"You lookin' at me?"
"You lookin' at ME?"
Yes, I fucking am fucking looking at you, you utter wanking cocksuker of a complete FUCKHEAD, I AM LOOKING AT YOU!
You're a minicab driver. You aproach a roundabout at which you will be taking the third exit*. There are three lanes to choose as you approach the roundabout. Do you:
A) Position yourself in the right hand of the three lanes so that you can navigate the roundabout and exit at your desired point without any undue hazard?
B) Position yourself in the middle lane, but indicate that you would like to take the third exit from roundabout and move over into the correct position once you have let others who have chosen the correct, albeit much fucking slower right fucking hand bastard lane, pass?
c) Fly out from the left hand lane, cutting up the people who were correctly positioned on the roundabout?
Hrrrm, let's think... Well, if you're a complete cunt (as most minicab drivers are) and you're driving a silver Vauxhall Vectra (says it all), then you obviously go for option C because you don't care about the safety of your passenger, other road users, or the fact that you're a complete COCK and you don't mind everybody on the road seeing this.
I was forced to sound my horn as a rebuke. Why won't anybody let me have a rocket launcher? The world would be a much better place if I had a taser, rocket launcher and an AK47. Oh and a big fuck off tank.
I'm going to suggest that all local councils set up a website where you can enter the registration or taxi licence number of any minicab that fuck' you off. When the count for any individual reaches ten over a specified period, a special squad is called upon to BURN THEIR FUCKING HOUSE DOWN!
Wankers.
They fly about at twice the speed limit, driving up the arses of those who don't particularly want to break-the-sound-barrier-today-thank-you-very-much. They are obnoxious, stupid, retarded fucking cunts who are a menace.
Anyway, if anybody from Salford City Council, that's www.salford.gov.uk, does trawls of the web to see who's linking to them, I hope they pick this up and I hope they run a check on that cunt who almost caused a serious accident because he couldn't be arsed to get in the right lane and queue up for a bit. His taxi licence number is 2972 and his reg was Y something, something, something LBT. Wanker.
Asian babe road rage
Of course, this wasn't the only incident that got my back up on my journey home this evening. There was some hold up somewhere and the traffic had been queuing for an age to take a left turn at a junction*. There I was, having finally reached sight of the junction minding my business, when this car full of dolled-up Asian lasses** aligned itself next to me and indicated to join the queue in front of me. I'm sorry love, but why the fuck should I let you in when the rest of us have been queueing for half an hour to reach this point? Of course, I shouted "FUCK OFF!" through the window. And you know what? They were actually shocked that I was angry and that I didn't just let them pull in.
But you know what made it worse? The fucking tit behind me in the queue actually let them in. You see, I'd actually choose to kneecap those that let these fuckers queue jump. If queuejumpers knew for certain that they'd never, EVER, get away with it, they wouldn't do it. Queue jumping only happens because people let them in and it is these tossers that need very severe punishment.
I have a sore throat.
*Those who drive on the opposite side of the road need to read this in a mirror.
**Of course, they being Asian has no bearing on this story whatsoever, but it gave me an excuse to get "Asian babe" in, which is always good for the hits.
Get out, stay out
I've had such fun working with my stand in line manager (the gay one). She's due to finish with us in May after covering for mat leave. At first I thought she was a bit of a nightmare, but there was always a side to her that I liked. (Not really like that though, I've learned to blank off any of those thoughts and feelings where "married" folk are concerned). She's become more relaxed over recent months and she's actually very nice and very competent.
Of course, she has suspected from very early on that I too am gay, but I don't really talk about my sexuality, mainly for the reason that, well, errr, I don't get any and I find that more embarrassing (a bit like Dafydd, the only gay in the village). So this was never really confirmed to her, other than by me saying things like "I'm not mad keen on children, I certainly don't want any and I much prefer cats", or while joking about why I couldn't have an affair with a female colleague, "No, I couldn't possibly do that, you're married... and you have a child". These (and my obsession with the Kill Bill films) are dead giveaways as far as I'm concerned, but my straight colleagues don't get it. Dur.
Skip to the end...
In an e-mail exchange yesterday, she asked me if I'd seen any of The L Word because she and her partner had watched some of the DVDs in between hanging wallpaper. I replied that it must've been hard to hang paper straight after watching that and that after watching The L Word, you think you're missing out, but there's some consolation in knowing that that it's not real . And the next thing I know, she's trying to arrange a night out down Canal Street.
Nice one.
Today, I was complaining about my hair needing cutting and she asked if I'd ever had it really short. No, and I've never worn dungarees or gone on a Pride march either.
Tuesday 31 January 2006
Monday 30 January 2006
ForfuckSAKE!
I am going to KILL my dad.
I don't know how, but it'll involve lots of shouting and spitting and me being red in the face while I get all my internalised anger out of my system. Not that much of my anger is internalised, but I'd like the opportunity to make him ackowledge all the fucking stupid and annoying and down right MENTAL things that he does that put my nerves right on edge.
Tonight's teeth-grinding is brought to you in association with Fairy washing up liquid. Yes, my dad's "method" for doing the pots has my blood pressure rocketting into the danger zone to the point where I need to ensure that I'm out of reach of all sharp objects, heavy blunt instruments and Glocks.
My method for washing dishes:
Dad's method for washing dishes:
I thought that, since I'd been at work all day and got home late after a meeting, he'd do the pots this evening, but no. No, he didn't (a blessing in disguise) but he really helped out by dumping a load of dishes into the sink (full of manky cold water), despite the fact they were covered in tomato-pasta sauce. No pre-rinsing for our dad, no way! That's for sissies and people who want to eat off clean crockery.
He's now clanging the dishes rather than letting them dry. If you rinse dishes in nice hot water, they dry on their own in no time, you do not, NOT, NOT need to dry them with a dish towel.
Oooh, my head.
I don't know how, but it'll involve lots of shouting and spitting and me being red in the face while I get all my internalised anger out of my system. Not that much of my anger is internalised, but I'd like the opportunity to make him ackowledge all the fucking stupid and annoying and down right MENTAL things that he does that put my nerves right on edge.
Tonight's teeth-grinding is brought to you in association with Fairy washing up liquid. Yes, my dad's "method" for doing the pots has my blood pressure rocketting into the danger zone to the point where I need to ensure that I'm out of reach of all sharp objects, heavy blunt instruments and Glocks.
My method for washing dishes:
- Rinse used plates and pans and leave to the side of the sink
- Put all cutlery into empty sink
- Clear draining board
- Put on household gloves in order that nice hot water can be used
- Use a washing up sponge/scourer throughout the procedure
- Squirt some washing up liquid into sink, start running the water
- While the sink is filling, start washing glassware, followed by cups - rinse each one and allow to drain
- Follow glassware and cups with plates and dishes
- Pan lids
- Cutlery
- Change water
- Wash pans
- If the draining board becomes too full, drain the pans on a tea towel that has been places on the worktop
- Wipe down work surfaces with soapy sponge followed by a Flash wipe
- Leave dishes to dry
- Put away
Dad's method for washing dishes:
- Chuck everything into the sink (irrespective of whether it contains manky cold water from when the pasta, rice or veg were drained)
- Add a blob of Fairy Liquid
- Half-threaten with a Spontex sponge (no scouring capability)
- Rinse in cold water
- Dump on draining board that's still full of pots that haven't been put away
- Leave everything, OR
- Wipe everything and then put them back onto the draining board
I thought that, since I'd been at work all day and got home late after a meeting, he'd do the pots this evening, but no. No, he didn't (a blessing in disguise) but he really helped out by dumping a load of dishes into the sink (full of manky cold water), despite the fact they were covered in tomato-pasta sauce. No pre-rinsing for our dad, no way! That's for sissies and people who want to eat off clean crockery.
He's now clanging the dishes rather than letting them dry. If you rinse dishes in nice hot water, they dry on their own in no time, you do not, NOT, NOT need to dry them with a dish towel.
Oooh, my head.
Sunday 29 January 2006
Sunday
It's approaching 9pm on Sunday.
How many of you are already groaning about the thought of going to work tomorrow?
Kitty opium den
I love catnip. I could spend hours watching the cats as they fight each other over a new catnip teabag. Max here only managed sloppy seconds after his sister had had first shot of the fresh bag of delights, but he enjoyed himself all the same.
The instructions say that you can make a tea out of these bags for your cats to enjoy. I tried this once: ended up with a very wet floor after Max rolled in the bowl of the stuff.
Scanning
After an afternoon of scanning old photos - the tip of the iceberg as far as my collection goes - all I can say is, thank fuck for digital cameras. I think I'd happily pay somebody to come in and scan all my old photos for me, it's such a tedious task. Saying that though, it's also very nice to be reminded of some good times. Like this for example:
This was taken at the 3rd Year's Christmas Review and Party in December 1990. We had to write and perform comedy sketches so that the postgrads, postdocs and academics could take the piss out of us. David was making me laugh so much that I think I actually wet myself a little bit while I was doing this. Yes, those are my real specs. Bastards.
How many of you are already groaning about the thought of going to work tomorrow?
Kitty opium den
I love catnip. I could spend hours watching the cats as they fight each other over a new catnip teabag. Max here only managed sloppy seconds after his sister had had first shot of the fresh bag of delights, but he enjoyed himself all the same.
