How To Create A Monster

I fear I have created a monster.


I was sat on the train approaching my stop when the train manager’s voice came through the speaker. His voice had a personality. He made a slight joke, changing Sandwell & Dudley to, “Dundwell and Sadley,” and following up with, “So good, they named it twice.” His light manner with a slight hint of sarcasm was actually a breath of fresh air. I looked around to see other commuters smiling at this.


Usually, the train manager sounds like he is slowly being killed by his job. Like he started the job with all good intentions, but the constant dealing with the general public has ground him down to a mere shadow of his former self and he now sits quietly questioning his life choices and he also thinks his wife is having an affair and his children hate him despite his staff discount on rail travel. This comes across in their usual announcements.


But the endearing message from our affable train manager today was good to hear. So much so, that I took to twitter about it.


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It’s important to get positive feedback. It’s encouraging, a nice thing to do and despite my normal grumpy exterior I am actually trying to be more positive this year, hence the positive outpouring of appreciation. Okay, maybe not an outpouring. It was just a tweet.


Anyway, I received a reply.



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A few days later, I was on the train heading back. Then the train manager’s voice came over the speaker, “We are now approaching Sandwell & Dudley, that’s Dundwell and Sadley, so good they named it twice!” It was the same guy but something was different. It just wasn’t the same. He’s obviously had the feedback I had given and that had given him a lift and that’s great but, he had become over enthusiastic and too contrived. He was trying too hard to be the comedian. He no longer had the endearing quality that made him so likeable before. He was now, if anything, a bit annoying. Annoying in a kind of Holiday park rep way.


I looked around the carriage. Not a single smile on the faces of my fellow commuters. This was a Friday too so this should have been an easy audience to please! No, his genuine, slightly sarcastic and likeable quality had gone. What had I done? I was Frankenstein and I had created a wannabe comedian train conductor who was now annoying. I’m to blame for this!


But it’s not the first time I’ve done this. A few years ago I was friendly with one of my neighbours.


He was into writing poetry and he also enjoyed playing guitar. “Well, effectively, you could be a song writer then,” I said like a bloody idiot. He then began to write songs and became a bit obsessive about it.


Don’t get me wrong, I’m a big fan of exploring creativity and I would always encourage that, but then he started singing and, well, it wasn’t the best. Too nice to say anything negative, I continued to encourage it. He didn’t have a bad voice….. for a car alarm.


Then he played his first gig and of course, friends and family showed support for him. I was also there showing support and applauding after each song. With the sudden rush of fame, it fuelled his fire even more and while he continued to practice loudly songs about his ex-wife, his current wife patiently put up with it whilst cringing and secretly hating my guts for it.


They’re not together anymore and I am certain I’m not to blame for their amicable split. However I can’t help but think that his daily practicing, and the pain that inflicted on his wife, only fuelled her fire and sadly (and dundwell), that was down to me.


So, the moral of the story? Sometimes a positive intention creates monsters who become unlikeable to the public.


Or you’ll start a chain of events that can ruin a marriage.


The Benefit Of An Early Start

I needed to catch up on sleep. So last night I went to bed much earlier than usual, before 10pm.

Did I catch up on extra hours of sleep? 

No. 5am this morning I was wide awake. 

So I got up. 

It’s an exciting prospect waking up early and having precious time to kill before you go to work. I’ve always wished that I could get up early and utilise the time efficiently to be super-proactive. Doing…. stuff. The possibilities are endless. 

Actually, that’s not the case. Mrs Grump was beautifully snoring away and to do anything to wake her would be dicing with death. 

Perhaps I could go for an early morning walk? A jog along the beach? Fresh air? Not possible. I live in Dudley as well as not exactly being a beauty spot, we’re getting a beating from Storm Eva. 

Reading? Good idea, however, I have the tendency to fall asleep when reading which would completely contradict the whole idea of getting up extra early. 

What did I feel like doing? Nothing. 


Because it’s bloody Five in the morning, that’s why! 

It was boring. 

Why Aren’t You A Success?

According to this picture, Success requires you to take an E. Grumpy Young Bloke does not endorse the taking of any drugs.

According to this picture, Success requires you to take an E. Grumpy Young Bloke does not endorse the taking of any drugs.

Why aren’t you successful?

It’s a straightforward question. But then again, I guess it depends what your interpretation of success is.

