Alive and sicking

Still alive, still in Norfolk with my friends and their baby, Typhoid Beanie.

Having spread her sickie tummy poo-bug around Derbyshire and South Yorkshire on Christmas Day, I thought I'd escaped, but I spent all of yesterday and last night throwing up.

I feel very weak.

Boxing Day

I really wish I had the fists and the reach of a boxer. I'd then be able to punch my fucking sister's lights out. Cunt.

She is really getting on my tits. Having been here since Christmas Eve, cabin fever seems to be setting in and she is doing my head in. But of course, it's all my fault because I'm always picking on people. Too fucking right if they're being twats.

Never mind, I suppose the stress levels are only set to increase further on today, Boxing Day; the day of the running buffet, the day when my cousins descend onto the Sniffy household and eat all the food and drink all the booze that Mum and Dad have paid for, but never bring any contribution themselves. Except their company, which I suppose is more than adequate payment. It'd be a terribly boring day without them.

So Mum is getting stuff ready for the running buffet (I can't wait to dig in), while Anna is eating stuff as soon as it comes out of the oven. Greedy fucker.

I like today, but today I'm going to be a bit tired. In a while, I'm off to Liverpool (about 30 miles away) to pick up my auntie, and my cousin, who is over from Holland with her two kids. I'll be taking them back later on too, and ferrying other folk around. Do I mind? Not at all, it's much better to know that people can enjoy themselves, have a drink and get home safely (as safe as my driving allows).

Tomorrow, I face the frozen wasteland that is NORFOLK, where I'll be staying for a week (blizzards and multiple pile-ups allowing). I may be able to check in while I'm there, unless I'm dead or in intensive care or something hideous that involves bed baths and people seeing me naked. Jesus. I'll make sure I drive carefully.

Merry Christmas! (at last)

I'm such a slack bastard that, what with food (excellent Christmas dinner), pressies, Daleks, and other festive shite (what about Dr WHO???), I've only just turned on my PC.

Hmmmm, sprouts.... I am doing horrendous farts.


"YOU WILL OBEY THE DALEKS!"

Just a quickie to say Merry Christmas to all who drop by. I hope that everyone is having a good day and that the festivities contine to bring much happiness to everyone.

Take a little time to think of those not as fortunate as us too; people in Wales, for example.

All the best everyone. Hopefully, I'll post something properly tomorrow.

Take care,

T

Sniffy Advent: Day, the twentyfourth

Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men
So this is the final entry of the Sniffy Advent, thank fuck. Having spent the previous 23 days revealing my Christmas experiences, and things I love and despise about this time of year, The Twentyfourth Day of the Sniffy Advent shall reveal what Christmas means to me...

I am an atheist: I just don't believe in a god or feel the need for the presence of a higher spiritual being. I have the utmost respect and some degree of envy for those people with faith, although I feel that organised religion the world over has a lot to answer for. But that's people for you.

I was born and brought up in a Christian country and grew up with Western Christian traditions and I think I'm thankful about that. I celebrate Christmas mainly because it is something that I was brought up with and it's something that I enjoy. But I also believe that birth of the man called Jesus, who the Christians believe to be their Saviour, is something of note and something worth celebrating.

All religious writings can be twisted and skewed to benefit the power-hungry or the crazed (check these misery-arses out), but the basic message of Jesus that has been passed down over these two millennia is a good one. For a man to have such an impact is pretty special, so hats off and three cheers to the Baby Jesus!

Sniffy Advent: Day the twentythird

Please, Sir, can I have some more?
It seems fitting that I've reserved this particular Dickensianesque tale of Christmas woe for today, the day of Base 2a's official Christmas meal.

Yes, on a day where most people go in for a couple of hours in the morning then fuck off home (or have already finished for Christmas), we're having our Christmas lunch. I wouldn't have bothered, but I'd have had to have taken a day's holiday otherwise.

So what's so bad about it? Well let's go back in time to my first Christmas here...

It was 22nd December, 2001 and I was loving my job, which I'd only started 6 months previously. The people here were OK, if a little strange, and I was looking forward to my Christmas lunch with them before heading up north for a weekend with my friends.

As usual, I'd got here at about 8am - at least an hour before any other fucker turned up - and the morning was spent with people in high spirits, listening to Christmas music and having a laugh. All the ladies were wearing their best glittery and sequined party clobber, flashing earings, tinsley deeley boppers that played music. How charming, how retarded, I thought.

We descended to one of the seminar rooms at 12.30, where we sat down for lunch. I managed to sit next to Ian, who was a good laugh, despite being a miserable bastard. We tucked into our turkey dinner (Ian had a veggie option) and the ladies got a bit merry on half a glass of cheap plonk, the Christmas music played in the background and the odd bad joke was told as the crackers were pulled apart.

As I talked to Ian, I had a look at his plate. I wondered what the strange-looking thing in his sprouts was; he separated it from the greenery for further analysis. It was a baby snail. Fantastic. Of all the people who could've got that, it had to be him. Oh how I laughed. He didn't.

So the wine flowed... well, the two bottles between the ten or so drinkers were emptied... and the ladies got silly. Linking arms, they danced around and sang along to the Christmas music. What a wonderful atmosphere. There was the not-so secret Santa gift exchange too - lots of toiletries in fake wicker baskets were passed around. Everybody was pleased. I can't remember what shit I was given.

Fuck me, I was dying there, but as 2pm approached, I was getting exciting about finishing and going to spend time with my friends.

With the plates cleared away, we made it back to our offices. I shut down my PC while the others continued their revellry and polished off the chocolates. At 2.30pm, I'd done my work for 2001, so I said my goodbyes and headed for the motorway, leaving the rest of them to finish up whatever they were doing.

On my return here after Christmas, I was approached by Trunchbowl (sorry, Trunchbull) from the library, she was holding my timesheet: "You took some time off and you haven't put it down on your timesheet."

"Y'what?"

"The day we finished for Christmas, you finished early, have you got any lieu time to take?"

"So, despite the fact that I get here an hour before everyone else, and I have to travel 30 miles to get here anyway, and it was Christmas, and my real line manager had already wished me Merry Christmas and told me to go home, and the fact that nobody was actually doing anything except acting the goat and eating chocolates. Despite all this, I need to take holiday for those two hours when the rest of you were pissed and dancing around the offices?"

"Yes."

Cunt.

So today is our Christmas do. They leave it till the very last day possible before Christmas and it's not the done thing not to come. So here I am. On a day when the ladies are dressed in their party best, I look like I've just walked off a building site: jeans, Docs, jumper. I have my camera and there may be photos later.

Two hours to go, I can't wait!


Post "do" fatigue
Well, I got out of there in one piece.

Today's do didn't start until 1pm - Trunchbull had agreed to put back the start time so somebody could come late (nothing to do with her wanting to ensure that we were there at least an hour later than usual).