The instructions say that you can make a tea out of these bags for your cats to enjoy. I tried this once: ended up with a very wet floor after Max rolled in the bowl of the stuff.
Scanning
After an afternoon of scanning old photos - the tip of the iceberg as far as my collection goes - all I can say is, thank fuck for digital cameras. I think I'd happily pay somebody to come in and scan all my old photos for me, it's such a tedious task. Saying that though, it's also very nice to be reminded of some good times. Like this for example:
This was taken at the 3rd Year's Christmas Review and Party in December 1990. We had to write and perform comedy sketches so that the postgrads, postdocs and academics could take the piss out of us. David was making me laugh so much that I think I actually wet myself a little bit while I was doing this. Yes, those are my real specs. Bastards.
Saturday 28 January 2006
Sniffy reminisces
After writing about Mort and Jo during my tirade on cast iron French "cookware", I reckon it'd be ok to continue my trip down memory lane and letting Blogworld into my past - the student days at least. It's the weekend and not many are around to witness this little diversion into real blogging.
I attended Leeds University between 1988 and 1991 where I studied Biochemistry - I got a 1st class honours degree and graduated top of my class, don't you know. I followed this up by doing my PhD in Biological Sciences at Warwick University between 1991 and 1994. I graduated with my PhD in 1996.
So that's the academic bit out of the way, now for the interesting stuff.
I was a complete geek when I went away to Leeds, having only just turned 18. I had no dress sense, a terrible hair do and I'd just started wearing a brace on my upper teeth (great for confidence boosting when you're shy). Still, at least I didn't look like this:
I attended Leeds University between 1988 and 1991 where I studied Biochemistry - I got a 1st class honours degree and graduated top of my class, don't you know. I followed this up by doing my PhD in Biological Sciences at Warwick University between 1991 and 1994. I graduated with my PhD in 1996.
So that's the academic bit out of the way, now for the interesting stuff.
I was a complete geek when I went away to Leeds, having only just turned 18. I had no dress sense, a terrible hair do and I'd just started wearing a brace on my upper teeth (great for confidence boosting when you're shy). Still, at least I didn't look like this:
Anna in the bedroom of my flat, the weekend I moved to Leeds
I'm an evil bitch.
To even things up, here's me on my graduation day:
So what happened in between? Let's think. My first year, I was a real swot and I hardly went out, although I did go to the Union occasionally. It was there that I discovered a taste for bitter and a love of pool and stationery shops. I didn't smoke, but I always smoked loads when I was out drinking.
In my first week at university, I had my first encounter with Le Creuset pans, I met my first person from Northern Ireland (Mort), I realised that people from Sunderland were pretentious wankers and that Polish names are impossible to pronounce. I also met David.
David was the epitome of cool: he walked into the reception of the Biochemistry department where we'd all gathered; heads turned. He asked me if he was in the right place and I wondered why he was bothering to speak to me because I was a turd, but it turned out that he just picked out the gobbiest person there. He was the nicest bloke I ever met and he's been my friend ever since. He looked after me during my time at university and we were inseperable.
My flatmates were:
More on Morticia
Mort was obsessed with David to the point that it was very scary. She used to lock herself in her bedroom and cry when he went straight home after dropping us off at the flat instead of coming in for a coffee, pathetic twat. On one occasion in our second year, we were out clubbing and David came rushing up to me:
"Mort's just collared me! She backed me into a corner, got really close and asked me if I found her attractive. She wouldn't leave it, what can I do?"
"I dunno. I'm going to get a drink, do you want one? Have you got any fags?"
David
You see, me and David have always supported each other emotionally, generally by taking the piss out of each other or fuelling each other's dependencies on nicotine, booze or prescription drugs. Despite being such close friends, we don't really speak about "feelings" - mainly because he'd laugh at me and he's from Barnsley and blokes from Barnsley aren't like that. We don't really talk about feelings, but we do compare relative levels of misery these days. Sometimes we can make each other laugh so much that we're sick.
Me and David used to get cash from our mates to buy pressies when somebody had a birthday coming up. We'd spot something in a department store, ask for the cash, but buy it from Barnsley market for half the price.
The others
The main other players were Peter "Whippy" Wright, who was vile. He had quite curly hair that he let grow so it was all wavy, we called him Mr Whippy. He had flap-shots from porn mags on his bedroom wall. He was a slob, but he was very competitive, especially when playing badminton.
Melanie was a lovely, lovely girl from Newtownards in Northern Ireland. She had beautiful auburn hair, which she kept cropped. She was tall and thin and could've been a catwalk model. Such a lovely natured lass, I once floored her while dancing in a nightclub. It was an accident; I didn't realise she was behind me and I had this ridiculous way of dancing that meant that I needed a 4 foot exclusion zone around me. She breached the exclusion zone and I headbutted her. Luckily, she'd already dished out her quota of punishment beatings for that week, so she let me off.
Growing up
During my three years as an undergraduate, I started to mature a little bit. I wasn't such a geek and I learned that I could go out and enjoy myself and still study. I got some sort of dress sense and gave in to the fact that my hair is curly and that I'd be better making the most of it rather than fighting it.
I discovered and came to love The B52's.
After living in denial and calling myself a "social smoker" for many years, I succumbed and bought my first packet of fags while sober one afternoon in January 1991. They were Silk Cut and by June, when I was sitting my finals, I found myself smoking up to 50 Marlboro (red) each day.
I studied very hard, a bit too hard I think, and I was a bit burned out by the time I graduated.
I still don't know what I want to be to this day.
I enjoyed it though, it was a wonderful experience and I'm glad that I'm still in contact with most of the people who mattered most during that time.
Photo edit
Ok, here are a couple more photos. Firstly, this is my class on the day of our graduation. Hardly St Elmo's Fire, but there you go:
To my right is Sue, to my left is somebody who everybody thought would graduate as top student that year (simply because she was never out of the library), then there's Mort and Mel (the Armalite Sisters), to their left is Alison (who really gave me daggers and ignored me when my brilliance was confirmed when the results were announced).
And this photo shows me, David (to my right with the oddest expression on his face EVER - he'll KILL me if he ever finds out I've even got this photo in my possession, let alone put it on the internet), Whippy (who'd had a wash and a hair cut) and Mort (who'd obviously caught up on some sleep):
Mature student Sniffy
You know, if I was a mature student and went back to live in that sort of environment as I am now, I'd fucking kill Kath by the end of day one. How is it that you're so tolerant at that age? Is it because you're naive, because you haven't yet been let down by people, haven't learned the hard way that most people are cocks? Still, I wonder if I'd have got anywhere with Ela... she had quite greasy hair for what I can remember, I probably wouldn't think much to that these days.
These days, you still look back and remember things as they were and can't contemplate tragedy striking any of those fit and healthy people you had such good times with. I made contact with Melanie again a few years back; she had been going out with a lovely bloke and I knew they were engaged and had planned to move to Scotland for James to do his PhD. It turned out that they did get married and had started a family before James died from malignant melanoma a couple of years ago.
I'm off to see if I can find Mel's e-mail address and see if I can track down Whippy on the Sex Offenders Register.
To even things up, here's me on my graduation day:
So what happened in between? Let's think. My first year, I was a real swot and I hardly went out, although I did go to the Union occasionally. It was there that I discovered a taste for bitter and a love of pool and stationery shops. I didn't smoke, but I always smoked loads when I was out drinking.
In my first week at university, I had my first encounter with Le Creuset pans, I met my first person from Northern Ireland (Mort), I realised that people from Sunderland were pretentious wankers and that Polish names are impossible to pronounce. I also met David.
David was the epitome of cool: he walked into the reception of the Biochemistry department where we'd all gathered; heads turned. He asked me if he was in the right place and I wondered why he was bothering to speak to me because I was a turd, but it turned out that he just picked out the gobbiest person there. He was the nicest bloke I ever met and he's been my friend ever since. He looked after me during my time at university and we were inseperable.
My flatmates were:
- Carolyn from Kidderminster, studying English & philosphy. Her boyfriend (to this day) is the lovely Simon; they're a lovely couple with lovely families and I wish I could get to see them more.
- Ela from Birmingham, studying Psychology. She was a strange one and she could be sarcastic and moody. But I liked Ela a lot, she made me laugh and we used to have a bit of smoking club going on. I shared accommodation with Ela and Carolyn right through my time in Leeds. I think I might have fancied Ela, only I'm not sure because I didn't have hormones or feelings until I was about 29.
- Kath(man) from Sunderland, studying being a complete cunt. I disliked her from the moment I met her: blonde, Libra, stuck up. She was a self-proclaimed working class heroine, whose daddy's accountant made sure she got a full maintenance grant. Lazy, useless cow.
- Jo from Ilkeston, studying surveying and baking.
- Mort from Limavady, Ireland ("IT'S BRITAIN!"), studying men and biochemistry. I thought we'd have some sort of common bond because we were doing the same subject, but I was so wrong.
- Caroline, who was mad. By our third year, me Ela and Carolyn had got rid of the cunts and needed a spare bod to pay the rent for the attic room in the house we were renting. We got Caroline. Caroline was deaf and listened to the TV with the volume turned right up. She ate with her mouth open - really noisily. She spoke to herself in different voices. The bathroom was next to the attic room and we could here her yabbering onto herself, it was fucking terrifying and I even had paranoid nightmares about her getting me through a secret passageway in the walk-in cupboard in my bedroom.