I admit that in recent years, I have berated myself, beat myself up and labelled myself as a failure. I am not successful. I am not in a fantastic job; I don’t have a degree; I don’t have a house (Sorry to shatter the illusion folks but Chateau Grump is a two bedroom semi-detached house in Dudley that’s rented); I can’t afford a wedding; can’t afford a nice holiday every year and to top it all off, I just couldn’t afford to be Dad. (Please, no comments saying, “You find the money blah blah blah.” It’s a cliche that I’m tired of hearing. It’s easy to say when you have a family support network around you. I don’t.)

But the reason why I’m a failure is not because of me, it’s because of others.

Now, I’m not going to harp on with some self-sympathy, woe is me, I’m a victim, I’ve been held back BS.

The reason why I’m a failure because of others is simply because I am measuring my success by the terms of how others measure it. I have been looked down upon by graduates who earn much more than I do and who are judging me by my job title, my assumed earnings and my apparent status in society. Therein lies the problem. We are possibly measuring success in terms of what society and the media depicts when it is simply not the case.

Switch on the TV or pick up a newspaper or magazine and you will see the rich and the famous. The shallow vision that portrays success as fame, financial security, big houses, big cars and other material objects that are tokens to display to the world that you are a success. Don’t get me wrong, credit where credit’s due. I admire people who achieve through hard work and reap the rewards, but success is not so two dimensional. This portrayal can cause many to feel like they have failed or aren’t good enough because they don’t fit the mould. Where’s the positive reinforcement of self-development? Where’s the gratitude of what you have right now? Where’s the goal of contentment these days? Where are the emotional success stories?

I feel that fame is now a part of our culture that defines success. Being an on-line trend with a million followers, going on Big Brother or Britain’s Got Talent, X-Factor, The Voice or the Antiques Roadshow.

Success is not about queuing up for eight hours to stand for three minutes, hungry for fame, with the same old sob story about wanting to be a singer all your life and how your budgie just died; in the hope that they’ll play a bit of Coldplay over your interview and after you give it your all, singing Robbie William’s Angels, in front of four self righteous judges and a massive audience, you will be judged, not only on whether you are talented, but also whether you are a sellable commodity. If it’s a yes, they’ll play the really uplifting bit of a Keane song. If it’s a no, there is a possibility that you will be publicly berated, belittled and the production team will have a field day editing the audition for TV so that you will be laughed at and shared on many Facebook and twitter streams around the globe. You will be a recognised face, but for being a fool. It is cruel and very sad. You are not a commodity.

Let me tell you the obvious thing here at a risk of sounding cliché. We are all different. You cannot expect everyone to reach for the same goals when you are not all starting from the same point.

It’s like having an Olympic hurdle sprint. But all participants in the race are starting in different places in their lanes; some further ahead than others. Equally, the finish line for some is closer than for others. Then we have the hurdles between the start and finish. One competitor has three hurdles; another has ten. That is life.

So when we compare ourselves to others and see the “Success” that they have achieved, and then feel bad about it and equally, they might be looking down on us prejudging, both parties do not know where the other started from. Yes, there was hard work to reach that point of “Success” but who’s to say that there wasn’t hard work to get where you are now?

Perhaps the “successful” one had help and guidance from supportive parents, perhaps they went to a better school, perhaps financially they’ve never had to struggle or perhaps they’ve never really had any other shit to deal with.

I look back on my 34 years. Without going into detail I admit that my teenage years were difficult. I didn’t have the support or love that I probably should have had. I was eventually kicked out of home. I never went back. Since then, I have done some pretty cool things. Whether it be Martial Arts, music, photography, travelling or writing, I have tried many new ventures, and have achieved many of my goals. I may not have a house, but I have saved hard and we’re almost there with a deposit. To top it all, I have the love of my beautiful Fiancée, Mrs Grump.

But to the person looking down at me, I am just a lowly claims handler for an insurance company, taking phone calls all day, every day. Why is it that people make such judgements based on a job title? As if it’s a label of worth.

I think when we need to consider if we are successful; we need to look at where we have come from, where we are now and where we are going.

If you look at who you were some time ago, compare that to who you are now and if you consider yourself to be a better version of yourself, you are a success. It’s as simple as that.

If you’ve stepped away from negativity in your life, you are a success!

It might be that you just wanted to get a job and got one. You are a success!

If you have managed to escape an abusive relationship, you are a success!

