Green means...

...proceed with caution

All drivers find themselves queuing at traffic lights on a daily basis. You've already been unsuccessful in getting through one set of lights, but if people in front of you get a wriggle on, you should easily get through the next set when they change back to green.

You wait for what seems an age. You're being patient though; the car's in neutral, the handbrake is on, you've had a shit journey so far, but you're nearly home now. Watching the other set of lights, you see them change from green, to amber, to red. You see red and amber and then green on your set of lights.

OK, we're off! Depress clutch, engage first gear, hand ready on brake lever and wait...

... and wait

... and wait

... and, oh we're moving

amber

red

... and, oh we've stopped again

It has taken the person at the front of the queue ten seconds to realise that the lights have changed to green, a further two to register what to do to get their car moving, another five to start moving - very, very, very slowly - and then they decide to turn the corner, very, very slowly. Another car gets through the lights behind them, but the remaining traffic stays put, having moved all of 5 metres forward.

Why?

Why can't people just watch the lights, be ready (that's what red and amber means), then GO GO GO! (with caution, of course) when the green light comes on? Why does it take so fucking long for people to set off at traffic lights, and why can't people turn corners at more than 2 miles an hour? Why don't they just bloody walk?

Fuckers.

Tossers.

Spazzes.

Fucking about with stuff

For years and years - we're talking decades here - British pedestrians have been able to cross the road in relative safety by means of the Pelican Crossing. A great device whereby you press a button and wait for the red man on the stick over the road to change to green, but DON'T START CROSSING IF HE STARTS TO FLASH! I think it makes sense not to cross towards any man who's flashing at you, irrespective of his colour.

Anyway, The Mysterious They (whoever they are), have started to change things. Dont know why, but they have. We're now getting so-called intelligent "Puffin Crossings" instead.

After being brought up to look at the man over the road, we now have to search through crowds of people to see if we can see the man on our side of the road. So instead of having an angle of 180° to look at in front of you, we have to face away from the traffic, turn away from the road and look through the people stood next to us to try to catch a glimpse of him. By the time you've noticed that he's been on green, he's already turned back to red. They also position the traffic lights so you can't see what colour they're on either. You are totally at the mercy of the green man, should you be fortunate enough to be able to see him

Fucking idiots who thought this up want extremely high voltages pumped through their heads until they see the error of their ways. Why fuck about with a system that has worked perfectly well for decades? Moreover, why fuck about with it and introduce something that isn't nearly as safe?

It's because they want to control you. They think that people aren't clued up enough to realise that, if all the traffic lights are on red, it's safe to cross. Instead, you get so frustrated with hanging around for ages not knowing what's going on that you just go for it anyway.

Well done! Fucktards.

Ho, ho, ho!
After yesterday's whinge about being on mail distribution lists for loads of crap jokes and shit, I got this today...

Read before opening image

E-mail distribution lists are great ways of sharing stuff that’s not too personal with a number of friends or acquaintances (past and present). Things that usually get sent round are jokes, funny photos or video clips, Powerpoint slideshows – stuff like that. The e-mails have subject headings like “Really hilarious” or “It’s for real, pass it on”.

Funny stuff is sometimes good, although it gets tiresome when you end up getting sent the same thing by every person who has you in their mailing list. And you’re expected to find it funny the eighteenth time you receive it.

However, I really cannot stand it when I get sent something that starts off:

“To The People In My Life.....

I am sending this to you to see how many actually read their email. Your response will be interesting. Pay attention to what you read. After you have finished reading it, you will know the reason it was sent to you. Here goes:

People come into your life for a reason, a season or a lifetime…”

I’m quite certain that I don’t need to continue.

Why do people send this crap out? If you were truly somebody’s friend, but circumstances meant that you didn’t see much of them, you’d send them an e-mail or even pick up the phone and you’d tell them what’d been going on, ask the same of them. Perhaps you’d arrange to meet up or something. Could you imagine if you phoned a distant friend and said:

“People come into your life for a reason, a season or a lifetime. When you know which one it is, you will know what to do for that person. When someone is in your life for a REASON, it is usually to meet a need you have expressed. They have come to assist you through a difficulty, to provide you with guidance and support, to aid you physically, emotionally or spiritually. They may seem like a godsend and they are. They are there for the reason you need them to be …blah, blah, blah

Some people come into your life for a SEASON, because your turn has come to share, grow or learn. They bring you an experience of peace or make you laugh. They may teach you something you have never done. They usually give you an unbelievable amount of joy. believe it, it is real. But only for a season.

LIFETIME relationships teach you lifetime lessons, things you must build upon in order to have a solid emotional foundation. Your job is to accept the lesson, love the person and put what you have learned to use in all other relationships and areas of your life. It is said that love is blind but friendship is clairvoyant.

Thank you for being a part of my life, whether you were a reason, a season or a lifetime.

When I hang up, please phone all your friends in your address book and tell you how much you value their friendship, then get them to do the same.”

Stunned silence on the other end of the line…. Click

What an utter pile of wank. This is on a par with that fucking e-mail of the cartoon baby dancing about with Groove Armada’s “I see you baby” playing in the background. The people who send this stuff are the types who have customised stationery for Outlook html e-mail messages (you know, pictures of Ivy trailing down the side of the message window). The people who send these things never delete the previous messages so there’s usually a list of 20 badly formatted


>>>>>>Try this,
>>>>>>> it was
>>>>>>>>>really funny
>>>>>>keep scrolling
>>>>>>right to the end

e-mails before you finally get tot the joke.

The stuff in these shitty e-mails is spam; it is designed to clog up networks and waste resources. I am convinced that spam of this nature is created by international terrorists who are determined to disrupt our everyday lives in the Western World.

People who call themselves your friend, but then send you this shit deserve to die, horribly. They are in cahoots with terrorists and should be hunted down and shot. The thing is though, they have you stuck between a rock (called Dwayne) and a hard place because you daren’t block them because of the funny things they also send you. BASTARDS!

Some Cakesniffers do 'ave 'em!

Mothers!

You can't live with 'em, you wouldn't be alive without 'em.

As much as the vast majority of people adore their mums, mums are still one of the most frustrating and annoying creatures to walk this planet.

Take Connie. Please, somebody take Connie! Connie is my mum. She has two other offspring, a husband and four cats. She's now in her seventies and I would describe her as a lady rather than as a woman, simply because of her morals and values. I'd be tempted to describe her in other ways if discussing her "mum farts".

Anyway, Connie is ace, but she's a complete fucking pain in the arse whenever there's something wrong with her. She simply refuses to seek medical help and would rather suffer in agony than go to the doctor.

For the past 36 hours, Connie has been suffering in agony with abdominal pains. Last night, the locum doctor service told us to call an ambulance but she refused, wouldn't let us. I could've throttled her. I was looking for something to drug her with so we could bundle her in the back of an ambulance a la Mr T: "I ain't goin' in no ambulance, fool!"

However, she did promise to call her own GP this morning if she felt no better.

After a sleepless night, I went to work and cancelled the training course I was supposed to be delivering this morning so I could get home and stand over her while she phoned for the doctor. Anyway, she did and he came and diagnosed severe gastritis and prescribed something to hopefully sort it out.