- The tramp in the outside toilet. Yes, our last house had an outside toilet and there was a tramp living in it. Our landlord did the stupid thing of chucking his stuff into the bin wagon when he discovered him. Of course, the poor bloke returned that night and we all petrified of the gaunt face that appeared at the kitchen window, demanding "Where's my stuff?".
More on Morticia
Mort was obsessed with David to the point that it was very scary. She used to lock herself in her bedroom and cry when he went straight home after dropping us off at the flat instead of coming in for a coffee, pathetic twat. On one occasion in our second year, we were out clubbing and David came rushing up to me:
"Mort's just collared me! She backed me into a corner, got really close and asked me if I found her attractive. She wouldn't leave it, what can I do?"
"I dunno. I'm going to get a drink, do you want one? Have you got any fags?"
David
You see, me and David have always supported each other emotionally, generally by taking the piss out of each other or fuelling each other's dependencies on nicotine, booze or prescription drugs. Despite being such close friends, we don't really speak about "feelings" - mainly because he'd laugh at me and he's from Barnsley and blokes from Barnsley aren't like that. We don't really talk about feelings, but we do compare relative levels of misery these days. Sometimes we can make each other laugh so much that we're sick.
Me and David used to get cash from our mates to buy pressies when somebody had a birthday coming up. We'd spot something in a department store, ask for the cash, but buy it from Barnsley market for half the price.
The others
The main other players were Peter "Whippy" Wright, who was vile. He had quite curly hair that he let grow so it was all wavy, we called him Mr Whippy. He had flap-shots from porn mags on his bedroom wall. He was a slob, but he was very competitive, especially when playing badminton.
Melanie was a lovely, lovely girl from Newtownards in Northern Ireland. She had beautiful auburn hair, which she kept cropped. She was tall and thin and could've been a catwalk model. Such a lovely natured lass, I once floored her while dancing in a nightclub. It was an accident; I didn't realise she was behind me and I had this ridiculous way of dancing that meant that I needed a 4 foot exclusion zone around me. She breached the exclusion zone and I headbutted her. Luckily, she'd already dished out her quota of punishment beatings for that week, so she let me off.
Growing up
During my three years as an undergraduate, I started to mature a little bit. I wasn't such a geek and I learned that I could go out and enjoy myself and still study. I got some sort of dress sense and gave in to the fact that my hair is curly and that I'd be better making the most of it rather than fighting it.
I discovered and came to love The B52's.
After living in denial and calling myself a "social smoker" for many years, I succumbed and bought my first packet of fags while sober one afternoon in January 1991. They were Silk Cut and by June, when I was sitting my finals, I found myself smoking up to 50 Marlboro (red) each day.
I studied very hard, a bit too hard I think, and I was a bit burned out by the time I graduated.
I still don't know what I want to be to this day.
I enjoyed it though, it was a wonderful experience and I'm glad that I'm still in contact with most of the people who mattered most during that time.
Photo edit
Ok, here are a couple more photos. Firstly, this is my class on the day of our graduation. Hardly St Elmo's Fire, but there you go:
To my right is Sue, to my left is somebody who everybody thought would graduate as top student that year (simply because she was never out of the library), then there's Mort and Mel (the Armalite Sisters), to their left is Alison (who really gave me daggers and ignored me when my brilliance was confirmed when the results were announced).
And this photo shows me, David (to my right with the oddest expression on his face EVER - he'll KILL me if he ever finds out I've even got this photo in my possession, let alone put it on the internet), Whippy (who'd had a wash and a hair cut) and Mort (who'd obviously caught up on some sleep):
Yes, dresses/skirts were compulsory for the graduation, although I'm not sure how I got away with that hair don't.
Mature student Sniffy
You know, if I was a mature student and went back to live in that sort of environment as I am now, I'd fucking kill Kath by the end of day one. How is it that you're so tolerant at that age? Is it because you're naive, because you haven't yet been let down by people, haven't learned the hard way that most people are cocks? Still, I wonder if I'd have got anywhere with Ela... she had quite greasy hair for what I can remember, I probably wouldn't think much to that these days.
These days, you still look back and remember things as they were and can't contemplate tragedy striking any of those fit and healthy people you had such good times with. I made contact with Melanie again a few years back; she had been going out with a lovely bloke and I knew they were engaged and had planned to move to Scotland for James to do his PhD. It turned out that they did get married and had started a family before James died from malignant melanoma a couple of years ago.
I'm off to see if I can find Mel's e-mail address and see if I can track down Whippy on the Sex Offenders Register.
Friday 27 January 2006
Soft shoe shuffle
I really hate it when people don't pick their feet up when they walk. Instead, they slop and shuffle about, dragging their stupid feet along the floor.
Lazy twats.
Of course, there may be a cultural aspect to this as I've noticed that a fairly high proportion of oriental-looking students walk in this way, arms folded across their chests or linked through those of their companions. These are the ones that have those really miserable expressions on their faces (as opposed to the oriental folk who always have really smiley expressions). They always dress very fashionably though, well, I wouldn't call it fashion, but I guess it's very "in" if you're of that age.
There's a thing that (usually straight) couples do when they walk along, holding each other. This is quite entertaining when there's a considerable size mismatch as the woman's height (lack of it) means that she drags the man down to her. They stumble along looking as if one is holding the other up, or perhaps rugby tackling them. A very odd way of showing one's affection I think; giving your loved one chronic back and hip problems. Just hold their hand, they won't think any less of you. Unless of course, the bloke is actually holding the woman up because he's slipped her a rohypnol and she can't stand up on her own... blimey.
Luckily I never find myself in the position where anybody wants to be seen anywhere near me as I plod and list along the pavement and my weird Jemima Puddleduck way of one-sided waddling. I'm sure there's a difference in the length of my legs that means that I have to concentrate really hard or I end up walking in a circle. I therefore never have to suffer the uncomfortable situation of somebody leaning on me. It'd end up looking like a gay three-legged race.
Somebody once slipped their hand into my coat pocket and took my hand in theirs. It was lovely and I don't think they noticed the collection of used paper tissues in there. That sounds like I've only ever held hands with somebody on one occasion, but you know what I mean. I still do that non-gender-specific way of talking about people, errrm WOMEN. Weird that.
Ho hum.
IT Nazi bastards in spying scandal
Word has it that all our managers are receiving lists of all the websites we visit while at work, and the time spent at each site. If that's the case, I'd like to give a big warm welcome to Sarah and assure her that I only check my Yahoo account every 15 minutes to pick up the NHSnet e-mails that get forwarded home and that I only check into my fave blogs first thing in the morning while Outlook wakes up and while I'm on my dinner break.
Oh and this is my blog yes, please don't laugh at me too much. Thanks.
A pressie from Connie
The NHS is BRILLIANT! All that free at the point of use healthcare and they give you controlled drugs even when you don't need them. Mum was given a load of codeine phosphate after her op. She told the nurse she couldn't have them because they upset her tummy, so instead of taking them back, the nurse gave her some paras as well!
You see, it's not only that April who's handy with a scanner!
So, it seems that my weekend is sorted (yeh!), so I'll be back here, chirpy as ever, once I've had my stomach pumped.
An edit. To the person on aol who came to Cakesniffers after doing an MSN search for "dogging in Swinton": You dirty little bastard! But I suggest you try Clifton or Worsley woods...
Lazy twats.
Of course, there may be a cultural aspect to this as I've noticed that a fairly high proportion of oriental-looking students walk in this way, arms folded across their chests or linked through those of their companions. These are the ones that have those really miserable expressions on their faces (as opposed to the oriental folk who always have really smiley expressions). They always dress very fashionably though, well, I wouldn't call it fashion, but I guess it's very "in" if you're of that age.
There's a thing that (usually straight) couples do when they walk along, holding each other. This is quite entertaining when there's a considerable size mismatch as the woman's height (lack of it) means that she drags the man down to her. They stumble along looking as if one is holding the other up, or perhaps rugby tackling them. A very odd way of showing one's affection I think; giving your loved one chronic back and hip problems. Just hold their hand, they won't think any less of you. Unless of course, the bloke is actually holding the woman up because he's slipped her a rohypnol and she can't stand up on her own... blimey.
Luckily I never find myself in the position where anybody wants to be seen anywhere near me as I plod and list along the pavement and my weird Jemima Puddleduck way of one-sided waddling. I'm sure there's a difference in the length of my legs that means that I have to concentrate really hard or I end up walking in a circle. I therefore never have to suffer the uncomfortable situation of somebody leaning on me. It'd end up looking like a gay three-legged race.
Somebody once slipped their hand into my coat pocket and took my hand in theirs. It was lovely and I don't think they noticed the collection of used paper tissues in there. That sounds like I've only ever held hands with somebody on one occasion, but you know what I mean. I still do that non-gender-specific way of talking about people, errrm WOMEN. Weird that.
Ho hum.
IT Nazi bastards in spying scandal
Word has it that all our managers are receiving lists of all the websites we visit while at work, and the time spent at each site. If that's the case, I'd like to give a big warm welcome to Sarah and assure her that I only check my Yahoo account every 15 minutes to pick up the NHSnet e-mails that get forwarded home and that I only check into my fave blogs first thing in the morning while Outlook wakes up and while I'm on my dinner break.
