for breakfast.  I might even get to the level of uptweeting from my blog (thanks to WorldCupGirlfriend for that - she is my online svengali - JS you have created a monster).  P.S. Check out her blog - the list of obscure brand links to the World Cup is fucking awesome - the Food Standards Agency link is particularly jaw dropping.

OK back to this blog (Jesus, I'm like a 5 year old on Ritalin today - apologies for that).  If you would like to follow me on Twitter you can use the handy button to your right.  And if you have any suggestions of who I should be following please get in touch - I need all the help I can get.

Big Brother - this is as live as it gets

Mmmmmmm - the series is sponsored by a spot cream.  Not a good start really, is it?  Be honest.

First two, Josie and Steve.  Dull (though congrats on stirring up a bit of national pride, Help the Heroes blah blah with the blown up HM Forces man) - classy move Channel 4.

Ben - posh dim twat.  And that fucking hair.  And he wears a kimono.  TWAT.  And make-up??  Posh gayer??

Rachel - hehehehehe, I just act stupid and helpless - silly bitch.

Nathan - cock.  And wearing 3/4 length jeans.  Probably from a catalogue.  Or Next.

Dave - loves God.  Used to have a life, but then found God.  Bad haircut.

Caiohme - wannabe lesbian - dull.  Ridiculous name, sounds like beaver.

Govan - bobble hat and blazer.  Nuff said.  Gayer??












Commercial Break


Nom nom nom Fru (the fruit version of Gu) Fru Mango and Passion Fruit Mini Cheesecakes - oh Fru - for something that doesn't involve bodily fluids or Class As, how are you so nice??

PR - outreach to me please!

And your evil twin Gu Cheeky Little Pots au Chocolat - chocolate mousse, but with a shot of heroin.  I kid you not.  Try it.  You might like it.  Go on.  You know you want to.

Shabby - oh just FUCK OFF.  I SAID FUCK OFF.

Ife - pretty.  Like a young Sinitta.  Quite like her actually.

John James - no you do not look like David Beckham.  You're quite fit, but not all that. Sorry.

Sunshine - she made that name up.  No really.  Glues crystals onto things, and she's older than 10.

Corin - "I pass for 23/24".  "I'm a Jordan lookalike". Are you fucking joking? I HATE YOU ALREADY.









Mario - he's going to be a mole.  No really.  A mole.  He has to wear a mole outfit and everything.  It's fucking hilarious.  I love it when they do this twist to the series every year.  Gets me every time.


Well.  What can I say.  Was that it?  Hello??  Anyone there?........