Norfolkland update

Burnt to a fucking crisp

Almost drowned in the pool (they've got a pool!) - disturbing photos to follow (probs Saturday)

Having lots of fun

Nice part of the world, but strange accent and no mains gas or water drains

Norfolkland

Ooooower eeeeewer

Bootiful

Trakterrr

(I'm in a place called Hingham, south west of Norwich)

Boy, Mercury!

Off to Norfolkland for a week (bootiful).

Hopefully I won't get wiped out by a trakterrr or a fucking, twatting, bastard, cocksucking, tosspot wanker of a caravan on the epic journey down there, but if I do, Blogworld knows my wishes when it comes to my funeral: stay away unless you've got the shoulderpads to carry the coffin.

Check in for updates of my holiday; I'm sure those Norfolkfolk have plenty up their sleeves to keep my busy on here.

Ooower-eeewer.


I'll leave you with this to ponder over:

Any ideas?

Dreamland

People have different ideas as to what happens on their deaths. Many of these notions are based on religious beliefs and involve ascendency of spirits into heavens or other such-like afterworlds.

Personally, I think that the location of any spirit means nothing unless the memory of the deceased continues in the hearts and minds of the ones they left behind. This is quite important because it means that we atheists should really behave ourselves so that people know and remember us for being decent, rather than notorious.

Of course, one way to leave your mark is to have a FANTASTIC FUNERAL.
Recent events have meant that I've been thinking about my immortality. This doesn't bother me, I don't mind the idea of dying and I'm comfortable with it. Nonetheless, you really want to ensure that you have a great send off and I've been thinking about what I'd like for my funeral.


Horsey Hearse
As much as I hate these things - they're usually chosen for "precious angel" and gangster funerals - for dramatic effect, it'd HAVE to be a horse-drawn hearse for me.



An ebony coffin, draped in spiderplants and other Housemate Big Brother plants inside. A floral tribute to "Sniff" accompanies the casket.

The coffin is lifted from the hearse and carried slowly past the tranquil fountain and to the front of the chapel by, oh whoever can take the burden of responsibility for such a precious load.


The gruesome gathering
The mourners would have to be the entire cast of Dynasty and the Colbies.



Guest of honour would of course be Alexis Morrell Carrington Colby Dexter Rowan, who'd enter the chapel after all the others had taken their seats, her entrance silencing the vicar and turning heads of the weepy gathering who stare in wonder at the mysterious, veiled late arrival. At the front of the chapel she stops, turns to the distinguished, greying man. "Hello Blake".


"If I am [a bitch], take a lesson from me, you may need it in life."

Gasps from the pews; shocked and appalled at the audacity of the woman, the mourners mutter to each other. The odd distraught wail is thrown from that back, sniffs and nose-blows punctuate the silence. Krystal is really fucked off by being upstaged and seethes to herself.


The burial
No real mourners would be allowed, apart from the one person who loved me most; but there'd be a contractual arrangement that forces them to throw themselves onto my coffin after it's been lowered into the ground. They'd scream and cry that their lives couldn't go on without me. They'd be paid handsomly for this.


The scrap
Alexis and Krystal together and a fountain? Oh yes!


Get in there!


Music
There seems to be a trend for people to play music as the curtains close over a soon-to-be-blasted coffin, or as the casket is taken from the church to the place of burial. But what song would be most appropriate for the funeral of this Cakesniffer?

It'd have to be something that sends the congrgation into unconsolable floods of tears. I don't want anything that's been overdone, so no "I will always love you" or "Angels" for me! One of my friends already beat me to Beverly Craven's "Promise me", so I need to think of something good enough to upstage that.

Any suggestions from anybody out there?

We love each other

In honour of dear, absent friend, I thought it'd be fitting to pay tribute to the wonderous talent that is Herge Smith by posting this We love each other special that he created especially for Trillion's birthday.



