...in which an elderly unknown misanthropist rails against the dead famous

I don't believe that anyone ever became famous by accident. And I don't believe that awkward people with no social skills can suddenly be thrust into the limelight, dry-mouthed and blinking, and somehow manage to sustain a career. They wanted it and they were good at getting it, the fucking liars.

Look at Laughing Lord Byron who "woke one morning to find himself famous". A disingenuous statement, Gordon, because you had actually put in some fairly shrewd ground-work before hand. Firstly you wrote and published "Childe Harold". And secondly, and this is key, you were, rather cleverly, born Lord Byron. And knobbing your sister probably didn't hurt either; but that's really just garnish. If you'd only ever written "Gassed-On Gaston of Trumpington Towers:a valet's "vol au vents" of vice" it would have been a publishing sensation because you were Lord Byron . 'Twas ever unjust!

Look at him up there with his open collar and his thinning curls. He looks like a minor royal on a boating beano. The only thing missing is a coral necklace and braying blonde, the colour and width of a pepperami.

(It's just one of those days where you get out of bed hating Lord Byron! We've all been there...)