There's something about certain people that makes you wish they'd just go away. They are quite stupid, but they trap you in meaningless, hideously boring "conversation" about something so utterly trivial that you feel your brain shutting down as they go on.
But it's not really a conversation because you realise that they don't actually know how to form sentences. There are a few standard phrases that they pick as part of their jobs, or through encounters with other people. They may even be able to recount a tale of what happened when somebody said or did something. But in general, they can't hold a two-way conversation.
"Tea money, love!"
"I paid a fortnight's worth last week."
"Did you, love?"
"Yes, you've got the book there, why don't you check?"
"I haven't got my glasses with me, love"
Jesus.
Every response ends with "love" (luv) too.
"Yes, love."
Accompanied with the undertone of a nervous, school-girl laugh.
"Yes, love. Hee hee hee."
One of my favourite stories involves a neighbour of mine; thick as pigshit and living in a complete shithole. She has loads of cats that she lets breed. "You need to get those cats neutered."
"Yes, love, I'm getting them done, love."
She's got about ten there again after the RSPCA taking thirty away a couple of years ago.
It's encouraging to know that she's employed as a cleaner at my local hospital. Despite the state of her own home (squalor), she is apparently a very good cleaner; always extremely thorough, leaving things spotless. While cleaning the floor High Dependency Unit one day, she removed the oxygen or breathing tube from the back of a patient's ventilator so she could manoeuvre the floor buffer under the bed. The nurses were puzzled by the patient's rapid and unexplained deterioration, only noticing that the tube had been removed as the patient was about to arrest.
Having realised what had happened, the nurse spoke to the cleaner.
"Agnes, did you remove this tube from this machine while you were cleaning?"
"Errrrm, yes love, I wanted to clean around properly, love."
"Well, you shouldn't have done it."
"Is it not clean, love?"
"Oh no, it's very clean, but the patient needed that tube to help his breathing and he nearly died. You shouldn't have taken it off. Please don't touch anything while you're cleaning."
"Yes, love. Hee hee hee."
And off she pootled, buffering away, oblivous as ever.
Thursday, 8 December 2005
Sniffy Advent: Day the eighth
The child is a king, the carollers sing,
The old has passed, there's a new beginning.
Dreams of santa, dreams of snow,
Fingers numb, faces aglow.
Christmas time, mistletoe and wine
Children singing christian rhyme
With logs on the fire and gifts on the tree
A time for rejoicing in all that we see
A time for living, a time for believing
A time for trusting, not deceiving,
Love and laughter and joy ever after,
Ours for the taking, just follow the master.
Christmas time, mistletoe and wine
Children singing Christian rhyme
With logs on the fire and gifts on the tree
A time for rejoicing in all that we see
A time for giving, a time for getting,
A time for forgiving and for forgetting.
Christmas is love, Christmas is peace,
A time for hating and fighting to cease.
Christmas time, mistletoe and wine
Children singing Christian rhyme
With logs on the fire and gifts on the tree
A time for rejoicing in all that we see
If you see it, please destroy it
Somebody please stop this man!
Every year, he tries to inflict himself on the Christmas number 1 slot with some utter shit that can give him the excuse to flaunt himself to the UK.
He thinks he's IT.
He thinks he is something special.
He is possibly the vainest person to have ever walked the planet. Look at how he simply adores himself.
Our very own "Peter Pan of Pop", the lifelong "Bachelor Boy" has never wed. But how can a man who loves himself above all others ever possibly share even the tiniest amount of that love with somebody else?
This is the man who hijacked the Lord's Prayer and sang it to the tune of Auld Lang Syne (how the fuck is that spelt?) to bring us the truly dreadful "Millennium Prayer" in the hope of reaching number one in the charts in 1999/2000. Thank fuck he failed. Wanker.
Each year, he feels it is his God-given right to have that Christmas number one. He is a Christian and therefore, he is also Christmas - nobody else dare encroach.
He is one thing we could do without at Christmas.
The old has passed, there's a new beginning.
Dreams of santa, dreams of snow,
Fingers numb, faces aglow.