Tina She was the prettiest girl I worked with in Sheffield. She was extraordinarily supportive when I went through a bad patch some years back. I will never forget that. After a couple of years, she moved to the North West and I followed. At her leaving do, she had about 20 very potent cocktails: she grabbed me round the neck and said something like: "You're the best friend anybody could hope for; in fact, you're very lickable". Then she licked my face. I've been hoping that she'd lick me again ever since.

Trillion She is deranged. She has a file on me under her bed that is about 4000 pages thick. Ionce asked her, when we first worked together, how she was. I only meant it as a greeting; she took it as a life-long declaration of friendship. She claims I once licked her, this is not true - in fact, the first time I ever visited her flat was when she kidnapped me. I cannot tell you the number of times she has drugged me and forced me to take part in "photo sessions" with her. It has been five years now. I do not think this is ever going to end. Craig Taylor


Itchy teeth
The moon is indeed a magical satellite: see the moon, touch the moon...

Yay! First post!

Oh God, the Finnish "Cakesniffer" people have found me (see I spy and some other previous posts).

They've left this delightful comment:

At 24 August, 2005 20:42, cakesniffer said...
Wow, took us quite a while to locate this sad post, but we dare say that you must be rather pissed off that you didn't think of using Lemony Snickets oh-so-not-belonging-to-you-name to your financial advantage.

Cheers!

To which I of course have retorted:

At 24 August, 2005 22:57, Tina said...
Yes, but I'm not the one who'll have to pay loads of compensation and royalties to Daniel Handler.

Cheers!

Wankers.

PS Music corner:

"Twenty five is the speed limit, and motorcycles aren't allowed in it"

Not the first line this time, but let's see how you get on - if anybody's reading. They're probably all over at "Yay! Cakesniffer" having a wild time and drinking elk pee.

Runnin' around

That's how it's been today and hence no super creation on here. Not that I could ever be accused of being creative or super.

It all seems a little quiet at the moment anyway and I feel like some of my best things could be wasted at the moment.

Car park charges
Anyway, I've got an exciting excursion to go on shortly: picking people up from the airport. Bearing in mind the flight is due in at 11.20pm, you'll watch its progress on the internet up to 20 minutes before it's due to land - no delays, everything going to plan - so you set off and pootle to the airport: find car park, gasp in shock and horror at the charges (first 20 minutes free then you can book an appointment with the mortgage advisor if it looks like you'll be staying more than an hour and a half), park up, wander into terminal building, hover under information point.

It's then that you see that the flight has mysteriously encountered a delay on approach to landing and it won't be touching down for another half an hour. So you're stood around, waiting and watching all the others who are there to pick up loved ones, the odd taxi driver hovers with their bit of card, displaying the name of passenger this or that. You keep glancing at the information board, checking the cash in your pocket and cursing your lack of foresight in not bringing your cash card to pay for the parking.

The people congregate where the passengers leave passport control. The door swings open, gasps of anticipation, more trolleys being brought through and alas no sign of a passenger. When they start to drift through, burnt to a crisp, wearing their holiday clothes in sub-zero Mancunian temperatures, you check their luggage tickets: are these from the same flight? Nope.

Always the last ones out, ALWAYS the last out. No reason for this, they're just S-L-O-W.

"Hello"

"Hi, nice holiday, good flight? A bit of a delay at the end there??"

"Yes, somebody faked an asthma attack so they could get off the plane before everybody else. We had to wait for them to find their bags before we could taxi to the gate. And the then there were no trolleys because some numpty had brought them all back out here for some reason. Do you want a coffee, something to eat?"

"It's 1am, I'm up for work in the morning, I'm tired, I can't afford the parking as it is. I WANT TO GO HOME! NOW!"

Fucking airports. Brings out the worst in people.

Gotta fly! Plane's due in in ten minutes and i'm about 20 minutes away from the airport!

Can you imagine...

... If were having an argument with somebody, things were getting heated with the potential it to become violent and they suddenly called you a "fucking twot!".

"Wot, wot, wot? Rather, I say!"

It just doesn't sound right.

It's NOT right.

But I'm starting a new trend with the introduction of the word "twot" into British English. I'm going to see how long it takes before somebody notices that I'm actually saying twat. This can be done on a number of levels, the challenge is to see how high up the food chain you can get and still get away with it.