Oh and this is my blog yes, please don't laugh at me too much. Thanks.
A pressie from Connie
The NHS is BRILLIANT! All that free at the point of use healthcare and they give you controlled drugs even when you don't need them. Mum was given a load of codeine phosphate after her op. She told the nurse she couldn't have them because they upset her tummy, so instead of taking them back, the nurse gave her some paras as well!
You see, it's not only that April who's handy with a scanner!
So, it seems that my weekend is sorted (yeh!), so I'll be back here, chirpy as ever, once I've had my stomach pumped.
An edit. To the person on aol who came to Cakesniffers after doing an MSN search for "dogging in Swinton": You dirty little bastard! But I suggest you try Clifton or Worsley woods...
Thursday 26 January 2006
Coincidental controversies
After mentioning only last night the odd occasion when I've rubbed bloggers up the wrong way, I've got another one today!
(Did that rhyme?)
It's great when you mention other people's blogs in your own; all sorts of things can happen when people do Technorati searches for their blogs and they stumble upon something that I wrote about them back in July.
Back in July, while bored (as I often am), I conducted an experiment in pushing the "Next blog" button on all those blogs that were listed in my blogroll at the time. Most of the resulting blogs (and anybody who tries this will find the same) were foreign language or advertising shit, some were real, one was Fat Dan's.
At 26 January, 2006 14:05, Fat Dan said...
Fucking hell, some people are so sensitive! Perhaps if they read what I wrote, they'd see that I didn't actually slag them or their blogs off. Titwank.
Off
I've not been in work today. It's quite naughty of me, but I told folk that, since Dad doesn't drive, I was picking Mother (awww) up from the hospital and getting her car MOTd so as I can get her road tax before it runs out. I did pick Connie up, but that was last night and I have had to get her car MOTd and shit today. I'm knackered, having walked from and to the garage and stuff, but I shouldn't be. And it's freezing out.
Bllrrrueueuhsh.
Thinking about Base 2a, it dawned on me today that there's a woman there that hasn't actually spoken to me, or acknowledged me, since I got back after Christmas. Then again, it's the one I bought BuckaRudolph for when she really wanted something from Tiffany's, so it's hardly surprising. Some people are such ignorant fucking mongs. But do I care? Not at all. What would she say to me if she spoke to me? Sod all of any interest.
In the town where I was born
That's a rather unfortunate reference to one of the worst songs ever recorded. The Beatles were actually quite shit when you come to think of it.
But anyway, I wandered around my town this morning on my way back from the garage. It was quite comforting in some ways, the familiarity of the shopping precinct, knowing that things never really change there that much (and the meat 'n' tater pies from Greenhalgh's bakery are fuckin' delsih!). In other respects it was quite sad when I realised that, given a lot of opportunity and promise, I never managed to move away from here.
I was in the Morrison's buying Corn Flakes for Mother, a lady picked up a box and asked me whether they were Corn Flakes and I confirmed this to her. She mentioned something about them changing the packaging so she couldn't tell. I realised that she mustn't have been able to read. It's amazing what you take for granted.
Tina's kitchen
Tonight's delight is lemon couscous with chick peas, potatoes and olives.
Stuff
Making it
(Did that rhyme?)
It's great when you mention other people's blogs in your own; all sorts of things can happen when people do Technorati searches for their blogs and they stumble upon something that I wrote about them back in July.
Back in July, while bored (as I often am), I conducted an experiment in pushing the "Next blog" button on all those blogs that were listed in my blogroll at the time. Most of the resulting blogs (and anybody who tries this will find the same) were foreign language or advertising shit, some were real, one was Fat Dan's.
At 26 January, 2006 14:05, Fat Dan said...
I have a blog on your list that you say is crap. So what. i will post my opinions and ideas freely as will you, and from what I can tell, you use big words and are basically a non-talented piece of crap. Just like the rest of us.
Excellent!
Fucking hell, some people are so sensitive! Perhaps if they read what I wrote, they'd see that I didn't actually slag them or their blogs off. Titwank.
Off
I've not been in work today. It's quite naughty of me, but I told folk that, since Dad doesn't drive, I was picking Mother (awww) up from the hospital and getting her car MOTd so as I can get her road tax before it runs out. I did pick Connie up, but that was last night and I have had to get her car MOTd and shit today. I'm knackered, having walked from and to the garage and stuff, but I shouldn't be. And it's freezing out.
Bllrrrueueuhsh.
Thinking about Base 2a, it dawned on me today that there's a woman there that hasn't actually spoken to me, or acknowledged me, since I got back after Christmas. Then again, it's the one I bought BuckaRudolph for when she really wanted something from Tiffany's, so it's hardly surprising. Some people are such ignorant fucking mongs. But do I care? Not at all. What would she say to me if she spoke to me? Sod all of any interest.
In the town where I was born
That's a rather unfortunate reference to one of the worst songs ever recorded. The Beatles were actually quite shit when you come to think of it.
But anyway, I wandered around my town this morning on my way back from the garage. It was quite comforting in some ways, the familiarity of the shopping precinct, knowing that things never really change there that much (and the meat 'n' tater pies from Greenhalgh's bakery are fuckin' delsih!). In other respects it was quite sad when I realised that, given a lot of opportunity and promise, I never managed to move away from here.
I was in the Morrison's buying Corn Flakes for Mother, a lady picked up a box and asked me whether they were Corn Flakes and I confirmed this to her. She mentioned something about them changing the packaging so she couldn't tell. I realised that she mustn't have been able to read. It's amazing what you take for granted.
Tina's kitchen
Tonight's delight is lemon couscous with chick peas, potatoes and olives.
Stuff
- Cous cous (did you know that cous cous was made of pasta?)
- Half a medium sized onion (finely chopped)
- Bit of olive oil
- A lemon, washed and cut into quarters
- Some stuffed green olives (as many as you can tolerate)
- A large potato, peeled (if you like) and cut into quarters along its length
- A can of chick peas
- 1 litre veg or chicken stock (add some lemon juice to this if you have any knocking about)
- Knob of butter (if you must)
Making it
- Fry (sautee) the onion (or shallots if you have them) in the olive oil until they are soft
- Fry three bits of the lemon for a bit, then squish to release the juice
- Add the potato and the stock and boil until the potato is nearly cooked
- Add the cous cous - I add as much as is necessary to have it all a but liquidy still - turn off the heat and put the lid on the pan for a couple of minutes until the cous cous is cooked
- Give it a stir and add the chick peas and olives and a bit more stock if it takes your fancy, butter too if you're a lard-arse like me
- Eat like a pig until you have cous cous, chick peas and olives coming back up through your nose
Wednesday 25 January 2006
Shit off, you shitting shitter
Phew! What have I started? A heated debate, that's what!
Well, not really, but it'd be good to have a bit of controversy here once in a while. I mean, getting worked up about cast iron cookware that happens to be French and orange is one thing, but it's hardly going to bring the UN peacekeepers in. And we're not going to be worried about somebody starting a war on terror against me just because I start to use "Shit off, you shitting shitter" as my sign-off.
What we need here is somebody like good old Ryan J, or the Fanny Flyers to come by and inject some excitement, some exchanges of foul-fucking-mouthed insults, something to get me bashing my emotiboard REALLY FUCKING CUNTING HARD!!!! And I now have to go back through my tossing blog archive to find the links to all that shite. Buggering cocking bollocks....
Thank fuck for my good memory; makes it so much easier to find those old posts.
Anyway, I'm going to live dangerously and ask Blogworld to give me its opinion (valued or not) on the very emotive and controversial subject of:
Now, I know that this could cause me a lot of trouble, but I think that people who read Cakesniffers feel comfortable enough not to feel intimidated and folk should feel at ease sharing their opinions with others. Don't worry, we're not going to get you!
I'll kick off, perhaps that's not that the best terminology, but anyway. Personally, I think people who have carpets in their bathrooms are off their fucking heads.
Bathrooms, and I'm talking the 3, 4 or 5 piece suite that includes the toilet here, are wet places. They can get wet because of water from baths, showers, hand basins: even in the bathroom of the most careful person, a carpet will become damp through steam alone, let alone drips from the sink, wet foot prints and drips from the shower and bath. And what happens when carpet gets wet? It starts to smell, badly and it also looks bloody rough after a short while.
However, much, MUCH worse than getting a bit of water onto a bathroom carpet is getting wee or other bodily exudates onto it. Now, I'm not going to embarrass myself by revealing what happened the other week when I found that I'd peed so hard that it had squirted under the toilet seat, down the outside of the bowl and onto the floor - that'd be too much, even for me - but I've heard tell of blokes who aren't particularly good at aiming for the toilet bowl from the standing position. Hence, it's inevitable that wee will get onto a bathroom floor at some stage in its life. How the fuck are you supposed to clean it up if you've got carpet down? You can't, over the years, your bathroom ends up stinking of piss. Dirty fuckers.
You know what people do? You know what have been invented for people with carpeted bathrooms who are a bit scared of wee dribble? Yes, the good old pedestal mat:
Lovely
The pedestal mat (they ALWAYS look like that) affords a means of protecting bathroom carpets from wee. Once they've had a good soaking, they can simply be shoved into the washing machine on a boil wash and hey presto! you can start again. Better to have two, just so you can have one down while the other is in the wash.
Fucking disgusting.