Great! Let's hope that's the correct diagnosis and that she makes a full recovery.

Let's hope she makes a full recovery so that, when she's better, I can shout at her for not going to the hospital last night and, instead, putting me a situation where I had to stand face to face and have a conversation with a doctor who has seen and felt my tits!

The embarrassment!

In honour of April: Shag of the undead

A lively discussion ensued after Blog Goddess, April Pissoff, revealed that her shag of the week for this week was none other than some bloke called Dwayne, aka "The Rock".

Being a dutiful partner in the Hands across the sea Canadian/Cakesniffer Cultural Exchange Programme, I thought it only right to warn April what she was letting herself in for with Dwayne:

Suck-a-fuck!

Americans repent

Thanks to The Whinger for highlighting this to me. I'm not one for bothering with this sort of shit, but some bits made me laugh and I had to share them.

There's an American website that's run by some friendly fundamentalist Christian organisation (I'm being a coward and not even MENTIONING their name because I've had enough of arguing with wankers). Anyhoo, this lot are blaming recent natural disasters in the US on the unholy peddlers of unnatural and disgusting acts: queers.

Here's a taster (apols for the length, but they don't half go on a lot):

PHILADELPHIA - Just days before "Southern Decadence", an annual homosexual celebration attracting tens of thousands of people to the French Quarters section of New Orleans, Hurricane Katrina destroys the city.

"Southern Decadence" has a history of filling the French Quarters section of the city with drunken homosexuals engaging in sex acts in the public streets and bars. Last year, a local pastor sent video footage of sex acts being performed in front of police to the mayor, city council, and the media. City officials simply ignored the footage and continued to welcome and praise the weeklong celebration as being an "exciting event".

However, Hurricane Katrina has put an end to the annual celebration of sin.

On the official "Southern Decadence" website (www.SouthernDecadence.com), it states that the annual event brought in "125,000 revelers" to New Orleans last year, increasing by thousands each year, and up from "over 50,000 revelers" in 1997. This year’s 34th annual "Southern Decadence" was set for Wednesday, August 31, 2005 through Monday, September 5, 2005, but due to massive flooding and the damage left by the hurricane, Louisiana Governor Kathleen Blanco has ordered everyone to evacuate the city.

"Although the loss of lives is deeply saddening, this act of God destroyed a wicked city," stated director Michael Marcavage. "From 'Girls Gone Wild' to 'Southern Decadence,' New Orleans was a city that had its doors wide open to the public celebration of sin. From the devastation may a city full of righteousness emerge," he continued.

New Orleans was also known for its Mardi Gras parties where thousands of drunken men would revel in the streets to exchange plastic jewelry for drunken women to expose their breasts and to engage in other sex acts. This annual event sparked the creation of the "Girls Gone Wild" video series.

Furthermore, Louisiana had a total of ten abortion clinics with half of them operating in New Orleans, where countless numbers of children were murdered at the hands of abortionists. Additionally, New Orleans has always been known as one of the "Murder Capitals of the World" with a rate ten times the national average.

"We must help and pray for those ravaged by this disaster, but let us not forget that the citizens of New Orleans tolerated and welcomed the wickedness in their city for so long," Marcavage said. "May this act of God cause us all to think about what we tolerate in our city limits, and bring us trembling before the throne of Almighty God," Marcavage concluded. "[God] sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust." (Matthew 5:45)


This is like something somebody would write if they were asked to write a comedy sketch about fundamentalist Christian fruitcakes. Absolutely brilliant.

Anyway, they invite comments at their website (link via The Whinger's). I'm quite sure that they keep all comments without censoring them because there's a whole spectrum of views on show.

Idiots.

FOOOOOOK!

I'm almost addicted to checking out the visitors to this blog: you can see most IP addresses and the ISPs using the site meter thing. It's quite good fun and you don't get too depressed when you realise that, on your best hit day, 78 of your 84 visitors were only passing through - Page views 1, Visit length 0.00.

Shame.

Then you look one day and you see this (apols for crappy alignment):


Cakesniffers beware!Recent Visitors by Visit Details
Detail Domain Name Visit Time PageViews Visit Length
81 mail20.nhs.uk Sep 25 2005 9:09:45 pm 3 9:25

"Oh fook!" I thought when I saw it. That's the ISP/IP address for the NHS (that I work for), although I doubt it's the organisation that I work for.

I always get really paranoid when NHS types read this blog.

I could be a lot worse about my colleagues here, in fact I don't actually do work in this blog - just the annoying shit that colleagues get up to and examples of what utter farts some of them can be. It's just that, although anybody who knows me would instantly recognise this as being mine, I'd rather that the vast majority of folk who know me never read this. This is mainly out of fear that they'd they'd think I was a sad fuck for doing it, but also because it would probably affect stuff that I'd think about doing in the future.

Hrrrmmmm.


Yes or no? Now edited with my preferences
Squids: FUCKIN' DELISH!!! Can't get enough of it, but it makes your poo smell very odd
Olives: FUCKIN' DELISH!!!! All varieties, but the big, fat, green mothers with herbs and garlic are supreme
Piccalilly: FUCKIN' DELISH!!! Or is it???? Sweet piccalilly is vile. However Haywards is THE BEST (especially with crumbly Lancashire cheese)
Twiglets (been discussed elsewhere): FUCKIN' DELISH!!!!
Nose-picking: Disgusting, but I'm sure we all do it in private (I like the big ones that feel like they're pulling bits of brain with them too)
Quick cook pasta: No
Chinese-style spare ribs: Yes on the flavour, no on the messiness. Can't stand messy food.


Musical interlude - I just KNOW you can't wait for the rest of the lyrics, so I've added them too.

Hand on your heart, Kylie Minogue 1989

[INTRO:]
Put your hand on your heart and tell me
That we're through, ooh
Oh, put your hand on your heart
Hand on your heart

Well it's one thing to fall in love
But another to make it last
I thought that we were just begining
And now you say we're in the past
Oh, look me in the eye
And tell me we are really through
You know it's one thing to say you love me
But another to mean it from the heart
And if you don't intend to see it through
Why did we ever start
Oh, I wanna hear you tell me
You don't want my love

[CHORUS:]
Put your hand on your heart and tell me
It's all over
I won't believe it till you
Put your hand on your heart and tell me
That we're through, ooh
Oh, put your hand on your heart
Hand on your heart

They like to talk about forever
But most people never get the chance
Do you wanna lose our love together
Do you find a new romance
Oh, I wanna hear you tell me
You don't want my love

[CHORUS:]
Put your hand on your heart and tell me
It's all over
I won't believe it till you
Put your hand on your heart and tell me
That we're through, oohOh,
Put your hand on your heart
Hand on your heart

Poetry. She hasn't done anything better since.

Kosher for my kitty?

Pet food comes in all sorts of flavours and combinations of flavours. A selection box of Felix or Whiskas will have varieties such as beef, chicken, lamb, duck and heart, rabbit, tuna, plaice, etc.

Cat food never comes in pig flavour. I don't think dog food does either. In all the years I have shared my home with cats, I have never come across pork, bacon or ham flavoured cat food.