If you have taken the leap of starting to work for yourself, you are a success!

If you’ve overcome addiction, you are a success!

If you’ve decided to take action and ask for help, you are a success!

If you’ve studied to achieve a qualification or dream job, you are a success!

If you’ve created a healthier lifestyle, you are a success!

If you’ve simply made the decision to become a better version of yourself somehow, regardless of the outcome, simply doing it rather than giving up or growing stagnant, you are a success!

If you overcame any battle, any difficulty, any barrier that you came across in your life then YOU ARE A SUCCESS!

I also think we need to look forward. Are we still developing? Are we still growing into better versions of ourselves? I believe that success is not necessarily a full stop. 

But that said, if your goal is to reach contentment and to just chill, then guess what? You’re a success too.

It’s not all about pound signs, dollar signs or any other denomination. It’s not about looking the part, spending lots of money and having lots of inanimate objects that do nothing to enrich your soul. There is nothing wrong with aiming for fame, a good car or financial security (it would certainly make life a little easier at times). But it’s not the be all and end all and by not achieving this, you are not a failure. Success is subjective, personal and internal because everybody and every path followed are different. (That’s pretty cliché, I admit.) Let’s not be bound by what society expects success to look like. They are not you.

So for me, I look back and forget about the expectations and interpretations of success that appear to be the status quo. It’s not about anybody else. I didn’t start in the same place as them. I look at where I am now, where I came from and the many difficulties I overcame and what I have achieved to date and also what I continue to do to develop myself and then it dawns on me that yeah, maybe I am a success.

I’m sure you are too. Don’t be hard on yourself and don’t give up either. To be a success, just succeed.

Not the usual humorous post this time. I’ll be back to my usual self next time.

Are You With Me?

Grumpy Brothers and Sisters!!!

Here me now!

Alas the time has come to expand the word of Grumpiness!

While the sun is shining, the neighbours are listening to UB40 in their garden and trying got converse with their evil b*stard cat! I am weary of neighbours in the summer. When I first moved into Chateau Grump, during my first summer here, there was a knock on the door and it was one of my neighbours, Lee. “Hiya, just thought I’d let you know, we’re having a barbecue next door.”

I felt quite moved by this compassionate act of my neighbour. Knowing that I’m the new guy in town and living alone back then, they obviously had taken pity on my loneliness, my nights sitting in doors, in the dark, watching old episodes of Lovejoy. My neighbour, my newfound Brother of Dudley obviously thought that this would be a good opportunity to break bread with me as it were. To welcome me and to show that I’m not alone because everybody needs good neighbours and as the soap theme tune would have you believe, good neighbours can become good friends!

“Oh right,” I said, waiting for the formal invite which was about to come.

“So you might want to get your washing in.”

“Oh right,” I replied. My high expectations fizzling away with disappointment much like my GCSE results.

There was no invite. There was no breaking of bread. Just an oven pizza and more Lovejoy for me. Lovejoy was an 80’s TV show by the way. I know it sounds like some sort of solo love pump. It’s really not. It’s got Ian McShane in it with a mullet. Say no more!


So whilst my feline conversing neighbours drink cheap lager, play UB40 and talk about bunions, (not that I’ve stood on the authorised of the fence listening in for ten minutes, only five minutes) I have mostly been slaving away, to try to get with the times and have a presence elsewhere on the web. But a good presence, not an unwelcoming presence like a nightly visit from Jimmy Saville.

So to those of you who enjoy reading my posts, by all means, share the love and join me on Facebook too! There will be more grumpiness than the regular posts here. Really step into my world, get involved, get grumpy and let off steam.

Facebook page is here:

I’m also on Twitter: @Thegrumpy_bloke should you be one of those twittery types.

Thank you, good night and happy summer!

Sending A Clear Message!

So my next door neighbour, Audrey asked if I’d feed her rabbit while she went away for the evening, gallivanting and having fun or whatever.

I agreed to. I consider myself be an upstanding pillar of the local community.

Then I sent her this photo.


The picture had the caption, “Just sizing him up.”

I doubt I’ll ever be asked to do that again.

Mission accomplished.

Making Money Out Of Racism

So yesterday in Dudley, where I reside, there was yet another demonstration. This time it was the turn of a new group, the All Football Fans/Firms against Islamisation or AFFFAI for short. A short sharp and punchy acronym I’m sure you will agree.

