It took over two hours for the train to travel from Nottingham to Manchester. TWO HOURS? It didn't get above walking pace for any part of the journey.
Two hours (plus 20 minutes to get home from Manchester) to travel 106 miles. PerTHETIC!
How crap are trains? Utter bollocks. That's what they are.
Of course, our carriage was blessed with the presence of a nutter: young, tall, Asian-looking feller who kept wailing out and sort of singing in what sounded like Arabic. I suppose the language and his racial background are irrelevant, he was just an annoying twat. I made the point of saying "Shurrup, dickhead" at the top of my voice and responding to his "singing" with calls of "nobhead!". He moved on.
Why do people have to act such utter wankers? And when he was outnumbered by about 30 to 1, why didn't anybody challenge him? I was on the verge of chucking an empty pop bottle at him when he moved. I might have been done for assault.
"I'm sorry Your Honour, he was a complete dick and he was annoying me, so I threw something at him."
"GUILTY AS CHARGED! Your sentence is to work the snack trolley on the Norwich to Liverpool Lime St route for ONE YEAR. Take her down."
"Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!"
Trains are shit. You have reserved seats and find that they've been taken. There are no other seats. Do you a) let it go, b) tell em to shift. I went for b). I'm not taking any fucking shit on no train, fool! "I feel really bad for asking you to move, but these are our reserved seats and there's no other seating available. You can lean your crutch over there if you must."
And there's always that nonsense of travelling backwards too. What can't they make it so that all the seats face forwards?
Training courses can be shit, but I was on an interesting(ish) one today. If there's anything that really pisses me off about namby pamby NHS/social work types though; they assume that everybody who uses the health service in this country is: disabled; unemployed; black or asian; incapable of speaking English; illiterate. "We need to empower people, give them control of the entire process. They are the experts and should always take the lead." Bollocks. I could happily slap these patronising cunts, but I just make it known that I think they're talking utter shit.
Doc Sniff
My Docs have come. They don't half hurt for a while when you're not used to them. Timberlands? Pfhah! These are the real babies. They're not actually, they're the greasy black ones with chunky soles and ankle padding. I'm bound to pull in these once I've managed to stop limping while wearing them.
Wednesday, 30 November 2005
Tuesday, 29 November 2005
Pondlife
Newts, frogs, waterboatmen, sticklebacks, frogspawn.
All pretty disgusting when you think about it. Remember as a child going down to the local pond when the frogspawn had appeared developing? Remember the smell of the pond? Remember how many things you saw that made you go "ewwwwww!"?
I'm going to Leicester tomorrow. I don't need to be at my destination in Leicester until 10am, but my journey starts at 6.20am because I'm using public transport. Journey there: two trains, changing at Nuneaton. Journey home: two trains, changing at Nottingham. If I set off by car at that time, I'd expect to arrive at my destination, about 112 miles away, by 8am. By train, I'll be there at about 9.30, having endured germ-ridden commuters and other low-life that I'd rather not be exposed to.
I hate public transport. Well, I hate the "public" bit of it; it'd be quite good to have a whole train to myself.
Of course, you have to be careful what you become exposed to these days. Flu is in the air, colds, coughs, but I'm most worried about Stephacockaliticus. I've taken steps to ensure that I've minimised exposure to this deadly disease, but Herge is a slapper who caught it after a booze and drugs-fuelled one-night stand with Carol Vorderman.
All pretty disgusting when you think about it. Remember as a child going down to the local pond when the frogspawn had appeared developing? Remember the smell of the pond? Remember how many things you saw that made you go "ewwwwww!"?
I'm going to Leicester tomorrow. I don't need to be at my destination in Leicester until 10am, but my journey starts at 6.20am because I'm using public transport. Journey there: two trains, changing at Nuneaton. Journey home: two trains, changing at Nottingham. If I set off by car at that time, I'd expect to arrive at my destination, about 112 miles away, by 8am. By train, I'll be there at about 9.30, having endured germ-ridden commuters and other low-life that I'd rather not be exposed to.
I hate public transport. Well, I hate the "public" bit of it; it'd be quite good to have a whole train to myself.
Of course, you have to be careful what you become exposed to these days. Flu is in the air, colds, coughs, but I'm most worried about Stephacockaliticus. I've taken steps to ensure that I've minimised exposure to this deadly disease, but Herge is a slapper who caught it after a booze and drugs-fuelled one-night stand with Carol Vorderman.
Monday, 28 November 2005
A jester in the court of Queen Elizabeth
I wonder what it'd be like to be regressed under hypnosis. A sceptic such as me would scoff that it was all a load of old bollocks; people revelling in the attention and putting on a performance while pretending to be a little girl who died horribly in a Victorian workhouse fire, or somebody famous from history. People who claim to regress have never had normal past lives; there's always some tragedy or infamy associated with their former incarnations.
"Well, I could sense I was wearing a corset, so that probably means it was Edwardian times at the latest."
"And when I came to, they said I'd been dancing around the room, pretending to bash people on the head with an imaginary bladder on a stick. Turns out I used to be a jester in the court of Queen Elizabeth!"
Anyway, I've been stepping back in time and looking at some documents relating to this lass:
This is a photo of my mum's mum, Lillian White (nee Crane). It's quite weird holding birth and death certificates relating to a grandmother who I never met. I also find it a little disturbing that she looks a bit like me, or me like her. I too enjoy nothing more than wandering the streets, dressed in a frilly confirmation dress, pushing what looks like a hand plough. Spooky!
One thing I've noticed about these sorts of certificates is that every single registrar in the UK has exactly the same handwriting. It all looks very neat and nice to look at, but on the whole, it's pretty indecipherable.
Of course, the government wants a new form of "E" registration to go with barmpot plans for ID cards. Instead of getting a certificate, all new UKplc citizens will be barcoded at birth and their details will be scanned into the National Inventory for Population Evaluation (NIPplE). Kind of takes the excitement out of finding and deciphering sixty year old bits of paper.
"Well, I could sense I was wearing a corset, so that probably means it was Edwardian times at the latest."
"And when I came to, they said I'd been dancing around the room, pretending to bash people on the head with an imaginary bladder on a stick. Turns out I used to be a jester in the court of Queen Elizabeth!"
Anyway, I've been stepping back in time and looking at some documents relating to this lass:
This is a photo of my mum's mum, Lillian White (nee Crane). It's quite weird holding birth and death certificates relating to a grandmother who I never met. I also find it a little disturbing that she looks a bit like me, or me like her. I too enjoy nothing more than wandering the streets, dressed in a frilly confirmation dress, pushing what looks like a hand plough. Spooky!
One thing I've noticed about these sorts of certificates is that every single registrar in the UK has exactly the same handwriting. It all looks very neat and nice to look at, but on the whole, it's pretty indecipherable.
Of course, the government wants a new form of "E" registration to go with barmpot plans for ID cards. Instead of getting a certificate, all new UKplc citizens will be barcoded at birth and their details will be scanned into the National Inventory for Population Evaluation (NIPplE). Kind of takes the excitement out of finding and deciphering sixty year old bits of paper.
Sunday, 27 November 2005
Your Ebay account could be suspended!
Mary mother of God, of all things, please not my Ebay account!
You know what it's like in those moments (minutes for me) of confusion before clarity hits you with a "Fuck off, you fucking bastards!"? Well, I experienced that feeling of "What the...?" when I picked up this e-mail earlier. The wording is quite funny though.
Best served cold
Would I miss my Ebay account if it got suspended? No! I'd do all my shopping at John Lewis instead! Those bastards deserve a good dressing down. After talking to various people about my outrage at the whole crapness surrounding this store, I was convinced that e-mailing them was the best way forward. Surprisingly, my complaint e-mail got bounced back! How shit is that?
A friend of mine once ordered some curtain poles from John Lewis online. When they arrived, the packaging had been opened and half the contents were missing. He phoned up their customer services to complain and was told "Oh, I'd never buy anything online". I think an assistant at the Norwich branch is recovering after having one of the said poles shoved up his arse.
Fucking numpties.
I'm starting a one-woman campaign against John Lewis: I'm going to stand outside and hand people fliers with price checks of all their products compared with other retailers - I once saw a Sony camera being sold in there for £100 more than in the Sony Centre, which is hardly cheap in itself. Thieving, stuck-up cunts.
We'll see what happens, but I'm not going to be defeated on this one. John Lewis is going down!
Some people whinge about working at the weekend. Not me. I worked today and the money I've earned should cover the cost of my new Doc Marten's. Oh yes, having looked at roll-top timberlands, I figured they were a bit too feminine, so I'm regressing and going back to Docs. Can't wait. I've still got my eye on some 8 hole patent black leather ones.... We'll see.
Scan
Unfortunately, working most of today won't also cover the cost of the new scanner that I "had" to buy. Fifty fucking quid. My scanner stopped working inexplicably a few months back. Dad's been going on about it ever since: "Whenever I want you to do something for me on that computer...whinge, whinge, whinge.... everybody else get's their stuff done." I never really use a scanner, but Dad had been going on so much!
So, having discussed it, I took myself off to Aldi, bought bargain scanner, came back to find the drive was blocked with both my brother's and sister's cars, had to traipse through mud to get into the house, got told off by Mother for said mud, took boxed scanner into the living room, where Dad said:
You know what it's like in those moments (minutes for me) of confusion before clarity hits you with a "Fuck off, you fucking bastards!"? Well, I experienced that feeling of "What the...?" when I picked up this e-mail earlier. The wording is quite funny though.
Best served cold
Would I miss my Ebay account if it got suspended? No! I'd do all my shopping at John Lewis instead! Those bastards deserve a good dressing down. After talking to various people about my outrage at the whole crapness surrounding this store, I was convinced that e-mailing them was the best way forward. Surprisingly, my complaint e-mail got bounced back! How shit is that?
A friend of mine once ordered some curtain poles from John Lewis online. When they arrived, the packaging had been opened and half the contents were missing. He phoned up their customer services to complain and was told "Oh, I'd never buy anything online". I think an assistant at the Norwich branch is recovering after having one of the said poles shoved up his arse.
Fucking numpties.
I'm starting a one-woman campaign against John Lewis: I'm going to stand outside and hand people fliers with price checks of all their products compared with other retailers - I once saw a Sony camera being sold in there for £100 more than in the Sony Centre, which is hardly cheap in itself. Thieving, stuck-up cunts.
We'll see what happens, but I'm not going to be defeated on this one. John Lewis is going down!
Some people whinge about working at the weekend. Not me. I worked today and the money I've earned should cover the cost of my new Doc Marten's. Oh yes, having looked at roll-top timberlands, I figured they were a bit too feminine, so I'm regressing and going back to Docs. Can't wait. I've still got my eye on some 8 hole patent black leather ones.... We'll see.
Scan
Unfortunately, working most of today won't also cover the cost of the new scanner that I "had" to buy. Fifty fucking quid. My scanner stopped working inexplicably a few months back. Dad's been going on about it ever since: "Whenever I want you to do something for me on that computer...whinge, whinge, whinge.... everybody else get's their stuff done." I never really use a scanner, but Dad had been going on so much!
So, having discussed it, I took myself off to Aldi, bought bargain scanner, came back to find the drive was blocked with both my brother's and sister's cars, had to traipse through mud to get into the house, got told off by Mother for said mud, took boxed scanner into the living room, where Dad said:
"What the bloody hell's that?"
"It's a fucking scanner to replace the one that's stopped working that you haven't frigging stopped whinging about for fucking months!"
Anyway, having a functional scanner, means that I can confirm what I've been gloating about for the past few weeks:
Anyway, having a functional scanner, means that I can confirm what I've been gloating about for the past few weeks:
Saturday, 26 November 2005
It's for cheridee
In exactly two weeks' time, I'll be shitting myself.
I'll be preparing to take part in this year's "North West Bikers Charity Toy Run", an event whereby up to 2000 motorbike enthusiasts and Hell's Angels, led by Coronation Street actress Bev Callard (Liz McDonald!), ride 15 miles to go and terrify a load of young offenders who will be languishing in borstal over the Christmas period.
Oh hang on, I've just re-read the flier:
"All toys donated will be taken to Royal Manchester Children's Hospital. All money donated will be forwarded to Francis House Children's Hospice."
Yes, so there will be lots of toys taken to the little uns who are poorly sick in hospital over Christmas and all the money goes to the poor little uns who have been having it terribly rough and are extremely poorly and terminally ill in the children's hospice. Hospices do not generally come under the umbrella of state funding for healthcare and rely wholly on charitable donations. This event raised £16,300 last year.
Anyway, I've never been on a motorbike before and I need to think of a fancy dress outfit to wear as I'm clinging on for dear life as pillion on my brother's 1200cc monster. Any suggestions for a fancy dress outfit will be duly ignored, but check these guys out from last year's do.
Not only do I have to hang on to my brother and wear fancy dress, I also have to it one-handed as I've said I'll be taking photos while we're riding. I must be fucking mad.
I'm also being sponsored - I'd initially said I'd do this for a laugh, but I found out that I'm actually on the official sponsorship list so I need to collect some cash. If anybody fancies sponsoring me or making a donation and they've got a Paypal account, they can do so by clicking the "make a donation" button over in the sidebar. I promise that every penny will go to the charity. Alternatively, I think you can donate to this and many other similar hospices through their own websites.
I'll be preparing to take part in this year's "North West Bikers Charity Toy Run", an event whereby up to 2000 motorbike enthusiasts and Hell's Angels, led by Coronation Street actress Bev Callard (Liz McDonald!), ride 15 miles to go and terrify a load of young offenders who will be languishing in borstal over the Christmas period.
Oh hang on, I've just re-read the flier:
"All toys donated will be taken to Royal Manchester Children's Hospital. All money donated will be forwarded to Francis House Children's Hospice."
Yes, so there will be lots of toys taken to the little uns who are poorly sick in hospital over Christmas and all the money goes to the poor little uns who have been having it terribly rough and are extremely poorly and terminally ill in the children's hospice. Hospices do not generally come under the umbrella of state funding for healthcare and rely wholly on charitable donations. This event raised £16,300 last year.
Anyway, I've never been on a motorbike before and I need to think of a fancy dress outfit to wear as I'm clinging on for dear life as pillion on my brother's 1200cc monster. Any suggestions for a fancy dress outfit will be duly ignored, but check these guys out from last year's do.
Not only do I have to hang on to my brother and wear fancy dress, I also have to it one-handed as I've said I'll be taking photos while we're riding. I must be fucking mad.
I'm also being sponsored - I'd initially said I'd do this for a laugh, but I found out that I'm actually on the official sponsorship list so I need to collect some cash. If anybody fancies sponsoring me or making a donation and they've got a Paypal account, they can do so by clicking the "make a donation" button over in the sidebar. I promise that every penny will go to the charity. Alternatively, I think you can donate to this and many other similar hospices through their own websites.
Friday, 25 November 2005
Consumer champion in shock defeat!
John Lewis is fucking shit.
I don't care what people say about it being "Ever such a nice store, with some lovely things", it is overpriced and its staff know fuck all about customer service.