Christmas time, mistletoe and wine
Children singing christian rhyme
With logs on the fire and gifts on the tree
A time for rejoicing in all that we see
A time for living, a time for believing
A time for trusting, not deceiving,
Love and laughter and joy ever after,
Ours for the taking, just follow the master.
Christmas time, mistletoe and wine
Children singing Christian rhyme
With logs on the fire and gifts on the tree
A time for rejoicing in all that we see
A time for giving, a time for getting,
A time for forgiving and for forgetting.
Christmas is love, Christmas is peace,
A time for hating and fighting to cease.
Christmas time, mistletoe and wine
Children singing Christian rhyme
With logs on the fire and gifts on the tree
A time for rejoicing in all that we see
If you see it, please destroy it
Somebody please stop this man!
Every year, he tries to inflict himself on the Christmas number 1 slot with some utter shit that can give him the excuse to flaunt himself to the UK.
He thinks he's IT.
He thinks he is something special.
He is possibly the vainest person to have ever walked the planet. Look at how he simply adores himself.
Our very own "Peter Pan of Pop", the lifelong "Bachelor Boy" has never wed. But how can a man who loves himself above all others ever possibly share even the tiniest amount of that love with somebody else?
This is the man who hijacked the Lord's Prayer and sang it to the tune of Auld Lang Syne (how the fuck is that spelt?) to bring us the truly dreadful "Millennium Prayer" in the hope of reaching number one in the charts in 1999/2000. Thank fuck he failed. Wanker.
Each year, he feels it is his God-given right to have that Christmas number one. He is a Christian and therefore, he is also Christmas - nobody else dare encroach.
He is one thing we could do without at Christmas.
Wednesday, 7 December 2005
Sniffy Advent: Day, the seventh
"Can you all sort out who is working between Christmas and New Year to make sure that the office is covered during that period? Bear in mind that people with young families will probably want the time off, so try to be fair."
I take my holidays when I want. I never, ever work a) on my birthday and b) between Christmas and New Year.
I don't give a shit whether some twat wants that time off. These bastards are off all fucking year anyway for frigging sports days, or Mother's Day assembly, or Nativity plays (and every day when their little angels are sick) and it's us who are left covering for them then too. If they think they're going to have preference over me when it comes to Christmas holidays, they can go fuck 'emselves. Selfish fuckers.
It doesn't come into that hugely popular single folk, such as myself, might have friends in other parts of the country who they don't get to see that often and that Christmas is one of the times when we actually get to have a good break together. What about people who don't have kids, but have older rellies who they'd like to spend that time with before they depart this cold, cold earth?
These twats with kids get to see their little parasites every frigging day anyway, so why do they need more time off over Christmas to be with them? Do they need that time to play yet another game of Buckaroo, to watch "The Little Mermaid", or whichever Disney shite is this year's must have, to spend the time screaming at them to be quiet and stop mithering? Or perhaps they need that time so they can drag the little uns round to all the friends and rellies, to see what their demanding little paws can grab in presents from people who can ill-afford to be spending out for other people's children.
Of course, I blame the employers: all work except essential services should shut down between Christmas and New Year. Simple as that.
A post script about Christmas cards
Some bright spark at Base 1 has suggested that people who want to can put their name to a list of those who won't be sending Christmas cards, but would like to give the money to charity instead. People say who they are and write down their favoured charity and the most popular charity gets the loot.
The soothsayer in me sees trouble ahead: great discord and friction between those who want to give the cash to children's charities, breast cancer research, heart disease research. Why couldn't they just send a fucking card? Or keep their stupid ideas to themselves and just not send one?
Dicks.
Fuck
Right
Off
Right
Off
I take my holidays when I want. I never, ever work a) on my birthday and b) between Christmas and New Year.
I don't give a shit whether some twat wants that time off. These bastards are off all fucking year anyway for frigging sports days, or Mother's Day assembly, or Nativity plays (and every day when their little angels are sick) and it's us who are left covering for them then too. If they think they're going to have preference over me when it comes to Christmas holidays, they can go fuck 'emselves. Selfish fuckers.