But the AFFFFFFFFFAIAIA aren’t the first protest to grace Dudley with their presence. The English Defence League or EDL for short (Better at acronyms) were here before and a far right group called Britain First have also marched through the streets chanting shouting and dribbling.

To be honest, Dudley already has a permanent march already. We don’t need anymore.

Dudley Bon Marche

The reason why Dudley seems to attract this bigotry, racism and xenophobia? Because a new mosque is going to be built.

I suppose it wouldn’t be so bad if they visited Dudley zoo. Not only would they be putting some money back into the local economy, the zoo keepers might actually mistake them for escapees and seize capture, sticking them back in the gorilla pen. I’m sure throwing sh*t isn’t a first for them!

Anyway, imagine my joy when during this march, the southern based in-laws were coming to visit. I was imagining the scene. Opening the front door to my mother and father in law, “Mum, Dad, welcome to Dudley! What? Oh ignore that. It’s just some fascists having an aggressive, xenophobic march through the streets of Dudley. Yeah, they’ll be back on the coach soon. They’re called the AFFFFAFFAFFAFFAFAAFFFFFFFAFAFAFAAIIIAIIAFAFAIIAIIIA for short. Have you heard of them? No? Me neither. I’ll put the kettle on.”

Luckily, they didn’t witness any of the march and the visit went well.

So here are a few images from yesterday.

1. Anonymity

Dudley Protest

Nothing says, “I’m an upstanding citizen of this country exercising my democratic right to freedom of speech in a completely reasonable manner,” more than being dressed as a kidnapper. Surely nothing is more ironic than an attempt at anonymity but standing out as being the only one with a full-face balaclava!

Also note the expression of the guy on the very far right (no pun intended). You can just see enough of his face to question what the hell is going on.

2. Population Control.


This group are probably all for closing our borders to foreigners and preventing entry to anyone wanting to enter this country for a better life. It’s ironic that in this picture, the police officer is trying to control the current chav population of Dudley! We’ve got plenty as it is! We don’t want anymore! They come here and don’t bother working! Taking all the benefits! Going on the Jeremy Kyle show!


3. One For The Ladies.

scum 3JS65961318

It was raining which was a good thing. Not that this guy was bothered. I’m not someone who judges people who have tattoos. There are some amazing examples of body art out there. And then there’s a tattoo of a devil flexing his bicep on your back. Hey, I’m not judging!

5. Seriously, it was this big!


Even keen fishermen were in attendance.

6. Neeeever Forget Where You’ve Come Here From!


This guy was clearly sitting on his girlfriend’s shoulders. Must think he’s at a bloody Take That concert! Mind you, it does look like he’s demonstrating his last experience in prison.

I’m not known for my entrepreneurial spirit, but I’ve been thinking hard about whether I could actually financially benefit from these demonstrations and I think I can. Let me share with you my ideas now that I know my target market.

I shall set up a gazebo by the side of the road. I shall take my clippers and hook it up to a car battery offering shaved heads for a fiver. They’ll be queuing up around the block!


But wait, that’s not the only service I’ll be offering. With a few rags and a bottle of Brasso, I’ll also offer to polish their array of sovereigns, chains, bracelets and any other golden cheap sh*t they’ll be wearing.


But wait! That’s not the only service I’ll be offering. Staffordshire Bull Terrier hire!


I can imagine it now, going onto Dragons Den with my idea to get funding to set myself up. Although in fairness, I reckon £50 investment would be good to get me started.


How To Be Subtle


Here in the Miami of The Midlands, Dudley, based at Chateau Grump, Mrs Grump and I are very lucky to have good neighbours. Everybody needs good neighbours. With a little understanding, you can find the perfect friend or so the TV soap will have you believe.

I say this of course not including the evil b*stard cat who lives next door. I try not to think of him. I hate him. Sometimes when I leave for work, holding toast in my mouth, a man bag with one hand, car key in the other and negotiating entry into my vehicle, I see him sitting in the window, looking at me, like I’m some sort of putrid, sub human scumball’s festering undercarriage. I admit, I have flicked the bird at him. There’s nothing wrong with that. He’s an arsehole.

The UK was battered with strong winds a few weeks back and one of the fence panels between our house and the non-evil-cat-owning neighbour, Audrey, became a casualty. The fence panel was the responsibility of Audrey. We get on very well so I didn’t have a problem with it as long as her two young boys didn’t come into our garden and leave a burning vehicle on our lawn and have an all night rave again.