Yes, I've been Christmas shopping. No, it wasn't successful. And no, I didn't even get to try on any shoes; one of my main priorities for going shopping.
My sister wanted some leather gloves, that's all she wants for Christmas. I thought I'd give John Lewis (just to reiterate: a shit, overpriced department store) a go, what with it being recommended so many times by people who I usually trust. And there they were: a good selection of ladies' gloves in the "Hats and gloves" section. I picked a pair, checked the specification with my sister, and took myself to the unmanned Hats and gloves till.... nobody serving. There were two lasses on perfumes, and a little man busying himself around the nearby watches till, but nobody was interested in gloves or hats.
An assistant approached me and, after asking if I'd like some help, I told him that I wanted to pay for the gloves. He told me that the man on the watches counter would be able to do that for me. I took the gloves to the watches counter and the man took the gloves from me, took them to the cash desk and proceeded to put them... in a paper bag. A paper fucking bag. He brought them over, "Thirty pounds, please".
Deep breaths
"Do they not come in a box, wrapped? They're a gift.. surprisingly" He looked at me blankly, then like Les from Vic Reeves big night out, acted as if he was looking for a glove box under the till at the watch counter.
"No, there's no box"
"Well, if was to bring you an expensive hat from the Hats and gloves section, would you put that in a paper bag? Do your watches just get put into a paper bag? Perhaps there's a box over in the Hats and gloves section?". He wandered over and returned with a standard gift bag, placed the gloves in. No tissue paper, nothing.
I am still fucking furious.
You go to Selfridges and they go out of their way to giftwrap things and always ask if things are being bought as a gift. John Lewis? No, they're completely shit and they'll be getting an e-mail. For fuck's sake, even Debenhams have gloves already boxed!
John Lewis have an interesting motto: We will never knowingly charge more. But this means they don't actually bother doing price checks against other retailers and it's up to the customer to haggle. What sort of way of operating is that?
It's a completely shit way, that's what.
This episode happened after I'd been astounded by the Estee Lauder girl at Boots. I think she'd worn herself out putting all that fucking slap on her face.
"What other things come in the Pleasures range?"
"Well," roll of overly made-up eyes, "there's, errm something and something else". She did mention a couple of things, but I wasn't even listening because I could tell there'd be no point.
"I'll just go and look, shall I?"
"Yeah, that's for the best. Thanks for buying from Estee Lauder".
No need to thank me, thank my mother for wanting this. I actually think I've bought the wrong shitting thing after all.
So that was essentially my Christmas shopping: Costco, plus two other shops in a 5 hour adventure.
Not-so secret Santa's revenge
Last week, I pulled the name of my Secret Santa victim out of the hat. Our Secret Santa isn't secret and each recipient knows who's buying for them. Despite asking my "I'm so easy to buy for" victim to jot down some ideas so I could find something, I still hadn't got any ideas from her. In an inspired moment of vindictiveness, I bought her something that ANYBODY would be thrilled with: Rudolph Buckaroo. How good is that? It should cheer up any dull Christmas Day, I reckon.
Can I have my codeine now?
I don't care what people say about it being "Ever such a nice store, with some lovely things", it is overpriced and its staff know fuck all about customer service.
Yes, I've been Christmas shopping. No, it wasn't successful. And no, I didn't even get to try on any shoes; one of my main priorities for going shopping.
My sister wanted some leather gloves, that's all she wants for Christmas. I thought I'd give John Lewis (just to reiterate: a shit, overpriced department store) a go, what with it being recommended so many times by people who I usually trust. And there they were: a good selection of ladies' gloves in the "Hats and gloves" section. I picked a pair, checked the specification with my sister, and took myself to the unmanned Hats and gloves till.... nobody serving. There were two lasses on perfumes, and a little man busying himself around the nearby watches till, but nobody was interested in gloves or hats.
An assistant approached me and, after asking if I'd like some help, I told him that I wanted to pay for the gloves. He told me that the man on the watches counter would be able to do that for me. I took the gloves to the watches counter and the man took the gloves from me, took them to the cash desk and proceeded to put them... in a paper bag. A paper fucking bag. He brought them over, "Thirty pounds, please".
Deep breaths
"Do they not come in a box, wrapped? They're a gift.. surprisingly" He looked at me blankly, then like Les from Vic Reeves big night out, acted as if he was looking for a glove box under the till at the watch counter.
"No, there's no box"
"Well, if was to bring you an expensive hat from the Hats and gloves section, would you put that in a paper bag? Do your watches just get put into a paper bag? Perhaps there's a box over in the Hats and gloves section?". He wandered over and returned with a standard gift bag, placed the gloves in. No tissue paper, nothing.
I am still fucking furious.
You go to Selfridges and they go out of their way to giftwrap things and always ask if things are being bought as a gift. John Lewis? No, they're completely shit and they'll be getting an e-mail. For fuck's sake, even Debenhams have gloves already boxed!
John Lewis have an interesting motto: We will never knowingly charge more. But this means they don't actually bother doing price checks against other retailers and it's up to the customer to haggle. What sort of way of operating is that?
It's a completely shit way, that's what.
This episode happened after I'd been astounded by the Estee Lauder girl at Boots. I think she'd worn herself out putting all that fucking slap on her face.
"What other things come in the Pleasures range?"
"Well," roll of overly made-up eyes, "there's, errm something and something else". She did mention a couple of things, but I wasn't even listening because I could tell there'd be no point.
"I'll just go and look, shall I?"
"Yeah, that's for the best. Thanks for buying from Estee Lauder".
No need to thank me, thank my mother for wanting this. I actually think I've bought the wrong shitting thing after all.
So that was essentially my Christmas shopping: Costco, plus two other shops in a 5 hour adventure.
Not-so secret Santa's revenge
Last week, I pulled the name of my Secret Santa victim out of the hat. Our Secret Santa isn't secret and each recipient knows who's buying for them. Despite asking my "I'm so easy to buy for" victim to jot down some ideas so I could find something, I still hadn't got any ideas from her. In an inspired moment of vindictiveness, I bought her something that ANYBODY would be thrilled with: Rudolph Buckaroo. How good is that? It should cheer up any dull Christmas Day, I reckon.
Can I have my codeine now?
Thursday, 24 November 2005
An easy mistake to make
Just having a look at the BBC news frontpage when I got in from a fucking delish curry from the Khan Saab in Whitefield....curry, mmmm, delish.. Where was I? Yes, news front page:
Yeah, so footballing genius on verge of death....Gordon Brown is a cunt... Elton John plans to wed... Eh, what's this? Jordan what?
Jordan calls for a war on extremism?? Talk about pot calling kettle black. She's got the most extreme falsies in the history of silicone!*
Gerra loada them!
Yeah, so footballing genius on verge of death....Gordon Brown is a cunt... Elton John plans to wed... Eh, what's this? Jordan what?
Jordan calls for a war on extremism?? Talk about pot calling kettle black. She's got the most extreme falsies in the history of silicone!*
Gerra loada them!
The UN will take any old riffraff as an ambassador these days. I'd like April to be a UN special ambassador, spreading her joy, wisdom, pickles and smoked salmon across the world.
I could be a UN ambassador too. I'm sure the world would benefit greatly from me spreading it about a bit.
*For those not in the know, Jordan is a "glamour model", famed for her huge norks and lewd behaviour.
Bike rack
I'm becoming a complete twat. I've bought a bike rack for my car (and bike) from an Ebay seller.
I'm not sure I'm going to use it to carry my bike, but I'm going to steal a child-sized shop dummy from Baby Gap and strap it to the cycle carrier, then drive up and down the motorway at 70mph. Ho ho ho.
Bird flu
Becoming? I AM a complete twat. Having suffered flu once in my adult life, I swore that I'd always take steps to avoid getting it ever again. For the past five years, I've taken the opportunity provided by working for the NHS to have an annual flu vaccination.
Because the shitting government in this country rules by panic and reaction (the electorate in a blind panic is blind to all the real shit that's going on), people have been reacting to the possibility of deadly avian flu someday mutating with influenza and causing a super deadly strain. "It'll kill 50,000 people in the UK", the Chief Medical Officer tells us. The result is that young, fit folk have been demanding the flu vaccination and the stocks are running out - see Flu is coming to get you. This means that many elderly and vulnerable people are missing out on a potentially life-saving vaccination. Although the government today informs us that there'll be plenty of the jabs to go around ... but not until the end of January.
Skip to the end... I'm a selfish fucker who has the privilege of being able to have a flu jab through work so I went for mine today, accompanied by Carmelita. She informed me, "I've never bothered in the past, but with this worry about avian flu...." I could've throttled her.
I suppose there's no difference between us though, both getting the jab unnecessarily, but at least I'm admitting that I'm a coward and I don't want flu - I also wouldn't want to get anything and pass anything on to my folks (they don't half go on when they're ill).
"Hello, I was wondering if you could help me... hello? Hello?"
If it's information (or "orders" as they're commonly known) you're after, there's no better place to look than the reception of Base 2a.
Shall we count the number of items that we can see attached to walls and windows in this shot? I get 22, and I haven't counted the notices on the other side of the reception window. Methinks this is a little OTT. What I like best is the way the "Reception" sign is half way up the wall. You can't see it, but this sign has a little sticker with "Reception" written in Braille. How the fuck is a blind person supposed to be able to find the sign amongst all the other shit they've got there?
We're disability awarenessed to death so we know all about induction loops for hearing aid users. Just a shame the woman on reception has the strongest Scottish accent you could imagine; this sometimes makes things difficult to understand for normal people, so God help anybody who is hard of hearing too.
An edit: Spamcunts almighty beware
I've been plagued today by a series of spam comments from a company called "Work from home". Let's hope that, if people do a Google search for them or the main business, Herbalife (UK Limited), Senator Court 4 Belmont Road Uxbridge Middlesex UB8 1HB, they'll find this. If they find this, I can tell them that this business operates cheap and underhand direct marketing SPAM ADVERTISING, a practice usually undertaken by complete and utter cunts.
Perhaps if we e-mail Russell Gain, we'll be able to tell him how annoyed we are that his company uses these methods to get attention. Even better, let's hope some spambots pick up his e-mail address from this link and tell him for us.
I thank you.
I could be a UN ambassador too. I'm sure the world would benefit greatly from me spreading it about a bit.
*For those not in the know, Jordan is a "glamour model", famed for her huge norks and lewd behaviour.
Bike rack
I'm becoming a complete twat. I've bought a bike rack for my car (and bike) from an Ebay seller.
I'm not sure I'm going to use it to carry my bike, but I'm going to steal a child-sized shop dummy from Baby Gap and strap it to the cycle carrier, then drive up and down the motorway at 70mph. Ho ho ho.
Bird flu
Becoming? I AM a complete twat. Having suffered flu once in my adult life, I swore that I'd always take steps to avoid getting it ever again. For the past five years, I've taken the opportunity provided by working for the NHS to have an annual flu vaccination.
Because the shitting government in this country rules by panic and reaction (the electorate in a blind panic is blind to all the real shit that's going on), people have been reacting to the possibility of deadly avian flu someday mutating with influenza and causing a super deadly strain. "It'll kill 50,000 people in the UK", the Chief Medical Officer tells us. The result is that young, fit folk have been demanding the flu vaccination and the stocks are running out - see Flu is coming to get you. This means that many elderly and vulnerable people are missing out on a potentially life-saving vaccination. Although the government today informs us that there'll be plenty of the jabs to go around ... but not until the end of January.
Skip to the end... I'm a selfish fucker who has the privilege of being able to have a flu jab through work so I went for mine today, accompanied by Carmelita. She informed me, "I've never bothered in the past, but with this worry about avian flu...." I could've throttled her.
I suppose there's no difference between us though, both getting the jab unnecessarily, but at least I'm admitting that I'm a coward and I don't want flu - I also wouldn't want to get anything and pass anything on to my folks (they don't half go on when they're ill).
"Hello, I was wondering if you could help me... hello? Hello?"
If it's information (or "orders" as they're commonly known) you're after, there's no better place to look than the reception of Base 2a.
Shall we count the number of items that we can see attached to walls and windows in this shot? I get 22, and I haven't counted the notices on the other side of the reception window. Methinks this is a little OTT. What I like best is the way the "Reception" sign is half way up the wall. You can't see it, but this sign has a little sticker with "Reception" written in Braille. How the fuck is a blind person supposed to be able to find the sign amongst all the other shit they've got there?
We're disability awarenessed to death so we know all about induction loops for hearing aid users. Just a shame the woman on reception has the strongest Scottish accent you could imagine; this sometimes makes things difficult to understand for normal people, so God help anybody who is hard of hearing too.
An edit: Spamcunts almighty beware
I've been plagued today by a series of spam comments from a company called "Work from home". Let's hope that, if people do a Google search for them or the main business, Herbalife (UK Limited), Senator Court 4 Belmont Road Uxbridge Middlesex UB8 1HB, they'll find this. If they find this, I can tell them that this business operates cheap and underhand direct marketing SPAM ADVERTISING, a practice usually undertaken by complete and utter cunts.
Perhaps if we e-mail Russell Gain, we'll be able to tell him how annoyed we are that his company uses these methods to get attention. Even better, let's hope some spambots pick up his e-mail address from this link and tell him for us.
I thank you.
The year of living desperately
I've been asked to do a post about the time when I was cast out into the wilderness for a year after a row with my best friend resulted in a "I never want to see you again!" ending. It was all very final and very upsetting and I literally felt as if a part of me had died.
The year that followed has gone down in history as my "stalking" year.
I've now tried writing this post three times and it just isn't happening. Let's just summarise the year by saying that, for two months I was a pain in the arse, writing e-mails every day, trying to phone several times a day and sending millions of text messages. I realised that I must've been quite annoying so stopped the texts and phonecalls, but the e-mails kept being sent.
One day, I got a "your message has been blocked by the recipient" sort of message and I went bezerk. Yes, I got so angry that I.... got another e-mail address and sent a "nothing to lose, you're a complete and utter bastard" e-mail. This was followed by stuffing some sentimental things (including a very special ring) into an envelope and posting the lot to them.
I calmed down a bit after that, having burnt my bridges. But the upset, regret and remorse were still as strong as ever. I felt such a nob for sending the ring back, it had meant a lot and symbolised something very special about our friendship. So I bought another almost immediately. Didn't like it, and so bought another to replace that one.
The months went by; the summer had rapidly passed me by as I'd been existing in a shocked and teary daze. The summer turned to winter and Christmas approached. I was dreading it, having had some wonderful Christmases in the past. But chin up, you've come this far without killing yourself or doing anything really stupid, you can get through Christmas by consolling yourself with salty snacks and pickles.
And I did. And I started turning things round a bit. I had to get on with my life. I started going to the gym and looking after myself a bit more, went for walks up hills, made plans to attain financial solvency (then paid over £200 for a digital camera). I was still desperately upset, but thought about things less (just the two or three times a day) and the days started growing longer as the spring approached.
Then it happened: I saw her. We shared some of the same route to and from work and I noticed her car in the traffic queue. Should you pursue them, flag them down, see if they'll talk to you? No, don't be daft, they're probably over the upset and there's no point reopening those wounds and pouring salt in them. You'll be OK, let it go. And I did.