Come on then, how many people out there have carpets in their bathrooms? Are these the same people who extol the virtues of Le Creuset cookware? I wouldn't put it past them.
Scrubbers!
Connie update
She's home! Yay, yay, yay, yay, fucking yay ALMIGHTY! She had a pacemaker fitted yesterday and all is working well. She obviously has to take it easy for a couple of weeks and there'll be no more contact sports for her (!), but she should be fine. Yay! Again. We've just got to keep our eye on things and watch out for signs of infections around the wound site. This may come as a shock to non-UK people, but over here, our hospitals are having a terrible time with hospital acquired infections, many of which are resistent to antibiotics, so people who've had invasive procedures have to be very careful.
But apart from that, she seems OK. So fingers crossed, etc, etc, etc. Fingers crossed, because if anything happened to my mum I'd have to throttle my bloody dad, who has been driving me mental these past ten days. I was on the verge of stabbing him this evening. He just acts deliberately obtuse, never listens, and I end up repeating everything I say three and four times to the point when I'm screaming at him. He is also addicted to "Deal, no deal" (teatime TV show)and it's difficult to get him to do anything if it means interrupting his daily dose of this shite.
But now I'm calm.
Carry on till my day comes and then you'll be wishing for good health and happiness, cocks!
Well, not really, but it'd be good to have a bit of controversy here once in a while. I mean, getting worked up about cast iron cookware that happens to be French and orange is one thing, but it's hardly going to bring the UN peacekeepers in. And we're not going to be worried about somebody starting a war on terror against me just because I start to use "Shit off, you shitting shitter" as my sign-off.
What we need here is somebody like good old Ryan J, or the Fanny Flyers to come by and inject some excitement, some exchanges of foul-fucking-mouthed insults, something to get me bashing my emotiboard REALLY FUCKING CUNTING HARD!!!! And I now have to go back through my tossing blog archive to find the links to all that shite. Buggering cocking bollocks....
Thank fuck for my good memory; makes it so much easier to find those old posts.
Anyway, I'm going to live dangerously and ask Blogworld to give me its opinion (valued or not) on the very emotive and controversial subject of:
Carpets in bathrooms/WCs
Now, I know that this could cause me a lot of trouble, but I think that people who read Cakesniffers feel comfortable enough not to feel intimidated and folk should feel at ease sharing their opinions with others. Don't worry, we're not going to get you!
I'll kick off, perhaps that's not that the best terminology, but anyway. Personally, I think people who have carpets in their bathrooms are off their fucking heads.
Bathrooms, and I'm talking the 3, 4 or 5 piece suite that includes the toilet here, are wet places. They can get wet because of water from baths, showers, hand basins: even in the bathroom of the most careful person, a carpet will become damp through steam alone, let alone drips from the sink, wet foot prints and drips from the shower and bath. And what happens when carpet gets wet? It starts to smell, badly and it also looks bloody rough after a short while.
However, much, MUCH worse than getting a bit of water onto a bathroom carpet is getting wee or other bodily exudates onto it. Now, I'm not going to embarrass myself by revealing what happened the other week when I found that I'd peed so hard that it had squirted under the toilet seat, down the outside of the bowl and onto the floor - that'd be too much, even for me - but I've heard tell of blokes who aren't particularly good at aiming for the toilet bowl from the standing position. Hence, it's inevitable that wee will get onto a bathroom floor at some stage in its life. How the fuck are you supposed to clean it up if you've got carpet down? You can't, over the years, your bathroom ends up stinking of piss. Dirty fuckers.
You know what people do? You know what have been invented for people with carpeted bathrooms who are a bit scared of wee dribble? Yes, the good old pedestal mat:
Lovely
The pedestal mat (they ALWAYS look like that) affords a means of protecting bathroom carpets from wee. Once they've had a good soaking, they can simply be shoved into the washing machine on a boil wash and hey presto! you can start again. Better to have two, just so you can have one down while the other is in the wash.
Fucking disgusting.
Come on then, how many people out there have carpets in their bathrooms? Are these the same people who extol the virtues of Le Creuset cookware? I wouldn't put it past them.
Scrubbers!
Connie update
She's home! Yay, yay, yay, yay, fucking yay ALMIGHTY! She had a pacemaker fitted yesterday and all is working well. She obviously has to take it easy for a couple of weeks and there'll be no more contact sports for her (!), but she should be fine. Yay! Again. We've just got to keep our eye on things and watch out for signs of infections around the wound site. This may come as a shock to non-UK people, but over here, our hospitals are having a terrible time with hospital acquired infections, many of which are resistent to antibiotics, so people who've had invasive procedures have to be very careful.
But apart from that, she seems OK. So fingers crossed, etc, etc, etc. Fingers crossed, because if anything happened to my mum I'd have to throttle my bloody dad, who has been driving me mental these past ten days. I was on the verge of stabbing him this evening. He just acts deliberately obtuse, never listens, and I end up repeating everything I say three and four times to the point when I'm screaming at him. He is also addicted to "Deal, no deal" (teatime TV show)and it's difficult to get him to do anything if it means interrupting his daily dose of this shite.
But now I'm calm.
Carry on till my day comes and then you'll be wishing for good health and happiness, cocks!
Tuesday 24 January 2006
Carry on blogging
You keep doing it, don't you?
Blogging is weird. You want everybody in the world to be reading your blog; everybody except people who know you in real life (with the odd exception). But when your blog spills over into real life, when the prospect of meeting people from blogworld becomes real (i.e. you arrange a holiday to Canada or plan to stuff your face with pizza in the company of a pair nasty little homos), you start to mention to the "real world" people and then you're trapped.
"So who is this person?"
"Some woman off the internet."
"What, from an online dating thing?"
"Oh good Lord no, it's not like that! She has this personal website, and I have one too, and we sort of leave comments on each others blogs and then we got each others e-mail address and messenger log ons and we can chat using the webcams."
"You each have a webcam???? Jesus, do you... ya know... 'cyber'????"
"WHAT??? NO! We do fucking not!"
But then people become intrigued about this blogging business and they want to find out how to see your blog.
"I'm going to find your blog."
"Why?"
"Because I want to see what you write about us."
"I don't write about you."
"Well, I want to see what you write about."
"I write about pretty much the same sort of shit that I go on about while I'm here at work. Why would you want to read about it too?"
"To see what you write about us."
"Oh fuck off."
"You're offending my muslim sensitivities."
"Fuck right off then!"*
I reckon they're nosy fuckers who want to see if you're slagging them off on the internet - as if I would! Are they French and made of cast iron? Non! They seem to think that I write about them in my blog, which I don't, not really - apart from mad Cynthia, but she's too brilliant not to.
*I just need to point out that this is part of every day office banter and that I'm not a member of the British National Party or Combat 18.
So where was I? Oh yeah, carrying on about carrying on with blogs.
I'm sure that these things much reach a natural conclusion at some point. Surely my life can't be so dull forever that I'll continue doing this forever. I used to be addicted to MSN chat rooms, well one in particular, and I never thought that the day would come when I wouldn't be bothered about it all. But you grow out of things, you get bored of the way people behave in that environment. Tiresome wankers, some of them.
I've stuck to this longer than I did chatrooms. I like having the freedom to do what I like, rather than having a theme or a formula that I'd feel duty bound to stick to. Reading other people's blogs, which I do, I often see little concluding comments that folk use, for example, Wyndham's "My day is near", Indiaynke's "Good health and wisdom to you this day", or Surly Girl's "Carry on". I often wonder how pissed off they are that they started doing that and whether they wish that they could leave it off without anybody noticing. Of course, you'd be mistaken for thinking that Tazzy and Piggy conclude each of their posts with "cunt", but they don't, it's just that they're disgusting little homos.
So we say "NO" to formulas, but that's basically because I wasn't bright enough to think of one when I started out.
You don't need an airing cupboard when you've got Jesus
You see, I can't get away with it. Let's try another one...
Keep out of the black and in the red, you get nothing in this game for two in a bed
Nah
Get out, stay out!
Too much like FT's "Better out than in" ;). Tits.
Got it!
Titbumshitwank
Blogging is weird. You want everybody in the world to be reading your blog; everybody except people who know you in real life (with the odd exception). But when your blog spills over into real life, when the prospect of meeting people from blogworld becomes real (i.e. you arrange a holiday to Canada or plan to stuff your face with pizza in the company of a pair nasty little homos), you start to mention to the "real world" people and then you're trapped.
"So who is this person?"
"Some woman off the internet."
"What, from an online dating thing?"
"Oh good Lord no, it's not like that! She has this personal website, and I have one too, and we sort of leave comments on each others blogs and then we got each others e-mail address and messenger log ons and we can chat using the webcams."
"You each have a webcam???? Jesus, do you... ya know... 'cyber'????"
"WHAT??? NO! We do fucking not!"
But then people become intrigued about this blogging business and they want to find out how to see your blog.
"I'm going to find your blog."
"Why?"
"Because I want to see what you write about us."
"I don't write about you."
"Well, I want to see what you write about."
"I write about pretty much the same sort of shit that I go on about while I'm here at work. Why would you want to read about it too?"
"To see what you write about us."
"Oh fuck off."
"You're offending my muslim sensitivities."
"Fuck right off then!"*
I reckon they're nosy fuckers who want to see if you're slagging them off on the internet - as if I would! Are they French and made of cast iron? Non! They seem to think that I write about them in my blog, which I don't, not really - apart from mad Cynthia, but she's too brilliant not to.