We had the "Dancecraze" DVD to keep us occupied until then. This is a DVD that's supposed to show people the steps to famous "formation dancing" songs, like the Macarena, YMCA and the like. Check this out:

Don't tell her heart

Achy breaky

I'm sure those girls have made several appearances in other DVDs too, only not the sort that you'd show at a Christmas do.

The food was finished by 1.40pm, then it was time to exchange gifts. Not too bad; a hamper of Italian-style snacky things (and some booze that I can give to somebody else). And just when I thought it was time to escape... Bingo! Yep, they had us playing two rounds of bingo. Christ.

I managed to get out of there by about 3.15pm, by which time, the traffic on the motorway had started to build up. Thanksverymuch.

What has become of me?

I have just ordered a legitimate copy of Office XP.

After years of using not-exactly-legal software, this will mean that my home PC has legitimate copies of all the software that I use.

What does this mean for me? What have I become?

Let's face it, there's no way on earth I'd have ordered it a its real price (something in excess of £200). However, Microsoft have this home use programme whereby certain people who use their products at work, can buy the same stuff for home use at a HUGE discount. They seem to have done a deal with the NHS and this means that I've just ordered it for £17.

It appears that working for the NHS does have its advantages afterall.


But there are many disadvantages, one of which that seems to have paralysed the NHS's human resources function (and workforce) for the past 18 months is something called "Agenda for Change". This is supposed to be a fair and transparent way of working out how much people should be paid and documenting what they need to do and what skills people need to perform their jobs. It's a load of bollocks that is basically a cost-cutting excercise whereby anybody in a non-clinical role is downgraded.

The people here were graded a couple of weeks ago, clearly not their satisfaction, since the conversation for the first three hours of every single day revolves around agenda for change. "We do this, we do that, we're dead busy". Obviously very busy if you can take half a day to constantly moan on about this and then kick off again the following day, and the one after that.

Of course, it's all a big conspiracy that's been led by the Evil Empire at the main hospital of the Trust, Base 2b. Nothing to do with the fact that the entire system is totally shambolic and that everyone in the NHS is being shafted by the government - again.

Toga!
Those fucking bastardswho stole Toga the penguin chick from a zoo want their fucking heads ripping off, preferably by a tiger. Toga was too young to be separated from its mother and needed a special diet. Its parents have been pining for it since its theft at the weekend and now it appears its body may have turned up in a carrier bag.

Why would anybody do that?

Fucking bastards. I hope they endure very slow and painful deaths. I generally hate people, and much prefer animals and it gets me so upset and angry when I hear about this sort of thing.

When I win the lottery, I'm going to set up and run a sanctury for abused animals. I will also fund a programme of work to hire assassins to kill any fucker who is found guilty of animal cruelty. It won't be a quick death. I will, of course, burn their houses down too.

Some good new though. I was very pleased to learn of the mugger in South Africa who hid in a zoo's tiger compound to evade capture from police. He was mauled to death instead.

Hooray!

Merry Christmas and God bless us, everyone!

Sniffy Advent: Day the twenty second

What day is it?
One of the fantastic things about Christmas time is the way that all sense of time between Christmas Eve and New Year's Day is completely lost; you have no idea what day of the week you're on and, more importantly, it doesn't really matter.

In days gone by, I'd know what day it was by what page we were on in the fortnight's TV listings magazine. "Oh look, today is French and Saunders day. Tomorrow is Sound of Music day." Why would anything else matter? You could tell that New Year (which I hate) was approaching, and that Christmas was really over, when the telly started to get really boring again.

I'm going down to Norfolk the day after Boxing Day (26th). I've no idea what day of the week this is, and I don't really care. The only day I need to worry about from Friday onwards is the 9th of January. I know that this is a Monday because this is the day that I go back to work after my break.

Ah, that loss of sense of time is so childish and so very wonderful.

Sniffy Advent: Day, the twentyfirst

How to ruin Christmas
Short of going round to somebody's house on Christmas Day and shitting on the dinner table, one sure fire way of guaranteeing that you ruin my Christmas is to show willful neglect in the preparation of the turkey. And what I mean by this is the use of the wrong sort of bacon for coating the skin of the bird.

Mother and Father are weird creatures; they splash out on certain things and get cheapo crap for other stuff. They shop at the whole range of stores: Aldi; Lidl; Kwik Save; Netto; Morrison's;Tesco; Costco; plus local stores and markets. This is probably quite a sensible way of doing things when you think about it.

Today, they brought home the turkey, a free range beast weighing it at nearly 5kg. At a cost of £20, this is probably quite good VFM, but it's a fresh bird and you'd like to think it had a better life than some of the poor beasts that are being slaughtered at this time of year. "I used to weep in butcher's shops".

So, the turkey should be pretty decent and anyway, I don't think Mum's ever cooked one badly, but the flavour might be a bit better. Blah, blah, blah...

Having spent £20 on the turkey, you'd think they'd go out to Tesco and get a decent bit of bacon to cover the thing with before it gets confined to the oven. No. Not Mother and Father. No, they get the cheapest shite bacon they can get their hands on; something that costs about 20p/lb from Kwik Save. One year, and this is why you'd think they'd have learned their lesson, they got some cheapo shite that hadn't even been sliced. It was just some water-loaded, inch-thick, crappy bit of something that was as much use as a chocolate teapot.

I am very concerned at what I've seen in the fridge today: "Lifestyle Value Pack unsmoked rindless back bacon", 87% pork loin (and fat). That means that at least 12% of it is water.

Very concerned.

I might nip to Tesco and get some proper stuff.


A lesson in speaking Jamaican
It is impossible to say "beer can" without sounding like a Jamaican who is saying "bacon". Try it.

Four

Oh bollocks, I've been tagged for something by Piggy.

1. Four jobs you have had in your life:

Quality assurance chemist - in a factory that makes huge batteries for things like submarines, electric buses, aeroplanes and the like. It was a summer job that I had for two years while I was at university. The pay was really good compared to some other jobs and I actually enjoyed it.

Research technician/associate - Yes, I'm a scientist and after finishing my PhD, I worked in research for about 6 years. I worked on a number of projects that looked at how reproductive hormones change during normal physiological cycles and also in a number of conditions (women's troubles). This was good fun for some of it (Manchester) and really quite dreary and depressing for other bits (Sheffield).

Research facilitator - After realising that I was crap at doing research, I decided that I was best suited to telling other people how to do it. Specifically, I work in the healthcare sector and deal with hospital and univerisity staff who want to do research (poor, misguided fools).