Pork-quois?

I've no idea.

Is it the result of a feline taste-test over at Pedigree Masterfoods? Well, no. My cats eat pork and ham, they love it.

Is there a world-wide shortage of porkers? No, it's not as if pigs are rare - we're not talking about squid or lobster, it's pork. Surely rabbits are harder to stuff into a can of Felix than a bit of pork loin. Lamb is more expensive, as is beef.

I can only conclude something disturbing and this is that there are simply no bits of pig left after it's all been used for chops, sausages, pork pies, bacon, ham and the rest.

Either that, or it's something to do with religious sensitivity. But why? Some people are vegetarians yet they still feed their cats meaty things. Some people object to killing Thumper and friends, but they don't mind giving it to their cats. And surely if it was related to religious regions then all cans of cat and dog food would be declared Kosher or Halal and there'd be no shrimp flavoured varieties either.

Pet owners need an explanation NOW!

I wonder if you can get seal and grizzly bear varieties in Canada?

Deadly decisions

I hate cyclists - this is something that I've never hidden. For a lot of motorists, cyclists and buses are a complete pain in the arse; they take up too much of the road, keep stopping, cyclists swerve in and out of traffic, they don't obey the rules of the road - I could go on.

Should I or shouldn't I?

Anyway, I've taken to pondering of late and I've decided to buy a bike. I've got one on order, I could be dead within a fortnight, having not ridden a bike in over 20 years. I've never ridden a bike that had gears. I have never ridden a bike on the road. This is the bike I'll be getting (I wanted a black or red one, but it only comes in blue):

Vehicle of my doom

What sort of cyclist should I be?

Lycra-clad Nazi on two-wheels
These are the ones that direct the traffic, banging on your window if you're turning left at a junction to make sure that you've seen them (they should fucking wait if they're that bothered about not being pulverised). They're the ones that organise into groups to lobby local councils. They wear all the gear, includng ridiclously tight cycling pants, day-glo high-vis vests, goggles, face masks (you never see pedestrians wearing face masks), super speedy helmet, even cycling shoes that clip into the pedals.

This sort of cyclist often rides a racing bike and the razor-like saddle clearly cuts them so hard that their sense of humour flows out. They're in so much pain that they race the traffic to get to their destination for much needed relief.

They're even worse when they travel in packs, often cycling two or three abreast while engaging in conversation about the latest in fabric technologies from Du Pont.

I'd never cut it in this gang. They seem quite wanky.


Don't know what they're doing, off and on the pavement
This is more likely to be me, but I'm not going to be causing a nuisance by riding on pavements. When finding themselves in traffic, this lot really don't know what they're doing; they run red lights, ignore junction priorities, weave in and out of traffic. This lot really piss people off. I'm quite unlikely to be in this group because I haven't a clue what I'm doing, and I don't have the "just go for it" confidence/deathwish to carry it off.


Old people on bikes with shopping baskets
This is where I want to be; pootling along serenely, fully in tune with the goings on around them yet carrying on with a delightfully confident "I've seen it all, done it all and I don't care anymore" air. They've ridden the same bike for 50 years and still use its little shopping basket to carry their groceries. It'd be nice to be able to just pootle along with the assumption that other road users will be kind enough give you a bit of space when you need it, I'm not sure that'd happen round here.


Why oh why oh why???
The reason I'm getting a bike is just to have one in should I fancy going for a ride. There's the slight problem of not being able to go for a ride without negotiating major roads, busy junctions and gangs of horrible kids who take the piss and worse. I fear I may be trapped, only being able to ride it round the avenue or perhaps down the woods. At least such activity might engender me to the local kids, or I may be accused of being a child molester for hanging around with them. There's also the problem of security - how well can I lock the thing up in the shed, how long before it gets nicked? Will the thing fit in the boot of my car for when I go on holiday?

These apprehensions are on a par with booking a foreign holiday then deciding that I'm too worried to travel. The hassles far outway the benefits, but it's something that I must do.

Now, can anybody tell me how the gears on a bike work? Is there a clutch?

Hands up!

People make mistakes, it's human nature. There's nothing particularly wrong with this and, likewise, there's nothing wrong with holding your hands up and admitting that you've cocked up, or that you're in the wrong. You fuck up while driving - you hold your hand up and apologise. You fuck up at work, well, I won't go into that.

Of course, this doesn't apply to the parents and grandparents of unruly children, who are of course immune to all admonishment.

I shall recount the tale of last night's trip to that beacon of retail wonder, Costco (heavenly choirs sing out at the mention of its hallowed name).

While wandering the aisles, I couldn't help but notice a young family, their two young boys (about 4-6 years in age, probably named Kyle, Callum, Connor, or Ryan - they had gelled hair) who were accompanied by denim-clad, hip-chick grandmother. The boys were excited and become more boisterous; they were being egged on by their grandmother. They started running around the aisles, with "Nan" calling them to run back to her. Then they made one.big.mistake: after a particularly long full-pelt run down the pickles and sauces aisle, the younger of the two boys ran into me.

I stopped, eyes raised in prayer to God, begging Him to show a sign of His existence by striking down this family - if not with a bolt of lightning, then at least with a dramatic collapse of shelving. It didn't happen, but at least the boy's mother said "Sorry". I pointed out that the chldren shouldn't be running around the store and this is where Grandma stepped in:

Her: "It's not as if they're running around, out of control."

Me: "If they were under control, they wouldn't be running into people."

Her "Blah. blah - not causing any trouble - blah, blah, blah" (the red mist was rising in me at this point and it automatically engages aural cut-off)

Me: "You'd be screaming blue murder, blaming me or Costco and seeking compensation if they ran into a pallet or shelf or trolley and hurt themselves."

Her: "Blah, blah, blah"

At this point an employee stepped in and pointed out the sign, right next to them, that said that children must be kept accompanied at all times because it can be dangerous when they're moving stuff about on pallets and trucks. She then tried to start an argument with him.

During this time, the parents of the boys were actually quite reasonable: they told the children off, told them to calm down and insisted that they held their hands. Good on them.

I was waiting, almost begging her to come out with the classic, "I bet you haven't got kids", or "Can't you remember what it's like to be a kid?", but she let me down and I'd already walked off after the Costco man had intervened. However, my response to such provocation would've been:

"Please take a moment to explain what relevance that has on the behaviour of these particular children, because it has none whatsoever. Besides, I do remember what it was like to be a child and I remember that we were never, EVER allowed to run around in shops. And yes, I do detest children, lots of people do and some people aren't as controlled as me, so you should bear that in mind when you're out with these two. Now fuck off you four-eyed, wrinkly, mutton-dressed-as-lamb cunt!"

I think a lot of the bad behaviour of children can be attributed to lack of parental control. However, grandparents are complete and utter cocks.

Name game

A hypothetical question that might only really apply to the UK (and perhaps Ireland), but give it a go.

If you were a teacher and, without meeting the children or their parents, you could choose which children you'd like in your class of ten from a list of names:

• Alice
• Asam
• Ben
• Bobbi-Jo
• Charlie
• Charlotte
• Daniel
• Gregory
• Harpeet
• Imran
• Isobel
• Jamie
• Jayne
• Jordan
• Joseph
• K'tee
• Kate
• Kloe
• Kristopher
• Kyle
• Liam
• Lucy
• Ryan
• Sam
• Sean
• Wayne

Which ten children would you like to choose for your class?