*I just need to point out that this is part of every day office banter and that I'm not a member of the British National Party or Combat 18.
So where was I? Oh yeah, carrying on about carrying on with blogs.
I'm sure that these things much reach a natural conclusion at some point. Surely my life can't be so dull forever that I'll continue doing this forever. I used to be addicted to MSN chat rooms, well one in particular, and I never thought that the day would come when I wouldn't be bothered about it all. But you grow out of things, you get bored of the way people behave in that environment. Tiresome wankers, some of them.
I've stuck to this longer than I did chatrooms. I like having the freedom to do what I like, rather than having a theme or a formula that I'd feel duty bound to stick to. Reading other people's blogs, which I do, I often see little concluding comments that folk use, for example, Wyndham's "My day is near", Indiaynke's "Good health and wisdom to you this day", or Surly Girl's "Carry on". I often wonder how pissed off they are that they started doing that and whether they wish that they could leave it off without anybody noticing. Of course, you'd be mistaken for thinking that Tazzy and Piggy conclude each of their posts with "cunt", but they don't, it's just that they're disgusting little homos.
So we say "NO" to formulas, but that's basically because I wasn't bright enough to think of one when I started out.
You don't need an airing cupboard when you've got Jesus
You see, I can't get away with it. Let's try another one...
Keep out of the black and in the red, you get nothing in this game for two in a bed
Nah
Get out, stay out!
Too much like FT's "Better out than in" ;). Tits.
Got it!
Titbumshitwank
Monday 23 January 2006
In the kitchen
Hello and welcome to my new show: Tina's kitchen
Each week, I'll be impressing you all with my culinary skills and offering you some top tips to make life easier in your kitchen.
People who know me will vouch that I'm exceedingly easy to please when it comes to being served up a sumptuous feast - so long as I'm served up a sumptuous feast and not some shitting pigswill that other mongs might find acceptable. There's nothing like well-prepared food that's made from decent ingredients and I find that, armed with good basic equipment, a bit of common sense and lashings of good taste, anybody can cook.
The basics
To start off with, you need to get the right basic equipment:
That's right, this is France's finest "Le Creuset" cast iron, enamelled cookware. What a pile of crap.
When I first started university, I was packed off to Leeds with some cheapo crap pans. They were ace, they lasted me all my time there and that was all that was required. Imagine my horror when some posh bird from Northern Ireland rolled up with a full set of Le Creuset pans and casseroles (in orange, of course).
"What the fuck are they?" I asked her as the cupboards started to sag under the collective weight of a casserole, milk pan and a couple of saucepans.
"Oh they're the best you can get you know."
"Oh right, they look a little bit heavy... and doesn't stuff stick to them?"
"Oh I don't know, I can't really cook that well, but I'll get used to them."
"Oh, and the name's Tina, by the way."
Fuck me. This was the lass who always prepared parsley sauce with fish fingers and proceeded to eat them using a fish knife. A fish knife.
This was the lass who did biochemistry with me, who used to sneak into my room to take my finished lab reports so she could copy them because she wouldn't have written hers up in time because she'd have been out clubbing or shagging. "Audrey, I'm not seeing [enter current shag's name] this evening, shall we get some ALCOHOL?" Bitch. We called her "Mort" (for Morticia) because of the black rings around her eyes from all the late nights. She only got a 2ii. HA!
Anyway, I never used them, but watched in awe as she managed to carry a fully-laden saucepan of cooked pasta (and cooking water) to the collander in the sink. "Heeeeeeeave!!"
And it was always pasta in mushroom and creamy sauce, which is like "pasta 'n' snot" as far as I'm concerned, but I'd watch on as they perfected their roux and then mix it in with bogeyfied mushrooms to produce something that looked like a slug mating fest.
Christ. Why do they do it? I pondered, as I tucked into whichever pasta dish I'd be having that evening (always a tomato-based sauce for me - ALWAYS!).
And then there was Jo "I've only had a Twix all day". She was the thinnest person on the planet, but she used to work as a surveyor to fund her studies. She'd come in from work, having only had a Twix all day, and start preparing a casserole (in Le Creuset) and drop scones (on a Le Creuset hot plate thing). Baking! Baking is not compatible with being starving hungry. Eating something cold out of the tin is compatible with being starving hungry. Or those 2 minute noodles - they're ace when you're hungry. Casseroles. Jesus.
Jo didn't like the smell of garlic: "It smells of body odour". This was a student house. Garlic is the prevailing smell of a student house. All student houses smell of garlic because students have to cook with overpowering amounts of the stuff because they don't know about other flavours. Added to this is the pan of four day old chilli con carne on the stove and an overflowing kitchen bin. Student house = GARLIC.
Jo was lovely though: very polite and very hard working. But she didn't like garlic. She did however progress to onions in the time that I knew her, which is just as well for the number of casseroles she made.
Back to Tina's kitchen. After years of watching in wonder at people using Le Creuset pans, I found myself having to use them myself when I was house-sitting in Grimsby in the summer of 1991. Fuck me, they're hard work. I was on the verge of knocking up a block and tackle to lift the fuckers before I got a man to pick them up for me.
This particular type, the one-handled saucepan, is an absolute no-no with my weak and pathetic wrists. There is no way I can even contemplate picking one of those fuckers up without breaking into a sweat and getting a panic attack at the prospect of the impending full thickness burns from when my arms give way and I get covered in scalding liquid.
Word has it that Le Creuset have signed up to be sponsor of next year's World's Strongest Man competition. The final event involves contestants holding an 18" single-handled saucepan filled with boiling water at arms length for as long as possible. Should be a short finale then.
Fucking useless French crap.
Completely unrelated, but perhaps a bit of good news.
Each week, I'll be impressing you all with my culinary skills and offering you some top tips to make life easier in your kitchen.
People who know me will vouch that I'm exceedingly easy to please when it comes to being served up a sumptuous feast - so long as I'm served up a sumptuous feast and not some shitting pigswill that other mongs might find acceptable. There's nothing like well-prepared food that's made from decent ingredients and I find that, armed with good basic equipment, a bit of common sense and lashings of good taste, anybody can cook.
The basics
To start off with, you need to get the right basic equipment:
- Chef's knife (6" blade), paring knife
- Knife sharpener (no point having knives unless you keep them sharp and scary)
- Chopping boards
- Stirring implements (spatulas, spoons and the like)
- Colander
- Sieve
- Set of kitchen scales (perhaps)
- Set of pans (medium & large sauce pans, frying pan, that kind of affair)
That's right, this is France's finest "Le Creuset" cast iron, enamelled cookware. What a pile of crap.
When I first started university, I was packed off to Leeds with some cheapo crap pans. They were ace, they lasted me all my time there and that was all that was required. Imagine my horror when some posh bird from Northern Ireland rolled up with a full set of Le Creuset pans and casseroles (in orange, of course).
"What the fuck are they?" I asked her as the cupboards started to sag under the collective weight of a casserole, milk pan and a couple of saucepans.
"Oh they're the best you can get you know."
"Oh right, they look a little bit heavy... and doesn't stuff stick to them?"
"Oh I don't know, I can't really cook that well, but I'll get used to them."
"Oh, and the name's Tina, by the way."
Fuck me. This was the lass who always prepared parsley sauce with fish fingers and proceeded to eat them using a fish knife. A fish knife.
This was the lass who did biochemistry with me, who used to sneak into my room to take my finished lab reports so she could copy them because she wouldn't have written hers up in time because she'd have been out clubbing or shagging. "Audrey, I'm not seeing [enter current shag's name] this evening, shall we get some ALCOHOL?" Bitch. We called her "Mort" (for Morticia) because of the black rings around her eyes from all the late nights. She only got a 2ii. HA!
Anyway, I never used them, but watched in awe as she managed to carry a fully-laden saucepan of cooked pasta (and cooking water) to the collander in the sink. "Heeeeeeeave!!"
And it was always pasta in mushroom and creamy sauce, which is like "pasta 'n' snot" as far as I'm concerned, but I'd watch on as they perfected their roux and then mix it in with bogeyfied mushrooms to produce something that looked like a slug mating fest.
Christ. Why do they do it? I pondered, as I tucked into whichever pasta dish I'd be having that evening (always a tomato-based sauce for me - ALWAYS!).
And then there was Jo "I've only had a Twix all day". She was the thinnest person on the planet, but she used to work as a surveyor to fund her studies. She'd come in from work, having only had a Twix all day, and start preparing a casserole (in Le Creuset) and drop scones (on a Le Creuset hot plate thing). Baking! Baking is not compatible with being starving hungry. Eating something cold out of the tin is compatible with being starving hungry. Or those 2 minute noodles - they're ace when you're hungry. Casseroles. Jesus.
Jo didn't like the smell of garlic: "It smells of body odour". This was a student house. Garlic is the prevailing smell of a student house. All student houses smell of garlic because students have to cook with overpowering amounts of the stuff because they don't know about other flavours. Added to this is the pan of four day old chilli con carne on the stove and an overflowing kitchen bin. Student house = GARLIC.
Jo was lovely though: very polite and very hard working. But she didn't like garlic. She did however progress to onions in the time that I knew her, which is just as well for the number of casseroles she made.