2. Four movies you could watch over and over:
Sound of music
Kill Bill (1&2)
Beaches
The Shining


3. Four places you’ve lived:
Salford (shithole)
Leeds (loved it there, even though I lived in a student shithole)
Coventry (not brilliant, but a brilliant curry house - Royal Bengal - in Earlsdon)
Sheffield (dump)

4. Four TV shows you love to watch:
Don't really watch telly, but
Little Britain (hilarious at first, but has gone off spectacularly)
The League of Gentlemen (much better than Little Britain)
The L Word
Spaced (old now, but brilliant)

5. Four places you’ve been on vacation:
Rimini, Italy (where my dad's sisters are)
North Wales
Cornwall (wet)
Rome (fab)

6. Four websites you visit daily:
1. Angry Chimp
2. BBC News
3. Yahoo mail
4. Blogs

7. Four places you’d rather be right now:
In bed, asleep
In a morgue, dead
In Chorley, tucked up in bed
In Norfolk, fuelling my Prader Willi syndrome

8. Four bloggers you are tagging:
Anyone who can be bothered.

Sniffy Advent: Day, the twentieth

You'd better watch out...
I figure it's time I paid tribute to this feller:

This is a depiction of St Nicholas of Myra, who was born during the third century in Patara, a village in what is now Turkey. His wealthy parents, who raised him to be a devout Christian, died in an epidemic while Nicholas was still young. Obeying Jesus' words to "sell what you own and give the money to the poor," Nicholas used his whole inheritance to assist the needy, the sick, and the suffering. He dedicated his life to serving God and was made Bishop of Myra while still a young man. Bishop Nicholas became known throughout the land for his generosity to the those in need, his love for children, and his concern for sailors and ships.

Through the centuries many stories and legends have been told of St. Nicholas' life and deeds. These accounts help us understand his extraordinary character and why he is so beloved and revered as protector and helper of those in need.

One story tells of a poor man with three daughters. In those days a young woman's father had to offer prospective husbands something of value—a dowry. The larger the dowry, the better the chance that a young woman would find a good husband. Without a dowry, a woman was unlikely to marry. This poor man's daughters, without dowries, were therefore destined to be sold into slavery. Mysteriously, on three different occasions, a bag of gold appeared in their home-providing the needed dowries. The bags of gold, tossed through an open window, are said to have landed in stockings or shoes left before the fire to dry. This led to the custom of children hanging stockings or putting out shoes, eagerly awaiting gifts from Saint Nicholas. Sometimes the story is told with gold balls instead of bags of gold. That is why three gold balls, sometimes represented as oranges, are one of the symbols for St. Nicholas. And so St. Nicholas is a gift-giver.


You'd better not cry...
So it's time we started to behave ourselves in the run up to the big day.

Of course, I've been an angel all year. I've not had a bad, bitter, vindictive, nasty, or hateful thought about anybody for the entire year, not even my fucking shitting bastard sponging neighbours. It's obvious that I deserve literally millions of presents from loved ones, and any acquaintances who happen to want to join my circle of friends. Of course, supplying me with lavish gifts carries no guarantee of entry into my exclusive circle, but all applications will be considered with due care.


You'd better not shout...
In all honesty, I find more fun and satisfaction in buying gifts for others, although I clearly won't be refusing any offerings that come my way. But saying that, my imagination (what there was of it) for interesting and novel gifts is now officially drained and I'm resorting to that good old standby: alcohol.

I went to Sainsbury's earlier and I stood in wine aisles, perplexed by the varieties that were on offer. Having not drunk alcohol in nearly six years, I really can't remember what is nice and what isn't. As I stood there, my head was swimming and the taste of zinfandel started to rise in my throat. Either it was a flashback, or I drank so much that there's still some in my system.


I'm telling you why...
Anyway, not really knowing what I was doing, and overcome with a compelling desire to get the fuck out of there as quickly as possible, I reckoned that those bottles hovering between £8 and £13 would be pretty OK. Even I can remember that Chardonnay and Barolo are pretty decent, so I went for three: a Penfold's Chardonnay; Sainsbury's special selection Barolo and a Cecchi something from Montepulciano.


Santa Claus is coming to town!
So, I took three bottles of wine to the till, which should've totalled about £30, but was only charged for two. Kerchingtastic! That never fucking happened when I was knocking back a bottle a night. Fuckers.

Sniffy Advent: Day, the nineteenth

This time next week...
It'll all be over. In a week's time, yet another Christmas will have passed. Another will be confined to memory, along with all the others.

Up until then, though, there's still stuff to do.

1. Ice cake - check!
2. Lose 2st in weight - some fucking chance.
   
3. Write Christmas cards - I can't be arsed, do I have to?
4. Buy some crappy presents for people I forgot about - bollocks.
5. Take Mother to Trafford fucking Centre because she hasn't bought her presents yet - for fuck's sake!
6. Buy stuff for Boxing Day running buffet - it's a fine line this one, what with the expected panic buying for sausage rolls, cocktail sausages, bread rolls, pork pies and vol au vents that will no doubt occur one day this week. But without adequate freezer space for storage of all the perishables, when should this be done? Bugger!

So yes, the cake has been iced and a suitably festive snow-scene is now dancing on its surface. The icing did not go without argument with Connie: "You only need marzipan on the top."

"But I put it round the sides last year."

"Oh well, I don't know."

"But I'm telling you, I put it on the sides as well."

"Well, I never did when I was allowed to make the cake, in my own home!"

"You ALWAYS put marzipan round the sides as well."

"Oh well, I don't know."

"For fuck's sake!"

"What did you say?"

"Nothing, Mother, do what you like. Yes, Mrs Levinson..."

So the cake only had marzipan on its top. I knew this would spell disaster. Well it wasn't a disaster, but the icing was soooo thick that it kind of started to pull bits of the cake away and crumbs were getting mixed in with my lovely white royal icing. Of course, being a sensible grown up, I let Mum take over: "Oh you've fucking RUINED it! You and your Marzipan only on top stupid ideas. It looks like there's reindeer droppings there now." Stomp, stomp, stomp.

But it looks OK, I suppose, or it will once we get a ribbon round the sides to hide the huge gaps in the icing.

Making icing is a doddle and it leaves you with a broken whisk and a reggyoke. What to do with a spare egg yoke? Make zabaglione of course! This is like an Italian custard that contains lashings of Marsala wine. Of course, I couldn't have any, but Dad really appreciated my slaving with a whisk over a steaming bain marie for half an hour:

"It's too sweet".

"Oh fuck you then, you miserable bastard!"

The Sniffy Christmas - Keeping it real.

Sniffy Advent: Day, the eighteenth

Happy birthday to you!
The religious festival of Christmas celebrates the birth of Jesus Christ our saviour a little over 2000 years ago. It coincides with the old Pagan mid-winter festival of Yule and I think this has something to do with the Romans keeping people happy. Something like that anyway.

So the Pagans are celebrating Yule and the Christians are celebrating the birth of our saviour the Lord Jesus Christ.

How selfish is it for people get pregnant at the end of March and hijack Little Baby Jesus's birthday celebrations with those of their own offspring?

I know people with birthdays on: 17th, 18th, 26th and 27th December. This means that I have to buy both birthday and Christmas presents for them and it's almost impossible to buy birthday cards from October onwards, what with the shops being 100% devoted to Christmas from August onwards.