OK, here's a clue. There's more to say on this matter... tomorrow though.

Conversational colleagues and lumpy tits

You meet all sorts of people during your life. Some of them you'll forge frienships and other relationships with and you'll keep them with you for years. Others you meet and keep at arms length or maintain a professional relationship with them.

Sometimes, it's better to keep a safe distance from certain colleagues because they're absolutely off their fucking rockers mental.

I've had great pleasure in working with some prize fruitcakes in my time (Katherine - links above - being one of them), but I'm particularly privileged in still working with one of the best ones in my current job, right now... still.... after all these years! Let's do her the honour of calling her "Carmelita".

She’s lovely - great in fact - a funny one (funny ha ha AND funny stuurrrange!). This is the person that picked up all the litter from the canal bank and, instead of being the dutiful citizen and putting it in the bin, she threw it all over the local expressway. “Well, you see,” she explained, “the car drivers never see the litter that people throw near the canal so I thought they should!” To say I was gobsmacked is an understatement. I told her that it was the most insane thing I’d ever heard, and that she was a menace and a danger who deserved to be locked up.

Carmelita is the one who, after a swan that was nesting on the hospital pond was shot dead, suggested that "all the waterfowl be moved to the canal, the pond drained and concreted over to provide much needed parking". Sounds reasonable.

But it’s the way she speaks, too. She doesn’t half rrrrrrrrrrrroll her Rrrrrrrrrs: “Oh Brrrrrrrrrrrendah, hellooooo!” But it’s not a pure “r” either, it’s said as if she closes the back of her tongue against the back of her mouth as she says it; sort of a bit throaty, but not phlegmy – bizarre. And she pronounces “re” as “ray”, so when she’s referring to a person, you always think their first name is Ray.

Bonkers is an understatement. On first impressions, she acts as if somebody would act if they asked to act “overly eccentric, mad, over medicated and slightly scary with it”.

However, she is extremely intelligent, with a keen interest in history, literature and art. I am interested in none of these things. She returned from yet another holiday today (she doesn't half travel a lot) and another colleague landed me in it by telling her that I'd just returned from Rome. She made a bee-line for my office and II was given the third degree about the art periods on display in St Peter's and the Vatican Museum, this after telling her that I haven't got a clue about art, history or architecture.

Me: "Errm, up to and just after Raphael, I guess. Is that renaissance?"

Carmelita: "Would that be early or late renaissance, because I can't stand late renaissance."

Me: "Eerrrrm, early? And there's some Greek stuff that the Romans pilfered too."

Carmelita: "Aaaahhhhhhhh!!! Gooooood!!! And what about the architecture, because I LOATHE (or was it love?) Baroque."

Me: "I've no idea, there were lots of domes and statues, it was very big and very grand. I think you should go and make your own mind up."

Fuck's sake, who the fuck hasn't seen what St Peter's Basilica looks like? Surely she'd bloody know. She was glued to PJP2's demise in the spring, she MUST have seen what St Peter's looks like.

I'm never going to go anywhere ever again for fear of her finding out about it and subjecting me to another Witchfinder General inquisition. Some people are just too clever and too interested in stuff.


Lumpy tits
Here's a question for you: if you had a 2cm benign breast lump, would you have it removed or would you keep it and make a feature of it by dressing it up with raffia.

Went to see Mr Surgeon man today and he said that there's no problem with leaving it or with taking it out and that it's entirely up to me. I'm tempted to leave it, but there's a danger of - should the moment arise - somebody freaking out if things were getting a bit thingy. Not that anybody ever gets a bit thingy with me, but I wouldn't want the moment of the century ruining by somebody chucking a mental when things were just hotting up.

Despite the biopsy coming back as benign, the surgeon said that they only sampled from a small area of the lump so they can't say about the rest of it. That had me brimming with confidence, but you can't expect too much from the NHS.

I don't mind either way, so I'm willing to be swayed by the reasoning, concerns and wishes of others.

I have four months to decide.

Popbitch digest

To save wasting my creativity, I thought I might as well steal somebody else's. Popbitch is a weekly e-mail digest of the latest hot gossip from Celebland. To subscribe to Popbitch, visit www.popbitch.com.

They have some excellent celebrity gossip in this week's "Moss on the cross" digest; a selection of some of the more bizarre stories follows:

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

An escaped pet monkey from Kuala Lumpur got to the western

state Pahang, chased a 12-year-old boy into his house and bit him

on the buttocks last week.

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>> Murderous paedo sea otters <<

Morgan's exploits seal his fate

Californian sea otter Morgan was abandoned as a pup, and taken into care by the Monterey Bay Aquarium's Sea Otter programmes, which attempts to rehabilitate parentless otters. But like so many products of the care system, it all went wrong. When he was released back into the wild, Morgan became a serial killer paedophile... of baby seals.

Morgan used to shag the seal pups and when he was done with them, hold them under water to drown them. He raped and killed about 20 seals off the Californian coast, at one time even attracting a copycat Son-Of-Morgan rapist wild otter.

After a year, naturalists finally managed to recapture Morgan. They considered castrating him but then decided that would leave him a non-contributing member of otter society, taking up valuable space in otter habitat. So they kept him in captivity, where he will only be allowed to have sex with female sea-otters. No doubt Morgan finds this rather dull.

Cute otters at Monterey last week:http://flickr.com/photos/folkestonegerald/tags/otters/

>> Bunny's too tight - Apology <<

Serial rabbit killer has only one true love

In a recent Popbitch, we alleged that a Sydney man had been arrested for having sex with, and then killing, 18 rabbits. We are now informed that, in the case of the first 17 rabbits, he merely tortured and killed them. It was only the lucky 18th that got shagged by the weirdo. And he somehow managed to have full vaginal sex with it.

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Cliff Richard and G4 are doing a reworked version of

Cliff's classic: "Miss you nights" for Christmas.

Let's kill ourselves now.

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>> Things that make you go hmmm <<

Gay penuins, Chris Rea, porno dolls

Croatia has started Sheep Idol. The winner of the 10-day competition will receive poetry in its honour instead of money. Those voted out of the seven-member herd might be eaten. "I am not an insensitive bastard who abuses animals", says organiser Sinisa Labrovic.http://www.stado.org

Central Park zoo's gay penguin couple Silo and Roy have split. Silo left his mate of six years for Scrappy - a girl penguin.

DIZ GUSS TING

The UK's Health and Safety at Work Act (1974) is supposed to ensure that all business premises are safe environments for workers and visitors. It clearly became law before computer keyboards were even dreamt of.

Not long ago, Sniffy Experimentals brought you the keyboard challenge, in which anybody interested was invited to check out the crap that falls from between the keys of your tippytappybox when you upend it and give it a bash. Connie and Trillion provided me with some spectacular photos of the shit that came out of their keyboards:

Connie's home PC keyboard

#

Trillion's work PC keyboard - suck a fuck!