It's great up north
Of course, cunt is often said to be the most offensive word EVER. So, imagine the fun you can have saying it, without actually saying it.

Many folk with a northern-ish English accent will abbreviate their spoken words, so that two or more become joined into one. Frexample, "isn't it" often becomes the word "innit", or even "intit". Now, it's the second of these that deserves closer inspection because you can have such a lot of fun when you say words such as isn't, wasn't by effectively deleting the "s" so that isn't becomes "int" and wasn't becomes "want". You see where this is going?

Well, when this Rule of the North is applied to the words, "wouldn't", "shouldn't" and "couldn't", the "ld" is ejected and we get:

"wunt"
"shunt"
and, fantastically,
"cunt"

Hence, simply by being northern, you can say "cuntit" to your heart's content! Cuntit is ace because it has the bonus of having two naughty words in one - cunt and tit.

See if you can get away with this with your own accents and report back to Cakesniffers with the results (or you P45s)


Summer of love
I've had a request to write some themed posts, based loosely on the titles of B52s songs. I need to go away and incubate over a coffee and a few episodes of The L Word. I may be back-ack-ack. I have already done Devil in my car, back in July when I wrote of my car stereo that turns its own volume up and down. I'll try to think up some more, there are plenty to choose from.

Ermm, has anybody else noticed that "Flag" button up there next to the "next blog" button? I'm surprised those fanny flyers and Ryan J haven't been along, click, click, clicking away! Fuck 'em.


Finally, the song contest:

"I come home in the morning light"

Salt n Pepa

Let me take a minute or two, and give much respect due...

To people who season their (my!) food properly.

Salt...
I can't stand it when people don't put any salt in food; it tastes fucking terrible without. Some things you can get away with adding salt at the table, but others you definitely can't - stuff like pasta, rice, boiled potatoes, or other vegetables that are cooked by immersion in boiling water.

Admittedly, I do got way over the top with the white stuff, but I do curb it when cooking for others. I had a nightmare of a lodger once who detested salt. She'd stand over me while I cooked our tea and she'd ration it - in MY home! There'd be a massive pan with about 3 litres of boiling water and she'd add a pinch of salt for cooking pasta or rice. A pinch. Fuck off out of my kitchen.

This is the fucktard who put barbecue fucking sauce on everything. Fucking twot.

But what is much worse than no salt is Lo Salt. Heysusss! You might as well chew on potassium. It tastes nothing like proper salt and burns your bastard fucking mouth off.


N Pepa
I like my food hot, or picante, if I'm going to be practising for the Eternal City. Chillies - love em. Pepper of any sort? I love it! But there's a time and place for black pepper. Black pepper is OK in pasta sauces, on pasta dishes, pizze (Italian again, you see?), and other things that I can't be arsed to think about. However, black pepper needs a good grinder, or you might as well chuck whole peppercorns on your food. It's not nice, those big bits of hotness getting stuck in the back of your throat and causing coughing fits. Or even worse, hiding in your teeth until you think it's safe when they dislodge themselves and grab you by the back of the throat and throw you to the floor and choke you.

Little bastards.

I like white pepper. White pepper has a place on salads, on delicious poached or boiled eggs, on red cabbage with shepherds pie, on peas or any other veg for that matter.


Hospital canteens
Hospital canteens no longer have condiments at the table; everything comes in fucking sachets instead - that you have to pay for. Little individual sachets of salt, pepper, vinegar, brown sauce. All extra. The worst thing is the pepper is always black and it's never ground finely enough.

Fucking bastards who produce and package this shit want shooting. It's even good stuff, it's the crap that you've never heard of. Vinegary brown sauce, pure acetic acid for vinegar. Jesus help us.

Vinegar in a sachet? Are you out of your tiny, minds? You get your chips, you need LOADS of salt and vinegar, not some shitty little plastic bag that spills all the vinegar when you finally tear it open.