It doesn't come into that hugely popular single folk, such as myself, might have friends in other parts of the country who they don't get to see that often and that Christmas is one of the times when we actually get to have a good break together. What about people who don't have kids, but have older rellies who they'd like to spend that time with before they depart this cold, cold earth?
These twats with kids get to see their little parasites every frigging day anyway, so why do they need more time off over Christmas to be with them? Do they need that time to play yet another game of Buckaroo, to watch "The Little Mermaid", or whichever Disney shite is this year's must have, to spend the time screaming at them to be quiet and stop mithering? Or perhaps they need that time so they can drag the little uns round to all the friends and rellies, to see what their demanding little paws can grab in presents from people who can ill-afford to be spending out for other people's children.
Of course, I blame the employers: all work except essential services should shut down between Christmas and New Year. Simple as that.
A post script about Christmas cards
Some bright spark at Base 1 has suggested that people who want to can put their name to a list of those who won't be sending Christmas cards, but would like to give the money to charity instead. People say who they are and write down their favoured charity and the most popular charity gets the loot.
The soothsayer in me sees trouble ahead: great discord and friction between those who want to give the cash to children's charities, breast cancer research, heart disease research. Why couldn't they just send a fucking card? Or keep their stupid ideas to themselves and just not send one?
Dicks.
Tuesday, 6 December 2005
Bollocks!
Bollocks! Frigging comments aren't showing up for that last post!
Bollocks! I've got to give a presentation tomorrow and I don't want to!
Bollocks! I also need to think of something festive for day 7 of the Sniffy Advent!
Bollocks! I've got to go out tomorrow night!
Bollocks! And Thursday night (League of Gentlemen)!
Bollocks! Bollocks! BolLOCKS!
This is a test to see if it'll reset the blog.
Bollocks! I've got to give a presentation tomorrow and I don't want to!
Bollocks! I also need to think of something festive for day 7 of the Sniffy Advent!
Bollocks! I've got to go out tomorrow night!
Bollocks! And Thursday night (League of Gentlemen)!
Bollocks! Bollocks! BolLOCKS!
This is a test to see if it'll reset the blog.
Sniffy Advent: Day, the sixth
Christmas card: the first
And here it is, my first Christmas card of 2006. And who should it come from, but that lovely airplane-fixing, lady-loving, first generation Eurotrash-Canadian grrrly-grrrl, Connie?
My usual response to receiving Christmas cards this early is "Fucking scummers!", but since Connie sent hers all the way from Canada, I'm actually hugely thrilled to receive this one.
I do LOATHE writing Christmas cards though. It's something that I'm now restricting to people I see on a less than monthly basis. The fuckers at work can arse off, I'm not writing "..and best wishes for 2006, Tina x" loads of times when I don't even mean it. A waste of paper and ink, and, more importantly, time.
We've now got this thing whereby people are "giving to charity" instead of spending money on cards. Liars! Everyone knows that the fiver they'll save will pay for at least 2 pints (will it? no idea these days) at the Christmas do. Why can't they just be honest and say that they hate everyone at work and can't be arsed to write cards to a bunch of wankers? That's what I do.
Fuck 'em!
I don't send Christmas cards to my family members either, I've never really seen the point. I can shout my Christmas wishes at them: "I wish you'd fucking shut the fuck up once in a fucking while and let me watch what the fuck I want in peace and fucking quiet! Merry Christmas!!"
But back to the good thing about Christmas cards - you see, you get balanced debate here as one half of my psyche wrestles with the other - Christmas cards are a great way to let people who you've not seen for ages know that you're still alive and that you're still their mate (very handy in case you need a spare bed for the night should you be passing through London, Brighton, Coventry, Surrey, British Columbia...). For these reasons, and there are others too, I write Christmas cards to those people I don't get to see particularly often.
And back to the card from Connie... Awfully nice of a lass who, we all know is extremely busy with fixing aeroplanes, grinding rust, drinking fish juice (!), and loving her lovely French tickler, to spare the time to send me of all people a card, don't you think? Indeed, but not only was there a card in the package that was delivered today. No, no, no(n)! The card accompanied the latest items that have been included in the great Canadian/UK cultural exchange.