Now she did promise to get the fence panel replaced, and I did believe her but I thought a subtle hint would be needed. Just to y’know, give a little friendly reminder. What’s more subtle than a little bit of friendly trespassing?

As I went to do the manly chore of putting the bins out, I decided to just stroll into Audrey’s garden. I crossed that threshold, stepped onto the lawn, strode confidently towards the new trampoline, unzipped……. the safety netting, removed my flip flops, stepped in and started jumping around.

I bounced and bounced up and down, up and down and with a big grin I turned to face the house. Audrey’s lounge is at the back so I would definitely be spotted.

As I faced the house, sure enough, I had been spotted.

By two complete strangers, both women, wide eyed and open mouthed, looking fearfully at this spectacle before them.

To them, from nowhere, a bald man had just appeared in the garden, as majestically as David Copperfield appearing on the other side of the Great Wall of China. He (the bald man, me, not David Copperfield) had aimed straight for the trampoline and climbed inside the netting and started bouncing around. They were unaware of the fence panel situation.

With baldness, complete baldness, unfortunately, comes the stigma of being labelled a potential psychopath or even a racist, neither of which are particularly welcomed into a Dudley back garden.

It’s a strange thing to be smiling and bouncing around, rediscovering the simplistic pleasure of bouncing, only to then face a look of complete fear that you might be dangerous and the obvious panic that can be seen in a stranger’s eyes.

Now, Audrey came to her door, laughing at my antics and simultaneously releasing the boys to excitedly run towards the bouncing bald man and join him in the bouncathon.

“Hello neighbour. When are you getting the fence panel fixed?”

I soon had to vacate the confines of the trampoline enclosure as I could start to feel my recently eaten Spanish omelette trying to make its way backwards.

Well it worked because the fence panel has now been replaced.

The lesson learned here? A subtle hint which includes trespassing, using David Copperfield showmanship, being bald, using children’s playthings and scaring complete strangers gets results!

I’m just looking for a smoke machine on eBay to increase the showmanship should I need to do any more subtle hints. copperfield-david-photo-xl-david-copperfield-6220671

More “Interesting” Gym People

dd0672abb1bd79710735b1a790347b72Followers/ Stalkers will know that I recently joined a gym. Within a short timescale I became aware of a large number of odd characters at the gym. I wrote a post about them. You can read it here. I affectionately refer to them as bellends.

So tonight I discovered that there are even more bellends than I first anticipated.

The first one I shall mention is the first woman to have annoyed me at the gym.

The Woman Who Doesn’t Understand How The Gym Works!

I was working on a machine, feeling the burn, pumping ze iron and I noticed a woman sat on a machine that I wanted to use next. She was on her phone, sitting there as if she was waiting for a waiter to deliver her skinny mochachoca gluten-free, soya, sugar-free, chino.

It’s okay, I thought, she’s probably taking a breather. A breather that lasted over five minutes! She then left the machine and wandered over to another. As I sat down on the machine she had just vacated, I noticed firstly that she had left it very warm, and secondly that she was sat on another machine, still on her phone, in the start position but not actually doing anything.

Perhaps she didn’t understand the premise of this working out thing. You see, by all means sit on the machine, and yes, place your legs in the dedicated places for them, but you then have to move the machine. Sitting there and doing nothing, is not working out although technically, you can still update your Facebook status with, Britney is at – The Gym.

After five minutes there, she moved onto a leg press machine and guess what, yeah, she just sat there! I bet she talks a good training session though.

Meanwhile, in the free weight’s section…..

The Posing Body Dysmorphic!

In a rare event worthy of celebration, I manage to bag myself a bench. The bench faces a mirrored wall. I was doing my thing, when behind me I see the equivalent of a human pork pie staring into the mirror side on. Unlike many of his contemporaries who train in jumpers, he was sporting a sleeveless t-shirt. He was curling a barbell and then stopping and looking at himself in the mirror. He then got his iPhone 6 out to take some pictures. This really grinds my gears. I’m there to be working out, not as an extra in a backdrop of someones duck faced selfie to impress people in their friends list who couldn’t give a toss anyway.

 But then he stepped right next to me, messing about with his phone which for a few seconds was pointing in my direction. I stopped what I was doing and gave him The Look. Y’know, the one. Not quite the Freeze A Man To Death look that I’ve experienced in the past (Mrs G is a black belt) but my best attempt, (Yellow belt standard).