Henderson's Relish
Anybody who's ever had the misfortune of living in Sheffield (Yorshire) and its environs may have come across this stuff. It's produced in a factory near the hospital where I used to work and every morning I had to walk past the place - it stank.

Henderson's relish is best described as worcestershire sauce that's been watered down with the strongest, nastiest vinegar you can possibly imagine.

They even try to disguise it as Lee and Perrins

A test of whether you come from Sheffield, or whether you have the potential to be a naturalised Sheffielderite .... whatever a person from Sheffield is called - a Shite? .... is to see whether you can have this shit on your food without getting really annoyed.

Annoyed? Annoyed at having something on your food? Yes, VERY fucking annoyed that you've spent good money for a pub lunch and that you've allowed some fucking tosser to persuade you try Henderson's fucking Relish on it, thus ruining your dinner and wasting your money and putting whoever cajoled you into an emergency ambulance on their way to the Northern General with a fork in their head.

It's no wonder my blood pressure is high - it's nothing to do with salt, it's because of tossers who arse about with my condiments! Fucking fuckers.

There's a moon in the sky...

It's called The Moon!

Yep, more pissing about with the new camera produced this little pic of the moon in all its glory last night.

Housesitting v squatting
Housesitting carries far too much weight of responsibility: there is a cat, a rabbit and some fish to look after; general safety and security of the house to take care of; unfamiliarity with the setup of the home - this encompasses TV, DVD, washing machine, location of consumables; and the whole thing of being somewhere, sort of out of duty takes a bit of the fun out of having a lovely place to myself for a week.

If I behaved with the attitude that I was squatting here, I wouldn't have to bother doing the pots, locking the doors, tidying up, turning lights off, etc. And I wouldn't be at all concerned with the fact that I can't get my clothes out of the washing machine because the door lock won't release, the CD drive in the PC seems to have died and the pond (with the fish) is losing water - lots of water, very rapidly.

Why do things go wrong when people in the know are so far away?

Fuck.

Return of the Consumer Champion Cakesniffer

With our economy being bolstered by retail, finance and service industries, competing companies simply must provide excellent customer service, or they'll go under.

Most people quite rightly hate being treated like spastics by complete numpties who are incapable of having a person-to-person conversation, insisting instead on reading the script from whatever their computer algorithm tells them is the truth.

It's very easy to complain about poor customer service, as I have done in the earlier days of Cakesniffing.

Following on from this terrible and life-changing experience with the complete wankers at GE Capital bank, I decided to test customer services departments of a number of companies. I only managed the one, with a query to a bakery chain about their strange choice in coating for ring doughnuts (glazed, as opposed to granulated sugar, would you believe?) and was satisfied that not all customer services teams are staffed by useless fuckwit retards whose degrees in politics, humanities or media studies got them exactly where we could've told them they'd be before they wasted 3 years and got £20,000 into debt.

Having experienced a bit of a delay and some confusion about the status of an order from Amazon UK, I am reassured that word of my campaign for better customer support seems to have been spreading after my previous dealings with finance cunts and sticky bakeries: Amazon have got it sorted. Despite having to negotiate a near impossible maze of menus to get to e-mail somebody (makes the final level of Doom, where you're up against the big fast monster, seem like childsplay), the response you get is pretty good. As a result, I got my new camera for a tenner cheaper than the list price PLUS I was given a £7.50 voucher because of the mither.

And it arrived today...

The Canon Powershot S2 IS.

It's not too pretty, but it's bloody clever!



Otto told me to fuck off when he saw me get it out:

I took a photo of myself with my old camera with it:

Ho, ho, ho, this girl knows how to have a good time!

And, it's got a mad zoom on it (12x optical) that can see tiny things from far away as if they're close to (that being what a zoom does):

So no doubt there's lots of fun ahead.

Talking of fun. Watching The L Word earlier, it was interesting to note that some women were pronouncing that fantastic, Anglo-Saxon word "twat" as "twot". Come on then, come clean. Is there anybody out there who pronounces twat as twot? It sounds much better and much more cutting as TWATT, don't you think?