People whose birthdays fall within a week or so either side of the 25th of December should be given the option to change their birthday to a more sensible date; it doesn't do them any favours having their birthdays diluted by other celebrations either.

Of course, the fault lies solely with the selfish parents (as fucking usual): if people had a little more control over their sex drives, they'd be able to hold off and not create this dilemma in the first place. Something is sadly lacking in sex education and life skills classes in our schools.

"Merry birthday! I only got you the one present, I hope you don't mind."

Compliments of the season

I don't often get the opportunity to say thanks to those readers who don't comment here, but who send complimentary e-mails. So a big thank you to everyone who has done so and all who have taken the time to comment here too.

I'm not going to mention any names, but these e-mails came through over the past couple of days and they really made me laugh so I thought they deserved a mention. Hope the senders don't mind.

You are very entertaining. Read your blog every day. Makes my day.

Is it an effort to be irascible?

Truly 42 and no bra?

Really a dyke?

Keep up the work, really appreciated..

Thank you!

1. I'd prefer to be milder mannered but people are such utter fuckwits who get right on my tits that I can't help myself. So no, being irascible is no effort at all.
   
2. Thirty five with a very good bra.
3. I'm really rather queer, yes. Although I do prefer saying that I'm gay or queer rather than I'm a lesbian or dyke. I'm just me and I happen to be gay; it's probably the least important thing about me.
   

And another one:

Heya!

I just thought I'd drop an e-mail and stop lurking - this is genuinely one of the best blogs around! And now I'm part of a horde... chuffing ace. I think.

Keep it up! And yes, why the hell should we put ourselves out for someone who *willingly* creates their own germ factories, snot-ridden vermin that they are.... erm, end of rant!


I actually thought this one was spam till I read it a few times and then when I realised it was for real, it really warmed me.


Brrrrrrrr
Talking of warming me, I took myself up my favourite hill this afternoon - accompanied by my darling sister because I love nothing more than incessant whinging while I'm trying to be at peace. Jesus, she doesn't half go on. I'd told her not to bother if she wasn't particularly keen on the idea, but she came and went strolling off ahead of me, then just sat around while I wandered off looking for a moon that didn't arrive. I suppose I can give her the concession that she was in pain due to a recently dislocated shoulder (shame it wasn't her fucking neck!) and that she's generally a miserable and ratty cunt.

But anyway, it was fucking freezing up there and I could've done with a flask of coffee to keep me warm. And why does your nose drip when you're cold? I don't get that.

Here are some photos:

Manchester skyline


Anna at the Peel Monument


Gee-gees


Icy bog water


North Wales hills


Cardboard cutout gee-gees

Whatever I said, whatever I did, I didn't mean it...
I don't know why, but I fancied the idea of going to see Take That on their reunion tour next summer. I was never a huge fan of theirs when they were at their peak ten or so years ago, but their music was OK. I obviously wasn't that bothered because I forgot to phone the ticket hotline when the tickets for an extra date went on sale yesterday morning. I thought I'd missed my chance, but it transpires that my sister, who I love dearly, is going with some friends and they have an extra ticket, which now has my name on it.

Sniffy Advent: Day, the seventeenth

Eat, drink, be merry
The celebrations related to Christmas generally have the objectives:

• Eat as much as you can stuff into your face
• Drink constantly

I'm not sure about anybody else, but I wouldn't be feeling particularly merry if I was constantly stuffed to the point of feeling sick and drunk on top of it. Well, mildly tipsy would be nice, but I'm only allowed to sniff the sherry trifle and have a small slice of my booze-soaked Christmas cake.

In "way back" times, when people were poor and food scarce during winter, this mid-winter blow-out was a justified treat and it probably only lasted for a day. Now, in the modern western world, we're a bunch of over-fed, privileged fat bastards anyway AND the celebrations last for at least a week. But it's almost impossible to not grab another handful of peanuts, or another couple of chocolates from the selection box, or another sausage roll from the buffet table (especially when guilt-trip Mother is stood around, reminding you how long it's taken her to prepare it all).

In years gone by, I'd take responsibility for supplying a fair bit of the booze for the Boxing Day running buffet and party. I love sherry and I'd buy a litre of the stuff to sup on (as well as the wine and beer that I'd also consume by the case-load). It'd really piss me off when guests suddenly decided that they also liked sherry too and I'd have to grudgingly pour them a glass as I got myself a top-up. Sherry is one of those drinks that everybody jokes about, pretends not to like, but they all guzzle the fucking stuff when it's on offer!

Fuckers.

With drinking out of the question these days, I just stick to ensuring that there are enough cocktail sausages for the buffet. Just because you kick a habit, it doesn't mean that you don't have a problem. So when people ask me if I'm OK with them drinking, or more specifically, whether I'm OK with having a huge glass of wine near me at the dinner table, the answer is always "Oh yeah, it's fine", when actually, it's hell and the smell of it wafting up at me knocks me for six. But you can't begrudge people having a drink and enjoying themselves. What you can get pissed off about is when they realise that they've had enough, that they don't want to drink anymore and so they move on to drinking.... MY PEPSI MAX!

That is taking the piss.

Vacuum

When you run into a theme of posts (Sniffy advent), you tend to forget what you're really about. Not that I'm implying that my blog has anything as grand as a "theme", but whatever Cakesniffers is has been lost a little bit over the past few weeks.

Does it matter? Does it bollocks!

I guess if I hadn't posted recent things under the Sniffy Advent heading, nobody would've noticed any difference and I wouldn't be concerned about my lack of creativity or inspiration. Let's face it, at this time of year, people are busy preparing for Christmas and Christmas is all-consuming. You have less time to post to your blog and what comes out is what has been on your mind during that day, i.e. Christmas stuff.

Anyhoo (I'm going for Canadian citizenship and I need to start learning the language), what else has been going on or interesting me during December? Not much in all honesty.

About the most exciting thing was the moon as it rose in the sky ahead of me on my journey home this evening: it was HUGE. Apparently, it is the largest we've seen it in the UK for nearly twenty years and, my word, I was pretty moved by it all.

It strikes me that we go through our lives without noticing or really appreciating the things that go on around us. All sorts of amazing things are taken for granted. Could you imagine if the moon suddenly disappeared? What excuse would the cats have for going mental each month?


Put your hands all over my body
A suggestion has come through to post about erotic dreams. I don't think I ever have them, I'm sure I'd know about it if I did. I have plenty of dirty thoughts though.

It's not often that I remember my dreams unless they are nightmares, which I seemed to have frequently and recurrently when I was a child. The strangest thing about being on antidepressants (apart from them giving me narcolepsy) was that I suddenly started noticing my dreams. It was very worrying to realise that these drugs were altering the balance of your brain chemicals; the things that affect the way you think, act, live. I don't recommend them to anybody.