So what else was in the packet?
And in the packet, there was a bag,
Is that a fucking harpoon??
And in that bag there was a fish,
BUT wait! A bit of fuckin' delish smoked salmon to accompany That Woman's pickles (or what's left of 'em) for the Boxing Day running buffet is all very nice, but still a bit odd to send with a card. So what else was in the package that came all the way from British Columbia???? Get a load of these!
And here it is, my first Christmas card of 2006. And who should it come from, but that lovely airplane-fixing, lady-loving, first generation Eurotrash-Canadian grrrly-grrrl, Connie?
My usual response to receiving Christmas cards this early is "Fucking scummers!", but since Connie sent hers all the way from Canada, I'm actually hugely thrilled to receive this one.
I do LOATHE writing Christmas cards though. It's something that I'm now restricting to people I see on a less than monthly basis. The fuckers at work can arse off, I'm not writing "..and best wishes for 2006, Tina x" loads of times when I don't even mean it. A waste of paper and ink, and, more importantly, time.
We've now got this thing whereby people are "giving to charity" instead of spending money on cards. Liars! Everyone knows that the fiver they'll save will pay for at least 2 pints (will it? no idea these days) at the Christmas do. Why can't they just be honest and say that they hate everyone at work and can't be arsed to write cards to a bunch of wankers? That's what I do.
Fuck 'em!
I don't send Christmas cards to my family members either, I've never really seen the point. I can shout my Christmas wishes at them: "I wish you'd fucking shut the fuck up once in a fucking while and let me watch what the fuck I want in peace and fucking quiet! Merry Christmas!!"
But back to the good thing about Christmas cards - you see, you get balanced debate here as one half of my psyche wrestles with the other - Christmas cards are a great way to let people who you've not seen for ages know that you're still alive and that you're still their mate (very handy in case you need a spare bed for the night should you be passing through London, Brighton, Coventry, Surrey, British Columbia...). For these reasons, and there are others too, I write Christmas cards to those people I don't get to see particularly often.
And back to the card from Connie... Awfully nice of a lass who, we all know is extremely busy with fixing aeroplanes, grinding rust, drinking fish juice (!), and loving her lovely French tickler, to spare the time to send me of all people a card, don't you think? Indeed, but not only was there a card in the package that was delivered today. No, no, no(n)! The card accompanied the latest items that have been included in the great Canadian/UK cultural exchange.
So what else was in the packet?
And in the packet, there was a bag,
Is that a fucking harpoon??
And in that bag there was a fish,
BUT wait! A bit of fuckin' delish smoked salmon to accompany That Woman's pickles (or what's left of 'em) for the Boxing Day running buffet is all very nice, but still a bit odd to send with a card. So what else was in the package that came all the way from British Columbia???? Get a load of these!
OH YES! Thank you Connie and God bless us everyone!
Monday, 5 December 2005
Clarity
Right, some points of clarification are clearly (!) needed, since some of you can't read simple English!
Firstly, the charity motorbike toy run is Saturday 10th December. The ride I had on this Friday just gone was a practice to see if I could handle being on a motorbike.
Secondly, the cake cannot be iced until the week before Christmas because it needs a couple of doses of brandy before then. I will photograph this process in its entirity, including the addition of the comedy plastic snowmen, reindeer and ribbon. I'm tempted to use Rudolph Buckaroo as a cake decoration for added entertainment when mum tries to cut the thing after a few sherries. Sort of booby trap it so it explodes if you struggle too hard with the icing.
Thirdly, errrm supermarkets are utter bastards.
Fourthly, the songs!
OK, the first one continues...
"....Oh yeah,
Oh yeah, you got to get it right.
