Mr Grumpy....30th January, 2020

We were worried when we read this, but then cheered up when we remembered how much we hate him. We don’t think he’s serious, because he hasn’t paid for the advert. 
I’m depressed.
And before all you PC, jump-on-the-bandwagon lot jump down my throat and say, “Mental illness is a very serious issue, don’t mock!”, I really mean it. 
Sat here typing this now, I feel utterly miserable about myself but am happy to tell you all about it in a way that you will find amusing, all at my expense. In actual fact, it will be you “mocking the afflicted”, so put that in your pipe and smoke it. I’m sharing my misery for your amusement.
This has been coming for a while, but today tipped me over the edge. 
It started at about 9am when I arrived at a Grumpy plc depot (I can’t think of a better word, because it is: we store product there and have a few offices that I occasionally use and a magnificent canteen). 
It’s near Leeds and it took me about two and a half hours to get there. It’s only the canteen that I look forward to: nothing and nowhere around Leeds has any draw for me and I may well add it to my list of Pointless Places. Our canteen is an entire city’s only redeeming factor.
Anyway, that doesn’t matter.
As I got out of the car, I caught sight of my reflection in the window and I thought: “You fat bastard”. I know we aren’t supposed to say “fat” any more, either, in case it upsets someone (Or “bastard”, but we’ll leave both in, on the remote chance you’re ever going to get to the point – Profanities Ed), but some people just are. Whatever the reason — illness or just because you eat 27 burgers a day — you are still fat. Choose another more digestible word if you like (and eat that, too), but the truth is, fat is fat. 
You may be quite happy with your shape (which is wonderful to hear; we are what we are) in the same way you may be happy being thin but six feet three inches tall; that makes you lanky, like it or not. These are just words — get over it.
I only have one eye. I wish I had two so I could see in full 3D glory, but I can’t. Use whatever terminology you like (some make me feel uncomfortable, some make me smile, and I’ll know if you intended to offend), but I’ll still only have one eye, no matter what. I got over it (although the self-consciousness may return at moments like this).
Whatever — and this proves my point — I still plugged my laptop in to download a Lord Of The Rings volume-worth of emails and went to the canteen, which proves my fatness is my own fault, but I did cut out the hash browns. I tried but I still swallowed the two Cumberland sausages and two rashers of bacon, but only after thoroughly masticating them into a pulp, which must surely help because it will go straight to my poo rather than linger in my belly.
Anyway, my “business” in the office was, frankly, a bit hard work, which didn’t help my mental state. I don’t mean hard work (I thrive on that and would never shirk it), but rather the idiots I was with made it feel like a drag, by not doing what they should have done prior to me getting there. I’m not the king, but, frankly, some animals are more equal than others. Life ain’t fair; they had two eyes each and I rest my case.

There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you, doctor: can you cure me?” — John Merrick. “No, John, I can’t” — Doctor Treves. “I thought not.”

Rewind now to last week, and I was in London for Grumpy plc’s annual award evening which was fun, and I was on stage with a bloke from the telly who was our overpaid host (you’d know him but I’m not telling), where I was presenting an award. 
As is the usual form, we had a photographer there who would take snaps of the winner stood — grinning, because the recipient was obviously happy and drunk —– between me and Mr Celebrity, he looking by now slightly bored with the repetition and me feeling slightly awkward.
All this had started to fade away; let’s face it, since then half the royal family has been exiled to Canada, Manchester United have lost (twice), Iran has admitted to shooting down its own plane, someone has been murdered in Emmerdale and someone called Ollie has left Love Island. Life has moved on.
And then I got an email.
With the photos of the award evening.
I think I’ve only ever actually liked a couple of photos of myself. One is actually on Facebook (I look younger and cooler than I am) and the other is buried deep inside this laptop because it’s of me in a bedroom with Holly Willobooby (well, she’s related… or looks like she is) because every other photo makes me look like a male munter. Including these. I look like the Elephant Man’s twin brother’s dog.
There are 576 photos in the “album” and 575 of them feature blokes that are better looking than me. No woman would ever look at image number 453 and think “Cor! I fancy him!”, and I now realise this has always been the case. 
I can only assume every woman I’ve ever slept with must have been drunk (and desperate) or — and I’m clutching at straws here — fallen in love with my electric personality, sense of humour and/or my car, and then got drunk so the latter overcame their natural physical revulsion. 
My kids can’t be mine (unless they are 100% Mrs G genes, ‘cos she is tasty, but when I met her I had a very flash car and was loaded enough to leave her in a semi-permanent state of alcohol-fuelled confusion, during which she agreed to marry me).
Whatever, I’m now like Dracula and will avoid mirrors for the rest of my life (and certainly cameras).
I feel like a stunt double for Frankenstein’s monster and immediately upon seeing the pictures — and that dawn of realisation — I decided to kill myself. I love my car, and so wanted it to witness my final moments. 
Crashing it into a wall or driving it over Mow Cop cliff would be unfair on the car, so I decided to run myself over with it. I couldn’t figure how, but recall Brian Harvey, the singer from East 17, managed to do it so I’ll see if the instructions are on his website, Wikipedia or on an old news report. 
Maybe I could park it on the top of a hill, release the handbrake, leg it down the hill while it builds up speed and fling myself in front? 
Or maybe put a block of wood under the wheels with a long rope on it, lie at the bottom of the hill and tug the rope? Mind, how could I be sure it would steer in a straight line without a driver? I bet my dog could do that for me; he hates me so he’ll be happy to help.
Maybe I could put an advert in the back of the Chronicle for a driver? 
Must be worth £50 to simply hold onto the steering wheel, and you wouldn’t be guilty of a crime, because I pulled the rope? Any takers?