Farts

I seem to have been quite gassy these past couple of days. This is now becoming rather distressing since I seem to be followed by a cloud of shit-smell a la Pig Pen from Peanuts.


Some photos of Manchester
Just thought I'd throw these in.

Exchange Square, Manchester



Manchester Cathedral



Manchester Wheel



Harvey Nicholls Dummies

I still can't get Mistletoe and fucking Wine out of my bloody head.

Sniffy Advent: Day, the sixteenth

Always Coca Cola
I bloody HATE Coca Cola, but I really, REALLY detest their sanct(Santa)-fucking-monious advertising at Christmas. "Holidays are coming, holidays are coming... Always Coca Cola."

Whether it be polar bears, Father Christmas, train things, whatever shitty advertising they use, I bloody hate it with a passion. Polar bears drinking Coke? Are they fucking stupid?

This year's advertising on the radio features "World music", which I hate even more than Coke. I particularly detest that sort of African sound (you know like from Paul Simon's "You can call me Al?") and of course one of the adverts features this type of music with the singers clearly delighted that the Coca Cola brand has reached their community and the factory in the nearby town is sucking all the water supply while crops fail because of drought.

Fuckers.

Coca Cola - Official sponsor of Christmas.

In addition to all this, the fucking Coca Cola "Holidays are coming" song is now living in my in my head. It's driving me mad. Still, it's a change from "Mistletoe and wine", which seems to have been coming and going in cycles for the past few days.

Must get a different Christmas song in my head, I can't cope.

Thanks! Make me look a complete twat why don't you?

I'd like to thank the road planners in Warrington for their excellent road layouts, lane markings and road signage that all contributed to me looking a complete and utter twat this evening.

All traffic from the M56 motorway heading towards Manchester was diverted because the road had been closed. After two hours of crawling in first gear, I finally made it to Warrington town centre. Through absolutely no fault of my own, I repeatedly found the lane that I was travelling in would be diverted off and that I'd have to queue jump to get back into the lane I was supposed to be in. No signs, nothing. Utter fuckers.

Why was the motorway shut? Some tosser was running from the police and ran onto the motorway where he was hit by a car and killed. Thick fuck. Can you imagine the thought processes? "Oh, I really don't want to get caught by the rozzers and face up to 3 months in prison. I'll run away from them onto the motorway and get flattened instead." Stupid twat. I feel sorry for the poor lass that hit him; she was injured in the incident and will have that awful memory with her for a very long time.

I don't understand why they had to shut the fucking road for so long. They should've either left him there to get ground into a pulp and absorbed by the tarmac, or just shut the motorway for long enough to drag the body to the verge. Why did they need to shut it for over three hours? Especially when they knew that lots of traffic would divert through Warrington and get road raged for accidentally being in the wrong lanes at roundabouts that have no signs.

During this epic adventure, I luckily had a can of pop with me for the odd sip of refreshing caffeinated goodness (while stationary, in neutral with handbrake applied of course). I may have been able to quench my thirst, but I couldn't do much to prevent loss of visual accuity due to my, now legendary, contact lens failure. But this wasn't the worst thing about the ordeal, oh no. The worst thing was the fact that I was trapped in an enclosed space while doing the most horrendous toxic farts. They're still working their way through now. It's horrible.

It's all good fun on "roads that I know and love" today. In another incident, a four foot-deep hole has appeared in the main road near Base 1. The traffic reports on the radio stated "A four foot hole has appeared and recovery personnel are currently trying to remove a taxi from it".


Stuffed
At least I could be thankful of having a hearty lunch today; my usual cup-a-soup and fruit, wouldn't have been enough to see me through the journey.

So what of my lunch? It was pretty nice and I was suitably stuffed afterwards. Thank fuck the mince pies were horrible or I'd have eaten a load of those on top of the preceeding three courses.

Why do we feel compelled to eat so much? I think a lot of it is comfort eating; this may help you understand why:

Yeeee Haaaaaa!!!!

And they were asking ME why I was dressed normally??? And yes, those reindeer antler deeley-boppers were musical too.

Still it was fun and I managed to procure an extra pig in blanket. This is a task I set myself at each of these things and I have quite a good success rate. I think people have learned that if they don't give up their little sausage, there's TROUBLE! I've not quite progressed to burning people's houses down, but I'd certainly consider it if met with resistance.

Sniffy Advent: Day, the fifteenth

The Christmas dinner
This has got to be the best meal of the year. Given a choice of last meal of a woman condemned to death, I reckon the Christmas dinner would be right up there at the top of the list. From July onwards (just after the last sprout from the previous one has fully digested), I start thinking of my Christmas dinner.

Fuckin' delish!

In the Sniffy household, we wake up on Christmas morning to the smell of the turkey cooking in the oven (if the oven timer has worked properly). All the veg are prepared on Christmas Eve, so it leaves things fairly relaxed. However, our dinner is a mix of traditional English and also Italian food, so we start off with a portion of lasagne before digging in to the turkey.

On Christmas morning, diners Chez Sniff are invited to relax to the sounds of carols on the radio while availing themselves of a variety of savoury and sweet nibbles that are distributed about the house.

During this time, the turkey undergoes its final crisping in the oven, accompanied by roasties, and the veg are cooked. The turkey is removed from the oven and replaced with the ready prepared lasagne.

Tina picks crispy bits of bacon off the back of the bird and generally gets in the way while Connie starts to panic.

In the relaxed atmosphere of the dining room, with the Queen in the corner, the guests enjoy a portion of lasagne and the pull on a cracker. The wine starts to flow. Mum returns to the kitchen where the main course is dished up. This consists of:

• Turkey (with whatever remains of the crispy bits of bacon)
• Turkey sausages
• Stuffing
• Sprouts (just on the turn from firm to soft so as the sweetness has started to come through*)
• Orange and white stuff that I don't touch with a bargepole (carrots and swede I think)
• Boiled potatoes
• Roast potatoes
• Roast parsnips
• Gravy

Fucking top notch delish. We do NOT go for bread or cranberry sauce since these things are fucking horrible. Bread sauce? I'd never heard of this stuff till a couple of years ago and then I saw some: you ain't puttin' nuttin' dat looks like puke on my Christmas dinner table, fool!

*There used to be a bit of a joke about Mother's sprouts being too soft; they're not, they're lovely. I hate it when people just blanch their veg so they're almost raw. Sprouts are too bitter unless they're cooked just the just beyond firm stage. Served with butter - and lots of white pepper of course - they are delish.

Pudding takes another three courses:

• Christmas pudding (with cream)
  
• Panettone
• Mince pies

At this stage, you have consumed about 4,000 calories (at least) and that doesn't include booze. But it is lovely, it is the BEST meal of the year.


Today is my first Christmas dinner here at the hospital canteen and I'm really looking forward to it; we have a great canteen here and they do an excellent Christmas dinner. I see this as a sort of trial run so that I can prepare my digestive system for the main assault that lies ahead on Christmas Day.