Not knowing whether my e-mail address was still blocked by her, I sent the odd e-mail anyway. I'd always found it therapeutic, just offloading my thoughts and it was beneficial for me even if she never got to read them.
And soon enough, a year had gone by since that awful July day the year before. I'd grown up a lot; learnt to value the (remaining two) friends I had and to hold back before mouthing off. The sense of loss was as strong as ever, but I coped with it better. And by the time her birthday approached, I figured it couldn't do any harm to send her a simple card (to ruin her day), accompanied by an e-mail that may or may not have reached her.
Two weeks later, she replied.
Top tips for happy friendships/relationships
E-mails are great, but it's very easy to be a bit too honest when feelings are running high. It's also very easy for written words to be misinterpreted; a statement written with sarcasm in mind, may not be read that way by a recipient ("You're a fucking bitch and you've ruined my chances of ever being happy. You lied to me!" may by interpreted as "You're a fucking bitch and you've ruined my chances of ever being happy. You lied to me!").
If you're feeling frustrated or upset with somebody, try to get to a point of compromise by talking to them face to face.
If you do fuck up and make somebody hate you. Apologise immediately, but give them the time and space to consider that apology, do not piss them off even more by constantly harrassing them. And don't make things worse by sending vicious e-mails, it's easy to use hurtful words when you're upset, but not so easy if they're in front of you, so try to see them in person if you can. If they slam the door in your face, or object to being tied up in the boot of your car, perhaps give it a little more time before trying again, but don't as far as getting a restraining order put on you.
The year that followed has gone down in history as my "stalking" year.
I've now tried writing this post three times and it just isn't happening. Let's just summarise the year by saying that, for two months I was a pain in the arse, writing e-mails every day, trying to phone several times a day and sending millions of text messages. I realised that I must've been quite annoying so stopped the texts and phonecalls, but the e-mails kept being sent.
One day, I got a "your message has been blocked by the recipient" sort of message and I went bezerk. Yes, I got so angry that I.... got another e-mail address and sent a "nothing to lose, you're a complete and utter bastard" e-mail. This was followed by stuffing some sentimental things (including a very special ring) into an envelope and posting the lot to them.
I calmed down a bit after that, having burnt my bridges. But the upset, regret and remorse were still as strong as ever. I felt such a nob for sending the ring back, it had meant a lot and symbolised something very special about our friendship. So I bought another almost immediately. Didn't like it, and so bought another to replace that one.
The months went by; the summer had rapidly passed me by as I'd been existing in a shocked and teary daze. The summer turned to winter and Christmas approached. I was dreading it, having had some wonderful Christmases in the past. But chin up, you've come this far without killing yourself or doing anything really stupid, you can get through Christmas by consolling yourself with salty snacks and pickles.
And I did. And I started turning things round a bit. I had to get on with my life. I started going to the gym and looking after myself a bit more, went for walks up hills, made plans to attain financial solvency (then paid over £200 for a digital camera). I was still desperately upset, but thought about things less (just the two or three times a day) and the days started growing longer as the spring approached.
Then it happened: I saw her. We shared some of the same route to and from work and I noticed her car in the traffic queue. Should you pursue them, flag them down, see if they'll talk to you? No, don't be daft, they're probably over the upset and there's no point reopening those wounds and pouring salt in them. You'll be OK, let it go. And I did.
Not knowing whether my e-mail address was still blocked by her, I sent the odd e-mail anyway. I'd always found it therapeutic, just offloading my thoughts and it was beneficial for me even if she never got to read them.
And soon enough, a year had gone by since that awful July day the year before. I'd grown up a lot; learnt to value the (remaining two) friends I had and to hold back before mouthing off. The sense of loss was as strong as ever, but I coped with it better. And by the time her birthday approached, I figured it couldn't do any harm to send her a simple card (to ruin her day), accompanied by an e-mail that may or may not have reached her.
Two weeks later, she replied.
Top tips for happy friendships/relationships
E-mails are great, but it's very easy to be a bit too honest when feelings are running high. It's also very easy for written words to be misinterpreted; a statement written with sarcasm in mind, may not be read that way by a recipient ("You're a fucking bitch and you've ruined my chances of ever being happy. You lied to me!" may by interpreted as "You're a fucking bitch and you've ruined my chances of ever being happy. You lied to me!").
If you're feeling frustrated or upset with somebody, try to get to a point of compromise by talking to them face to face.
If you do fuck up and make somebody hate you. Apologise immediately, but give them the time and space to consider that apology, do not piss them off even more by constantly harrassing them. And don't make things worse by sending vicious e-mails, it's easy to use hurtful words when you're upset, but not so easy if they're in front of you, so try to see them in person if you can. If they slam the door in your face, or object to being tied up in the boot of your car, perhaps give it a little more time before trying again, but don't as far as getting a restraining order put on you.
Wednesday, 23 November 2005
Balls
Connie's meatballs for spaghetti(polpette alla napolitana/Manchesterford)
You will need:
You will have to:
Place beef into a large bowl, add the onions, garlic, herbs, nutmeg, cumin, seasoning, breadcrumbs and the egg (i.e. put everything - except the flour - into a bowl and mix it up with your hands!). If it looks and feels a bit too soggy, add some more breadcrumbs until the mixture is moist enough to bind, but not snotty.
Roll the gooeyness into balls of about 3cm diameter (1.5"), dip in flour to coat evenly and place on a temperature-resistant plate (we use a large metal dish). Once all the balls have been prepared, allow them to cool in the freezer for at least half an hour. They can be frozen and also cooked from frozen. Once they've frozen, they can be transferred to a freezer bag, fastened tightly and stored for a couple or so months in a 3 star freezer.
For a delish red sauce for pasta
Once firmed up by cooling, the meatballs can be cooked either in the oven (180°C) or in a pasta sauce on the stove top. Either way the sauce to cook them in consists of:
Oh for fuck's sake, every fucker knows how to make a red fucking sauce for pasta, you don't need me to tell you.
You don't? Jesus, bunch of uncivilised wankers!
You do it this way:
Decisions, decisions - stove top or oven?
The meatballs will cook perfectly happily if dumped into the saucepan with the simmering tomato sauce and left for a good 45 minutes. However, if they're not quite firm enough, they can be a bit fragile and they'll sometimes fall apart when you stir the pan - if you don't stir the pan, then can stick to the bottom.
Therefore, you can cook them with some of the sauce in the oven. You know how they were put in the freezer on a temperature resistant plate/dish? Well, if you cover them with a good amount of the tomato sauce and cover the dish with foil, you can cook them in a preheated oven at 180°C for about 45min. You might need to check that they don't stick to the dish, but this is a really good way of cooking them and the flavour is a little more intense than cooking them in the sauce on the stove. Once they're done, dump them and the sauce in with the rest of the sauce in the saucepan.
You have to eat meatballs with spaghetti - no other pasta is compatible. And make sure you salt the water or else the pasta will taste completely crap.
You won't enjoy this if you have to sit at the same table as my dad while he's eating it.
Marinara? Bollocks!
According to Italians (well, my dad), a marinara sauce is one that contains seafood, a pescatore sauce contains fish. A sauce that contains neither of these, but consists of tomatoes and other shit is a neapolitan sauce, or just a pasta sauce. Meatballs marinara my arse, just sounds wrong to me and I'd expect there to be mussels, prawns and squid in a sauce with that name . You ask for a marinara pizza, what you expect? Seafood. If you got a frigging margherita, you'd be right arsed off.
Then again, I'd be really fucked off if there were pieces of coal in a carbonara sauce... but I wouldn't order a carbonara, so it's irrelevant.
You will need:
- 1lb beef steak mince
- Half a medium-sized onion (grated)
- 1 large clove of garlic (crushed)
- 4tbsp homemade breadcrumbs
- A regg (medium)
- 1tsp (heaped) Italian seasoning
- 1tsp freshly grated nutmeg
- 1/2 tsp ground cumin (I think she's having a laugh with this)
- Salt & pepper to taste
- Plain flour (for coating meaty balls)
You will have to:
Place beef into a large bowl, add the onions, garlic, herbs, nutmeg, cumin, seasoning, breadcrumbs and the egg (i.e. put everything - except the flour - into a bowl and mix it up with your hands!). If it looks and feels a bit too soggy, add some more breadcrumbs until the mixture is moist enough to bind, but not snotty.
Roll the gooeyness into balls of about 3cm diameter (1.5"), dip in flour to coat evenly and place on a temperature-resistant plate (we use a large metal dish). Once all the balls have been prepared, allow them to cool in the freezer for at least half an hour. They can be frozen and also cooked from frozen. Once they've frozen, they can be transferred to a freezer bag, fastened tightly and stored for a couple or so months in a 3 star freezer.
For a delish red sauce for pasta
Once firmed up by cooling, the meatballs can be cooked either in the oven (180°C) or in a pasta sauce on the stove top. Either way the sauce to cook them in consists of:
- 1 medium onion, chopped very finely
- 0,1 or 2 (or more, depending on preference) cloves of garlic, crushed
Oh for fuck's sake, every fucker knows how to make a red fucking sauce for pasta, you don't need me to tell you.
You don't? Jesus, bunch of uncivilised wankers!
- Onion, garlic (or not)
- Olive oil (enough to coat the bottom of a medium sized saucepan)
- Bit of chopped chilli (if you like it spicy)
- Dried mixed herbs (if you like)
- And/or fresh basil if you prefer
- 1 bottle passata rustica (that's the thick sieved tomatoes, rather than the stuff that looks like tomato juice) or a can of good quality chopped tomatoes (Napolina ones are great)
- Squirt/splodge tomato puree
- Salt and pepper
You do it this way:
- Heat oil over a medium heat
- Add onions and fry over a lowish heat until soft (don't be a wanker, don't burn them) if you're going to use a bit of chilli, add it at this point too
- If you're using garlic, add it once the onions are soft and cook it for a couple or three minutes (don't burn this either or it'll taste shit)
- If you're using dried herbs, add them now - chopped celery leaves are nice, add them now or with the chilli (or whenever the hell you like), but never use the stalks in a sauce because they never soften
- Add the tomatoes
- Add the tomato puree
- Add the salt and pepper
- Get it simmering, leave it until it's reduced to about 3/4 or a half the original volume, i.e, get rid of a load of the water out of it
- Once it's ready add the basil - lots of it, torn
Decisions, decisions - stove top or oven?
The meatballs will cook perfectly happily if dumped into the saucepan with the simmering tomato sauce and left for a good 45 minutes. However, if they're not quite firm enough, they can be a bit fragile and they'll sometimes fall apart when you stir the pan - if you don't stir the pan, then can stick to the bottom.
Therefore, you can cook them with some of the sauce in the oven. You know how they were put in the freezer on a temperature resistant plate/dish? Well, if you cover them with a good amount of the tomato sauce and cover the dish with foil, you can cook them in a preheated oven at 180°C for about 45min. You might need to check that they don't stick to the dish, but this is a really good way of cooking them and the flavour is a little more intense than cooking them in the sauce on the stove. Once they're done, dump them and the sauce in with the rest of the sauce in the saucepan.
You have to eat meatballs with spaghetti - no other pasta is compatible. And make sure you salt the water or else the pasta will taste completely crap.
You won't enjoy this if you have to sit at the same table as my dad while he's eating it.
Marinara? Bollocks!
According to Italians (well, my dad), a marinara sauce is one that contains seafood, a pescatore sauce contains fish. A sauce that contains neither of these, but consists of tomatoes and other shit is a neapolitan sauce, or just a pasta sauce. Meatballs marinara my arse, just sounds wrong to me and I'd expect there to be mussels, prawns and squid in a sauce with that name . You ask for a marinara pizza, what you expect? Seafood. If you got a frigging margherita, you'd be right arsed off.
Then again, I'd be really fucked off if there were pieces of coal in a carbonara sauce... but I wouldn't order a carbonara, so it's irrelevant.
Tuesday, 22 November 2005
Wake up! Wake up!
There's a subtle click and the blue light illuminates the pre-dawn, winter darkness. The final twenty seconds of a song play out and fade to near silence, Hrrrm, your waking mind stirs into action, that song was quite good, I wonder... then "It's FIVE THIRTY and you're listening to 105.4 Century FM". Jesus no, anything but that fucking awful montage of "morning songs..."
Wake up, wake up...(King in a Catholic style)... Every morning...(there's a halo hanging from the corner of my girlfriend's four-post bed)... Wake up, it's a beautiful morning...(the sun's shining for your eyes)... Here comes the sun...(little darling)... plus that other indecipherable one - what the fuck is that?
Why do they do that? As if waking up at 5.30am isn't punishment enough without inflicting that on us poor bastards.
"Hello and good morning, this is Darren Proctor on 105.4 Century FM and I can tell you we've got a chilly one this morning - you're going to have to defrost your car..." IT'S DE-ICE, YOU THICK BASTARD! "...Coming up in the next half hour, we've got Salty with the sport and traffic and music from Madonna, Inner City, Robbie and Ronan. But first, here's the news headlines with Vicky."
"Good morning, the headlines today. A gang in Manchester are being questioned after nintey grammes' worth of heroin was seized...."
Ninety grammes' worth? Grammes' WORTH??? Surely you mean ninety grammes???
"Family and friends of George Best are still at his bedside...."
Ah fuck off!
You get up to have a wee and make your coffee in order to escape the insanity. And now you know what puts me in such a pleasant mood each day.
So why do I listen? Well, it's a case of better the devil you know. You get used the extent to which a particular breakfast show gets right on your tits, so you can be prepared - God forbid, you'll switch one day and come across a station that does wind-ups ("You're dead right, love!"). So you stick to the same thing because the one Robbie Williams track each hour is quite enough for anyone. Plus they're a North West-based station that covers local things that might help you on your journey to work (or give you enough evidence to persuade you to go back to bed). In all fairness, that show is actually OK and the presenters are quite good, if a little thick at times.
A winning formula
I'm sure breakfast shows on the radio have the same formula the world over: a front man and a couple of his mates (man and woman) banter through the latest "issues", TV and celebrity gossip and throw in a bit of news, sport and weather - oh and some music if you're lucky. They generally talk about inane crap that you'd want to throttle a colleague for engaging you about.
Today's heated subject was "What's the difference between cottage pie and shepherd's pie? One's lamb, one's beef, but which way is it? Drop us a text or give us a bell if you know." - you'd think one of the dishes' names might be a clue. But no, people texted in to tell them "I don't know". Some bint even phoned in to say "Hiya, the difference between shepherd's and cottage pie? I don't know! Hee hee hee". Now, I'm ashamed to admit it, but I couldn't take any more. I hadn't had any caffeine, I was very tired, very grumpy and my blood pressure was rising. I sent a text message to the station: "Shepherd's pie is lamb, hence the name. It's not really that difficult."
Please forgive me.
But of course, the fucking radio station has won. The reason they do this is to wind people up so that they feel forced to send text messages at the super premium rate. It's a revenue-generating exercise and they excel at it.
