Grumpy Bloke

Congratulations. You've found the miserable bastard everyone's been warning you about. I remember when a phone was for calling people, a pint didn't require a mortgage, and you could buy a bloody sandwich without downloading an app. Now everything's smart except the people running it. Apparently I'm supposed to embrace modern life. I'd rather embrace a cactus. At least the prick comes with a warning.

Everyone's offended by something these days. I'm offended by people who walk slowly, people who stop in doorways, and people who say "no offence" just before being offensive. But apparently I'm the one with an anger problem. I DON'T HAVE A FUCKING ANGER PROBLEM.

And those 5–10 years of freedom? You'll spend the first three waiting for a hip replacement, the next two arguing with the pension office, and the rest trying to remember why you walked into the kitchen.

For fuck's sake, Robert. That's the worst joke I've heard all week. And I've heard some absolute cymbal-shit.

Well, I've been doing my bit for the economy for sixty bloody years. I drive everywhere, eat too much, drink too much and spend a fortune at the chemist. If I ever start exercising and eating salads, the entire fucking economy will collapse.

Easy. Ask them to put the kettle on. If they put the milk in last, they're suspicious. If they put the teabag in the microwave, they're a fucking psychopath.

I can read it. That's a fucking relief. Although if I were a train, it might explain why I'm always late, cost a fortune to maintain and occasionally break down without warning.

Full English for breakfast. Sunday roast for lunch. Why the fuck are we being asked to choose? I've spent sixty years building a stomach capable of handling both, and I'll be damned if I'm going to let it down now.

Of course I bloody remember. We had one bar of soap for the entire family. Face, hands, arse, everything. By the time it got to me, it was the size of a postage stamp with three pubic hairs stuck to it.

I'm tired, behind on bills, running on five hours of sleep and still believe things are going to turn around. Been saying that for thirty fucking years. At this point, I'm beginning to suspect I'm facing the wrong direction.

Another Budget delivered. Still haven’t got a fucking clue whether I’m better off. Although judging by the wife’s face I’m guessing we won’t be buying that second yacht.

Funny how the government website crashes when they’re trying to give you £100. But when you owe THEM £100, the bloody system works perfectly. They’ll find you in a cave in the Himalayas with no internet, no electricity and a yak for company. And still send you a fucking reminder.

Bloody hell. Putin looks like a schoolboy who’s just been summoned to the headmaster’s office. “Now Vladimir, we’ve spoken about this before. You cannot keep invading the other children’s playgrounds.”

Exactly. I’ve had easier access to my bank account.

I tried that once. Put £500 into a coin with a picture of a dog on it. Three weeks later, I had £117, a nervous twitch and a wife who still thinks I’ve bought a fucking Labrador. She keeps asking when we’re picking it up.

All I want is a decent breakfast, a quiet afternoon and nobody asking me what I want to do. However, apparently that’s not a birthday. It’s a cry for help.

I’ll watch it. I enjoy hearing a millionaire explain why I need to tighten my belt. Any tighter and my bollocks will be in my throat.

I don’t give a toss whether it’s A or B. I just want to know who the last bastard was that left me three squares and the cardboard tube.

You’ve forgotten the most dangerous one. Other people. Side effects include high blood pressure, chronic exhaustion, loss of faith in humanity and an overwhelming urge to tell everyone to fuck off.

Neither. The professional version is: “As per my last fucking email.”

People who say, “I’m brutally honest.” No, you’re just a rude bastard who’s found a way to put it on your CV.