Houseplant Big Brother: The eviction

Following Cakesniffers' introduction to the contestants in the 2005 Houseplant Big Brother competition, tensions were running high in houseplant land when the votes came in for the eviction of one of the sorry examples of domestic foliage.

Fucking pathetic, the lot of them

Well, the votes are in and the evictee from the house of plants is HOUSEMATE 5: Spider plant 3, or "Spider", as it had become affectionately known during its stay in the house.

Spider

Over the past few weeks, Spiderplant 3 had become one of the more popular housemates amongst the rest of the contestants, often acting as counsellor for the peace lilly and weeping fig. I spent all day trying to avoid telling this contestant the bad news, I knew I had to do it, but turning round and facing up to the responsibility was difficult.

Sniffy dilemma

Will you break the bad news for me?

Nonetheless, it got booted out and andtransported up here to Trillionland to start its new life. With publicist Max Clifford taking charge, it's going to be all change for this special housemate as it embarks on a new career as a glamour model for fortnightly magazine, "Which Houseplant". Max wasn't at all purturbed by the obvious heavily gravid nature of Spider, "Hey, it's the pregnant ones that bring in the most cash", he quipped when questioned.

Fair enough then.

So, onto the first photoshoot for Spider and straight into the watersports. Just look at that natural charisma in front of the lens - WLEO: Cameras and Spider!

Loving that spray!

Nice work, Spider, you've surprised a lot of people.

Next up: Spider gives birth.

Cakesniffer gets Blog star treatment

Blog Star Herge has made superstars of many people in his wonderful Over to you Friday blogging spectacular.

Here's what happened when I gave him a photo and a bit of information about my relationship with my cat Max.

Check out more by visiting:

Dalek & Borg by Dr Max

The truth via greeting card, by CK

The Librarian Degree, by Dave

The Monday Interview, by Invisible Lizard

Missing Scenes from Star Wars and another Missing Scene from Star Wars by Steve Dix

The Truth via Greetings Card, and Never Trust a Dalek and Dalek and Borg by Lord Bargain

We Love Each Other, by Garfer

What's yur take on Ghosts by MHN for short

Missing Scenes from Star Wars by Swiss Toni

The Librarian Degree by Edwaado

We Love Each Other by Faltanus

Your mate Dave by Spirit of Owl

The Librarian Degree by Ship Creak

This work is something else and deserves a lot of credit.

Thanks love, you're ace.

Shocked and appalled

I am too shocked and appalled to post anything this evening.

I happened to watch 4 episodes from the first series of The L Word this evening and I really don't know what to do with myself.

After watching the pilot DVD in stunned silence, I had to check a few episodes on disk 2 of the four DVD set, just to make sure that my eyes hadn't deceived me. Indeed they hadn't: hour upon hour of what can only be described unnatural FILTH.

Women... with each other! All those erect nipples, the touching, caressing, kissing. Even glistening bodies in the throes of passion. In close up!

I had to turn off. But I'm going to have to check the other DVDs in the set to make sure that they're all as bad before I write a full complaint to the distributors.

Disgusting, really disgusting.

Poetry and dance

Now, here are two of the "arts" that haven't had the Cakesniffer treatment just yet. Maybe it's because I really can't suss them out.

All I get is a reaction, and that reaction is not good. That reaction is: subarachnoid haematoma

Perhaps I need poetry explaining to me, not poems, but the entire concept itself. If you want to say something, just fucking say it. Don't piss about with whatever it is (iambic pentameters??) that leave things open to interpretation, just spit it out and get on with it, for Christ's sake. By leaving things open to interpretation, you're automatically inviting a load of namby-pamby, arty-farty, up their own arse, goatee-bearded, pointy-nosed critics to come in and try to analyse each line of prose; to climb into the words and be with them; to wear the poem. WANK!

A pome, by Cakesniffer:

Safari park
Stately home
Shopping
Saturdays
Spent with you

....
Nope, nothing there. Can't do it. It must be my scientific mind.

How about a haiku?