Yum, yum, YUM!

A post script: Keep that fucking shit off my plate!
There's no frigging way I'll accept any of the following on my Christmas dinner plate:

• Carrots, turnips, swedes
• Cranberry sauce
• Bread sauce
• Mange tout
• Broccolli
• Spinach
• Cabbage
  
• Cauliflower
• Peas

Some of these I won't touch under any circumstances, some I love, but they're just WRONG, WRONG, WRONG as accompaniments with my turkey.

Houston, we have a problem

Cars are great.

They provide a convenient and comfortable method for personal transportation, carriage of bits and doings in the roomy boot, entertainment even with their CD stereos and the like. Not like buses, buses are shit: full of diseased, retarded scumbags, buses at least triple the A to B journey time.

My car is essential. With a 30 mile commute half the week, there's no way I'd be able to complete the journey within 2 hours and with my sanity intact. Apart from the expense of road tax, insurance and petrol, driving is still the most economical way to do this trip.

...Until it costs me £280 in fucking servicing and bastard repairs the week before tossing Christmas when the road tax is due at the end of the month as fucking well! All the brakes wore down at the same time and all the pads had to be replaced today. Fucking shiting cunting arseholes.


The youth of today
On my drive down to the garage this morning, I passed a number of schoolchildren as they were walking to school. Actually, they don't really walk, do they? They sort of push and pull each other around in circles in a gradual forward motion that's sort of in the direction of their destination. Others skulked, heads down, kicking whatever was under their feet along their paths.

A group of teenage girls strode elegantly along the pavement. They were taking their time, the lessons could wait. It struck me how short their skirts were and I remembered that, apart from the Culture Club/Duran Duran phase of the early 1980s, ALL schoolgirls simply HAVE to have the shortest skirts possible. I didn't because my legs were foul, but my classmates did. What also struck me this morning was how much better the girl in the dark woollen tights looked compared with her friends, who were somewhat cheapened by their leggy displays of flesh.


Christmas wrapping
What a tedious task! I took advantage of being house-bound and got most of my wrapping out of the way. All that time, the ribbons, gift tags, all for something that will be destroyed in a matter of seconds. The bastards can have vouchers in envelopes next year.


Friends reunited
Fuck that. There was a time when I used to be on the register for Friends Reunited. I thought it'd be nice to find out what former schoolmates were up to, perhaps rekindle some old friendships. Looking down the list of names registered for my secondary school, I realised that I hated most of them and wanted nothing to do with them.

I don't know, it seems that there are reasons why people lose touch with each other, but the main one is that they didn't really care that much anyway.

They've just sent me the same e-mail twice! I need to unsubscribe I think.

Sniffy Advent: Day, the fourteenth

Oh tanenbaum....

Yep, the tree is up.

The rest of the decs get sorted today I reckon.

It's now that the serious business of Christmas begins. There's only one weekend left to get things sorted and then we can start to relax and enjoy the festivities....

....Or can we?

One thing about the Christmas decorations being up is that you soon get used to them. It's somehow very comforting to have the room semi-lit by the twinkling lights on the tree and the odd candle. Shame about the TV ALWAYS being on to add to the ambience.

The tree, the baubles, the lights. All are very attractive and you can find yourself getting hypnotised as you study the patterns as the lights chase, fade, twinkle. You search to see whether a particular tree decoration has survived yet another year. Yep, there it is, the pom-pom snowman you made when you were nine.

Oh yes, and that lantern thing that Mother claims to have had in her family home when her folks were still alive. Each year, there are new additions, but the original decorations from way back are always the favourites.

The newer ones are there to act as decoys, sort of sacrificial lambs to the slaughter as they become victim to Otto's wild desire to seek and destroy all that dangles. Otto loves the tree, he likes to climb it, knock things off it, hide under it. When it's a bit nippy for him to go outside, we bring the outdoors in for him! From now until the 6th of January, Otto is not allowed unsupervised access to the living room.

It's odd that the other cats' reactions have always been bemused boredom when they realise that the stupid thing has reappeared in the corner of the room. The others just ignore it.

Still, these things all add to the fun. By the evening, the picture will be complete: the tree will be surrounded by presents that I've wrapped and the remaining decorations will have been placed strategically around the house (thrown wherever we can be bothered to chuck em).

Wrong, wrong, wrong!

People make mistakes, some people spout off about things without getting the facts, people can be wrong. There is nothing wrong with admitting to our errors.

WRONG!
Apologies to Tesco for slagging them off about their lack of pickle awareness at this desperate time of year. Having enjoyed an unparallelled week of social activity, I could think of not better way to cap things off than by enjoying a trip to Tesco on Saturday night. Wandering around the aisles, I came across this:

Absolute pickle heaven. Despite not needing to, I bought two jars (just in case). At £1.48 each, this is a bargain compared to the £1.05 each for the smaller sized jars.

Of course, I still blame Tesco for having their pickle section split up across the store. This whole mess could have been avoided if their layout wasn't so confusing at times. They have half of them on top of the freezers, then another load of prime pickles stashed around a corner. Stupid tossers.


WRONG!
I was very wrong in thinking that I could eat half a jar of those things without feeling sick.


WRONG!
What the fuck else was I going to go on about? I was wrong to get a Samsung mobile phone; they are shit, totally and utterly shit.


WRONG!
I thought I'd put my contact lenses in and, unable to see, was struggling to straighten the left one. No matter what, I still couldn't see, so I took myself to the bathroom to take it out, give it a wash and try again. As much as I tried, I couldn't get the thing out and then something dawned on me: looking closely in the mirror, I realised that it wasn't there! This prompted a scramble round the dusty bathroom floor, where I found the thing, covered in fluff and rapdily shrivelling up from the heat of the nearby radiator. Quick rinse sorted it and it was right as rain.

Magic.

Sniffy Advent: Day the thirteenth

All I want for Christmas....
...Is YOUUUUUUUUUUUUUU, baaaaaybeeeee!!!

This is probably my saddest confession to date, but my favourite Christmas song of all time might just be scriking bitch Mariah Carey's All I want for Christmas is you. How bad is that?

Today's Sniffy Advent looks at that great money maker: The Christmas song.

Perhaps the definitive Christmas song is White Christmas, which I suppose is OK, if just a little mind numbingly boring. There's a strange point in the Advent period when Christmas songs suddenly switch from bringing about a response of "Oh, just fuck right off, you fucking shithead fucktards!" to "Dingalingalinga ding dong ding!".

This happened for me today.

Tonight was the Carols by candlelight service at Manchester Cathedral. Mother (awwww), Anna (grrrr) and a couple of her friends were going and I was giving them a lift into town and then having a pootle around. I thought it'd be nice to have some Christmas tunes on in the car, so I pulled a compilation together and stuck it onto a CD.

And these are the tunes that made it onto that CD. Some are shite and I've no idea why they're on there, but others are ace and they really make me feel very Christmassy.

