Welcome to Grump Bag

Spunking in the face of society since 2008
Feel free to have a poke around the mind of a madman

Monday, 20 July 2009

What a Cunt

I was queuing up inside Burger King, minding my own business

When suddenly

This sweaty fat cunt in a suit barges past me

“I’ll have a Double Whopper with cheese meal”, He slurs, all pissed up and pretentious.

“Drink?” The Sri Lankan till robot asks.

“I’ll take a black coffee.”

Black Coffee.

In Burger King.

What a cunt.

Wednesday, 15 July 2009

Monday, 13 July 2009


Possible Plan For Tomorrow

9am: Morning Alarm, Wake up, wash, change clothes.

9.15 am: Eat Breakfast (Muesli, Banana, Fresh Orange Juice)

9.45 am: Attend Gym for morning workout (One Hour Weights, Half Hour Swim).

12:00 pm: Lunch (Tuna salad, pro biotic yogurt, glass of water.)

12.30 pm: Update CV, contact employers regarding part time work using internet.

2.00 pm: Take walk to High Street, hand out CV to recruitment agencies.

3.00 pm: Visit bank to negotiate overdraft increase

3.30pm Supermarket shopping (Vegetables, potatoes, chicken, toothpaste, flannel.)

4.00 pm: Arrive home, Check Emails, Update Diary . Snack (Rice Cakes).

5.00 pm: Undertake House Chores, (Vacuum living room/ master bedroom.) prepare dinner. Take out Rubbish.

6.00 pm: Evening Run

7.00 pm: Dinner (Chicken casserole w/ seasonal vegetables), Glass of Cress water. Wash up, Dry Dishes .

8.00 pm: Attend evening poetry class.

9.00pm: Read in Bed

10.00 pm: Lights Out

Probable Plan For Tomorrow

9.00am: Morning alarm. Press ‘Snooze’.

9.10am: Morning alarm. Press ‘Snooze’ again.

9.20: Morning alarm. Accidently press ‘off’ instead of ‘Snooze.’

11.00 am: Wake up. Change clothes. (Excluding Recycled boxer shorts and socks worn yesterday.)

11.15 am: Breakfast (Lion Bar, Toffee Crisp. Slice of White Bread)

12.00 pm: Think of visiting Gym. Convince self otherwise.

12.30 pm: Attempt to research jobs using internet. Stare at ex girlfriends Facebook profile instead.

1.00 pm: Still staring.

1.30 pm: http://www.bangbros.com/ (Wank)

2.00 pm: Snack ( Pickled Onion Monster Munch Sandwich. Orange Lucozade.)

2.15 pm: Afternoon nap.

4.00 pm: Wake from nap. Watch Deal or No Deal.

5.00 pm: Watch The Weakest link/ Anne Robinson (2nd Wank)

6.00 pm: Order Dominos Family Pack (Large Pepperoni Passion, chicken strippers, cheesy garlic bread, 1.5 litre bottle Coke.)

6.15 pm: Realise do not possess enough funds for Pizza. Frantically search flat. Uncover £3.15, (£16.85 short).

6.45 pm: Ignore Pizza man aggressively bashing on door.

7.00 pm Lunch/ Dinner (Chicken flavoured Super Noodles w/ splash of ketchup.) Glass of tap water.

7.15 pm Walk into rubbish bin, spill all over kitchen Floor. Ignore.

7.30 pm Eastenders.

8.00 pm Attempt to contact ex girlfriend, no joy.

8.30 pm Attempt to contact ex girlfriend again, still no joy.

9.00 pm Big Brother

10.00 pm Attempt to contact ex one last time. Cry.

10.30 pm Still Crying

11.00 pm Commit Suicide

Monday, 6 July 2009

Friday, 3 July 2009

The haircut with the unfamiliar Barber

I walk in, I sit down. I immediately stand back up awkwardly, as i have been instructed to take a seat in the adjacent barber's chair.

'what can i do - a - for you sir?' the unfamiliar barber asks.

"er, number three at the sides mate, not too much off the top", i say, deliberately emphasizing the latter instruction.

"Ok mate- number three at the sides, not -a - much off the top," he says.

"Yeah thanks", I reply. "just not too much off the top".

I sink into the chair, paranoid and anxious. This man has the potential to make me look like an absolute prick. Being the owner of a cuboidal shaped head, complete with a throbbing six pack above the eyebrows, means any severe alteration to my hair line could result in a aesthetically abhorrent disaster.

I glance in the mirror, He glances at my reflection. Should I make conversation? Do i watch what hes doing? How do people behave in this barber shop? Probably best not to worry about it.

Gradually, yet severely, he is eating away at my hair with his butchering blades.

I become more anxious. Perhaps a number three is too short. Now that he has already sheered off the sides, my FA cup ears have become exposed: previously submerged behind buffon like tufts of hair.

The Barber detects my despairing look in the mirror. "Don't worry, it will look - a - nice," he suggests, in what i think is a Cyprian accent.

Fuck. Not only am I paranoid, he can sense it. I am a living, sweating paranoid mess. After attempting to to start a conversation about football to which he responds with complete disinterest, I give up any attempt to pursue a policy of detente. We are sworn enemies. I must just wallow in aggrieved, wholly awkward silence.

The top is being eaten into like an obese American child devouring the contents of a milkshake machine directly from the tank. Fuck. This is crucial. If the right amount is taken off, I will look relatively swarve. Half an inch too much however, and my forehead will become exemplified by the fact there is no longer a significant island of hair aloft its menacing protrusion to distract viewers from it.

"Not too much off the top mate" I remind the barbering bastard, clenching the steel arms of chair tighter.

"Don't -a- worry mate," The Cypriot prick replies. But its too late. Hes fucked it. I look like fucking Simon Cowell.

As he brushes my neck down, I wait for him to present the mirror behind my back of my neck so i can visually appreciate the damage this shit back and sides has impacted onto my ego.

"Ok?" He asks.
"Cheers dickhead," I think.

Why do they even bother to ask? Its not as if he can do anything about it if i correctly inform him the haircuts an absolute pile of shit. He cant glue the hair back onto my fucking head. My stormy look is more obviously apparent than a eight inch penis glued onto the end of somebody's nose, and the smirky look a waiting customer gives me doesnt help either. The region of my forehead looks as though it could span across the entire russian continent.

"Eight pounds please", he asks. I give him a tenner, reluctantly telling him to keep the change. Ten fucking quid. The going exchange rate for any individual eager to transform their appearance into a potato headed solider serving in the Vietnamese war.

Hang on now. Calm down. Maybe I'm just being a pessimistic, self conscious muppet. I take one last look in the mirror before i exit the shop. It's not even that bad. Perhaps a bit of hair gel will sort it out.

"SHIT HAIR CUT MATE!", a builder screams from a passing lorry as I step outside the shop. Fuck. My over exposed five head glows a lobstery red.

I cant even wear a hat to cover it up. I look like a prick in hats.