"Hiya, can you say hello..."
People who phone in to radio stations are complete fucktards. They have no social skills and are incapable of stringing words together to form coherent sentences. They are generally quite autistic too.
DP "So, Derek, what are you doing up at this time?"
Derek "Oh, you know"
DP "No, I don't know. You up for work? Getting the kids ready for school?"
Derek: "Work, yeah"
DP: "And so, what do you do?"
Derek: "Taxi - you know, airport run and that"
Fuck's sake. Why do these people phone in when they've got no intention of communicating in a meaningful manner? Is a Six O'Clock Club certificate and some free teabags really worth it?
Going national
I can't stomach the national radio stations; the presenters are incredibly big-headed, believing they're the most important thing in broadcasting history. They are just very boring nobodies who enjoy the sound of their own voices, who think their opinions matter. On top of the usual formula for breakfast show radio, the result is unbearable.
"You should try Radio Four"
You should try stopping being such a pretentious wanker. Radio Four is the UK's high-brow radio station, presented by stuck up nobs. Radio Four's idea of a fun breakfast is news, news and more news, in voices that sound like the school teacher from Charlie Brown. Radio Four does news, documentaries, the odd decent comedy, drama, shipping forecast. Radio Four does not do music, it does "Look at me, aren't I clever, using big words that you don't understand?" radio and it makes me sick.
Worse than Radio Four though are its listeners, who only listen so that they can come to work and say "Did you hear on Radio Four this morning,... blah, blah, blah?". These people read The Guardian.
Perhaps my problem with Radio Four and The Guardian isn't their respective contents, but rather the utterly unbearable people who listen and read?
Of course, some people will defend this shit with their lives.
Wake up, wake up...(King in a Catholic style)... Every morning...(there's a halo hanging from the corner of my girlfriend's four-post bed)... Wake up, it's a beautiful morning...(the sun's shining for your eyes)... Here comes the sun...(little darling)... plus that other indecipherable one - what the fuck is that?
Why do they do that? As if waking up at 5.30am isn't punishment enough without inflicting that on us poor bastards.
"Hello and good morning, this is Darren Proctor on 105.4 Century FM and I can tell you we've got a chilly one this morning - you're going to have to defrost your car..." IT'S DE-ICE, YOU THICK BASTARD! "...Coming up in the next half hour, we've got Salty with the sport and traffic and music from Madonna, Inner City, Robbie and Ronan. But first, here's the news headlines with Vicky."
"Good morning, the headlines today. A gang in Manchester are being questioned after nintey grammes' worth of heroin was seized...."
Ninety grammes' worth? Grammes' WORTH??? Surely you mean ninety grammes???
"Family and friends of George Best are still at his bedside...."
Ah fuck off!
You get up to have a wee and make your coffee in order to escape the insanity. And now you know what puts me in such a pleasant mood each day.
So why do I listen? Well, it's a case of better the devil you know. You get used the extent to which a particular breakfast show gets right on your tits, so you can be prepared - God forbid, you'll switch one day and come across a station that does wind-ups ("You're dead right, love!"). So you stick to the same thing because the one Robbie Williams track each hour is quite enough for anyone. Plus they're a North West-based station that covers local things that might help you on your journey to work (or give you enough evidence to persuade you to go back to bed). In all fairness, that show is actually OK and the presenters are quite good, if a little thick at times.
A winning formula
I'm sure breakfast shows on the radio have the same formula the world over: a front man and a couple of his mates (man and woman) banter through the latest "issues", TV and celebrity gossip and throw in a bit of news, sport and weather - oh and some music if you're lucky. They generally talk about inane crap that you'd want to throttle a colleague for engaging you about.
Today's heated subject was "What's the difference between cottage pie and shepherd's pie? One's lamb, one's beef, but which way is it? Drop us a text or give us a bell if you know." - you'd think one of the dishes' names might be a clue. But no, people texted in to tell them "I don't know". Some bint even phoned in to say "Hiya, the difference between shepherd's and cottage pie? I don't know! Hee hee hee". Now, I'm ashamed to admit it, but I couldn't take any more. I hadn't had any caffeine, I was very tired, very grumpy and my blood pressure was rising. I sent a text message to the station: "Shepherd's pie is lamb, hence the name. It's not really that difficult."
Please forgive me.
But of course, the fucking radio station has won. The reason they do this is to wind people up so that they feel forced to send text messages at the super premium rate. It's a revenue-generating exercise and they excel at it.
"Hiya, can you say hello..."
People who phone in to radio stations are complete fucktards. They have no social skills and are incapable of stringing words together to form coherent sentences. They are generally quite autistic too.
DP "So, Derek, what are you doing up at this time?"
Derek "Oh, you know"
DP "No, I don't know. You up for work? Getting the kids ready for school?"
Derek: "Work, yeah"
DP: "And so, what do you do?"
Derek: "Taxi - you know, airport run and that"
Fuck's sake. Why do these people phone in when they've got no intention of communicating in a meaningful manner? Is a Six O'Clock Club certificate and some free teabags really worth it?
Going national
I can't stomach the national radio stations; the presenters are incredibly big-headed, believing they're the most important thing in broadcasting history. They are just very boring nobodies who enjoy the sound of their own voices, who think their opinions matter. On top of the usual formula for breakfast show radio, the result is unbearable.
"You should try Radio Four"
You should try stopping being such a pretentious wanker. Radio Four is the UK's high-brow radio station, presented by stuck up nobs. Radio Four's idea of a fun breakfast is news, news and more news, in voices that sound like the school teacher from Charlie Brown. Radio Four does news, documentaries, the odd decent comedy, drama, shipping forecast. Radio Four does not do music, it does "Look at me, aren't I clever, using big words that you don't understand?" radio and it makes me sick.
Worse than Radio Four though are its listeners, who only listen so that they can come to work and say "Did you hear on Radio Four this morning,... blah, blah, blah?". These people read The Guardian.
Perhaps my problem with Radio Four and The Guardian isn't their respective contents, but rather the utterly unbearable people who listen and read?
Of course, some people will defend this shit with their lives.
They're torturing me
Here at work, I'm slowly losing the will to live.
I get to Base 2a after a couple of hours at Base 2b and I can't log on to my profile on the PC: my e-mails have finally appeared but I can't access any of my files. Added to this, one of the lights in my office is flickering - it's one of those fluorescent things that flashes to the point of inducing a migraine when the starter unit is playing up.
Over the top of this, Carmelita - a VERY enthusiastic member of the church choir - has obviously been to a practice last night and is today "pom, pom pomming" through the day, while arranging booking for the coach to the carol service at the cathedral. She's now going through the Margaret Rutherford Miss Marples and comparing her more comic style to the dramatic protrayal given by Joan Hickson. We're currently on "Murder at the Gallop", but did you know there was also a "Murder Ahoy!"? Well, you do now. And David Suchet really is excellent at Poirot.
In the half hour that I've been here, all the ladies have been weighed; "I was really good all last week up to the weekend and yesterday...". We've covered how our pensions are panning out (if we're approaching retirement age) and also mortgaging property to see us through retirement. A very important message has come through to tell us to put our used crockery and cutlery into the dishwasher and NOT to leave it in the sink or on the side. That'll be another laminated sign going up - they LOVE their laminated notices here, there are twenty covering the reception window and each toilet cubicle has a "Please flush the toilet after use" sign.
Oh, and the book man has brought our books.
Let us all rejoice.
La-la, lah lah, pom, pom pom pom POOOOOOMMMMMMM!!!!
I get to Base 2a after a couple of hours at Base 2b and I can't log on to my profile on the PC: my e-mails have finally appeared but I can't access any of my files. Added to this, one of the lights in my office is flickering - it's one of those fluorescent things that flashes to the point of inducing a migraine when the starter unit is playing up.
Over the top of this, Carmelita - a VERY enthusiastic member of the church choir - has obviously been to a practice last night and is today "pom, pom pomming" through the day, while arranging booking for the coach to the carol service at the cathedral. She's now going through the Margaret Rutherford Miss Marples and comparing her more comic style to the dramatic protrayal given by Joan Hickson. We're currently on "Murder at the Gallop", but did you know there was also a "Murder Ahoy!"? Well, you do now. And David Suchet really is excellent at Poirot.
In the half hour that I've been here, all the ladies have been weighed; "I was really good all last week up to the weekend and yesterday...". We've covered how our pensions are panning out (if we're approaching retirement age) and also mortgaging property to see us through retirement. A very important message has come through to tell us to put our used crockery and cutlery into the dishwasher and NOT to leave it in the sink or on the side. That'll be another laminated sign going up - they LOVE their laminated notices here, there are twenty covering the reception window and each toilet cubicle has a "Please flush the toilet after use" sign.
Oh, and the book man has brought our books.
Let us all rejoice.
La-la, lah lah, pom, pom pom pom POOOOOOMMMMMMM!!!!
Monday, 21 November 2005
The Others
We're all dead.
The strange noises we hear, the weird happenings we attribute to "The Others" are actually occurrences caused by the every day lives of living folk who've moved into our homes.
Or it could be the neighbours being inconsiderate, noisy cunts again.
For the past three days, large parts of Britain have been seeing a lot of this:
No, not trees, fog.
I don't mind the fog; from being a child, it has always held an eerie mystery for me - particularly the way in that, when I was very young, a bad fog would be guaranteed to give you really black bogies because of all the soot and other airborne pollution back then.
Driving through the stuff isn't much fun, but it's generally OK so long as you follow simple rules - put your lights on, keep your distance and don't speed. Put your lights on. Simple enough really, but you tend to find that drivers, of silver and grey cars in particular, seem oblivious to the fact that you can't seem them in poor weather unless they have theirs on. Stupid cocks.
Put your lights on. I don't know why I did it, but having found them useful the other night, I decided to put my front fog lamps on for the journey home this evening. Now, these are the least-used lights on the car, so why is it that one of them only works for 14 minutes before the bulb goes? Fucking annoying piece of shit!
It was such a friggin' palaver replacing that same bulb less than a year ago. First off I had to pick the right one from Halfords, then Trillion's feller didn't half get a cold bum taking the exisitng one out before realising the the guide had been mistaken and I'd bought the wrong one. Such a mither for him to go to Halfords to exchange the bloody thing and then for him to crawl about under the bloody car to replace it. I was worn out watching him.
And now the fucking thing's gone again. It put me in such a bad mood driving home because I could just sense all the friggin "Look at me, with two functional fog lights" bastards looking at my filthy, handicapped car and gloating to themselves.
Thawing, defrosting, deicing
It may seem hard to believe, but some things get right on my tits. I'm no expert in English, but I get by and I know that you:
Wonder if radio and TV stations' media people and legal teams check the web to see what's being written about them? I fucking hope so! They can go back to bloody Darren Proctor and tell him what a nob he's being.
"This hardware will work faster through a USB 2 port"
I'm sure it will, but I haven't got one, so this'll have to do.
Windows XP is a bit clever. When you first set it up, it scans your hardware for all your PC's components, then registers that component profile with Microsoft. What on earth for? Well, it's so that copy of Win XP can only be used with the one computer. The consequence of this is, that after 5 component changes, it won't recognise further additions to the system since it sees the whole thing as a new computer.
Fucking bastards.
So yes, my camera may well download and work a lot faster through a USB 2 connection, but if you think I'm losing one of my 5 fucking lives over it, you can go ninnies.
Meatball marinara
What the hell is a marinara sauce? My limited Italian tells me it should be something seafoody or fishy, but that would be pretty disgusting with meatballs. Somebody please explain.
Actually, I don't really give a shit. My mum (72 today!) makes the best meatballs on the planet so you can keep your fishy crap on your Subway because I don't want to know.
I think that'll do for now.
And yes Rowan, I love to feed the ducks.
The strange noises we hear, the weird happenings we attribute to "The Others" are actually occurrences caused by the every day lives of living folk who've moved into our homes.
Or it could be the neighbours being inconsiderate, noisy cunts again.
For the past three days, large parts of Britain have been seeing a lot of this:
No, not trees, fog.
I don't mind the fog; from being a child, it has always held an eerie mystery for me - particularly the way in that, when I was very young, a bad fog would be guaranteed to give you really black bogies because of all the soot and other airborne pollution back then.
Driving through the stuff isn't much fun, but it's generally OK so long as you follow simple rules - put your lights on, keep your distance and don't speed. Put your lights on. Simple enough really, but you tend to find that drivers, of silver and grey cars in particular, seem oblivious to the fact that you can't seem them in poor weather unless they have theirs on. Stupid cocks.
Put your lights on. I don't know why I did it, but having found them useful the other night, I decided to put my front fog lamps on for the journey home this evening. Now, these are the least-used lights on the car, so why is it that one of them only works for 14 minutes before the bulb goes? Fucking annoying piece of shit!
It was such a friggin' palaver replacing that same bulb less than a year ago. First off I had to pick the right one from Halfords, then Trillion's feller didn't half get a cold bum taking the exisitng one out before realising the the guide had been mistaken and I'd bought the wrong one. Such a mither for him to go to Halfords to exchange the bloody thing and then for him to crawl about under the bloody car to replace it. I was worn out watching him.
And now the fucking thing's gone again. It put me in such a bad mood driving home because I could just sense all the friggin "Look at me, with two functional fog lights" bastards looking at my filthy, handicapped car and gloating to themselves.
Thawing, defrosting, deicing
It may seem hard to believe, but some things get right on my tits. I'm no expert in English, but I get by and I know that you:
- Thaw a frozen biological sample
- Defrost a frozen chicken
- Deice the car
Wonder if radio and TV stations' media people and legal teams check the web to see what's being written about them? I fucking hope so! They can go back to bloody Darren Proctor and tell him what a nob he's being.
"This hardware will work faster through a USB 2 port"
I'm sure it will, but I haven't got one, so this'll have to do.
Windows XP is a bit clever. When you first set it up, it scans your hardware for all your PC's components, then registers that component profile with Microsoft. What on earth for? Well, it's so that copy of Win XP can only be used with the one computer. The consequence of this is, that after 5 component changes, it won't recognise further additions to the system since it sees the whole thing as a new computer.
Fucking bastards.
So yes, my camera may well download and work a lot faster through a USB 2 connection, but if you think I'm losing one of my 5 fucking lives over it, you can go ninnies.
Meatball marinara
What the hell is a marinara sauce? My limited Italian tells me it should be something seafoody or fishy, but that would be pretty disgusting with meatballs. Somebody please explain.
Actually, I don't really give a shit. My mum (72 today!) makes the best meatballs on the planet so you can keep your fishy crap on your Subway because I don't want to know.
I think that'll do for now.
And yes Rowan, I love to feed the ducks.
Sunday, 20 November 2005
Party fears two
Are parties any good?
As far as gatherings of lots of different people go, they're OK. There's some sort of common denominator that means all the guests should be relatively safe. So it's relatively OK to leave your coat unattended (but not your cans of pop or bottles of booze) without fear of anything going missing from the pockets.
But there are always worries about going out to that sort of thing: who'll be there; what time do I get there; what time can I leave; will there be food; will the toilet paper run out; is there a toilet; will I end up in a fight?