1. Let it snow - Dean Martin
2. All I want for Christmas is yoooooooooooooou - Mariah Carey
3. Santa baby - Marilyn Monroe
4. Sleigh ride (dingalingalinga dinga ding dong ging!) - The Ronettes
5. Fairytale of New York - Pogues with Kirsty MacColl
6. In dulce jubilo - Mike Oldfield (shite)
7. Santa Claus is coming to town - Jacksons
8. Last Christmas - Wham!
9. Rocking around the Christmas tree - Ronettes (I think)
10. Jingle bell rock - no idea
11. I believe in Father Christmas - Greg Lake
12. The power of love - Frankie goes to Hollywood
13. Mary's boy child - Boney M (top fucking notchamundo!!)
14. Winter wonderland - Jewel (eh?)
15. I was born on Christmas Day - St Etienne
16. Mistletoe and wine - Cliff Richard (YAY!!!!!)*
17. Have yourself a merry little Christmas - Frank Sinatra
18. Christmas wrapping - The Waitresses
19. Merry (it's) Chrisssssssssssssssssssssstmas!!! - Slade
20. Do they know it's Christmas? - Band Aid

There are loads that I've missed, and before anybody goes on at me, I HATE that "Merry Christmas, war is over", it is bollocks. I haven't included some more recent ones that are quite good.

*At the said carol service this evening, there was a Cliff Richard impersonator (yes, Cliff Richard impersonator .... in a place of worship) singing Mistletoe and Wine. Not a dry seat in the house (due to bouts of incontinence as the congregation pissed themselves laughing).

Oh yeah, and I do promise to do a proper post when I get chance.

Sniffy Advent: Day, the twelfth

Christmas wouldn't be Christmas without decorating the house with bits of fake foliage and sparkly, glittery things.

I don't quite know the history and tradition around turning our homes into bizarre grottos, but I love it. Without having any exposure to these traditions, if somebody asked you to bring a tree into your house, to decorate with lights, tinsel, baubles and stick a fake fairy (or star) on top, you'd tell them to, with all due respect, fuck right off. If you were asked make garlands out of ivy and other winter greenery and drape these on your fireplace, or down your staircase, you'd think there'd been an escape from the local mental hospital and that you were conversing with escapee numero uno.

Utter insanity.

I guess it's all to do with Yuletide and shit like that, celebrating the midwinter and stuff. Fuck knows, it's just fun and there can't be much harm in that (unless you're a Labour local council and you have people who you wouldn't want to offend, but don't bother to ask them and just ban things to offend the majority and cause resentment all round).

Ahem!

So, today marked the start of the Sniffy preparations for bringing Narnia to our living room. A tree? In the living room?

A tree?

Living room?

Well, not a real tree, obviously. Ours is a fake one that has served us well for about seven years now. For eleven months of the year, the tree and the rest of the "winter festival" household adornments ("Christmas decs" to normal folk) live in the attic. Items designed to decorate and bring joy for a couple or three weeks are consigned to a part of the house that resembles a hostage cell. Because of the shape of the house, this cell is in a side attic that's accessed through a little door that's hidden behind a huge wardrobe in one of the bedrooms:

Skanky doorway to doom

So after the "Oh my God, the wardrobe's going to topple over!" trauma and the doorway to doom has been accessed, we're (I'm) met with this sight:

So, covered in dust, dirt and deadly spiders, you emerge with binbags of baubles and boxes of branches for the "assemble-it-yourself" tree. Some of the decorations are getting on for fifty years old, and they look it. I was tempted to go out and buy a whole load of new decs so as I wouldn't have to face the loft of doom. But there's something comforting in unwrapping the tissue-covered items each year and exclaiming to yourself "Oh yeah, I'd forgotten about that!" or, "I remember making this Miss Kershaw's class at primary school". Each item has its own particular place in the history of the Sniffy Christmasses past.

And once the tree is assembled and dressed with its assorted accoutrements. Once entering the living room makes you think that you're walking through an enchanted wardrobe into a land of perpetual winter, then you know that Christmas is well and truly on its way.

Sniffy Advent: Day the eleventh

A confusion of orange
Back when I were a lad, we were grateful if all we got for Christmas were an orange and a bag of nuts.

Traditionally, winter is orange season and it's at this time of year that you can get hold of some really good quality orange-coloured citrus fruit. Of particular note is the availabilty of the smaller variety of orangey things: tangerines; clementines and satsumas.

For some reason, you don't hear of tangerines anymore. This is a shame. As children, we'd always be given tangerines with our school dinners - much easier to peel than normal oranges, with a slightly sweeter flavour, these things were a real good treat for us all.

As I mentioned, you just don't hear of tangerines anymore. Instead, we get "satsumas", which I suspect are tangerines, but with a new name. Here are some satsumas in a particularly grotty kitchen:

Tangerines/satsumas are noted for their sweet yet deliciously sharp flavour and their wonderfully saggy skin that makes them a dream to peel. Moreover, they're generally seedless, so they're winners all round.

Unlike clementines. Clementines are rubbish fruits. They are too small, their skins are so tight that they're impossible to peel and they taste too sweet.

However, they're a very attractive crop because you get a huge yield per acre and the Spanish farmers are rapidly favouring clementines over tangerumas. British retailers are having to beg Spanish farmers to keep producing the crop that we in the UK favour.

Fucking Spanish, ruining our Christmas.

Bastards.

Money's too tight

I've been going a little heavy on the spending of late, so I thought I'd take advantage of the bikers' good natures and try to earn some extra cash at the North West Bikers' Charity Toy Run today:

Ho-ho-ho-only joking!

...Or am I?

Yes, so it was today. It was good fun, I was riding up front with the Midlife Crisis Motorcycle Club. Here are just a few of the photos I took. Yes I also took some while I was on the bike; most of them are either very blurred, or of things like treetops or tarmac.

Lots of people made an effort to dress up and there were a few of these:

There were some familiar faces (to people in the UK) there too. Here we have: TV doctor Chris Steel; Home Office Minister and Salford MP, Hazel Blears; Coronation street actors, Simon Gregson (Steve MacDonald) and somebody referred to as "Tyrone" and Bev Callard (Liz MacDonald):

In all, there were about 2000 bikes (normal motorbikes, choppers, trikes, scooters) and it's hoped that they'll raise more than last year's total of over £16,000 for Francis House Children's Hospice and loads of toys for the sick kids at Royal Manchester Children's Hospital.

Thanks to everyone who made a donation too: I've raised about £50-60. Not bad for doing very little, although I was very brave in taking those photos.

Sniffy Advent: Day, the tenth

Christmas dos and don'ts

There's a work's Christmas do coming to a close right now. A do that I could have gone to, but one that I really couldn't be bothered with. I've never really been comfortable with Christmas dos, and I'm certain that I'm not the only person on the planet who has had bad experiences of them.

