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?........

.....aaaaaaaaaand we're back in the room!

OK, so that break was a little bit longer than planned.  Corrie was awesome (humour me, I'm originally from Oop North, Corrie reminds me of home), and then there was Glee (good excuse for another picture of Puck - when he did the cover of Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch in Monday's episode, I fell in love with him a little bit more), and then last night I was otherwise engaged, and yada yada yada.

Anyway I'm back, sipping a chilled glass of Oyster Bay Sauvignon (I'm hoping that if I link to them enough, their PR might 'outreach' to me and send me lots of wine, because I am obviously a key tastemaker/early adopter/key opinion former - don't ya just love marketing-speak??!!) and preparing for tonight's Big Brother onslaught.  If  I don't blog 'live' it's either because I've drunk too much Oyster Bay to see, I'm stabbing myself in the leg with a fork, or I've completely lost the will to live after witnessing tonight's Biiiiiiiiiig Brother.

It was suggested that I set up a Twitter account, and link it to my blog so that I can tweet my Big Brother comments direct to my blog.  Hmmmm - I don't quite get this, I sit on the sofa keying my comments into my mobile, which then appears on my blog.  And the reason to not just type on my laptop is...?  Actually, don't get me started on Twitter, we'll be here all night and I want to reserve LOTS of time to vent on that particular subject - and in WAY more than 140 characters.

So, to tonight's main whinge - the World Cup.  I can already hear the intakes of breath.....let me start by making this clear, I DON'T HATE THE WORLD CUP (that would expend too much energy).

I don't especially like it, it messes up the TV schedules when we have perfectly good sports channels for that sort of thing.  But I just can't bear the fact that you are instantly treated like a social pariah for the shocking crime of NOT BEING ESPECIALLY BOTHERED ABOUT THE WORLD CUP.

Football is great, grown men kicking a ball around a field is just fucking amazing.  The fact that they are paid six figure salaries PER WEEK to do it makes it even better.  However, to treat anyone that really isn't bothered about football as some kind of traitor to English pride is just fucking pathetic.  "But football is our national sport, everyone loves a bit of footie" you bleat - erm, Christianity is our national religion despite a minority of the population being practising Christians.  And how annoyed do you get when the Archbishop of Canterbury gets masses of political and media attention when he spouts some nonsense or other?

And the excruciating news coverage - Wayne Rooney spotted wearing a plastic crucifix makes the front page of broadsheet newspapers? Give me a fucking break people.



At this point I should mention the blog of my glamorous friend and colleague (she is actually a gay man trapped in a woman's body - she is more gay than I am) - World Cup Girlfriend.  If anything will make sense of this World Cup lark this will.

Anway, rant over.  Remember - before the flood of over-defensive comments - I don't hate the World Cup, I just hate the fact that not liking it makes me some kind of abnormal unpatriotic outcast.

And now for a gratuitous picture of David Beckham....

The author would like to acknowledge...

Adopts Geordie accent "Dae fyve in the grumpy bummer howse".  It's here people, the latest post of utter negativity from your favourite miserable 'mo.

Which reminds me, that bounteous source of not even Z list 'celebrities', Big Brother, is back for the final time on our screens this week.  Watch out for a dedicated post on this blog, as I have a sneaking suspicion that there may just be a smidgeon of material for me to rant about - assuming that I haven't smashed the flatscreen or had an embolism before then.

Anyway, back to business.  I thought it only fair to give acknowledgement to the many sources that have helped me to reach such a state of outright cynicism and sarcasm.  "What's that?" I hear you cry in utter confusion "you mean that your Pulitzer-winning outbursts of contemptuous bitching aren't solely your own work?".  Oh ye of little faith of course they are, I don't even have a ghost writer, however several people have helped to hone my sarcasm over the years.

1. My parents - sorry folks, I love you dearly but genetics is a terrible thing, and probably also explains my all consuming need for white wine on a daily basis.  And don't even get me started on my childhood......(note to self, confirm therapist appointment).

2. My work - which I won't mention by name of course.  We have an absolutely AMAZING e-marketing department who I'm sure are reading this, did I mention that they're AMAZING?  Needless to say my job never fails to provide me with a daily dose of pure, unadulterated depression - I'm about as valued as a severe case of herpes.

Now, on to four journalists who have greatly influenced this blog, and never fail to provide me with a weekly source of inspiration (and reassurance that I am not the only person on this planet with a majorly sarcastic and bad tempered psyche).  All of them write for The Guardian - yes, I'm a homo that lives in Hove and reads The Guardian - could I be any more stereotyped?

1. Charlie Brooker - oh Charlie, you truly are the king of grumpy bastards everywhere.  I have so much love for you and your work (and not in a gay bum fun way), both in print and on the tellybox .  If you haven't discovered Charlie's work, then I insist that you check out his section on The Guardian website NOW.  Never has a man been so skilled at showing utter contempt to everyday situations, yet being fucking hilarious at the same time.  His diatribe against i-phone users actually made me cry on the train, which was embarrassing and made people back away from me.  And if you haven't seen his telly series Screenwipe and Newswipe on BBC4 then do something about it NOW - I defy you not to wet yourself at Le Brooker's deconstruction of the typical TV news segment. Charlie, I love you.