Of course, the apprehensions about partying in our thirties are a lot different to how they were in our late teens and early twenties.
My main worries about going to parties these days are: will there be enough food; what time can I leave; should finally get round to telling these people that I'm queer?
Running buffet
Get that foil off so we can see what we've got! I love a running buffet. Essential items are:
Would like in an ideal buffet
Non-essential items
What time can I leave?
It's OK now that I don't drink because, unless I'm giving some pissheads a lift and I have to wait for them to finish "just another bottle of wine", I can leave when I like. Last night, I was ready to leave at 9.30 when my last can of pop had been stolen, but I stuck it out until 11.30 (quite good for me) when my contact lenses started failing dramatically. The consequence of this was that I kept blinking and winking at people and I didn't want to give anybody the wrong idea (especially the bloke who looked like a sex offender).
Out
Nah.
Of course, the good thing about being older is that I have (at last) the confidence to be such a flirt with the blokes, knowing that I've no intention of taking things further and that they can't because they're married. In fact, I flirt with everybody, but the women don't notice; too busy worrying about makeup and kids and that I reckon - nothing to do with me being crap at flirting or them being straight or owt.
As far as gatherings of lots of different people go, they're OK. There's some sort of common denominator that means all the guests should be relatively safe. So it's relatively OK to leave your coat unattended (but not your cans of pop or bottles of booze) without fear of anything going missing from the pockets.
But there are always worries about going out to that sort of thing: who'll be there; what time do I get there; what time can I leave; will there be food; will the toilet paper run out; is there a toilet; will I end up in a fight?
Of course, the apprehensions about partying in our thirties are a lot different to how they were in our late teens and early twenties.
- Food was never a worry because parties didn't start until the pubs closed, so you'd have had your tea and perhaps some crisps and pork scratchings to line your stomach prior to the final leg of the alcoholic onslaught. There may be some crisps.
- What not to wear. While other girls would spend hours choosing their outfits and getting dolled up, I would just put on whatever fit (I was having a ten year growth spurt). Jeans and a top for me.
- What do you talk about? Fuck only knows, I have no idea what sort of things we talked about back then. Probably the same shit we talk about today, only less informed/scarred by disappointment and failure.
- Getting off. I dreaded the idea of anybody making advances towards me, I just wasn't interested (I know why now). However, back then, as now, the last thing you wanted was to become the subject of all the gossip when you got back to college on the Monday. Fuck that. We'll talk about the mud stains on Paula Ashton's knees and the smile on her boyfriend's face instead. Or spend hours using a process of elimination to try to figure out who was having sex in the bathroom while Derys and Craig were shagging in the armchair.
- When to stop. You don't know when to stop drinking, so you drink until there's only the dregs of a bottle of Taboo left.
- How to get home. You tended to sleep where you dropped, or stumble to a mate's house where they'd provided a bed (and a bucket) for the night.
My main worries about going to parties these days are: will there be enough food; what time can I leave; should finally get round to telling these people that I'm queer?
Running buffet
Get that foil off so we can see what we've got! I love a running buffet. Essential items are:
- Chicken drumsticks
- Slices of ham and/or chicken
- Seafoody stuff - prawns, smoked salmon, tuna
- Bread rolls
- Pickles
- Sausages (on or off sticks, I'm not fussy)
- Cheese (crackers)
- Sausage rolls and mini pork pies
- Vol au vents (chicken & mushroom and prawn cocktail)
- Crisps
- Puddings
Would like in an ideal buffet
- A selection of fine pates, salamis and parma ham
- Continental cheeses drizzled with good olive oil (mozzarella ticolore, frexample)
- Varieties of olives
- Haywards continental mixed pickle and piccalilli
- Aubergine and feta involtine
- Tuna fish and onion sandwiches
- April's smoked salmon and Canadian dill pickles
Non-essential items
- Crudetes: high fat, high salt, that's what buffets are all about. Any fresh fruit or veg should be forgotten about, unless you want to go mad and do some garnish.
- Baked potatoes: nice, but not essential (and they have to be cooked to within an inch of their lives). Baked potatoes should be reserved for a different type of buffet, mixing the two constitutes unnecessary effort on the part of those preparing the feast and on the punters who have to make room to eat them.
- Dips: nah, they're shit
- Quiche: fuck off. Quiche is one of those things that is just a wobbly, soggy, tasteless eggy thing. Get it out of my buffet and get some vol au vents out there instead.
What time can I leave?
It's OK now that I don't drink because, unless I'm giving some pissheads a lift and I have to wait for them to finish "just another bottle of wine", I can leave when I like. Last night, I was ready to leave at 9.30 when my last can of pop had been stolen, but I stuck it out until 11.30 (quite good for me) when my contact lenses started failing dramatically. The consequence of this was that I kept blinking and winking at people and I didn't want to give anybody the wrong idea (especially the bloke who looked like a sex offender).
Out
Nah.
Of course, the good thing about being older is that I have (at last) the confidence to be such a flirt with the blokes, knowing that I've no intention of taking things further and that they can't because they're married. In fact, I flirt with everybody, but the women don't notice; too busy worrying about makeup and kids and that I reckon - nothing to do with me being crap at flirting or them being straight or owt.
Arsing typical
When you go to a house party, it's tradition to take some booze or other drink to add to the collection. The hosts will have been generous enough in providing food, music and space for the gathering, so it's only fair that the guests take their own drinks with them.
THEIR OWN DRINKS, not forgetting DRINKS FOR THEIR FUCKING KIDS!
I'm completely fucked off with going to parties, taking my six (or twelve) cans of pop and having most of them nicked by frigging kids whose parents don't think to take anything for them to drink. It happened again tonight and I had run out of drinks by 9pm.
Of course, the boozers are fine because there are 500 cans of Stella, Guinness, Carlsberg plus assorted spirits and wines. The only other soft drinks are either dead cheap cola or warm full fat Coca Cola, orange juice, bitter lemon or squash.
Bastards.
I had it out with my friend, whose step son had taken a couple of my cans for him and another kid.
"Well, there's Diet Coke there"
"But I don't like Diet Coke, that's why I brought my own pop. Why didn't Reece have the Diet Coke?"
"Because he prefers to drink out of cans."
"Well, if you know that, why didn't you bring some cans instead of a big bottle of Diet Coke? This happens every time there's one of these gatherings; I end up providing the pop for all the kids because the parents don't think about bringing drinks for them. It's not on!"
Anyway, I was firm, but not quite as arsey that makes me sound. And at least I didn't have 3/4 of a bottle of Absolut Vodka, or 8 bottles of fine Belgian beer nicked.
You get these fuckers who go to parties and take cheap shit with them and drink all the good stuff that other people fork out good money for. Wankers.
A bit of privacy, please?
And there was this bloke there who had a video camera; he was panning the room, but he was concentrating the shot on people's conversations. He stopped at me, just at the point where I'd been going to say something about one of the guests looking like a kiddie fiddler. That would've been a nice keepsake. I just gave him the subtle "Vs" in the Peter Kay styleee instead. Fucking tit.
An offer too good to accept
But it was a great do (a surprise 40th) and I enjoyed seeing my mates again for the first time in a year. There've been opportunities to catch up in the intervening period since Peter's legendary "Hot Pot supper" last autumn, but I've not been able to, or been arsed to go.
In their own ways, each of my friends in that groups means something a little different to me. We all share common memories, for example, the last time I was in that house was 17 years ago and the party was VERY different to the one that took place this evening. We'd have all been in our late teens, it was fancy dress, and there was even a couple having sex in an armchair and also in the bathroom.
What's not changed in that time is my soft spot for my friend, I've held a torch for her for years. So when her hubby, who I ADORE (he is also one of the gang from way back) asked if I'd like to lodge with them, all sorts of things crossed my mind. You can't justify moving in with somebody when you know you fancy them. That is wrong. But how do you explain that? I could just say, "Well, I might find it hard to control myself", and they'd assume I meant him.
It could be fun.... but it's probably not a good idea.
A message for Michael
Poor Michael dropped by here and happened to find the "Sam Black" cuntathon post. Sorry Michael, that was unusual for here. Not the cuntathon, the shitty attempt at fiction.
THEIR OWN DRINKS, not forgetting DRINKS FOR THEIR FUCKING KIDS!
I'm completely fucked off with going to parties, taking my six (or twelve) cans of pop and having most of them nicked by frigging kids whose parents don't think to take anything for them to drink. It happened again tonight and I had run out of drinks by 9pm.
Of course, the boozers are fine because there are 500 cans of Stella, Guinness, Carlsberg plus assorted spirits and wines. The only other soft drinks are either dead cheap cola or warm full fat Coca Cola, orange juice, bitter lemon or squash.
Bastards.
I had it out with my friend, whose step son had taken a couple of my cans for him and another kid.
"Well, there's Diet Coke there"
"But I don't like Diet Coke, that's why I brought my own pop. Why didn't Reece have the Diet Coke?"
"Because he prefers to drink out of cans."
"Well, if you know that, why didn't you bring some cans instead of a big bottle of Diet Coke? This happens every time there's one of these gatherings; I end up providing the pop for all the kids because the parents don't think about bringing drinks for them. It's not on!"
Anyway, I was firm, but not quite as arsey that makes me sound. And at least I didn't have 3/4 of a bottle of Absolut Vodka, or 8 bottles of fine Belgian beer nicked.
You get these fuckers who go to parties and take cheap shit with them and drink all the good stuff that other people fork out good money for. Wankers.
A bit of privacy, please?
And there was this bloke there who had a video camera; he was panning the room, but he was concentrating the shot on people's conversations. He stopped at me, just at the point where I'd been going to say something about one of the guests looking like a kiddie fiddler. That would've been a nice keepsake. I just gave him the subtle "Vs" in the Peter Kay styleee instead. Fucking tit.
An offer too good to accept
But it was a great do (a surprise 40th) and I enjoyed seeing my mates again for the first time in a year. There've been opportunities to catch up in the intervening period since Peter's legendary "Hot Pot supper" last autumn, but I've not been able to, or been arsed to go.
In their own ways, each of my friends in that groups means something a little different to me. We all share common memories, for example, the last time I was in that house was 17 years ago and the party was VERY different to the one that took place this evening. We'd have all been in our late teens, it was fancy dress, and there was even a couple having sex in an armchair and also in the bathroom.
What's not changed in that time is my soft spot for my friend, I've held a torch for her for years. So when her hubby, who I ADORE (he is also one of the gang from way back) asked if I'd like to lodge with them, all sorts of things crossed my mind. You can't justify moving in with somebody when you know you fancy them. That is wrong. But how do you explain that? I could just say, "Well, I might find it hard to control myself", and they'd assume I meant him.
It could be fun.... but it's probably not a good idea.
A message for Michael
Poor Michael dropped by here and happened to find the "Sam Black" cuntathon post. Sorry Michael, that was unusual for here. Not the cuntathon, the shitty attempt at fiction.
Saturday, 19 November 2005
And with a thud on the carpet, it was here
Today marks the beginning of a new chapter in the life of yours truly (it is truly, isn't it?). Today I held in my tiny little baby hands*:
The Mystical Celtic Cross Stone
It has reached the end of its epic journey; a journey that has spanned millennia, and it has finally found its rightful and very mystical home, here in the dark land of Salfordia.
Accompanied by runic scripture documenting its mythical history, a magical spell revealed the hidden caveat that the Stone's power must only used for good deeds (fuck!).
The Stone's journey to the magical land of Salfordia took so long because it shrouds itself from those it knows would abuse its power. On thinking the wicked acts of revenge that I could use the Stone's powers for in my battle of wills against the wrongdoers in the parish, it disguised itself cunningly as a lump of cheese:
*Hand it over
I wonder if CCE has good personal hygiene standards, or whether I'll have to scrub my hands every time I've touched the thing. I'm sure I'll be fine. But isn't this a cause for concern when you buy second hand books, or borrow books from a library? You never know what the previous owners or readers have been doing prior to fingering the pages.
Just a thought.
It has reached the end of its epic journey; a journey that has spanned millennia, and it has finally found its rightful and very mystical home, here in the dark land of Salfordia.
Accompanied by runic scripture documenting its mythical history, a magical spell revealed the hidden caveat that the Stone's power must only used for good deeds (fuck!).
The Stone's journey to the magical land of Salfordia took so long because it shrouds itself from those it knows would abuse its power. On thinking the wicked acts of revenge that I could use the Stone's powers for in my battle of wills against the wrongdoers in the parish, it disguised itself cunningly as a lump of cheese:
The Voice in my head told me, "Use only good to fight evil. Good must win".
That's a bit fucking boring if you ask me, but the Stone's will must be done and I'll have to be more creative with my interpretation of "good".
So, the task for the People is to tell me, The Keeper: What good deeds would you like the Stone's power to be used for?
That's a bit fucking boring if you ask me, but the Stone's will must be done and I'll have to be more creative with my interpretation of "good".
So, the task for the People is to tell me, The Keeper: What good deeds would you like the Stone's power to be used for?
*Hand it over
I wonder if CCE has good personal hygiene standards, or whether I'll have to scrub my hands every time I've touched the thing. I'm sure I'll be fine. But isn't this a cause for concern when you buy second hand books, or borrow books from a library? You never know what the previous owners or readers have been doing prior to fingering the pages.
Just a thought.
Friday, 18 November 2005
Male order
You know the type of things you see advertised with crap 1950s-style black & white diagrams in the Sunday papers, or those daft little catalogues that accompany them? Well for Sam Black, it all started with an order for a set of orthopaedic insoles and went downhill from there.
Part the first: Would like to meet?
Sam had always suffered from knee and shin problems while walking and saw the advert for Dr Foot's magic sports insoles as a godsend. Not trusting the security in online shopping, she'd phoned up Your Health Solutions of Manchesterford to place her order and regretted her decision as soon as the sales operative started trying to sell her other items from the Your Health range.
"Many of our customers find the adjustable hernia belt most useful and we do a roaring trade in incontinence products. Not to mention our back-support girdles..."
"No, I'll be fine with the shoe supports," she interrupted, "although I may bear those other things in mind when I'm a bit older."
Immediately, she bit her lip, knowing the response her this statement would invite from the youthful-sounding man on the phone.
"Yes, of course madam, I was letting my enthusiasm for our products run away with me. You don't sound much older than me. In fact, you don't live too far from where I am, do you go out much in Manchesterford?"
Oh fuck, she thought.
"No, not really, I'm stuck in the house at the moment, I'm waiting for my motorised scooter to be repaired. And I never have been one for going out, what with the embarrassing way I react to being in open spaces."
"Oh, OK then madam, it's been nice talking to you. Your items will be delivered within the next couple of days".
Sam hated lying, but she couldn't be doing with being chatted up on the phone by another stranger. While she was on the run from her past, the best way to maintain her anonymity was to stay away from all unnecessary interaction. She couldn't be doing with crazed policemen or circus freaks again, never again. Besides, the clown makeup brought her out in spots and the wig made her head itch. Her head spun for a couple more minutes and then her anxieties subsided enough to allow her a good session of pelvic floor exercises; they were bound to start helping sooner or later.