In general, the work's Christmas party is an excuse to relax with your colleagues and enjoy a meal, perhaps have a few drinks and maybe even a disco, either organised as part of the do, or on a club afterwards.

Taking part in such activities is all well and good if you're amongst your friends, but the problem is that people you work with are not your friends - not all of them anyway. Worst still, there's usually somebody that you work with who you absolutely detest. On the other side of the coin, there may be somebody you work with who you fancy, but daren't approach for fear of the ridicule you'd face following a humbling public rejection. Moreso, there's always the desperate and lonely office minger who just wants a little bit of company so they don't have to spend another night alone: "Forty two in April and no bra... not bad eh?".

So faced with this unfortunate mix of people, the workers of the Western world enter the gladiatorial pit known as the Christmas party, with the boss watching over proceedings, mentally giving the thumbs up to some, while condeming others to a metaphorical beheading.

This is the first real weekend of office Christmas parties, this is where it starts to get serious. Monday will prove to be very difficult for some with knowing sniggers greeting some, apologetic e-mails others. Some may still be nursing the bruises from the scrap they had with Phil from accounts.


A long catalogue of Sniffy's Christmas don'ts
I had many embarrassing Christmas party encounters in the days when I still drank. I enjoyed myself immensely, but while the hangovers subsided after a day or so, the mortifying embarrassment lives with me to this day.

• 1988, Leeds University Union, Doubles Bar, with friends (fellow students): Triples were going for a ludicrously low price, I had my fill - and then some. I blanked out at this one and know nothing of doing the tango with my best friend. I woke up in my bed, fully dressed but covered in mud, the bowl beside me alerted me to the fact that I felt fucking dreadful. My friends told me that I had passed out in the toilets, and had to be carried home, but not without crawling on all fours for substantial distances. I was ill for two days afterwards. Never again!
• 1991, Warwick/Leamington Spa, PhD lab do (postgraduate students, PhD supervisor and his very posh family, post docs): The killer G&T did it. I was given two huge gin and tonics (about 80% gin) by my boss - on an empty stomach. I was a little bit nervous because I was around at his house with is very posh wife and very posh kids. I can't remember much, apart from mocking his kids, who had been telling "I say, I say, I say" jokes.
• 1995, Manchester, Post Doc lab do (scientists, clinicians, hangers on, technicians, PhD students) - I think I behaved myself at this one. Nobody has told me otherwise, so I must've done.
  
• 1996, Manchester, Post Doc lab do (as above in an Italian restaurant): Pissed out of my head on red wine, we all started a flaming Sambucca challenge, followed by a food fight, followed by more drinks in the pub next door, followed by... I can't remember.... waking up in bed covered in sick.
• 1997, Manchester, as above: Different restaurant - the "Jacob Marley" incident. Got very drunk, had a row with my equally drunk boss. Exchanges of "fuck off", and then it happened. My boss had actually left us, but returned to have regular updates, one of which was on the day of our Christmas do. Unfortunately, he'd really pissed me off at the meeting and, tongue loosened by a couple of litres of house red, I told him what I thought of him (or so I've been told). Despite the fact that he'd left, he kept coming back for one leaving do after another and this is where the Jacob Marley thing comes from. I said, "You're just like Jacob Marley you..." And when asked why, I said, "...because you keep coming back!"
• 1998, Manchester, as above (back at the first Italian restaurant): This was actually also a leaving do of sorts, so I got really rather drunk for a change. While I was relatively OK the following day, I couldn't fathom out why there was a huge red wine stain on the front of my cream-coloured top. A colleague kindly told me that a bearded colleague of ours, who enjoyed getting shitfaced on red wine, had approached me as I was about to leave. He said "I've really enjoyed working with you Tina, I'm really going to miss you." I am told that it was then that I grabbed his head and thrust his face into my cleavage, saying "Not as much as you're gonna miss these!"

And that was the last Christmas do at which I had a drink. Nothing like going out with a bang I suppose.

These days, things are much more sober and the Christmas "do" is now an afternoon meal. At Base 1, we leave the office at about 1pm and have meal at a nice restaurant in the city centre, after which we can either go home or stick around for a few drinks. This is OK with me because I'm not one for sticking around while people get drunk and enjoy themselves (yes, I'm jealous because I can't drink).

At Base 2a... Well, that do is so very special that I think it deserves its very own dedicated post.

Sniffy Advent: Day, the ninth

I have literally hundreds of bloggers telling me how good I am each day; that I am the best at this blogging business. And do you know what? I actually agree with them, I AM the best blogger on the planet.

"Oh no you're not!"

"Oh yes I am!"

"Oh no you're NOT!"

"Oh yes I fucking am!!"

"Oh no you're fucking NOT!!!"

"Oh yes I double fucking bastard AM!!!"

No, I'm not, it was like a bit of a joke to open the door to today's item in the Sniffy Advent:

The Pantomime

For those outside the UK, here's an introduction to what panto is all about from a website.

"Pantomime is a curious entertainment - a form of ritual theatre staged around the winter solstice. Originally silent (a form of mime), it is now anything but, with extensive vocalisation from both the performers and the audience.

The stories are generally well-known (drawn from popular folk-tales and similar sources), populated with stock characters, including a principal boy, generally played by a young lady with shapely legs, the heroine, also played by a young lady (which gives an added edge to the inevitable romance) and a dame, played by a man as an exaggeration of a lewd middle-aged lady. Scripts change from year to year, but generally contain four strands of humour: visual, topical, corny and downright rude. In the UK this is considered to be family entertainment."

We used to get dragged to pantos when we were kids and, as kids, you knew they were fucking dreadful even at that tender age. Imagine how awful it must be for accompanying adults to act interested with participatory shouts of "It's behind you!" when required.

The thing about panto that gets me is the amount of cross-dressing that goes on. As described above, you get a heroine, played by a pretty actress and a young hero boy, also played by a pretty actress. I always fancied the the principal "boy", simply because I thought I was supposed to. In the closing moments, hero and heroine get it together for some, well, errrm.... girl on girl action.

Explains a lot I suppose.

Having not been to a panto for years, I can't really get stuck into them here. However, they do seem to attract the dregs of British C and D-list celebs who, desperate for any exposure, crawl out of the woodwork to appear in panto in Reading, Swansea or Huddersfield. This year, Manchester is blessed with people I've never heard of in Cinderella at the Opera House and Peter Pan at the Palace. I won't be going.

Of course, one panto that I did enjoy (twice), was this:

All the characters from my favourite TV comedy show, the League of Gentlemen, in their own Panto, which I think is very loosely based on Jack and the Beanstalk.

"Oh no it isn't!"

"Oh yes it is"

"Oh n..."

"Just fuck off!"

"Yes, love. Is it, love? Hee, hee, hee"

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.

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.

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."

Fuck

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.

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.

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!

OH YES! Thank you Connie and God bless us everyone!

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).