BoldBelvoir's Grumpy Owd Twat Blog

It was nice to see that the Facebook campaign to get Rage Against the Machine to the Christmas No.1 slot against the pap X-Factor song was a success. OK, I admit that I don’t know who won, nor the name of the song, but it just has to be shite!

However, whilst I admire the anti-establishment stance behind the campaign I didn’t subscribe to it myself, as surely you’re doing exactly the same as Simon Cowell’s publicity machine, i.e. telling people what to listen to? By supporting the campaign and downloading the RATM track, you have all become conforming non-conformists. And I ain’t having any of it.

As in the the words of the song – “Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me – MOTHERFUCKER!!”

Well, it’s finally over. Almost four solid months (see the date on my previous post) of blanket coverage on BBC and the Strictly Come Dancing competition has come to an end. But has the coverage? I suspect not.

I would think the Beeb have a lot more mileage to get out of the show yet. Post show analysis, highlights shows, interviews with the competitors, the possibilities are endless. Fuck! Why not just have a 24-hour SCD channel and make people pay to watch it? It would certainly keep the shite off the main channel.

The problem with trying to maintain a blog of this nature is to constantly find things to be grumpy about. Yes, I know it’s hard to believe, but I’m only grumpy for about 99.98% of my life.

Well, to help me fill in that remaining 0.02%, I’ve ordered Jack Dee‘s new book, entitled ‘Thanks for Nothing’.  Hopefully I will be able to pick up enough tips from it to be a full-on Grumpy Owd Twat.

Until the book arrives though, I will just have to settle for watching repeats of his fab BBC4 TV series, Lead Balloon. What a role model that guy is.

I’m in a hell of a quandary! Do I stay in to watch the final of Strictly, or do I go out and drink free beer all night?

If you hadn’t noticed, I’m being sarcastic.

Now I don’t very often agree with Supermarket policies, but I must say I’ll back them up about the ‘ginger’ Christmas card. If we can’t take the piss out of Gingas, what’s the world coming to? A quote on the BBC web site said: ‘she was shocked when she saw the card: “I picked it up and I couldn’t believe it”.’

Get a friggin’ sense of humour, lass!

Seasonally Adjusted Disorder. Or Seasonal Adjustment Disorder. Or Seasonal Affective Disorder. Whatever it is, I’ve got it.

It’s dark when I don’t get up for work in the morning and it’s dark in the evening when I don’t come back home again. I’m SAD.

It’s just occurred to me that I’m going to have a cracking Christmas this year, and this is why…

I’m out of work, so I haven’t got any money. No money means I can’t buy presents. Because I can’t afford presents  it means I don’t have to trudge around the shops, rubbing shoulders with thousands of people who have fallen for the commercialisation of Christmas and probably don’t even believe in God, buying absolutely useless stuff that no-one wants anyway. No shopping = happy BoldBelvoir.

So, to all my pals that may have been expecting a little something from me, may I extend my apologies and send this Christmas message… Ho, Ho, Fucking Ho!

Have you ever been to the Post Office to return a parcel for someone who says “just give the parcel, get the receipt stamped, and that’s it”. So you go down to the PO and there’s a queue outside the door and half way down the chuffin’ street. So you join the end of the queue and wait. And wait. And wait.

After about twenty minutes you can just about see the front of the queue with a pair of high-powered binoculars. There’s only two kiosks open and one of them’s being hogged by a bloke doing absolutely fuck knows what. Everyone else is either paying in their life savings in pound coins that all have to be counted, or else seem to be withdrawing the entire Federal Reserve of the US of  fuckin’ A.

So you inch toward the front, little by little. The bloke at counter No.1 is still wanking around with the same parcel he was holding when you first spotted him through binoculars and some Johnny Foreigner at the other is being told how to fill in a form for the seventeen-thousandth time.

You eventually get to your turn and slide the parcel under the glass. “Sorry, it hasn’t got the correct return label on”. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrghhhhhhhhhh!!!!! Then you turn to walk out and there’s absolutely no-one in the queue behind you.

Well that’s just happened to me. Today, dear readers, even God hated me.