Part the second: Getting to know you
A few days had gone by and she'd almost forgotten that she's ordered her Dr Foot sports support insoles. As she jogged round the corner towards her house though, the stabbing pain returned to her shins and she was forced to slow down to a walk. I wonder if those insoles will work, she thought as she opened her gate and walked towards her front door. She was surprised to see a young man waiting for her, he was holding a package. His hair was stuck to his head with gel or grease, he was hopelessly long-sighted, but at least his acne was clearing up. Sam wondered whether, in his early twenties, this chap's mum still chose his clothes.
"Good morning madam," he greated her, "I've got a parcel for a Sam Black. I've tried knocking, but there's no reply. Can you help?"
"Oh, that's my husband," such a convenient name at times, "he's just behind me, he likes to run little further than me so he's doing an extra block. I can take that if you like."
"Sam's a man?"
"Yerrssss, Sam's my husband"
"Oh, it's just that when I spoke to Sam the other night, when I took the order, Sam was a woman."
Jesus, it was the bloke off the phone... him from Your Health, the one she'd lied to about not being able to get about. FUCK!
"You see," he continued, "I thought, hang Data Protection! It'd be nice to drop things round in person to see how you were getting along. Sam! But you had to LIE, didn't you? SAM?? eh, SAM????"
He started spitting and twitching, if it hadn't been so scary, it would have been hilarious!
She quelled the instinct to burst out laughing at him and thought of something that might calm the situation.
"Yes, Sam, that's me too and my husband is called Sam. What's your name?"
"IaaannnnnnnNNN!" he glared at her.
Part the third: Partings are such sweet sorrow
"Well Ian, you see there was an amazing miracle. I won the lottery and went to see a vey expensive doctor about my condition. I paid him lots of money and he cured me! So here I am! Cured! Ha ha ha ha"
"Really? That's wonderful! You're very lucky. Here's your package, would you mind signing please? Thanks then, bye!"
So that was that. She watched as he wandered off down the road and wondered how it was possible to have so many spots visible in a hair parting.
Damn, she thought, I think I did a little pee when Ian rumbled me. I'll have to get something that will help prevent embarrassing moments like that in the future.
(Don't ask, just don't ask)
Part the first: Would like to meet?
Sam had always suffered from knee and shin problems while walking and saw the advert for Dr Foot's magic sports insoles as a godsend. Not trusting the security in online shopping, she'd phoned up Your Health Solutions of Manchesterford to place her order and regretted her decision as soon as the sales operative started trying to sell her other items from the Your Health range.
"Many of our customers find the adjustable hernia belt most useful and we do a roaring trade in incontinence products. Not to mention our back-support girdles..."
"No, I'll be fine with the shoe supports," she interrupted, "although I may bear those other things in mind when I'm a bit older."
Immediately, she bit her lip, knowing the response her this statement would invite from the youthful-sounding man on the phone.
"Yes, of course madam, I was letting my enthusiasm for our products run away with me. You don't sound much older than me. In fact, you don't live too far from where I am, do you go out much in Manchesterford?"
Oh fuck, she thought.
"No, not really, I'm stuck in the house at the moment, I'm waiting for my motorised scooter to be repaired. And I never have been one for going out, what with the embarrassing way I react to being in open spaces."
"Oh, OK then madam, it's been nice talking to you. Your items will be delivered within the next couple of days".
Sam hated lying, but she couldn't be doing with being chatted up on the phone by another stranger. While she was on the run from her past, the best way to maintain her anonymity was to stay away from all unnecessary interaction. She couldn't be doing with crazed policemen or circus freaks again, never again. Besides, the clown makeup brought her out in spots and the wig made her head itch. Her head spun for a couple more minutes and then her anxieties subsided enough to allow her a good session of pelvic floor exercises; they were bound to start helping sooner or later.
Part the second: Getting to know you
A few days had gone by and she'd almost forgotten that she's ordered her Dr Foot sports support insoles. As she jogged round the corner towards her house though, the stabbing pain returned to her shins and she was forced to slow down to a walk. I wonder if those insoles will work, she thought as she opened her gate and walked towards her front door. She was surprised to see a young man waiting for her, he was holding a package. His hair was stuck to his head with gel or grease, he was hopelessly long-sighted, but at least his acne was clearing up. Sam wondered whether, in his early twenties, this chap's mum still chose his clothes.
"Good morning madam," he greated her, "I've got a parcel for a Sam Black. I've tried knocking, but there's no reply. Can you help?"
"Oh, that's my husband," such a convenient name at times, "he's just behind me, he likes to run little further than me so he's doing an extra block. I can take that if you like."
"Sam's a man?"
"Yerrssss, Sam's my husband"
"Oh, it's just that when I spoke to Sam the other night, when I took the order, Sam was a woman."
Jesus, it was the bloke off the phone... him from Your Health, the one she'd lied to about not being able to get about. FUCK!
"You see," he continued, "I thought, hang Data Protection! It'd be nice to drop things round in person to see how you were getting along. Sam! But you had to LIE, didn't you? SAM?? eh, SAM????"
He started spitting and twitching, if it hadn't been so scary, it would have been hilarious!
She quelled the instinct to burst out laughing at him and thought of something that might calm the situation.
"Yes, Sam, that's me too and my husband is called Sam. What's your name?"
"IaaannnnnnnNNN!" he glared at her.
Part the third: Partings are such sweet sorrow
"Well Ian, you see there was an amazing miracle. I won the lottery and went to see a vey expensive doctor about my condition. I paid him lots of money and he cured me! So here I am! Cured! Ha ha ha ha"
"Really? That's wonderful! You're very lucky. Here's your package, would you mind signing please? Thanks then, bye!"
So that was that. She watched as he wandered off down the road and wondered how it was possible to have so many spots visible in a hair parting.
Damn, she thought, I think I did a little pee when Ian rumbled me. I'll have to get something that will help prevent embarrassing moments like that in the future.
(Don't ask, just don't ask)
Quack
How brilliant are ducks?
And sheep, for that matter.
And sheep, for that matter.
Ducks and sheep actually make noises that sound like people doing an impression of a duck or a sheep. Brilliant!
The ducks on the pond of death were a bit cold today, but there were still a few hard nuts who were doing jumping in and diving and stuff. Mental.
There weren't any sheep around on my trip to the shops this dinnertime ("I'm very easy to buy for, me" - how's about £10s' worth of Greggs pasties?). A trip that I'd sooner forget. A trip plagued by utter numpties, wandering blindly towards "Santa's snowman surprise". Let's hope this consists of a grotto filled with the sights and sounds of murder.
People might be able to make a sound like a sheep or a duck, but I don't know anybody who can do an elephant. I know somebody who can do a donkey though.
Thursday, 17 November 2005
The return of Rusty Cock
Say hello to Rusty Cock
Rusty belongs to the anonymous commenter formerly known as Trillion. He went to live with her last Christmas after being given as a pressie by yours truly (or is it faithfully or sincerely?).
Anyway, during a conversation with Trillion this evening, she rumbled me and figured that I'd purchased "Rusty Cock 2 - The Daddy" for one of her Christmas presents. There's nothing like keeping Christmas special I suppose. RC2 didn't have any bar code or price so I had to ask at the till (T K Maxx) where I begged the young lad to ask his supervisors for a pricecheck on a "12" rusty cock". He opted instead for "It's not very big... no, no more than ten, maybe twelve inches. No not as big as that, it's quite small actually".
Not-so secret Santa
I love where I work at Base 2a. The entire NHS depends on the people there and EVERYTHING is so very, very important. To the point that every single point of discussion has to be bled dry in two to three hour heated debates. I'm talking serious things here: latest Aldi bargains; holidays; what's on the menu at the canteen.
I turned up today to find that only two people were left to be chosen for the Christmas gift thing, I made my choice. "Oh good", I said, dying inside.
You see, in normal workplaces where they do this sort of thing, you either choose in secret, so that nobody knows who is buying for whom, or everybody just buys a pressie to a certain value and people pick something out of the - I called it a tumbledryer earlier - tomboler. Anonymity is key. Here, however, everybody knows who is buying whose present. This is all part of the anti personnel psychological warfare that is ingrained in the culture there. It automatically takes the fun out of the entire exercise because you can't buy racy pressies, or things that are a bit close to the knuckle, or remotely humorous. The presents that are exchanged are generally very safe, very tedious things. Let's face it, if you're going to get something that you don't want, it might as well be rude and tasteless, rather than just tasteless tat.
"Oh good", I said, dying inside.
The second my victim discovered that I'd the one buying their present, they swooped and stood in the doorway of my office, trapping me there.
"I hear you're buying my Christmas present. I'm really very easy to buy for..."
Not as easy to buy for if you didn't know it was coming from me... "Yeah, just jot down two or three things that you'd like and I'll see what I can do."
"Really, I'm not at all fussy, I'm very easy to buy for."
Jesus, this is the person who's taken 4 weeks to decide on which digital camera to buy from a choice of one... "Oh good, yeah, that's great. It's better if I get you something that you'd like. Just write down two or three things that you might like..."
"Yeah, the only thing I don't really use are books. I don't really read books, so cookery books or gardening books wouldn't really be any use. But I'm very easy to buy for, so toiletries and jewellery, anything like that is great."
Fu-king-hell, please stop the screaming, the pain is killing me... Jewellery for a tenner? You having a fucking laugh??? You'll get a Dove selection box from Boots like every other fucker! "Oh, that's fine, we'll get you sorted, don't worry."
Berrrlimey! Harmless, nice, decent people, but not my cuppa tea.
No brainer
Apparently, they're also called "bran tubs", where you put all the pressies into a big tub and pick one out. Bran tub, why's that then? Bran...
I had Trillion explain "no-brainer" to me earlier too. You hear it loads: "Well, it's a no-brainer, isn't it?" Eh? What you mean with this "no-brainer"? I no understand. "Like you don't need a brain to understand or to make a decision".
Why's that then? Of course you need a brain to understand, dickhead.
You know what I mean? At the end of the day, err basically, it's a no-brainer.
Fuck.
So, that's Trillion's surprise ruined; it wasn't cheap either. And to think I was going to get her a Toby jug gravy boat with the face of Robbie Williams. No-brainer, really.
Santa Claus is coming to town
Already here in the Sniffy household, where the residents are so happy, it really is like Christmas every day!
Bollocks to that.
For some reason, I was singing "Santa claus is coming to town" earlier. Max had been whinging at me and it just started: "You'd better not shout, you'd better not cry...."
"SAAAAAAAAAAAANTA Claus is coming to town - oh yeah!"
I never say Santa Claus, it's Father Christmas as far as I'm concerned.
And of course, I was singing a hybrid of all the popular versions of the song, which a bit odd, considering the weird tempo of the Jackson 5 rendition. Of course, the one version that I didn't incoporate was Bruce "The Boss" Springsteen's. This is so dreafully awful and un-Christmassy that it's analagous to the gratey-throated union man coming round to your house on Christmas day, shagging your mum, killing your dad, slitting the cats' throats and shitting on the turkey.
No, no, no! It'd be like fucking Coldplay doing "Last Christmas" or Travis coming out with "All I want for Christmas is you". It's just WRONG! But it can't be wiped from our memories, can it? Bruce Springsteen has effectively ruined Christmas.
Thanks Bossman, you utter twat.
I can't believe I've done a post about Christmas already. I might do a Sniffy Advent Calendar, with each day representing another joyous occurrance, meeting or coming to blows in my run up to my Christmas dinner.
Rusty belongs to the anonymous commenter formerly known as Trillion. He went to live with her last Christmas after being given as a pressie by yours truly (or is it faithfully or sincerely?).
Anyway, during a conversation with Trillion this evening, she rumbled me and figured that I'd purchased "Rusty Cock 2 - The Daddy" for one of her Christmas presents. There's nothing like keeping Christmas special I suppose. RC2 didn't have any bar code or price so I had to ask at the till (T K Maxx) where I begged the young lad to ask his supervisors for a pricecheck on a "12" rusty cock". He opted instead for "It's not very big... no, no more than ten, maybe twelve inches. No not as big as that, it's quite small actually".
Not-so secret Santa
I love where I work at Base 2a. The entire NHS depends on the people there and EVERYTHING is so very, very important. To the point that every single point of discussion has to be bled dry in two to three hour heated debates. I'm talking serious things here: latest Aldi bargains; holidays; what's on the menu at the canteen.
I turned up today to find that only two people were left to be chosen for the Christmas gift thing, I made my choice. "Oh good", I said, dying inside.
You see, in normal workplaces where they do this sort of thing, you either choose in secret, so that nobody knows who is buying for whom, or everybody just buys a pressie to a certain value and people pick something out of the - I called it a tumbledryer earlier - tomboler. Anonymity is key. Here, however, everybody knows who is buying whose present. This is all part of the anti personnel psychological warfare that is ingrained in the culture there. It automatically takes the fun out of the entire exercise because you can't buy racy pressies, or things that are a bit close to the knuckle, or remotely humorous. The presents that are exchanged are generally very safe, very tedious things. Let's face it, if you're going to get something that you don't want, it might as well be rude and tasteless, rather than just tasteless tat.
"Oh good", I said, dying inside.
The second my victim discovered that I'd the one buying their present, they swooped and stood in the doorway of my office, trapping me there.
"I hear you're buying my Christmas present. I'm really very easy to buy for..."
Not as easy to buy for if you didn't know it was coming from me... "Yeah, just jot down two or three things that you'd like and I'll see what I can do."
"Really, I'm not at all fussy, I'm very easy to buy for."
Jesus, this is the person who's taken 4 weeks to decide on which digital camera to buy from a choice of one... "Oh good, yeah, that's great. It's better if I get you something that you'd like. Just write down two or three things that you might like..."
"Yeah, the only thing I don't really use are books. I don't really read books, so cookery books or gardening books wouldn't really be any use. But I'm very easy to buy for, so toiletries and jewellery, anything like that is great."
Fu-king-hell, please stop the screaming, the pain is killing me... Jewellery for a tenner? You having a fucking laugh??? You'll get a Dove selection box from Boots like every other fucker! "Oh, that's fine, we'll get you sorted, don't worry."
Berrrlimey! Harmless, nice, decent people, but not my cuppa tea.
No brainer
Apparently, they're also called "bran tubs", where you put all the pressies into a big tub and pick one out. Bran tub, why's that then? Bran...
I had Trillion explain "no-brainer" to me earlier too. You hear it loads: "Well, it's a no-brainer, isn't it?" Eh? What you mean with this "no-brainer"? I no understand. "Like you don't need a brain to understand or to make a decision".
Why's that then? Of course you need a brain to understand, dickhead.
You know what I mean? At the end of the day, err basically, it's a no-brainer.
Fuck.
So, that's Trillion's surprise ruined; it wasn't cheap either. And to think I was going to get her a Toby jug gravy boat with the face of Robbie Williams. No-brainer, really.
Santa Claus is coming to town
Already here in the Sniffy household, where the residents are so happy, it really is like Christmas every day!