Ass full of pork fat
Wobbles like a jelly mold
Mouth is flapping too

This was Stan's ode to Cartman

How do people actually enjoy this crap?


Dance
Dance, then, wherever you may be. I am the Lord of the Dance, said He.

Yeah, right.

I don't get it, I do not get it. And around the globe, little girls dream of being ballerinas. They long for an anorexic existence, being constantly punished by women with big sticks like Lydia Grant from Fame (I want to live forever, in a leotard, with thrush). All to express themselves through the Dahnce, dahling.

I really don't understand what people get out of such a performance, or do they just go because they enjoy the music?

"Hey Tina, I've got two £100 tickets for the Royal Ballet, would you like to come?"

"Hrrrrm, let me think about that. NO!"

I'd really rather die than go to see dance in ANY form. Or any performance art for that matter, including poetry recitals.

Dance and poetry, I'm almost crying at the thought.

No, no, no!

Toddler tantrums

If a child has a tantrum and throws themselves to the floor, is it OK to kick them really hard while they're down there?


Just been to the WONDERFUL Shopping City where about 4 or 5 little dahlings had completely lost it and done a dying swan. It'd be so nice to give them a swift boot and knock some sense into the squealing little bastards.


What the fuck was it?


Many bloggers were in utter confusion by the picture that was posted here last night. Well, it's time to reveal the answer...


Actually, it was this:


Edwaado got it right with baboon's arse, so CORRECTAMUNDO! You're star for the day.

And Herge's answer of "prolapse" wasn't far off either.

Fuck me, if somebody had an arse like that, you wouldn't want to be in the same room as them, let alone examine the fucking thing at close quarters.

But thanks again to the South Lakes Wild Animal Park for looking after such wonderful creatures so we can all take the piss out their arses.

Get us out from under....

Wonder Woman

All the world is waiting for you,
And the power you possess.
In your satin tights,
Fighting for your rights
And the old Red, White and Blue.

Wonder Woman, Wonder Woman.
Now the world is ready for you
And the wonders you can do.

Make a hawk a dove,
Stop a war with love,
Make a liar tell the truth.

Wonder Woman,
Get us out from under, Wonder Woman.
All our hopes are pinned on you.
And the magic that you do.

Stop a bullet cold,
Make the Axis fall,
Change their minds, and change the world.
Wonder Woman, Wonder Woman.
You’re a wonder, Wonder Woman.

"Get us out from under Woman Woman"? Are they fucking mad??? You're under Wonder Woman, you stay there as long as you can!

See-through bosoms

Firstly, don't be worried about this post, I thought everyone knew that I've been having a breast lump looked at. I've had it for years and it's nothing to worry about. This is the story of my second trip to th'ospital today.

Secondly, for something far more interesting and better written than this, check out what Garfer has to say on the latest in the UK-Canada "Hands across the sea" cultural exchange at Tunnock's Teacakes Forever.

--------------------------------------------------

It's not often that a girl gets the opportunity to have an in-depth look at her own norks, but I did today.

Having a mammogram has to be one of the most uncomfortable things that a woman can go through. The radiographer stands you in position, pulls you about, moves your arms around and handles your breasts like they're lumps of dough (that's what mine are like). And then they get squished to fuck as the x-ray is taken.

It's quite weird because they're squashed between bits of transparent perspex, so you can see them in their flattened state. Weird. I'd heard that it was agonisingly painful, but I just found it uncomfortable and embarrassing. Then again, my mum's chest is a lot more substantial than mine so there's a lot more to squish in.

It's all very odd because you have to stand there, naked from the waist up, and talk to this complete stranger as if it's perfectly normal to have your tits out. Fucking horrible.

Anyway, because it's all digital and snazzy (quite new equipment, apparently), you get to see the images instantly. And there they were: left and right Snifferbaps top and side-on. They actually looked a decent shape for a change (I wonder if Marks's are thinking of doing perspex "Mammosquash" bras as the latest trend in foundation garments?).

And there it was: my lump. It looked really big, surprisingly so, and I actually got a bit scared, but I had no time to dwell because the next humilation awaited me: Ultrasound.