His attention is back on himself as he points the phone towards the mirror to take his photo. He squishes his bicep into the side of his body to create the illusion of muscle mass and takes a picture. The fact that he was resting his forearm on his pot belly and the irony of that seemed to completely bypass him.

Next time, maybe I should just photo Bomb with a bald grumpy flex?

Hello, who is joining us now?

A Gaggle Of Bellends

I don’t know what the collective noun is for a number of bellends. I’m going for gaggle. Well, here they are. Five of them, all pumped up, chest out, taking over all of the weights, claiming ownership of several benches and each of them acting as if they are the singular equivalent of ten men. They’re not. Their bravado, brash behaviour, arrogance and general bellendedness, (just made that word up) does nothing more than fuel my contempt. With every clatter of dramatically dropped weight, every grunt and every lustful glare at themselves in the mirror, as it interrupts my concentration, I just look at the twiglet legs that they don’t exercise and think….well, errr….. nothing clever, I just think twiglet. Could have thought of something more cleverly amusing there. Sorry.

Ah, here he is.

Mr I’m Going To Lift Ridiculous Weight And Probably Burst A Blood Vessel Or Pop Out A Little Poo.

There’s nothing wrong with lifting large weights. Nothing wrong with that at all. But not if you and your mate resemble Jack Skellington from A Nightmare Before Christmas! I see them coming over to the dumbbells and pick up 36Kg to do chest presses and then in the mirror, I watch them nearly pass out as they try to press 72kg. I just work with light weights in comparison and I’m happy. I’m working a rep range that allows me to work the muscle, build the muscle and I can control and know where I am. Eventually I’ll build the weight up. That seems like the logical thing to do. When you first start walking, you take it step by step until eventually you could walk. These guys must have been born with running trainers already on!

Last but not least.

The Grunting Bloke.

“Aaaaaagh!” “Uugh” “Hhnggg.” at a decibel level that even I can hear over the soothing sounds of Heavy Metal, my work out music of choice. Clearly, the guy on the bench to my right must be lifting colossal weights. I glance across just in time to witness the live action of a grunt. He wasn’t even lifting anything. This bellend was grunting just to lie down!

And so, with the gaggle, the grunters, the posers and the skinny strugglers, there was just too much testosterone in the room. I decided to leave before I grew a second adams apple.

I entered the changing room to be met with a naked Asian man sitting on a bench, picking his feet.  The flakes falling to the ground like parmesan. Mmmm Nice.

The Rock

The Fridge Is Not A Buffet

I’m not a pretentious foodie. I don’t know what quinoa or ocra is. I have no interest in going to a fine dining posh restaurant to receive a small plate with something resembling a contemporary piece of abstract art and where it wouldn’t be out of place in a gallery with people standing around it, staring with their arms folded, perhaps a hand raised to their chin, stroking a goatee, as they contemplate the artists pain and use words like, “Modernism,” “Juxtaposition” and “Synergy.”

Food is just a necessity to me, it serves a purpose; to fill my grumpy stomach. Of course, I like food to be tasty but nothing too fancy. That said, as I live in Dudley, to many of the locals, I would probably be classed as a fancy b*stard. Why? Well, I’ve discovered my love of houmous. I know there are many different ways of spelling houmous but that’s how it’s spelt on the packaging.

Houmous hummus

Yes, I love houmous. Houmous with slightly toasted pita bread at 11am in the morning, as a mid morning snack, a joy. Also a necessity as I am calorie loading now that I’m a regular gym attendee. Slowly but surely, working my way towards being a bald human specimen. I’m kind of like Dudley’s version of Dwayne The Rock Johnson without the height, Hollywood grin, bank balance, Polynesian heritage and muscle mass, but apart from that, we are pretty much identical.

So on Monday morning I wrote my name on my houmous and put it in the fridge in our office.

I was feeling hungry before 11 so I headed over to the fridge after toasting my pita bread and retrieved my houmous at about 10.45. When I reached my desk, I slipped off the outer cardboard sleeve and to my absolute horror found that some cretin had unwrapped my houmous, helped themselves to some and then put it back in the fridge!

I’m the only person with my name in the office so whoever did this, knew I was the owner. They wouldn’t do that to The Rock! Why do they think they can do it to his identical Dudley counterpart?