You can do anything that you want to do,
Put your mind, body and soul to it
Prove it to yourself and say
I want (I want)
I will (I will)
I can do anything
It's a difficult world and you've got to prove
That you're ready and you can do it
Nothing in this world can stop you
I know
I can
I will fulfil my dream
Don't stop movin'
Keep it up
Keep on groovin'
Get it right
You got to get it right
Don't stop movin'
Dance your life
Keep on groovin'
Get it right,
You got to get it right..."
and so on
This was, of course, Living Joy's Don't stop moving, which is right up there with Alison Limerick's Where love lives in the dance classics hall of fame. If you don't know Alison Limerick's Where love lives, then you've probably never heard of Living Joy's Keep on moving either. Shame.
The second song:
"'Bah Humbug!', no that's too strong
'Cause it's my favourite holiday"
Was indeed Christmas Wrapping, but the British spelling should've given it away that this was the Spice Girls version and not the original by The Waitresses. Soz. But, as Living Joy tell us: You got to get it right! Oooh, I'm such a trickster, trickster.
Sixthly, my docs are NOT girls' docs. They are proper Docs and I have the blisters to prove it. I can assure you that the ankle padding is for decoration, it serves no purpose in protecting the wearer's lower legs.
Seventhly, something even more appetising coming up for Day 6 of the Sniffy Advent (tomorrow, obviously, it's not like I'm writing these and just posting them at midnight or anything).
Firstly, the charity motorbike toy run is Saturday 10th December. The ride I had on this Friday just gone was a practice to see if I could handle being on a motorbike.
Secondly, the cake cannot be iced until the week before Christmas because it needs a couple of doses of brandy before then. I will photograph this process in its entirity, including the addition of the comedy plastic snowmen, reindeer and ribbon. I'm tempted to use Rudolph Buckaroo as a cake decoration for added entertainment when mum tries to cut the thing after a few sherries. Sort of booby trap it so it explodes if you struggle too hard with the icing.
Thirdly, errrm supermarkets are utter bastards.
Fourthly, the songs!
OK, the first one continues...
"....Oh yeah,
Oh yeah, you got to get it right.
You can do anything that you want to do,
Put your mind, body and soul to it
Prove it to yourself and say
I want (I want)
I will (I will)
I can do anything
It's a difficult world and you've got to prove
That you're ready and you can do it
Nothing in this world can stop you
I know
I can
I will fulfil my dream
Don't stop movin'
Keep it up
Keep on groovin'
Get it right
You got to get it right
Don't stop movin'
Dance your life
Keep on groovin'
Get it right,
You got to get it right..."
and so on
This was, of course, Living Joy's Don't stop moving, which is right up there with Alison Limerick's Where love lives in the dance classics hall of fame. If you don't know Alison Limerick's Where love lives, then you've probably never heard of Living Joy's Keep on moving either. Shame.
The second song:
"'Bah Humbug!', no that's too strong
'Cause it's my favourite holiday"
Was indeed Christmas Wrapping, but the British spelling should've given it away that this was the Spice Girls version and not the original by The Waitresses. Soz. But, as Living Joy tell us: You got to get it right! Oooh, I'm such a trickster, trickster.
Sixthly, my docs are NOT girls' docs. They are proper Docs and I have the blisters to prove it. I can assure you that the ankle padding is for decoration, it serves no purpose in protecting the wearer's lower legs.
Seventhly, something even more appetising coming up for Day 6 of the Sniffy Advent (tomorrow, obviously, it's not like I'm writing these and just posting them at midnight or anything).
Sniffy Advent smackdown challenge: Day, the fifth
A peck of pickled peppers
I've no idea what a peck is, or a bushel for that matter. A peck is a small kiss as far as I know. And neither pecks nor peppers bear any relevance to this post. Pickles, on the other hand is what we're talking today!
In particular, I'm referring to difficulties in sourcing these:
I've no idea what a peck is, or a bushel for that matter. A peck is a small kiss as far as I know. And neither pecks nor peppers bear any relevance to this post. Pickles, on the other hand is what we're talking today!
In particular, I'm referring to difficulties in sourcing these:
And this:
As Christmas approaches.
Fuck, they're only pickles, Tina. Get a grip woman!
Fuck right off, they are NOT "only pickles", they are Hayward's pickles and they are absolutely essential for my happiness. Without them, the Boxing Day running buffet might as well be a, oh it's too horrible to even contemplate.