Radio gaga
I think radiologists are having a laugh. These people are 21st century soothsayers - don't let their hitech equipment fool you. How on earth they can fathom anything from that grey messiness is beyond me. It's like looking at an out of tune TV, but there they are, saying that "it's 1.7cm, with a pointed top and it's nice and defined at the bottom edge.... "

????

I'm sure they make it up.

Thank fuck for histology, that's all I can say, I haven't a clue how they get anything remotely useful from an ultrasound. They must be very skilled people, or they're all LIARS, CHARLATANS, IMPOSTERS!!!! Imposters with jelly on their hands (that stuff is very cold and it gets everywhere).

Anyway, all the histology has come back as benign and the radiologist was happy with it too, although she did say "It's nice and well defined underneath, but it's in the grey area between something and something else (I was in Charlie Brown mode and not paying attention - it's difficult to concentrate with gel on your tits) up here, but that's probably where the biopsy was taken". Y'what?

But it seems OK, which is what I knew anyway. I think.

Unfortunately, I didn't get a copy of the mammogram, I should've asked them to e-mail to me so I could post it for you all to see. This'll have to do instead:



Fuuuuuuuck, this was almost like a proper blog post. I apologise, it won't happen again.

What on earth is this?

Any guesses as to what this is?

Answers tomorrow.

Meanwhile, since the most popular song in history was mistakenly chosen for my lyrics experiment, I'm going to try with something that I hope is a little more obscure, but one that everybody should know.

Ok, here goes...

"All the world is waiting for you"

Remember, anybody who wants to contribute a line, try to do just one at a time. I do realise how difficult this is when you all have music in your hearts, driving your every pulse, but try to restrain yourselves.

I'm finding it hard myself! I'm almost bursting with excitement.

Sniffy Experimentals: Keep it going

I'd like to build the world a home

BBC NEWS | England | Merseyside | Confused lions 'hunt' small cars

BBC NEWS England Merseyside Confused lions 'hunt' small cars

"I've got my Mini Cooper and I'm feeling super duper"

Yeah, I bet you are!

Fuckin' ace, I love wildlife.

Canadian Cakesniffer

As the Church of the 12th night Cakesniffers gathers members around the globe, a special new centre in British Columbia, Canada, has been funded with contributions made by its generous members.

Sister April Pissoff is rabbimam in chief there. She's available round the clock to guide new flocksters with her words of wisdom and colourful, yet degrading, language.


Thank you Sister April Pissoff. Any excuse to distribute these photos around the web.

Apparently, these t-shirts are quite the thing to be seen in. Who'd have thought it?

Motoring mismatch again and again

It's just WRONG

Some things are just not right: there are lots of really nice-looking cars on the road, cars that - because of your own prejudices - you associate with certain people.

For example, imagine seeing any of these vehicles:

Being driven by any of these people:

It's just not right. It's basically very wrong to the point that it makes me tut and shake my head at the drivers. That'll tell 'em!

This says more about me than it does about them, but people of a perceived social background, age, occupation, sex or even weight just don't look good or even right in certain cars. In fact, the only vehicles some people would look good in are bendi-buses, herses and ambulances.

What really pisses me off is when I pass the disabled parking bays near the entrance to a shop, that are occupied with brand new, MASSIVE four wheel drives and people carriers - this is usually after driving round for a bit and eventually parking at furthest point and walking to shop in a downpour. I'm sorry, but if you're disabled and can't work a) how come you can afford such a nice new motor, and b) if you're disabled, how the fuck do climb up to get into one of those things?

Jealousy? To some extent I suppose, but more annoyance at paying taxes that fund other people's luxuries when I have nothing to treat myself with after I've paid all my bills.

Not that I'm fussed about being able to park right near the entrance to a shop; it's just that a lot of people "with disabilities" who you see jumping in and out of these huge vehicles appear to have fuck all wrong with them.

And then there are "parent with child" spaces. FUCK RIGHT OFF!