Shocked and appalled! That shit on the keyboard that Trillion is forced to use probably contains enough biological agents to find cures to all diseases known to mankind.

Being quite obsessive about this sort of thing, I keep my work keyboard pretty clean with caustic foaming cleaner:

You could quite literally eat your dinner off my work keyboard. Unfortunately, it looks like somebody has been eating theirs off another one that I have to endure.

Fuck me backwards, that's some shit!

I have to use this other office quite regularly these days and I feel quite dirty while I'm in there. It smells funny and the keyboard is disgusting. I can imagine that my predecessor has been farting in the seat - or worse!

And this brings me to thinking, it's a one person office, the door locks, it's on a secluded corridor, what if the occupant feels a bit frisky and fancies a quick tickle of their fancy? There's nothing really to stop them. And then I look at that keyboard, sniff the air and conclude that, possibly, nothing did stop them.

Pop goes the ovary

During a discussion at work as to the reasons for our trousers being a little on the tight side, in addition to pointing out that we're all a bit podgy, I used the excuse that I was ovulating and that I always swell up (a touch more than usual) at the P of the pop. My colleagues claimed never to have felt themselves ovulating. And these so-called women are supposed to be in tune with their feminine sides, womanhood and all that, having sporned their offspring.

Why would a woman not feel herself ovulating?

a) She has no ovaries
b) She has no follicles
c) She doesn't ovulate for another reason
d) She is really a man
e) She is fucking useless, with no idea what's going on, how it all fits together or how it's controlled

Weird.

I bet women like that have no idea how to masturbate. I bet women like that think that women can't masturbate.

Fuck.

All those bras burned and what for??

How can you not feel when something inside you swells to up to 2cm and then pops? How can the huge hormone spikes at this time not register any noticeable physiological signs? And, what about that kind of gooeyness that happens? And the orange/brown wee? (Perhaps that's just me).

It's beyond me how these women manage to get themselves out of bed in the morning.


Pop goes the Data Protection Act
Some fucking numpty has just been on the phone asking whether we were interested in saving money on telephone calls. I asked him if he was interested in being prosecuted for breech of the Data Protection Act and then had to explain to him, a telesales "professional", that such businesses are not allowed to contact anybody who has registered with the Telephone Preference Service.

Him: "Are you going to prosecute me?"

Me: "No, but the Information Commissioner may shut down your 2-bit pile of shite little operation if enough people complain about unsolicited telephone calls from you. You're supposed to check before you phone people. Your boss should know about this."

Him: "I understand that it must be very irritating to be contacted this way."

Me: "Yes, it is. So, a) why the fuck do you do it? and b) why the fuck do you think we registered this number with TPS in the first place???"

Him: "So you're not interested in saving money?"

Me: "Grrrrrrrrr."

Him: "I'll take you off the database."

Me: "Good idea."

Tossers.

Shut the fuck up and listen to me

Cakesniffer and Chimp are joing forces in the Darth Fucking Vader of Blogs: Shut the fuck up and listen to me.

In addition to our usual stuff at Cakesniffers and Angry Chimp, Shut the fuck up and listen will hopefully allow us to get back to some of the more vitriolic, unprovoked and unreasonable observations and attacks that we started our respective blogs with way back. We'll also be able to do some joint things.

Not sure how it's going to work just yet. It won't be pretty - no graphics and very few or no photos - but it might be fun.

Cakesniffers and Chimp will remain as they are, but Shut the fuck up will allow us to vent our respective spleens in full, glorious beige.

S'pose I'd better do something for it now.

Cakesniffing Canadian cultural exchange comes full circle

Way back when we were still waiting the promise of summer to be filfilled, a cultural exchange programme was set up between Cakesniffers and that Canadian blog GODDESS, April over at pissoff.

We saw them before they were packed away...

We saw what April got in return...

And we were as delighted as she was when she stretched that t shirt over her womanly form and paraded round in front of the camera for us....

Ahhh, alas, the summer has passed, but one lasting reminder of those balmy days landed at Cakesniffer's door today...

Oh the excitement!

On opening the box, I was thrilled to see that some cans of smoked salmon, captured and murdered by April's own fair hand*, had also made it into the box, along with some crackers with French writing on (probably poisoned, knowing those Frenchies).

*Unfortunately, April hasn't provided any photos of her wrestling with anything, so we'll all just have to use our imaginations as far as that's concerned.

So, what of these amazing pickles?? Worth the wait?? Let's see the very moments that I tried them...

Yep, they're fuckin' delish, no doubting it. A bit saltier than the ones we get over here and that makes them FOOOKIN' DELISH in my book.

So April was right, as far as dill pickles are concerned, those darned Canadians have got it sussed. But us Brits have got it licked as far as not getting sucked in to paying $30CDN for surface mail: £1.99 it cost me to send that T-shirt airmail. Let that be a lesson to you all thinking of engaging in cultural exchanges: send something that doesn't cost a fortune to post.

Thanks though April, I really do appreciate it, they're lovely and I'm going to save a jar especially for the Boxing Day running buffet.

Bouncing off the satellites

In the absence of inspiration, light and warmth, I am resorting to a photograph of the moon – again.

Summer is well and truly over; I am getting very down in the dumps.

Autumn is a rubbish season. For all it being Nature’s own fireworks display, what with its rustling, rusty leaves falling from the trees and swirling around in the wind, Autumn has nothing to promise but cold and darkness. The only thing Autumn signals is the start of the 6 month wait until the sun regains enough energy to warm the bones.


Soon be Christmas
Indeed, and with Hallowe’en still 6 weeks away, the supermarkets are already stocked with witchy paraphernalia and, more depressingly, Christmas cards, gift bags and the like.

I shall try to ignore this unwarranted pressure from the retail giants. I shall do Christmas at my own pace and enjoy it just the same, even more so than being prepared 3 months prematurely.

Outside, the numpties are lettting off fireworks with seven weeks to go before Bonfire Night. Not long before there's an incessant barage of aerial explosives, attacks on animals and terrorism of the eldelrly from dusk till dawn. Of course, the Government has promised to curb sales of these things. Nice to see they've managed to keep that promse too. I'd love to shove them up their arses. Wankers.

Looking forward to
The winter months tend to bring out the best in the telly schedules, thank fuck. There should be something worthwhile on the cards on that front. Of course, I'd been looking forward to watching my Withnail and I DVD and, with Mum and Dad busying themselves with other things, I finally sat down to enjoy it. Then brother turned up with his girlfriend, then Mum and Dad decided sit in and huff and puff and rustle through the papers at the moment when Withnail spurts out, "Monty, you terrible cunt!". My enjoyment was not as it might have been.

As for this week, there’s the excitement of waiting for the outcome of the grumbling abdominal pains that have befallen the Cakesniffy colon since Friday. Is it appendicitis? Is it a tummy bug? Is it trapped wind, or a touch of constipation? No idea, but it’s hurt like a bastard and I want it to stop.

Escape from Houseplant Big Brother

Regular readers of Cakesniffers may remember a recent post in which various types of houseplant were scrutinised, criticised, pulled apart and voted out of the Big Brother Greenhouse.