Bollocks to that.
For some reason, I was singing "Santa claus is coming to town" earlier. Max had been whinging at me and it just started: "You'd better not shout, you'd better not cry...."
"SAAAAAAAAAAAANTA Claus is coming to town - oh yeah!"
I never say Santa Claus, it's Father Christmas as far as I'm concerned.
And of course, I was singing a hybrid of all the popular versions of the song, which a bit odd, considering the weird tempo of the Jackson 5 rendition. Of course, the one version that I didn't incoporate was Bruce "The Boss" Springsteen's. This is so dreafully awful and un-Christmassy that it's analagous to the gratey-throated union man coming round to your house on Christmas day, shagging your mum, killing your dad, slitting the cats' throats and shitting on the turkey.
No, no, no! It'd be like fucking Coldplay doing "Last Christmas" or Travis coming out with "All I want for Christmas is you". It's just WRONG! But it can't be wiped from our memories, can it? Bruce Springsteen has effectively ruined Christmas.
Thanks Bossman, you utter twat.
I can't believe I've done a post about Christmas already. I might do a Sniffy Advent Calendar, with each day representing another joyous occurrance, meeting or coming to blows in my run up to my Christmas dinner.
Ask a stupid question
Obsessed with being an obsessive and ever eager to discover the wherabouts of readers, imagine my delight when I found this:
The main point of interest here is the referring page and the method by which the hapless reader from Augusta, Georgia stumbled across this blog. The question to which they searched for an answer was:
"Where can I find various types of cakes?"
Call me old fashioned, but your first point of call would generally be one of these things known as a "bakers and confectioners". Bugger only knows what they found by dropping in here.
"Yeah, if you go down to Athens, GA, and you're driving in your car, you won't get very far before you hear people shouting out!" I tribute there to the wonderful people of the great state of Georgia.
Oh, and next door's washing was STILL out this morning. It must bloody stink and need rewashing by the time they get it in. I mean, just what on earth do they do all day? Surely they must have just one spare minute to bring it in between filling out benefit claim forms and eating chips?? Can people be prosecuted for being criminally stupid? They fucking should be!
The main point of interest here is the referring page and the method by which the hapless reader from Augusta, Georgia stumbled across this blog. The question to which they searched for an answer was:
"Where can I find various types of cakes?"
Call me old fashioned, but your first point of call would generally be one of these things known as a "bakers and confectioners". Bugger only knows what they found by dropping in here.
"Yeah, if you go down to Athens, GA, and you're driving in your car, you won't get very far before you hear people shouting out!" I tribute there to the wonderful people of the great state of Georgia.
Oh, and next door's washing was STILL out this morning. It must bloody stink and need rewashing by the time they get it in. I mean, just what on earth do they do all day? Surely they must have just one spare minute to bring it in between filling out benefit claim forms and eating chips?? Can people be prosecuted for being criminally stupid? They fucking should be!
Wednesday, 16 November 2005
Do. Not. Mess. With. Me!
Fed up with people parking over my driveway, I finally flipped last night and took things into my own hands. Noticing that the offending vehicle had no security, I broke in, smashed the steering lock and moved it to the car park over the road.
I then lit the blue touch paper and Hey Presto! my own Sniffy fireworks display...
KaBOOM!!
...If only this was true.
The car fire was definitely true. Having gone for an early night, I was just dropping off at around 11pm when I was woken by one of the FUCKING BASTARD wagons from over the road, reversing; the accompanying reversing alerts just adding to the slow grind of the hugely powerful engine as it took an age to get into position. Fuckers, am I never going to be allowed any sleep because of those bastards? They'll be setting off in convoy from 4am.
At the same time, there were a few voices and the sound of running feet, followed shortly after by a loud bang! Bastards! Haven't they had enough friggin' fireworks yet? Then an almighty BANG!
The light shone through onto my bedroom wall and brought me back from the arms of Orpheus. Looking out of the window, I was met by the sight of the car on fire.
Bastard little shits who do this sort of thing want killing.
The Fire Brigade was there almost instantly:
And the fire was under control fairly quickly.
Yes, living here is like living somewhere that there's a peacekeeping presence.
Loathe thy neighbours: they are total twats
My bedroom window offered a good vantage point from which to view the ensuing hoohar. Similarly, the equivalent room in my neighbours' house would have offered the same viewpoint. So why then, did they choose to go into their back garden, from where they could see: a 7 foot fence; a shed; lots of tall sycamores; some smoke from the fire? I'll tell you why. They did it because it gave them and excuse to go into the garden and make a racket:
Screeching Harpy: "John, John, I think there's a fire over the road, can you see?"
Neanderthal man: "Ugg"
Harpy: "Oh, John! I wonder what's going on?"
Neanderthal man: "Ugg"
It was then that I noticed torchlight being shone through into my bedroom from their garden. That's right, the thick cunts were trying to use a torch to see through all the obstacles rather than getting their lazy fat arses upstairs and looking out the fucking window!
CUNTS! I HATE THEM!!!!
Of course, while they were out in their garden, you'd have thought they might have noticed the washing that they'd left out for 2 days in all weather was absorbing the smoke that was drifting over. You'd have thought so, wouldn't you?
These are the people who are raking it in as professional foster carers and incapacity benefit scroungers. Over the front door of their lovingly extended house (paid for by thee and me) is the sign: "Angels gather here". Awww, but they're such nice people, looking after those kiddies.
Anyway, I have a plan and I'm going to set them a test to see if they can find the source of tonight's fire when I set fire to his minibus. Blowing the fucker up will save him the trouble of making such a song and dance of reversing it off his drive.
Useless, waste of space, greedy, evil BASTARDS.
I then lit the blue touch paper and Hey Presto! my own Sniffy fireworks display...
KaBOOM!!
...If only this was true.
The car fire was definitely true. Having gone for an early night, I was just dropping off at around 11pm when I was woken by one of the FUCKING BASTARD wagons from over the road, reversing; the accompanying reversing alerts just adding to the slow grind of the hugely powerful engine as it took an age to get into position. Fuckers, am I never going to be allowed any sleep because of those bastards? They'll be setting off in convoy from 4am.
At the same time, there were a few voices and the sound of running feet, followed shortly after by a loud bang! Bastards! Haven't they had enough friggin' fireworks yet? Then an almighty BANG!
The light shone through onto my bedroom wall and brought me back from the arms of Orpheus. Looking out of the window, I was met by the sight of the car on fire.
Bastard little shits who do this sort of thing want killing.
The Fire Brigade was there almost instantly:
And the fire was under control fairly quickly.
Yes, living here is like living somewhere that there's a peacekeeping presence.
Loathe thy neighbours: they are total twats
My bedroom window offered a good vantage point from which to view the ensuing hoohar. Similarly, the equivalent room in my neighbours' house would have offered the same viewpoint. So why then, did they choose to go into their back garden, from where they could see: a 7 foot fence; a shed; lots of tall sycamores; some smoke from the fire? I'll tell you why. They did it because it gave them and excuse to go into the garden and make a racket:
Screeching Harpy: "John, John, I think there's a fire over the road, can you see?"
Neanderthal man: "Ugg"
Harpy: "Oh, John! I wonder what's going on?"
Neanderthal man: "Ugg"
It was then that I noticed torchlight being shone through into my bedroom from their garden. That's right, the thick cunts were trying to use a torch to see through all the obstacles rather than getting their lazy fat arses upstairs and looking out the fucking window!
CUNTS! I HATE THEM!!!!
Of course, while they were out in their garden, you'd have thought they might have noticed the washing that they'd left out for 2 days in all weather was absorbing the smoke that was drifting over. You'd have thought so, wouldn't you?
These are the people who are raking it in as professional foster carers and incapacity benefit scroungers. Over the front door of their lovingly extended house (paid for by thee and me) is the sign: "Angels gather here". Awww, but they're such nice people, looking after those kiddies.
Anyway, I have a plan and I'm going to set them a test to see if they can find the source of tonight's fire when I set fire to his minibus. Blowing the fucker up will save him the trouble of making such a song and dance of reversing it off his drive.
Useless, waste of space, greedy, evil BASTARDS.
Tuesday, 15 November 2005
Strange phenomena
There was a mixed reaction to the photo of me with my hair straightened, no least from dear departed Trillion (who cut it a couple of weeks ago). Her response was "That fucking lying bitch has gone to the hairdressers and had it done professionally afterall!" Shows you how much attention she was paying to me a couple of years ago when it was actually done and I made such a song and dance about it. Oh, she wasn't talking to me a couple of years ago.
Anyway, check out these sets of responses:
Straight
Tina as one who has borne curly hair forever I love your new hair cut and it looks healthy, shiny and pretty. Unknown
aasmodeus said...
You look terribly cute either way, and that'll do for my sniffycam porn lust. TA! Straight
coldcoldearth said...
We love you no matter what you look like!
Looks good straight or curly(and you knows I LOVE your curls, and that!). Straight
Rowan said...
I think you look stunningly beautiful with the straight hair, more coiffed somehow. Probably wouldn't bother if it were me everyday, but to go out, you look amazing. I iron my hair once in a while. It's wavy more or less. They ALWAYS straighten my hair when I go to the salon. I don't tell them to, they just do. Must be tellilng me somehting htere huh? Straight
Stew said...
Jeez I'm gutted. I read you were going straight & I thought I was in with a chance. And then the photo of you as an absolute BABE.
Kinky and curly
You look a completely different person with straight hair - someone more serious.
Please go back to curly and kinky.
Oh but I love the curly hair! Love it. Never change, please. Gay
whinger said...
Babe both ways, but curly hair is definitely the winner.
Does anyone actually use the blogroll thing? Frankly I'm beginning to lose the will to live over trying to get more hits - I hit a peak some months back when it was all Dalek and thrills at about 300-400 a day for a few weeks and has now settled to around 200 a day. Frankly I can't be fucked to get more or retain what I have.
So the conclusion from that very scientific piece of work from Sniffy Experimentals that "Gay women prefer me with curly hair, particularly if I'm showing my tits (bra, actually!). Next up: Tina gets a crew cut.
Traffic schmaffic
Why do people crash their cars just in time to shut major roads at rush hour? You're sat there: first gear, second gear, brake, clutch, stop, handbrake, neutral, ad infinitum; while at the same time your bladder is getting fuller and fuller because you were stupid enough to assume that the journey home wouldn't be too bad today, so didn't bother going for a wee before leaving work. All you can think is: "The bastards that caused this better be dead or I'm going to hunt them down and fucking KILL THEM!"
Dr Sniff tells it like it t-i-is
In a meeting with my line manager this afternoon, she apologised that she was going to have to cut it short (not my hair, the meeting) because she had an appointment with the dentist. She'd been having trouble after a tooth had been removed and she was worried that there may be some latent infection in there. I said that she needed to get it x-rayed and thoroughly checked out because it was probably an undiagnosed siamese twin.
Well, it might be.
Stone me!
I won the stone. My powers will know no bounds! More to follow...
Anyway, check out these sets of responses:
Straight
Whoa....I like your straight hair. It must have taken ages to do. I think I'll go get my hair permed and show you what I look like with curly hair.
I hate cleaning. Straight ...sigh...
edwaado said...
Love your new 'do. Straight
indiaiynke said...
I love your 'straight' look - but if I had to have my hair ironed (what, every day?) I'd go more insane than I am. Straight
Tina as one who has borne curly hair forever I love your new hair cut and it looks healthy, shiny and pretty. Unknown
aasmodeus said...
You look terribly cute either way, and that'll do for my sniffycam porn lust. TA! Straight
coldcoldearth said...
We love you no matter what you look like!
PS Halloween is over. Straight
Piggy and Tazzy said...
Fucking hell - doesn't your nose look big now?
I think you hair looks better like that. I was going to say 'nice', but thats relative isn't it? Nasty little homos
MHN for short said...
Hey Love! I like your hair both ways. When it is straight, you look like another friend of ours.
Looks good straight or curly(and you knows I LOVE your curls, and that!). Straight
Rowan said...
I think you look stunningly beautiful with the straight hair, more coiffed somehow. Probably wouldn't bother if it were me everyday, but to go out, you look amazing. I iron my hair once in a while. It's wavy more or less. They ALWAYS straighten my hair when I go to the salon. I don't tell them to, they just do. Must be tellilng me somehting htere huh? Straight
Stew said...
Jeez I'm gutted. I read you were going straight & I thought I was in with a chance. And then the photo of you as an absolute BABE.
Now it seems you're still a completely psycho, kinky, kinky-haired, hoodied bender.
doh.
Stew Straight
Kinky and curly
You look a completely different person with straight hair - someone more serious.
Personally, I prefer the curls, but you're lovely either way. She claims to be straight, but spent the weekend sharing a room with three other women (oi oi!)
Dave said...
Just keep it kinky and curly Straight
Please go back to curly and kinky.
I do believe that is what gives you that little somethin' something that I have come (and I mean come) to love.
That's just my little un-straight point of view.....
xoxoxoxox Gay
Oh but I love the curly hair! Love it. Never change, please. Gay
whinger said...
Babe both ways, but curly hair is definitely the winner.
- If you're showing your tits, no one cares. :) Still gay
And not forgetting:
Does anyone actually use the blogroll thing? Frankly I'm beginning to lose the will to live over trying to get more hits - I hit a peak some months back when it was all Dalek and thrills at about 300-400 a day for a few weeks and has now settled to around 200 a day. Frankly I can't be fucked to get more or retain what I have.
I know the poetry isn't selling well, but fuck it - like you and your hair - I'll do what I fucking please. Completely lovely
So the conclusion from that very scientific piece of work from Sniffy Experimentals that "Gay women prefer me with curly hair, particularly if I'm showing my tits (bra, actually!). Next up: Tina gets a crew cut.
Traffic schmaffic
Why do people crash their cars just in time to shut major roads at rush hour? You're sat there: first gear, second gear, brake, clutch, stop, handbrake, neutral, ad infinitum; while at the same time your bladder is getting fuller and fuller because you were stupid enough to assume that the journey home wouldn't be too bad today, so didn't bother going for a wee before leaving work. All you can think is: "The bastards that caused this better be dead or I'm going to hunt them down and fucking KILL THEM!"
Dr Sniff tells it like it t-i-is
In a meeting with my line manager this afternoon, she apologised that she was going to have to cut it short (not my hair, the meeting) because she had an appointment with the dentist. She'd been having trouble after a tooth had been removed and she was worried that there may be some latent infection in there. I said that she needed to get it x-rayed and thoroughly checked out because it was probably an undiagnosed siamese twin.
Well, it might be.
Stone me!
I won the stone. My powers will know no bounds! More to follow...
Monday, 14 November 2005
Let me entertain you
- surly girl said...
-
never mind all that - i'm bored. can you post summat new? (please bear in mind that my laptop is crap and caches stuff so it's entirely possible that you have posted and i just can't see it).....
Bah!
Errrm, actually, I suppose you're right.