I've been known to be running around on 23rd of December, desperately trying to find these things. So, lesson learnt, I try to get hold of big, massive jars of both the mixed pickles and the piccalilli well in advance of the Christmas period. Alas, this year, I was
far
too
late...
Visiting Tesco on Friday night, I was outraged by the absence of Hayward's piccalilli and the their stocking of only the measly 460g jars of the mixed pickles. I scoffed! There was no way they were having my pickle pounds if they couldn't have the common courtesy to stock the pickles that I wanted in the size that I wanted.
So I tried to get into the psyche of the retailers and came to the conclusion that the more scummier ones would supply pickles worthy of the name "pickles". I headed to Morrisons, sure that they'd have shelf upon shelf of delicious vegetable and vinegar-based products. Shocked and a-fucking-palled! They had only their own brand of piccalilli (as if anybody would!) and about three metres of shelf space covering all the varieties of pickled onions under the sun. They even had about a metre of shelf space for olives (olives, in Morrisons, in SWINTON!). But no mixed pickles of any description.
I almost fainted.
Determined to be successful in my quest, I found myself in Sainsbury's who, thankfully, stocked both the piccalilli and the mixed pickles (small jars only), but also large jars of tangy pickled silverskin onions. I couldn't bare/bear the thought of fighting with all the fucking mongs who frequent Asda, nor could I risk that pile of crap shop not stocking them either, so I cut my losses and bought them at Sainsbugs. I had no choice, for all I know, that valuable shelf space will be given over to yet MORE mince pies and assorted glittery crap next time I go there.
It's fucking bollocks, the way you can't get what you want at this time of year, but there's so much utter shite available that always ends up producing the biggest "reduced to clear" pile come January. You never see Hayward's mixed pickles with a reduced to clear sticker on, do you?
I need to get it in my diary for next October: "31st October, 2006 - have you bought your pickles yet?"
Fuck, they're only pickles, Tina. Get a grip woman!
Fuck right off, they are NOT "only pickles", they are Hayward's pickles and they are absolutely essential for my happiness. Without them, the Boxing Day running buffet might as well be a, oh it's too horrible to even contemplate.
I've been known to be running around on 23rd of December, desperately trying to find these things. So, lesson learnt, I try to get hold of big, massive jars of both the mixed pickles and the piccalilli well in advance of the Christmas period. Alas, this year, I was
far
too
late...
Visiting Tesco on Friday night, I was outraged by the absence of Hayward's piccalilli and the their stocking of only the measly 460g jars of the mixed pickles. I scoffed! There was no way they were having my pickle pounds if they couldn't have the common courtesy to stock the pickles that I wanted in the size that I wanted.
So I tried to get into the psyche of the retailers and came to the conclusion that the more scummier ones would supply pickles worthy of the name "pickles". I headed to Morrisons, sure that they'd have shelf upon shelf of delicious vegetable and vinegar-based products. Shocked and a-fucking-palled! They had only their own brand of piccalilli (as if anybody would!) and about three metres of shelf space covering all the varieties of pickled onions under the sun. They even had about a metre of shelf space for olives (olives, in Morrisons, in SWINTON!). But no mixed pickles of any description.
I almost fainted.
Determined to be successful in my quest, I found myself in Sainsbury's who, thankfully, stocked both the piccalilli and the mixed pickles (small jars only), but also large jars of tangy pickled silverskin onions. I couldn't bare/bear the thought of fighting with all the fucking mongs who frequent Asda, nor could I risk that pile of crap shop not stocking them either, so I cut my losses and bought them at Sainsbugs. I had no choice, for all I know, that valuable shelf space will be given over to yet MORE mince pies and assorted glittery crap next time I go there.
It's fucking bollocks, the way you can't get what you want at this time of year, but there's so much utter shite available that always ends up producing the biggest "reduced to clear" pile come January. You never see Hayward's mixed pickles with a reduced to clear sticker on, do you?
I need to get it in my diary for next October: "31st October, 2006 - have you bought your pickles yet?"
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