Evictee Spider seemed to be exploiting his new found fame to pursue a "live it up" lifestyle of sun and fun in the Lancashire countryside. When we last saw him, he was enjoying the tranquility of running water while taunting the fish and snails in Trillion's pond.

Spider lives it up

But how the mighty have fallen. We revisted Spider just a couple of weeks after his eviction from the Greenhouse. Imagine our shock when we found him in this state:

Crack whore lifestyle takes its toll

It seems that Spider just wasn't capable of handling all that new-found fame and fortune. Shocked and appalled.

But not as shocked and appalled as pilgrims visiting Pope John Paul the Second's tomb in the Vatican were when they noticed that one of the Houseplant Housemates had escaped the Greenhouse and was blatantly showing off in a most disrespectful manner imaginable.

Suck a fuck! On the tomb of PJP2!?!?

The rebellious streak of Peace Lilly was renowned from its refusal to flower, but dancing on the grave of late Pontiff really was the absolute limit. There were security guards there and everything. One poor mourner even collapsed when she saw what was going on. And to think we all allow these shits into our homes?

Disgraceful.

Sisterly love

Unless something goes drastically wrong, there is usually an unconditional love between family members. Despite their faults, I do love my family. However, this love for those who share our genes doesn't prevent us from wanting to kill them at times... quite frequently actually, especially where my sister is concerned.

Having spent 4 days in close proximity with her while in Rome, I really did want to give my sister Anna a good slapping at times. I shall document some of those occasions now and let Blogland judge whether should have given in to my instincts and killed her.


One: Delving into my private life
Within a couple of hours of getting to Rome, we found ourselves in Piazza Navona, sat down at a nice restaurant. Before the starters had arrived, she asked "Have you seen much of Denise recently?"
Me: "No, I've not had much time to see anybody recently, but we've sent the odd e-mail"
Anna: "So she's not tried to turn you gay then?"
Me: "No" (which she hasn't)

Why is it any of her business? I don't mither her about shit, so why does she feel the need to pry into my private life and ask me questions in such an accusatory manner?

Bitch.


Two: Point and shoot
Wanting to ensure that I had some decent photos of my trip, I tried to take time to compose shots properly. At night, with long exposure times, it took a little longer to take pictures. She, brashness and intolerence fuelled by half a litre of red wine, started having a go at me and my new fancy camera (she'd taken my old one with her).

Anna: "That camera's crap, you should've stuck with this one. Look, all you do is point and shoot and you've got your picture. Point. Shoot. Picture."
Me: "Just shut the fuck up and let me take this photo, cunt"
Anna: "Point, shoot"
Me: "SHUTTHEFUCKUP!!! BITCHING CUNTFACE!!"
Anna: "Point, shoot. Point, shoot"

Of course, she was quite right. There was no difference in quality when the photographer took time to compose a shot and when they just pointed and shot.

Three: Caffe Americano
Something was wrong with the coffee in the hotel - very wrong. Espresso was delish, but capuccino and Americano coffees were dreadful, according to Anna at least. Don't know what they were up to in the kitchen, but the Americano and capuccino coffees were not derived from the same stuff as the espresso.

Did she have an espresso and get on with it? Did she cut her losses and just wait to get to the local bar for a coffee instead? No, she went on and on and on and on.

Anna: "All I want is a cup of coffee. It can't be difficult, espresso plus hot water equals Americano. Espresso plus frothed milk equals capuccino. I want a cup of coffee and I can't get started without one."

Me: "So you keep saying. Just get ready and we'll go and get a coffee from that nice bar"

Anna: "I can't get do anything in the morning without my coffee"

Me: "So hurry up and we'll go and get one"

ad infinitum


Four: Bowel habits
Changes in environments, accompanied by warm weather and a bit of dehydration can make a person a little constipated. Even I had trouble pooing while over there. She hadn't been for a couple of days and we never heard the last of it.

Anna: "I really need a shit"

Me: "Charming. Perhaps if you weren't so vulgar it'd happen"

Anna: "It's that fucking coffee in the hotel. Back home, I have my cup of coffee, bowel of cereal and voila a nice big shit before my shower. I need my coffee in the morning to have a shit"

Me: "Stop being so vile. We'll get something beany for your tea and make sure you drink plenty of water"

At the restaurant...

Anna: "Oh I hope there's something on the menu that'll make me shit"

Me: "Look, there's bean soup. Just get that and stop saying that!"

Anna: "But I need to shit, look at my tummy"

Me, thinking: Shut the fuck up before I fucking stab you with a breadstick!


Five: Looking after other people's things
My new camera cost me over £300, I love it, I want to take care of it. I'm not precious about it though, the casing can get scratched to fuck so long as everything works OK and the lens is fine. The lens is a very important part of a camera. I understandably get a little irritated when people don't watch what they're doing with their fingers and stub greasy paw prints all over the fucking thing. Not only did she manage to get fingerprints all over the lens every time she got hold of my camera, she also nearly scratched it with the spokes of an umbrellla. On saying "Will you be careful and watch what you're doing?" she had a fit and had a go at ME!

Twat.


Six: Shut up, just please shut up!
Everyone we came across, she had to talk to and tell them things as if they'd be interested. I suppose we're just different in this respect and I tend to wait to be asked rather than volunteering information - who'd be interested in somebody spouting off about stuff uninvited? I wouldn't. Tour guides, Carabinieri, other tourists, waiters, taxi drivers, they all got it.


Seven: On being a girl
She fusses like nobody I've ever known - everything is such a bloody drama. She'd say: "You look bored, do you want to go out for a walk now?"

Me: "I'm OK, I'm happy sitting and thinking, but a walk would be nice, you ready?"

Anna: "Yeah, just let me go for a wee"

I get my bum belt (fanny twat pack) and shoes on, check my pockets for money, pick up my camera. During this time, she's had her wee and is now sat on the bed putting makeup on.

Ten minutes later:

Me: "I thought you were ready to go ten minutes ago, what are you doing?"

Anna: "I'm being a GIRL, you wouldn't know what that means."

Me: "But you said you were ready and you looked fine."

Anna: "I can't go out without makeup on, you don't have a go at Trillion for slapping it on"

Me: "She rarely wears makeup, only if she's going out somehwhere special, and why are you brining her into this? You're the one who wanted to go out and said they were ready and now you're farting about with makeup when it's dark outside anyway!"

And this is the result:

So that's a taste of a few things she did to get on my tits. I'll spare you her reaction to there being no dedicated smoking area at da Vinci airport, or how she felt about Mum forgetting to bring milk when she picked us up from the airport (despite bringing her some food). But this photo is a favourite of mine - well worth E5 - I didn't half pull her hair and came very close to running her through with that sword...

The last word

I'm going to get Rome out of my system in this one post so I can get on with proper blogging - back to being a bitch and a half.

I've posted a load of photos on my Webshots site for anybody who's particulalrly interested. I hope the ones that have been selected for this post will give a suitable flavour that will convince anybody to try to get to Rome sometime in their life; it's an unbelievable place and well worth it.


Photo diary day 1: Main touristy bits at night
After getting completely lost, we stumbled on the Piazza Navona, which is home to the fountains of del Moro and del Nettuno at either end, with La Fontana dei Fiumi (the one with the obelisk) in the middle. You never tire of seeing fountains or obelisks in Rome, good job really.