The UK's retail industry is bending over backwards to help parents with children to such an extent that its spine must surely be at breaking point. It's got to the stage now that, at most supermarkets, there are only a couple of rows of parking bays left for able-bodied, childless people - and these bays are usually full of shopping trollies where the lazy fucker parents dump theirs because they can't be arsed to walk all the way to the trolly park.

There have been occasions when the entrance to Asda (Walmart-owned UK supermarket chain for scumbags) car park has been gridlocked because of fucktards in people carriers queuing up and waiting for parent with child spaces near the store front to become vacant when the rest of the car park has been empty. They're just too fucking lazy, stupid and inconsiderate to walk the extra 15 seconds to the bloody shop.

"But it's really difficult with all the kids and their carry cots and stuff". My response to this is a) generations of parents coped before people had cars let alone people carriers, before all these dedicated spaces, etc, etc, etc and b) if it's so fucking difficult, why the fuck have you got 4 of the little bastards (all the girls wearing pink of course)? Surely you'd have known it was hard after the first two!

Stupid, selfish wankers.

Pious parents
Of course, one of the great many things about our population of pampered parents is their sense of right and wrong.

It's completely unacceptable for women to drive their kids the half mile to school in a four wheel drive, but it's absolutely essential for them to do the same journey with their precious little darlings in an equally large people carrier.

The things you see when you haven't got a rocket launcher

Fucktard, wanking tosspots. They should all be sterlised and their kids taken into St Cakesniffer's Academy for Social Modelling & Pickle Research Centre.

Upside-down Cake(sniffer)

It must be freaky being a bat. Seeing the world upside-down, apart from when you right yourself to go toilet (it only takes once to learn not to poo or wee while your arse is above your head).

Seeing people's faces upside-down completely freaks me out, even more so if they're talking. It's the way all the features seem oddly independent of each other. The way that face no longer belongs to the person who's looking at you, as if it's their doppleganger.

Freaky deaky.

Of course, some people's faces look a bit like they're upside-down anyway...

I wonder if the Soviets or the Nazis conducted experiments into suspending children upside-down as they grew? I shudder to think what the consequences might've been...

Collateral damage

It's very dangerous, living with wild animals. Last night, I was the innocent victim of crossfire in an unprovoked attack on Sonny by stupid fucker Otto.

Sonny (fucktard Otto looks on from the photo)

I have this policy of not removing my shoes until the very last minute before going to bed, but unfortunately, this was the precise time that the little one-eyed dickhead decided to pounce, using my unprotected toes as his springboard.

Almost lost it

It REALLY hurt. In the minutes that followed, he was called: you little fucker; you stupid little bastard; shithead; nobhead cat; fucking wanking cunting arsehole, one-eyed fucker.


Pain
There are some pains that leave you helpless as all your nocireceptors fire at once, sending the blood flowing to the affected area, setting your heart racing and your head pounding. During those moments, it feels like your brain could implode with the agony. You're left breathless by the experience.

Such pain is experienced in the following circumstances:

• Biting the inside of your mouth
• Stubbing your toe
• Bashing your freezing cold fingers against a hard object, or trapping them in a door
• Kneecapping
• Having 4kg of cat scraping his claws over your unprotected feet

A kind of blind panic accompanies this pain: you run and scream (in your head), and for some reason, holding your breath seems like a logical thing to do.

Slugs
I hate slugs. These bastards eat all the best and most expensive plants in the garden, but never touch dandelions or other weeds. Cocks.

They aren't even imaginative enough to grow a shell.

In the bad old days of heavy industry, coal fires and other such carbon-derived pollution, the slugs round here were pitch black. I remember going on a school holiday to the north Wales countryside and I remarked at the brown slugs they had there.

Curbs on the burning of fossil fuels, and the general preference for gas and electric domestic energy, has resulted in a change in our slug population. No longer are they sleak and black and interesting. No, these days they are brown and insipid, almost transparent.

Check these nastry little bastards out:

Oh look, a slug race. I can hardly contain my excitement...

...Five minutes later, I think he's gaining on her

That's right, ignore the fucking dandelion and head for the lillies - bastard!