2. Hadley Freeman - Hadley, I worship weekly at your weekly temple of fashion sarcasm Ask Hadley.  For the uninitiated, this is a weekly fashion agony aunt column, where readers write in with their fashion dilemmas, and Hadley destroys them with a combination of acerbic humour and downright rudeness.

This is even funnier for me, as I used to work in the fashion industry, even worse in fashion PR (yes, I was once a bright young thing with an ironic haircut before everything went pear shaped and up my nose), hence Hadley's observations of the utter ridiculousness of fashion magazines and fashion trends make me chortle uncontrollably.  She is also one of those people that could be bloody rude to your face, then smile, and you would never be sure whether she was actually joking.  I use that one a lot....


...to be continued because Corrie is on, and Tony has everyone locked in the factory....

Sex and the Fucking City - or Drag Queens in the Desert

A friend of mine (I use the word friend with a suitable level of contempt - you know who you are) commented yesterday that my new blog was a bit like a gay Carrie Bradshaw, and that I could end up really rich and somebody would make a TV programme about me.


Excuse me for a moment...

5.....4.....3.....2.....1.......and breathe.......and calm........find your safe place.......focus on the safe place.........safe place......


...Apologies, I was just feeling the urge to randomly slaughter the next person to tell me that Sex and the City 2 is anything more than a last-ditch desperate attempt to milk some revenue out of what was a ground breaking TV series 10 years ago - but in today's post-recession climate could not be any more inappropriate.  And no, it's not escapism or liberating.  Fetishising Manolos does not make you liberated, finally owning an apartment with a walk-in wardrobe (which incidentally you had to marry a rich ugly bloke to buy for you) is not liberated.



I'm proud to say that I haven't actually been to see SATC2.  "Gasp, then how can you hate it?" I hear you bleat in that annoying whining little voice.  Well, presumably due to the way that every TV channel and newspaper has been falling over itself to cheaply fill up some airtime by fawning over the film (" ooh, Carrie in a dress, guffaw, the girls are in a DESERT IN HEELS) - or running an easy space filling 'inspired by' feature - yes, even The Guardian is guilty, is nowhere safe?




And that's before you have every sad twat of a brand marketing manager (I am one, therefore I can say that) desperately trying to align their product with SATC2 in a misguided attempt to look 'down with the girls' - Hewlett Packard and Boots step forward.  In my opinion Tena Lady and that stuff that makes your poo less-hard missed a trick.






To respond to the original likening of myself to a gay Carrie Bradshaw - wrong on SO many levels (but not as many levels of wrongness as the film itself).

1. I do not look like a horse.  There is a whole website dedicated to this fact - genius.

2. Carrie Bradshaw IS NOT A REAL PERSON - I'm so sorry to have to break that to you people.  She is a fictional character, a journalist writing one article a week for the local paper would not actually make enough to live in an apartment in Manhattan, and dress in fabulous vintage and designer outfits, and spend every evening drinking cocktails.  Hence, my blog rantings are never going to keep me in Sauvignon and crisps.

3. I may like a bit of shopping in Hennes, but if I ever turn into the sort of fatuous, utterly materialistic, grabbing Stepford Wife reject that 'the girls' aspire to, somebody SHOOT ME IN THE HEAD.


Finally, from what I have picked up from the reviews, one of the defining moments of the film is 'the girls' managing to 'liberate' those poor, oppressed Middle Eastern women from wearing burkhas, and restyling them in vintage Halston.

Jesus FC, you gotta love those Americans.

I'm just SOOOOO angry

Well here it is, my first venture into the blogosphere (they taught me that word at work, I is well cool), providing me with the ultimate (and predominantly unseen) arena to vent my spleen on the issues of the day.

When I say issues, a better description would be TV adverts, celebrities and just general life observations, rather than climate change and the situation in Gaza. Think Peter Kay with a sprinkling of Victoria Wood (interesting fact, VW's ex-husband The Great Soprendo used to do magic shows at my school fetes, but I digress...).

It may be a sign of old age, but I seem to be getting more grumpy by the week - this is depite heavy medication and intensive psychotherapy - some may say cantankerous, but I like to see myself as sarcastically petulant. It has been suggested by colleagues that I might channel this sarcasm into a blog (presumably as a way of shutting me up) hence here it is - Grumpy Old Gay.

At random intervals (or when my medication is wearing off) I will be updating you on what's winding me up this week - but just in case you think that I'm a total misery (how very dare you) there will also be a sprinkling of things that I'm loving as well (Puck from Glee, Oyster Bay Sauvignon Blanc).

Things that really annoy me might be the Go Compare adverts, anything to do with Britain's Got Talent (I'm sorry, but what the fuck do Amanda Holden and Piers Morgan know about talent, dancing dogs anyone?) or men over the age of 16 on BMX bikes.

Anyway, that's more than enough for you lucky, lucky readers (if your eyes haven't begun to bleed by this point).

Please feel free to comment below - I may just SHOUT BACK AT YOU IN FULL CAPS.

Grumpy hug

Matt