Piazza Navona is a magnet for immigrant salesmen selling fake fashion items and cheap tat. Kind of takes the gloss off things since you can't actually see much of square once they've congregated.

Off to the Trevi Fountain next.

It's always recommended to take a little map with you; we got a little tired of getting lost (and stumbling on the Pantheon) trying to find the Trevi - we'd been in Rome for 5 hours when I first had the urge to strangle my sister. By the end of the evening, I had gone over her demise in my mind at least 12 times. I had a headache and my contacts were very, very dry...


Day 2: St Peter's Basilica & the Vatican Museum
Well, I suppose it has to be done while you're there and this turned out to be the highlight of the trip - I always felt like going back to check a bit more of it out. It is very special.

It's an incredible place, even for a completely soulless athiest like me - this was helped by the excellent guide that we stumbled on completely by accident; without his knowledge, I wouldn't have had a clue about any of the stuff in there.

After the Vatican Museum, a trip to the top of the dome of the Basilica was called for. It was like a scene from The Omen: the nearer I got to the top, the closer the storm clouds got, culminating in a massive fucking storm as we were at the top of the bloody place. Still, if you're going to get struck by lightning, that's the place for it to happen. Was thrilled to find that the souvenir shop was staffed by nuns, how top notch is that?

Got absolutely piss-wet through in the torrential rain on the way back to the hotel. Not happy.

Number of occasions on which I wanted to throttle Anna = 7


Day 3: Pantheon, Palazzo Venezia, Ancient Rome, Trastevere, then back to Ancient Rome, followed by a week in a wheelchair
The pictures say it all. We didn't even bother going into the Colloseum because the queues were too long. That's right, visited Rome and couldn't be fucked to go into the Colloseum - it's just a load of old ruins. Walked fucking miles and almost died.

Number of occasions on which I wanted to throttle Anna = 3

Half way through this post and it's a complete cunting pain making all these bastard photo montages in Photoshop. I don't know how people can be bothered!


Day 4: More traipsing and getting lost
Went back over most of the bits already seen at night time, plus the Villa Borghese, Piazza del Popolo, Piazza del Spagna and all that shit (it was here that Anna had the MacFight).

Number of occasions I wanted to kill Anna = 23


Some general night time photos
Fucking Flickr is arsing me off big time. Slow pile of crap. Doesn't it realise that some of us are up for work early in the morning and it's way past our bedtimes?

Lonely Cakesniffer's guide to Roma

Back

Not being a frequent traveller, certain things struck me as being different, while travelling, and during my visit to the Eternal City.


Flying
Fucking horrible. The only nice thing about flying was the free chocolate that you get on Swiss Air - and these were too small to compensate for the dread and fear experienced throughout taxiing, take-off, flying and landing. It's just not right to be cruising above the clouds, but imagine my delight on getting on plane that had these:

And there's the bit where they bank round and descend really quickly as they come into land; it really hurts your ears and makes you feel sick. Fuckers. I'm sure they just do it to scare you.

City of Love-train
The Leonardo da Vinci express carries passengers between Fiumicino Airport and Rome Termini railway station. It's a non-stop service that takes half an hour. Tickets cost E9.50 per person. But here's where the fun starts: when you buy a train or bus ticket in Italy, you need to validate it before getting on the train or as you enter a bus. The automated announcer tells you that "your ticket must be validated using the obliterators on the platform and failure to do so will result in a fine" they tell you this after boarding the train. They then have ticket inspectors on the train to validate your validated ticket. Me thinks they're taking the piss.

The train itself is ideal for carrying luggage-laden passengers: simply traverse the foot-wide gap between platform and train then climb the stairs to the carriage where you'll find nowhere to store your luggage during your journey - a journey which is spent sat opposite a miserable-looking Italian. At your destination, you have to fight through crowds of luggage-laden people on a very narrow and very long platform, through a shopping area (all other exits being closed and forcing you in this direction), until you finally get out of the fucking station. Wankers.

You're very hot, very tired. You find a taxi and beg them to take you to your hotel.


I alberghi Italiani (Italian hotels)
I've stayed in a few 3 star Italian hotels and, at worst, they're clean and functional, at best, they're luxurious - quite a range in standards for the same category, but there you go. Our hotel (room) was clean and functional, but I think I shared the smallest room in the entire hotel with my premenstrual, mental sister.

The main thing of wonder about Italian hotel rooms is the bathroom system: they never have shower trays. You have a shower and the entire bathroom gets soaked, so you have to use all the towels to dry the room down as well as yourself. Not too bad in the mornings because they get changed for nice clean ones when the maid does the room, but it means you can't really have a shower in the afternoon or evening because all the towels will still be wet in the morning.

Why? Why do they do it?


Street artists
All over Italy, you'll see these nobs, covered in shimmering fabric and metalic face-paint. They stand on portable podia and they stand... all day. They expect people to give them money just for standing about. Why don't they just get a fucking job? Tits.

Of course at least this lot made an effort, not like the cheeky twat beggars who walked funny or pushed themselves along on skateboards while holding their legs and feet in a funny way. One lass was just a skinny bird who you could tell was begging to fund her highlights that were in bad need of being re-done.


Siete di toilette
Most restaurants and bars have toilets; they're a godsend for when you're ootenaboot and need to stop off for some refreshment and a wee. But it's extremely rare to find a toilet with a toilet seat in these places. I don't understand it. It's just not right.

At least they seem to have come a long way since I was last over in Italy 11 years ago. Back then it was a bonus to find any porcelain at all and you just have to hover over a hole and hope for the best. Of course, I'd rather have pissed myself than than suffer that indignity. Dirty bastards.


MacShite and a MacFight
So we found ourselves going in McDonald's for a wee. There was a queue for the ladies' - as per. As a cubicle became free and I sat down (on a toilet with a seat), I heard a commotion outside - my sister's voice and that of an angry-sounding Italian woman. Not being big on queuing, the Italians will just just go for it if a cubicle comes free and of course my sister objected to this and physically dragged the woman out of the toilet that was rightfully hers. I've never heard such a thing. On a Sunday too.


Crossing the road
They're all fucking mental - you just have to go for it because the green man means sod-all over there.


Diagon Alley
Many of the streets leading to piazze were warrens that a traveller could find confusing and get lost in. They'd look completely different depending on the time of day, as one set of shops closed while another opened. Having found a grocers that sold salamis, breads and - most importantly - chilled cans of pop for 75c, we thought we'd gone mad as we kept trying to find it again, to no avail. Instead, we had to resort to buying cold drinks at E3-4 a go from the robbing bastard street vendors.


Coke habit
You can't get Pepsi over there: it's Coke all the way. I fucking hate Coke, it's disgusting. The only time I saw Pepsi was in a little grocery store, but it was the full fat version that I don't like.

This monopoly must STOP! I feel an e-mail to Pepsi customer services coming on. They simply must break into the Italian market or I feel I may never be able to return there.

Needless to say, Mother was instructed to be waiting with a can of my beloved Pepsi Max when I got off the plane. I love my mum.