Back to Tina's kitchen. After years of watching in wonder at people using Le Creuset pans, I found myself having to use them myself when I was house-sitting in Grimsby in the summer of 1991. Fuck me, they're hard work. I was on the verge of knocking up a block and tackle to lift the fuckers before I got a man to pick them up for me.
This particular type, the one-handled saucepan, is an absolute no-no with my weak and pathetic wrists. There is no way I can even contemplate picking one of those fuckers up without breaking into a sweat and getting a panic attack at the prospect of the impending full thickness burns from when my arms give way and I get covered in scalding liquid.
Word has it that Le Creuset have signed up to be sponsor of next year's World's Strongest Man competition. The final event involves contestants holding an 18" single-handled saucepan filled with boiling water at arms length for as long as possible. Should be a short finale then.
Fucking useless French crap.
Completely unrelated, but perhaps a bit of good news.
Sunday 22 January 2006
Sign me up!
Tufty gets his revenge
You can run, but you can't hide. We're coming to get you and your friends, and your family!
"Comin' atcha!"
"Quick, quick, they're after me wi' knives!"
You can run, but you can't hide. We're coming to get you and your friends, and your family!
"Comin' atcha!"
"Quick, quick, they're after me wi' knives!"
Saturday 21 January 2006
Smell the coffee
Costco, followed by fucking horrible Asda on a Saturday afternoon: discuss.
Already have done, at length. Jesus, what a nightmare.
Perhaps it's just me and should give Asda the benefit of the doubt. Actually, no I shouldn't. Asda is horrible, horrible, HORRIBLE! Today's gripe is that, in addition to the continual "Approaching landing level, please take care", there was a child (I assume it was a child) somewhere in the store who had a toot toot whistle type thing.
Please take care
It'd be ever such fun if the "Approaching landing level, please take care" announcement actually warned of real danger, like a pouncing tiger or a sniper or something. That'd be fuckin' ace. Toot, toot, toot...
"Approaching landing level, please take care"...
Toot, toot, toot.. "What's that red light, Mummy?"
BLAM!
Use your loaf
We needed bread and their in store bakery had produced some bizarre loaves that I'd never encountered before, I'm going to call them "crustynot". These loaves looked like they were nice and crusty, but they were in fact soft. Weird. Stupid fuckers must've bagged them while they were still warm.
Dicks.
The happy wanderer
It was wall too stressful. And I was accompanied by my Dad who kept wandering off. This meant that at least ten minutes were added to this trial as I wandered around, looking for him. Or I'd retrace my steps to where I'd last been with him in the hope that he'd return. So I'd wait with the trolley, but there wouldn't be quite enough room because of the crap store layout and people would be pushing past me and I'd be getting even more agitated. My head pounded, my heart raced. "I'm going to fucking kill him!"
Why does he do it?
Valderee indeed.
The brighter way to start your day
I love Nescafe - the original stuff. I know that Nestle are unethical bastards and there are much "nicer" brands of coffee that I could buy, but I love Nescafe I'm afraid and that is the end of the story. I shall give extra money to charities that work for the developing world as my penance.
We get everything in bulk from Costco. There's no room for any of this, but we get it anyway. We bought a big tin of Nescafe today and Dad's just opened it to decant into a jar. The smell as it wafts in from the kitchen is fuckin' delish.
Saturday
Saturday is lie-in day. During the week, I get up at either 5.30 or 6.15am (depending on which base I'm working at), so when Saturday comes, I like to get up around 9.30-10am and ease myself into the day. It's a lovely feeling when I first wake up at around 6.30, knowing that I can tell Otto to fuck off and turn over and go back to sleep.
Fantastic.
Connie update
Connie fans will be pleased to know that she's still out of my hair and incarcerated in Hope Hospital, where she's being treated very well. It's a good hospital and I'm glad she's there rather than some other hospitals round here.
It seems that things aren't going to settle themselves on their own and that she'll be needing a pacemaker, which will be fitted on Tuesday. Hopefully she'll be out on Wednesday. She's really fed up and she doesn't want a pacemaker. And I'm anticipating lots of fun and drama every time it kicks in once it's been fitted.
Patientline are introducing a new novelty feature whereby patients can record a video clip of themselves blindfolded and wearing an orange jumpsuit, while nursing staff dress up and hold a knife to their throat. The patient's family gets sent an e-mail with a hyperlink to the Al-Jazeera website, where they can watch the video clip. For authenticity, by watching the video clip, family members pay a ransom (£3 a minute off-peak, £5 a minute at all other times from BT Yahoo, other operator charges may vary) that prevents the patient undergoing an "accidental" amputation.
Another good idea for hospitals would be for the nurses to write the day of the week on white board that's positioned in each ward - usually where all the patients can see it clearly. Why? Because then Mother would know it was fucking Saturday and she wouldn't phone me up for a chat at 8am!
An edit They do write the day and date on the white board. Quite clearly. It was there on the board in big writing: Saturday 21st January 2006. "Oh, I didn't bother looking at that", said Mother when I pointed it out to her. Hrrm. I can't wait to get my mum back home.
Already have done, at length. Jesus, what a nightmare.
Perhaps it's just me and should give Asda the benefit of the doubt. Actually, no I shouldn't. Asda is horrible, horrible, HORRIBLE! Today's gripe is that, in addition to the continual "Approaching landing level, please take care", there was a child (I assume it was a child) somewhere in the store who had a toot toot whistle type thing.
Please take care
It'd be ever such fun if the "Approaching landing level, please take care" announcement actually warned of real danger, like a pouncing tiger or a sniper or something. That'd be fuckin' ace. Toot, toot, toot...
"Approaching landing level, please take care"...
Toot, toot, toot.. "What's that red light, Mummy?"
BLAM!
Use your loaf
We needed bread and their in store bakery had produced some bizarre loaves that I'd never encountered before, I'm going to call them "crustynot". These loaves looked like they were nice and crusty, but they were in fact soft. Weird. Stupid fuckers must've bagged them while they were still warm.
Dicks.
The happy wanderer
It was wall too stressful. And I was accompanied by my Dad who kept wandering off. This meant that at least ten minutes were added to this trial as I wandered around, looking for him. Or I'd retrace my steps to where I'd last been with him in the hope that he'd return. So I'd wait with the trolley, but there wouldn't be quite enough room because of the crap store layout and people would be pushing past me and I'd be getting even more agitated. My head pounded, my heart raced. "I'm going to fucking kill him!"
Why does he do it?
Valderee indeed.
The brighter way to start your day
I love Nescafe - the original stuff. I know that Nestle are unethical bastards and there are much "nicer" brands of coffee that I could buy, but I love Nescafe I'm afraid and that is the end of the story. I shall give extra money to charities that work for the developing world as my penance.
We get everything in bulk from Costco. There's no room for any of this, but we get it anyway. We bought a big tin of Nescafe today and Dad's just opened it to decant into a jar. The smell as it wafts in from the kitchen is fuckin' delish.
Saturday
Saturday is lie-in day. During the week, I get up at either 5.30 or 6.15am (depending on which base I'm working at), so when Saturday comes, I like to get up around 9.30-10am and ease myself into the day. It's a lovely feeling when I first wake up at around 6.30, knowing that I can tell Otto to fuck off and turn over and go back to sleep.
Fantastic.
Connie update
Connie fans will be pleased to know that she's still out of my hair and incarcerated in Hope Hospital, where she's being treated very well. It's a good hospital and I'm glad she's there rather than some other hospitals round here.
It seems that things aren't going to settle themselves on their own and that she'll be needing a pacemaker, which will be fitted on Tuesday. Hopefully she'll be out on Wednesday. She's really fed up and she doesn't want a pacemaker. And I'm anticipating lots of fun and drama every time it kicks in once it's been fitted.
Patientline are introducing a new novelty feature whereby patients can record a video clip of themselves blindfolded and wearing an orange jumpsuit, while nursing staff dress up and hold a knife to their throat. The patient's family gets sent an e-mail with a hyperlink to the Al-Jazeera website, where they can watch the video clip. For authenticity, by watching the video clip, family members pay a ransom (£3 a minute off-peak, £5 a minute at all other times from BT Yahoo, other operator charges may vary) that prevents the patient undergoing an "accidental" amputation.
Another good idea for hospitals would be for the nurses to write the day of the week on white board that's positioned in each ward - usually where all the patients can see it clearly. Why? Because then Mother would know it was fucking Saturday and she wouldn't phone me up for a chat at 8am!
An edit They do write the day and date on the white board. Quite clearly. It was there on the board in big writing: Saturday 21st January 2006. "Oh, I didn't bother looking at that", said Mother when I pointed it out to her. Hrrm. I can't wait to get my mum back home.
Thursday 19 January 2006
Who am I?
Here is a little quiz that will hopefully make people have a look around at some of my most favourite blogs in the whole world - call it a lesson in culture.
The idea is that I describe something that's been mentioned in somebody else's blog and you have to do a bit of research to find out what I'm on about. I tell you whose blog I'm referring to and the month, all you have to do is try to find the pertinent post and leave the link in the comments. Be warned though, I might throw in a red herring.
All the hyperlinks will take you to the correct archive page, but you have to have a look through to see which post the clue refers to. I hope that this will give people the opportunity to have a look back at some of the older stuff that people have done on their blogs.
