Diary of a Grumpy Old Git (2 page)
Read Diary of a Grumpy Old Git Online
Authors: Tim Collins
Thanks to Louise Dixon, Andrew Pinder, Collette Collins and everyone at Michael O’Mara books.
UESDAY
1
ST
J
ANUARY
Apparently I’m a grumpy old git. I must be, because someone bought me this diary in the office Secret Santa. It has the words ‘Grumpy Old Git’ on the cover,
alongside a picture of a scowling man.
At first I wondered if someone had given it to me by mistake. Even if I were to accept I was grumpy, I’d have a problem with the ‘old’ bit. How can I be over the hill already?
I wasn’t even old enough to be a proper punk, though I did wear a safety pin through my school tie and I spat on Trevor Chalkley once. But everyone spat on Trevor Chalkley. It doesn’t
really count.
You know what I would have bought for me? A copy of
Home Alone
. Why not? Everyone knows about Sarah leaving. Might as well joke about it.
Anyway, I got this diary, so I suppose I should make an effort to use it. I’m not expecting much to happen to me, but at least I’ve completed the first page. Who knows? I might
actually stick with it. There’s a first time for everything.
EDNESDAY
2
ND
J
ANUARY
I don’t want to be a grumpy old git. It’s not that I think there’s anything wrong with being dour, I just don’t want to fit a demographic. I’m
going to prove whoever bought me this diary wrong by remaining cheerful and upbeat for a whole year. It can’t be difficult. The years are going by so fast now that it hardly seems like a
challenge at all.
I’m going to start thinking about pleasant things right now.
The innocent laughter of children.
There. No arguing with that. Although when I think back to childhood, the sort of things we were laughing about weren’t really that innocent. For example, we used to wipe
the blackboard eraser on the front of Trevor Chalkley’s trousers and call him ‘Chalky Balls’. I can remember giggling a lot over that one. So next time you hear the echo of
distant playground laughter, remember that it’s probably directed at some lonely child who smells of milk.
A basket full of fluffy kittens.
Aww, just look at them. Aren’t they cute? Although they only evolved to look cute so we’d feed them and they wouldn’t have to hunt. We give them food, we give
them warmth, we give them shelter and in return they show us their anuses whenever we try and stroke them. Basket of kittens? Basket of rude, manipulative, freeloading bastards, more like.
A beautiful sunrise.
Yep, just look at that lovely sun. The same sun that will one day explode, farting out waves of gas that will consume and destroy the earth. In the meantime, it peeks above the
horizon like a leering psychopath.
I’m going to destroy you one day
, it says.
But for now I’ll let you live
.
To tell you the truth I’ve seen more than enough sodding sunrises recently, as I haven’t been sleeping well. I thought I’d get eight or nine hours a night without Sarah digging
me in the ribs for snoring, but now I wake up at four every morning for a bout of pathetic worrying. It’s like I’ve got some sort of internal radio alarm that wakes me up with the voice
of deep existential dread. You’re listening to Ennui FM, where we play nothing but the fundamental pointlessness of existence.
OK, I might need a bit of practice at this whole positivity thing. But I’m sure I can manage it. As long as I believe in myself, I can complete this extraordinary journey, or whatever they
say on those talent shows.
HURSDAY
3
RD
J
ANUARY
I woke up early again this morning. I turned on the radio in an effort to drown out my usual aimless worrying. It turns out that the radio is even more depressing than my usual
aimless worrying.
How does music manage to keep getting worse? When Duran Duran and Spandau Ballet were parading around with their eye shadow and tea towels, we all thought it was a travesty, like punk had never
happened. But they’re Mozart compared to the atrocities I heard this morning. Will this keep happening? What could possibly come next that will make today’s pop sound good? Will the
sound of someone scraping their nails down a blackboard get to number one? Because it’s the only thing that would sound worse than that autotuned crap they were playing this morning.
I’m aware of the standard reply to all this, by the way.
You’re not meant to get it. You’re too old. Your parents didn’t like the music you played when you were a
teenager.
But our parents hated our music because it was too noisy, too new, too frightening. I hate today’s stuff because it’s too crap. You can’t just like crap and pretend we’re
too old to understand it. That’s cheating.
RIDAY
4
TH
J
ANUARY
A new woman called Jen started at the office today. She has long brown hair and blue eyes and looks like a younger, prettier version of Sarah. As I watched her from my desk at
the back of the office, I imagined us going out to poncy restaurants together, enjoying long country walks and getting tagged in pictures on Facebook that Sarah would see.
Later in the morning I spoke to her and she turned out to be one of those people who make every sentence sound like a question. She also described herself as ‘proactive’ and a
‘self-starter’ even though she wasn’t in a job interview. Then she said she thought our company was going to be a ‘totes amazeballs’ place to work.
So long, Jen. It’s a shame it couldn’t last, but I’ll never forget those precious few moments between when I saw you and when you spoke.
ATURDAY
5
TH
J
ANUARY
Today I’m going to train myself to be more cheerful by repeating positive thoughts.
The glass is half full.
Half full of what? Vomit? Poison? Bacardi Breezer? I might want it to be empty.
Turn that frown upside down.
Would this actually make someone look like they were smiling? Wouldn’t you just look like you had a disturbing upside-down mouth? Or one of those people who grin but have
sad eyes that show they’re actually dying inside?
It takes more muscles to frown than to smile.
But using muscles is a good thing, isn’t it? That’s why people pay hundreds of pounds for gym memberships they can’t bring themselves to cancel.
If someone tells me that it takes more muscles to frown than to smile, I like to raise my hand and extend my middle finger. It uses fewer muscles than either, and is a far more appropriate
response.
When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.