Fast food
They have this stupid system in some cafes (particularly at airports) where you have to pay for your stuff before you order it, you then take the receipt to the order point where they dish up your coffee, or whatever. But what if you don't know what you want until you get to see what's on offer? What if you change your mind after paying for it?

It's like going to Tesco, paying for your shopping, then taking your receipt round the shop to pick up your stuff.

Arseholes.


Romans
A race who look good and know it.


Rome
Go.

Packed

Yep, like it or not (and I'm definitely edging towards NOT), I'm flying off to Rome for a few days tomorrow. I can't believe how apprehensive I am, but I'm sure I'll get over it once I arrive in my hotel room. Unless of course I die in a plane/train/taxi crash.

Travelling is RUBBISH and I can't believe people make such a big deal about jetting off on their summer hols. Some folk really can't survive without going away at least once a year. They must be fucking mental.

Once you've got over the terrifyng journey (if you make it safely), you've got to contend with unfamiliar surroundings, different languages and cultures, the dangers of being mugged or murdered...

And then you've got to fly back!

What on earth made me think this was a good idea?

Anyway, Trillion's in charge of making sure my folks know about my funeral wishes.

Ci vediamo!

Or should that be, arrivaderci?

Garfer

This is a very short tribute to a very good blogger. His insightful nature, intelligence and command of English ooze from every post. More importantly, he's very witty and has me "lol"ing an awful lot.

I am referring to Garfer, creator general of Tunnock's Teacakes Forever. Now, I don't want Herge to get jealous here, he knows he's top dog (or should do by now), but I just want to highlight Garfer's stuff in case people who come here have happened to miss it.

In a recent post, Garfer attacked racial stereotypes, particularly the way in which the Irish are portrayed by the British. He used good arguments and excellent examples for emphasis. It, justfiably, provoked a number of comments. These two made me howl:

pissoff said...
You know, my grandfather's great greandfather was Irish. What does that make me? LMAO.

2:48 PM


garfer said...
About 0.0025% Mick. Add in a smidgeon of Canadian squaw and you have the perfect recipe for a pycho nutbag.
You seem to have escaped quite lightly. Probably all that spotted dick has kept you sane.

3:18 PM

"Psycho nutbag": told you he was insightful.

Salad days

That'll be me soon. Having enjoyed a month of excesses of food and almost zero exercise, I'll be trying to shed the few extra pounds that I've gained by chomping on salady things and getting some regular sessions back in down at the gym.

But here's what gets my goat.

Salad.

To me, a salad is a mixture of specific types of raw vegetables (lettuce, fennel, chicory, tomatoes (yes, I know), etc, that can be accompanied with a dressing of some sort and perhaps something meaty, cheesy or fishy on the side. Apart from the accompanying meaty, fishy or cheesiness, and Ok, perhaps a hard-boiled egg, nothing that's been cooked qualifies as a salad ingredient.

Under any circumstances.

Ever.


Examples of qualifying salady candidates
Lettuce (NEVER iceberg!)
Carrot (grated)
Tomato
Cucumber
Radish
Chicory
Chinese leaves
Onion (sometimes)
Olives
etc
etc
etc

All connected by the fact that you don't cook 'em.


Examples of things often classfied as salady, but should not be allowed anywhere near a salad
Potatoes
Rice
Cous cous
Pasta

No No NO! What these dreadful things are - usually accompanied by that greasy partner in crime, mayonnaise - are cold platter components. This is fine, but do NOT give me any of these things and dare to call it a salad.

I think I'm feeling a bit luteal.


Photographic interlude
Time for some calming pictures....

Flaps

As Britain enjoyed the final days of summer, as the leaves began their fall from the trees that had been aged by yet another season, as the days grew noticably shorter, a strange and truly terrifying creature showed itself to an unsuspecting and woefully unprepared world...

Here we go

Heated pool?

Oh yes, it's not just Joanie who can wear sunglasses in a swimming pool

What did you expect?

Jumping-in
Being sensible and not at all open to peer pressure, I didn't really want to take part in "jumping-in", mainly because of fear of drowning in the icy water, but also because getting water up your nose doesn't half hurt. However, with a little persuading, and after being called a wet pussy, I decided to take the plunge. Now, a little explanation is required here. When I bought by first swimming costume in nearly 20 years, I did so while remembering that thorny problem of strap-slippage. With this in mind, I got a one-piece that was perhaps a little too small. The terrible results can be seen below.

Shocked and appalled? Bloody traumatised.

Almost cut me in two.


Relaxing holidays spell disaster for creativity
So a week in Norfolkland did confirm a few things. Firstly, I miss my friends a lot. Secondly, Norfolk is a nice part of the world, although it's a shit to get to. Thirdly, there does indeed seem to be a fair deal of inbreeding amongst certain sections of the population - this was confirmed by a trip to B&Q where I witnessed a man (husband-dad-brother-cousin) pushing a woman (his wife-sister-cousin-daughter-mother) in a wheelchair, accompanied by their offspring (who resembled scrawny hobbits).



With my vitriolic creativity being ebbed away by a week of relaxation, jumping-in and eating too much, this demob-happy Cakesniffer hasn't really got anything to go on the attack about just at the moment. Except of course... SPIDERS!

It's now officially spider season and I cannot stand the bastards. I can just about cope with garden spiders that have a useful purpose, but I have absolutely no time whatsoever for those big fuckers that scuttle about the house at five hundred miles an hour. They don't even make webs to catch flies. They just lurk and then jump out and then run REALLY fast across the floor. BASTARDS!

It's now dark in the morning when I get up (bah!) and as I stumbled from my bedroom to the bathroom, I saw a huge black spider jump from the bannister on the stair below, where it waited and plotted to trip me up. Fucking twat of a creature.



Rome if you want to...
Of course, this week sees me jet off to my doom on my Roman Holiday. Fuck, I'm scared shitless and absolutely dreading it. I keep telling myself that I'll be OK once I've got to my hotel, dumped my case in my room and collapsed on the bed.

There are so many things that can go wrong (not including catastrophic air disasters). What if they've given us a double bed and not two singles? I can't sleep with my sister for FOUR nights. Fuck's sake.

What if the hotel is completely shite? What if we get robbed? What if it's just too bloody hot to do anything?

I've long held the view that holidays are a waste of money. It's just too much stress, too much expense and hassle for something where you have to come back down to earth (and back to a completely shit job that you hate) with huge bump.

Unless you can afford to do it properly, by staying in really good 5 star hotels, flying direct with good airlines, then it all becomes a cause for anxiety and panic. And there's the cost. Not only is there the price of the flight and accommodation (£350), there's spending money, money for taxis, money for pressies, money for getting stranded in Zurich or Basel on the way there/back. And you just exchange £150 into funny money as if it doesn't mean anything - just for starters. That's a month's worth of petrol, or the cost of a PC upgrade, a nice suit, a really good meal out, a car service.

Material things hit my buttons, not travelling and experiencing culture, history, different people. Once you reach your mid-thirties, you come to realise that people are generally complete cocks no matter where you go, experiences fade into memories as soon as you've lived them. I guess the secret is making sure that you have fabulously large sunglasses and a means of capturing events.