The Rock

This is the Rock, not I, the Grumpy one.

I was shocked and appalled. Who would do such a thing? This required some serious action. I wasn’t going to eat it now. I’m a germophobe / buffetphobe at the best of times. What if this stranger double dipped? That was it, it was ruined.

The managers were all in a meeting but I had to act fast. There was only one thing I could do. Yes. A strongly worded email.

A couple of years ago, before I started working for this company, there was a man who had some of his milk stolen. He sent a furious email to the branch threatening to put arsenic in his milk. He was taken to one side and given a harsh talking to. This was not the tact I was going to take. For one, I don’t have any arsenic and secondly, it would render my own food inedible for me and therefore it would be pointless.

I set to work writing the email and within ten minutes, a literary rage was emailed to all on my floor. It was titled, “The fridge is not a buffet.”

Within the email, I explained that I hadn’t received the previous email explaining that the fridge was a free-for-all. That it is not good that someone would go into the fridge, take something that had my name on it, unwrap it, take some and put it back. In future I would have to cough on my own food or dip a licked finger into it to ensure it is protected from the houmous thief.

I explained that I had lost faith in humanity. (Probably a bit melodramatic, but I was conveying my disappointment and building drama.)

I then set out a warning to the thief to strike fear into the deepest darkest depths of their cavernous, detached, inconsiderate soul. I said, “I will find you houmous thief and when I do, I will guide you to the nearest foodbank because you can’t help yourself to other peoples food out of the communal fridge!”

I then left a link to the local Birmingham central foodbank. It was an opportunity to spread the word of the good work the food bank does for people in the community who are struggling to feed themselves.

The response was like a ripple across the floor. Some actually did see the funny side but others shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Anyone would have thought I dropped the C-bomb in my email or had a shocking racist rant about something or even worse, included a picture of Kanye West. But I hadn’t.

Some even said I should withdraw that email before the managers return from their meeting because I was surely to get in trouble. But damn it, I was going to stand my ground. Someone was stealing food and I wasn’t going to let them get away with it. Firm unflinching action had to be taken.

After lunch, the managers had returned. I sit next to my manager and my electronic rage was never mentioned. This can only mean one of three things:

  1. He’s got bigger fish to fry and my email wasn’t offensive.
  2. He’s a sympathiser. A brother who believes in the Grumpy cause to fight the food thieving inconsiderate oppressor!
  3. He knows who did it and he’s keeping his head down.

Many of my colleagues were sympathetic towards this victim of crime. Well, apart from one colleague, who sent me this picture.

stolen hummus

Shocking isn’t it? They’ve spelt houmous wrong!

Kanye West Is Coming to get me!

So in my last post I wrote about the whole Kanye and Beck thing and how it’s not the first time that Kanye has tried to steal the limelight. I showed many shocking examples.

I posted it and that was that.

Or was it?

Shortly after publishing the post, my Mozilla Firefox crashed. I received a pop up box asking me to report on what had happened.

So I was honest.

Screen Shot 2015-02-11 at 23.00.56

I submitted this to them and then normal service was resumed. I’m not sure if Kanye read the post and now he’s out to get me.

I am a man in Dudley, England, spurting my warped thoughts onto the internet, contributing my ramblings to the mix of madness and randomness that the internet was designed for. Well, that and porn. I am not Sony Pictures responsible for a provocative and shit movie about killing a dictator that currently rules North Korea. Kanye West is not that dictator. But who knows what kind of strings he can pull?

After all, he did say, “I will completely bow to anybody I respect.” He also said “Look at Gaga. She’s the creative director of Polaroid. I like some of the Gaga songs. What the f*** does she know about cameras?” 

That second one has no relevance. But he does bow to anybody he respects. What if that person happens to be the leader of North Korea? One phone call, Boom, The Grumpy Young Bloke’s Mozilla Firefox crashes!

When normal service resumed, I continued listening to funk music and looking at a cat that can literally devour your soul. Seriously, look!


See!? Cats are evil! This is not too dissimilar to the evil bastard that lives next door to me.

Anyway, after about half an hour, Firefox crashes again. Once again I got a pop up box to report the issue. So again, I was honest.

Screen Shot 2015-02-11 at 22.58.45

Tonight, I shall sleep with one eye open. If for any reason, I don’t post again, I love you and it was probably Kanye West!