Some bastard is going to beat me in my quest to acquire the Mystical Celtic Cross Stone. Destiny has decreed that the stone should be mine: I am its rightful custodian; great things have been foreseen for the two of us together. But these great and wonderous deeds will never be realised if some other twat gets hold of it. I need it, it has spoken to me. I cannot believe it may go to another.
Still, if I don't win, I'll use my powers to find out who did win it and I'll hunt them down and torch their house!
That'll learn em.
Freak like me
No public humiliation for me tonight. The world of bloggers has had enough treats/terrors over the past week or so. Sniffycam is now closed to all but those whom I truly love. I am using it to send scary video e-mails to my dear friends who moved hundreds of miles away to get away from me. Stalking is so easy in the electronic age.
A point of clarification
My hair is curly and curly it will stay. There are certain things about ourselves that we shouldn't even think about trying to change.
Sunday, 13 November 2005
Cakesniffer in "I'm going straight" u-turn
Curly-haired blogger, Tina Cakesniffer, caused dismay and outrage today when she declared "I'm going straight!". But she immediately allayed her fan's (sic) fears by continuing: "After suffering with debilitating curly hair all my life, I'm getting the iron out. It's going to be 'goodbye curls' from now on!"
True to her word, she then ironed her curly locks proudly showed off her straightness to the crowd that awaited her reappearance...
True to her word, she then ironed her curly locks proudly showed off her straightness to the crowd that awaited her reappearance...
Nobody dared mention that she still looked a total twat.
Tina' previous hair do(n't) is the subject of some hot bidding activity in a 5 day Ebay auction.
Are ess ess?
I've been wondering how to sort out RSS feeds and stuff for ages, ten months in fact. The Sniffy Bogroll works on feeds and things, so the most recently updated blog will float to the top of the roll. Other than that, I've no idea how these things work. Lot of techno mumbo jumbo if you ask me.
Anyway, I'm delighted by Firefox's and Opera's RSS subscription function.
Magic.
Housework
Everytime I do battle with the vacuum cleaner (which I SWEAR I'm allergic to, I absol) I end up singing The B52's Housework (Bouncing off the satellites, 1986) to myself. Wanna see why?
I am don' my housework
Got no time to fool 'round
I am doin' my housework
Cleanin' up and I'm gettin' down
It'll be so clean
You can eat off the floor
You can eat off the wall
Or anywhere at all
'Cause I'll make this place
A party pad for two
And I'm not stoppin' till I do
Housework, housework
I'm so tired of this vacuum
Need a man to help soon
Don't need a man to make a move on me
I need a man to move in with me
Don't need a man to treat me mean
I need a man to help me clean
Someone who's heaven sent
Someone to help pay rent
Someone to share dreams and wishes
Someone to help me do the dishes
Of all the songs out there, this one just about sums up what relationships and living together are all about. Someone to share dreams and wishes, someone to help me do the dishes. That'll do for me.
Who'll protect you from the hooded sniffer?
Having confessed to being a lover of hooded tops, I thought it only fair to show the world my collection of FIVE hooded tops.
Tina' previous hair do(n't) is the subject of some hot bidding activity in a 5 day Ebay auction.
Are ess ess?
I've been wondering how to sort out RSS feeds and stuff for ages, ten months in fact. The Sniffy Bogroll works on feeds and things, so the most recently updated blog will float to the top of the roll. Other than that, I've no idea how these things work. Lot of techno mumbo jumbo if you ask me.
Anyway, I'm delighted by Firefox's and Opera's RSS subscription function.
Magic.
Housework
Everytime I do battle with the vacuum cleaner (which I SWEAR I'm allergic to, I absol) I end up singing The B52's Housework (Bouncing off the satellites, 1986) to myself. Wanna see why?
I am don' my housework
Got no time to fool 'round
I am doin' my housework
Cleanin' up and I'm gettin' down
It'll be so clean
You can eat off the floor
You can eat off the wall
Or anywhere at all
'Cause I'll make this place
A party pad for two
And I'm not stoppin' till I do
Housework, housework
I'm so tired of this vacuum
Need a man to help soon
Don't need a man to make a move on me
I need a man to move in with me
Don't need a man to treat me mean
I need a man to help me clean
Someone who's heaven sent
Someone to help pay rent
Someone to share dreams and wishes
Someone to help me do the dishes
Of all the songs out there, this one just about sums up what relationships and living together are all about. Someone to share dreams and wishes, someone to help me do the dishes. That'll do for me.
Who'll protect you from the hooded sniffer?
Having confessed to being a lover of hooded tops, I thought it only fair to show the world my collection of FIVE hooded tops.
- Top is today's choice: The Adidas (a-deee-dass) bargain (£5 from JJB Sports).
- Row two is my fleecey one for playing out in when it gets cold.
- Row three is my Marks and Spencer "Limited Collection with cashmere" one - see how I can't help but feel the quality and luxury of the 7% cashmere.
- Bottom left: cheap and nasty from Matalan (god I've put weight on since then!)
- Bottom right: another excuse to show off my favourite T-shirtand favourite hoody - £11 from Costco, currently languishing in the laundry bag because it smells of cooking.
Talking Italian
I do wish the Italians would give a bit of thought before phoning my dad. You see, if they phone too early in the morning, Dad will still be in bed, his throat will be croaky and he won't have put his teeth in.
This morning's crisis seemingly relates to my dad's bitch sister who embezzled ALL of my grandfather's money for her own family. All I could hear my dad saying was "Rosie (my cousin, daughter of nice auntie), she is dead to me, I don't care, get Gianni (bitch auntie's eldest heroin addict son) to sort it."
It's like something out of The Godfather, only slightly more gummy.
Dad's first name is Donato, so he is known in local restaurant as Mr Donato or Don Cakesniffer. If only we had the backing of the Mafia, my life would be so much easier.
"Daddy, I've seen this job that I want, can I have it please?"
"Si, si, certo la mia bella figlia"
"Thanks, Daddy. Oh, and Daddy..."
"...Huh?"
"...Daddy, there's a list of people I'd like to be killed on my desk. Cheerio!"
Pop goes the Cakesniffer
So, this is the last word on popups because the whole thing has been making me demented and I need to direct my sapping energy to other things (such as compiling lists of people that I want Daddy's people to kill).
I'm not sure what started the popups coming, but I've stripped back the blog a fair bit in an attempt to stop them. I too have been experiencing them (Dell computers this week) and it's been a real pain in the shitter. [So crude for a Sunday]. Anyway, I'm not sure whether it'll help, but I recommend that people follow Indiaiynke's advice (see below); we should all be doing this routinely anyway.
I ran the Zone alarms scan on Friday and haven't had a popup since, but that doesn't mean to say that it won't happen again.
In the meantime, if people are worried about getting popups at work, I'm currently copying all posts over to Sniffyblog, if you simply can't stay away. Sad and desperate fools.
This is an edit of the:
"A test
Shitting buggery."
Post from the wee hours of the morning, if anybody is wondering where the unrelated comments came from.
This morning's crisis seemingly relates to my dad's bitch sister who embezzled ALL of my grandfather's money for her own family. All I could hear my dad saying was "Rosie (my cousin, daughter of nice auntie), she is dead to me, I don't care, get Gianni (bitch auntie's eldest heroin addict son) to sort it."
It's like something out of The Godfather, only slightly more gummy.
Dad's first name is Donato, so he is known in local restaurant as Mr Donato or Don Cakesniffer. If only we had the backing of the Mafia, my life would be so much easier.
"Daddy, I've seen this job that I want, can I have it please?"
"Si, si, certo la mia bella figlia"
"Thanks, Daddy. Oh, and Daddy..."
"...Huh?"
"...Daddy, there's a list of people I'd like to be killed on my desk. Cheerio!"
Pop goes the Cakesniffer
So, this is the last word on popups because the whole thing has been making me demented and I need to direct my sapping energy to other things (such as compiling lists of people that I want Daddy's people to kill).
I'm not sure what started the popups coming, but I've stripped back the blog a fair bit in an attempt to stop them. I too have been experiencing them (Dell computers this week) and it's been a real pain in the shitter. [So crude for a Sunday]. Anyway, I'm not sure whether it'll help, but I recommend that people follow Indiaiynke's advice (see below); we should all be doing this routinely anyway.
- Make sure your firewall(s) and antivirus software are up to date
- Turn the popup blocker on (IE 6 on Win XP, Firefox, Opera and Google toolbar all have integrated popup blockers too)
- Clear the cache regularly
- Run a regular spyware scan - I use Zone Alarms and there are others such as Adaware and even Windows has one I think
I ran the Zone alarms scan on Friday and haven't had a popup since, but that doesn't mean to say that it won't happen again.
In the meantime, if people are worried about getting popups at work, I'm currently copying all posts over to Sniffyblog, if you simply can't stay away. Sad and desperate fools.
This is an edit of the:
"A test
Shitting buggery."
Post from the wee hours of the morning, if anybody is wondering where the unrelated comments came from.
Saturday, 12 November 2005
Cakesniffers beware! The blog that listens
Ok, so it seems that after spending an entire fucking afternoon, pissing about creating a an EXCELLENT alternative site for Cakesniffers, you ungrateful bastards want to stay here afterall.
So here we'll stay.
At least the other place is set up and ready to go should things go really tits up here.
Right then...
Cakesniffy readers: they laugh at others' misfortunes
Nice to know how much readers of this blog care about my wellbeing and the suffering that I endure at the hands of my parents. A quote from Coldearth "Lame my arse..had me in stiches!" Yeah, I laugh loads when I'm covered in third degree burns.
Bastards.
Cakesniffy affirmatives and negatives
Out of your musical mysery
The song was indeed Torn by the delicious Natalie Imbruglia (and also some Norwegians who did it originally, but not nearly as well).
Phwoaarr
So here we'll stay.
At least the other place is set up and ready to go should things go really tits up here.
Right then...
Cakesniffy readers: they laugh at others' misfortunes
Nice to know how much readers of this blog care about my wellbeing and the suffering that I endure at the hands of my parents. A quote from Coldearth "Lame my arse..had me in stiches!" Yeah, I laugh loads when I'm covered in third degree burns.
Bastards.
Cakesniffy affirmatives and negatives
- Sniffycam porn action: Well, like or not, that's all you're getting. What sort of friggin' idiot do you think I am? Don't you think I make a big enough tit of myself here?
- "Working from home": No. Can't stand it. I'm not disciplined enough for this.
- Music download sites: Load of bollocks. You're not allowed to use any of the ones where you might find what you're looking for and the paid ones only have current stuff. Pile of crap. Unfortunately, I'm running well short of space for CDs too, so I'm getting a bit stuck.
- Leftover Hallowe'en chocolate: Love it - just found there was a bag with loads of miniature Flakes, Mars bars, Twix, Twirls and the like in the fridge. Nice one! (Yes Herge, Hallowe''''en. Git)
- Ketamine for kitties: No thank you! I'm confiscating Otto's stash and he's under curfew from 9pm from now on.
- Lambs to the slaughter before the 9pm TV watershed: Absolutely not! This is in reference to Jamie Oliver being told off for his latest UK TV show in which he's touring Italy. In the latest episode, he was shown killing a lamb by slitting its throat without it being anaesthetised first. The programme is screened before 9pm and a few people were upset by this, as I'd have been had I seen it. So it's a big fat no for this one. Fucking bastard.
- Two-fingered salutes: Bronwen was wondering why British people use a two-fingered as opposed to a one-fingered salute. It's basically to piss off the Frenchies (battle of Agincourt and that) and I say Hallelujah to that!
- Shutting down Cakesniffers on Blogger and switching to Wordpress - No, although I'm thinking of things that I can do there.
- Diverting spam comment e-mails to April: Oh yes! Anything that gets April to degrade herself has got to get the thumbs up
- Hooded tops: Aye, love 'em (I now have FIVE in various styles). However, those fucking cock teenagers who wear the hoods up over a baseball cap, under a coat hood look utter twats.
- Firefox????: Hrrrm, it's OK. I liked the tabbed windows. Although I do like the in-line autocomplete when you're entering addresses in IE (Firefox doesn't do this). Apparently though, a little piggy tells me that Opera is the way forward for internet browsing.
Out of your musical mysery
The song was indeed Torn by the delicious Natalie Imbruglia (and also some Norwegians who did it originally, but not nearly as well).
Phwoaarr
Fancy singing along?
I thought I saw a man brought to life
He was warm
He came around like he was dignified
He showed me what it was to cry
Well you couldn't be that man I adored
You don't seem to know
Seem to care what your heart is for
But I don't know him anymore
There's nothing where he used to lie
The conversation has run dry
That's what's going on
Nothing's fine I'm torn
I'm all out of faith
This is how I feel
I'm cold and I am shamed
Lying naked on the floor
Illusion never changed
Into something real
I'm wide awake
And I can see
The perfect sky is torn
You're a little late
I'm already torn
So I guess the fortune teller's right
i Should have seen just what was there
And not some holy light
it crawled beneath my veins
And now I don't care
I had no luck
I don't miss it all that much
There's just so many things
That I can touch I'm torn
I'm all out of faith
This is how I feel
I'm cold and I am shamed
Lying naked on the floor
Illusion never changed
Into something real
I'm wide awake
And I can see
The perfect sky is torn
You're a little late
I'm already torn
Torn
hoooooooooo hohooooooo hohoooo
There's nothing where he used to lie
My inspiration has run dry
That's what's going on
Nothing's right I'm torn
I'm all out of faith
This is how I feel
I'm cold and I am shamed
Lying naked on the floor
Illusion never changed
Into something real
I'm wide awake
And I can see
The perfect sky is torn
I'm all out of faith
This is how I feel
I'm cold and I'm ashamed
Bound and broken on the floor
You're a little late
I'm already torn
Torn.
Oh
I thought I saw a man brought to life
He was warm
He came around like he was dignified
He showed me what it was to cry
Well you couldn't be that man I adored
You don't seem to know
Seem to care what your heart is for
But I don't know him anymore
There's nothing where he used to lie
The conversation has run dry
That's what's going on
Nothing's fine I'm torn
I'm all out of faith
This is how I feel
I'm cold and I am shamed
Lying naked on the floor
Illusion never changed
Into something real
I'm wide awake
And I can see
The perfect sky is torn
You're a little late
I'm already torn
So I guess the fortune teller's right
i Should have seen just what was there
And not some holy light
it crawled beneath my veins
And now I don't care
I had no luck
I don't miss it all that much
There's just so many things
That I can touch I'm torn
I'm all out of faith
This is how I feel
I'm cold and I am shamed
Lying naked on the floor
Illusion never changed
Into something real
I'm wide awake
And I can see
The perfect sky is torn
You're a little late
I'm already torn
Torn
hoooooooooo hohooooooo hohoooo
There's nothing where he used to lie
My inspiration has run dry
That's what's going on
Nothing's right I'm torn
I'm all out of faith
This is how I feel
I'm cold and I am shamed
Lying naked on the floor
Illusion never changed
Into something real
I'm wide awake
And I can see
The perfect sky is torn
I'm all out of faith
This is how I feel
I'm cold and I'm ashamed
Bound and broken on the floor
You're a little late
I'm already torn
Torn.
Oh
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