The idea is that I describe something that's been mentioned in somebody else's blog and you have to do a bit of research to find out what I'm on about. I tell you whose blog I'm referring to and the month, all you have to do is try to find the pertinent post and leave the link in the comments. Be warned though, I might throw in a red herring.
All the hyperlinks will take you to the correct archive page, but you have to have a look through to see which post the clue refers to. I hope that this will give people the opportunity to have a look back at some of the older stuff that people have done on their blogs.
- From the most wonderful blog creation EVER, lovely Herge's Angry Chimp: "I am small but perfectly formed, but I gave Herge cause for concern in May. Who am I?"
- Our very own airplane-fixing, lady-loving, first generation eurotrash-Canadian grrrly-grrrl Connie has always provided lots of fun and grinder action while maintaining a healthy lesbian interest. "I came out to play with lots of my other friends. Who am I?"
- Ah, I surely hope the months fly by so that I'll soon find myself in British Columbia, Canada, where'll I'll meet the lovely April Pissoff. "I'm purple with a red stripe. Who am I?"
- It took a fair bit of persuading to get Garfer to share his teacakes with us, but I'm sure glad he did. "I'm an annoying twat. Who am I?"
- This pair of cunts are legends in South Yorkshire and we've grown to love them here in Blogland. "I only made one appearance here, but I had to take a Court Order out on somebody to stop them stalking me because of it. Who am I?"
- He claims to be Irish, but I've heard him speak and that's a put on accent if ever I've heard one. Top o' da mornin' te ya, S.I.D! "There I was, running free in the forest, then BLAM! I end up dehydrated, abused and ridiculed for the sake of cheap laughs. Who am I?"
- Funny Thing is a Welsh, of all things (in this day and age too). She is quite funny and is a thing, since we never get to see her, or find out her name - boring git. "I've enhanced FT's life no end and without me, she'd be a right skanky mare. Who am I?"
- Whinger is another one of those annoying bloggers who preserves her anonymity. I bet she's dead fit too. "Things were getting very serious between Whinger and me and then, Poof! I changed into a different type of energy. Who the devil am I?"
Wednesday 18 January 2006
First class service
Here is a (hopefully) hypothetical question.
If you had to spend some time in hospital would you prefer your bed to be in:
Taking option 1 out of the picture - because that doesn't really happen here - I know which one I certainly WOULDN'T be going for and that is the twin room option. Imagine being trapped in a room with another occupant who can't help wanting to strike up a conversation, but the only person available for them to converse with is YOU!
Jesus, I'd rather die. Actually, I'd willingly buy them £20 Patientline credits so they could watch TV, shut the fuck up and leave me alone.
Connie has been transferred to a twin room on her new ward. It's a great room, really modern, with fantastic facilities, but the downside is having to share with somebody who gets wheeled back in to the room and introduces herself by saying, "I've just come back from having a camera shoved up me bum; they thought I had cancer, but I've not."
Nice to meet you too, I'm sure.
"Do you want a biscuit, love?" ("Love")
"No thank you, I'm diabetic, I can't have any."
Two minutes later, she was at Connie's bedside "Would you like a biscuit, love?"
"No thank you, I'm diabetic, but thanks anyway."
Not that being diabetic has ever stopped my mother from indulging in sugary food.
Imagine being trapped in that situation. What is wrong with people that they have to talk to you? Just fuck off, for fuck's sake. I felt like sneaking in and hiding in the en suite so I could creep out in the dead of the night and wheel her bed away from my mum. Preferably down three flights of stairs a la Carry on Nurse/Doctor.
Hamster
Did anybody see that story about the pissed up students who tried to post a live hamster to somebody? Dickheads.
Sniffy
Being paranoid about people from work finding my blog, I'm not going to move for full anonymity, but I've just changed my display name to Sniffy to make it less obvious that it's my blog at first glance if somebody should stumble across it. Not that I should have to explain anything to anyone, but that's why.
Why am I paranoid about people from work reading my blog? Well, they think I'm weird enough as it is and I don't want to make it even any worse.
If you had to spend some time in hospital would you prefer your bed to be in:
- A single room
- An open "Nightingale" ward of up to 20 beds (mixed sex)
- A smaller side ward of 4 beds (single sex)
- A twin room with en suite bathroom facilities (single sex)
Taking option 1 out of the picture - because that doesn't really happen here - I know which one I certainly WOULDN'T be going for and that is the twin room option. Imagine being trapped in a room with another occupant who can't help wanting to strike up a conversation, but the only person available for them to converse with is YOU!
Jesus, I'd rather die. Actually, I'd willingly buy them £20 Patientline credits so they could watch TV, shut the fuck up and leave me alone.
Connie has been transferred to a twin room on her new ward. It's a great room, really modern, with fantastic facilities, but the downside is having to share with somebody who gets wheeled back in to the room and introduces herself by saying, "I've just come back from having a camera shoved up me bum; they thought I had cancer, but I've not."
Nice to meet you too, I'm sure.
"Do you want a biscuit, love?" ("Love")
"No thank you, I'm diabetic, I can't have any."
Two minutes later, she was at Connie's bedside "Would you like a biscuit, love?"
"No thank you, I'm diabetic, but thanks anyway."
Not that being diabetic has ever stopped my mother from indulging in sugary food.
Imagine being trapped in that situation. What is wrong with people that they have to talk to you? Just fuck off, for fuck's sake. I felt like sneaking in and hiding in the en suite so I could creep out in the dead of the night and wheel her bed away from my mum. Preferably down three flights of stairs a la Carry on Nurse/Doctor.
Hamster
Did anybody see that story about the pissed up students who tried to post a live hamster to somebody? Dickheads.
Sniffy
Being paranoid about people from work finding my blog, I'm not going to move for full anonymity, but I've just changed my display name to Sniffy to make it less obvious that it's my blog at first glance if somebody should stumble across it. Not that I should have to explain anything to anyone, but that's why.
Why am I paranoid about people from work reading my blog? Well, they think I'm weird enough as it is and I don't want to make it even any worse.
Ne touchez pas, tossers!
It's not often that I have passengers in my car. I hate having passengers in my car because it means that I can't have my stereo on as loud as I like, or listen to what I like to listen to. Passengers in my car often want to have conversations with me, which I don't want to do while I'm trying to concentrate on driving. When there is more than one passenger, they often want to talk to each other; resulting in me having to turn the stereo off so they can blab on to each other.
Fuckers.
The absolute PITS about having people in my car is when they piss about with stuff. They change the seat settings or the seatbelt tensioner on the passenger seat: the next passenger is too short, and they don't know that they can lower the seatbelt to stop them having to do that fucking annoying thing of holding it away from their chest. On the occasions when the seatbelt has been lowered, Dad will always make a point of raising it again, very loudly with a huff and a grunt.
I can't have my sister in my car without her whinging about my music. She'll skip tracks on the CD, alter the volume to her own comfort level (depending on track). But God forbid that I should be allowed to listen to MY music in MY car should she receive a call on her mobile. On average, she gets a call on her mobile every 2 minutes: "OK, hon, I'm just with our Tina, I'll see you in a bit hon. Yeah, I was out with them last night and I still feel like shit..."
Just fucking shut up, HON!!!
And why, oh why, oh friggin' WHY can't people sit in the back of my car without smearing their fucking hands all over the insides of the windows, OPENING the windows (but never completely shutting them), or kicking the backs of the front seats? Why can't they do it? What is it that compels people to touch the insides of the windows? I'm going to break the fingers of the next person I find doing this.
Fucktards.
I could never be a taxi driver.
Connie update
Mother is still in hospital, where she was allowed out of bed to use the bathroom facilities this morning. Her heart responded by increasing bpm-wise, but it is still erratic. She's having a trace and a scan (?) today. She is feeling much better, but is still concerned by the strangeness of her heartbeat. I reckon she'll be in at least till the weekend while a definitive diagnosis and action plan are devised.
This information is brought to you by Patientline at a cost of £15.
Apparently, they're so pleased with her progress that she is probably going to moved to a less intensive unit later on today. She still requires observation and care because of her erratic heartbeat, so they want to keep her there for the moment. So they're moving her to "L7", which I assume means L for "Ladywell" = elderly care = elderly neglect, although they "claim" the L7 is for cardiology and rheumatology patients. Yes, all elderly patients with heart and rheumatic problems who the NHS would like to kill off through systematic neglect.
This information is brought to you by my annoying sister Anna.
Of course, while Mother (awwww) is laid up in hospital, Dad has regressed and is acting like a pathetic 5 year old. Admittedly, he loves my mum to bits (awwwww) and is completely lost with out her (awwwww). He is also worried sick about her, as we all are. However, he is being an annoying bastard. He is now incapable of doing things that normally come as second nature to him. I now need to hear his over the top reaction to the news that Mum may have been moved by the time he gets to visit this afternoon.
An edit: Congratulations Tony Blair (and Gordon Brown of course)
This is wonderful news for all us hard-pressed, impoverished tax payers.
BBC News article that says how shit the British government is
Yes, the economy is safe under New Labour, everything's brilliant, the UK is the best place to live on the PLANET. Nearly 8 million people in the UK are economically inactive - that's about 13% of the population .
Shocked and appalled, but are we surprised?
Fuckers.
The absolute PITS about having people in my car is when they piss about with stuff. They change the seat settings or the seatbelt tensioner on the passenger seat: the next passenger is too short, and they don't know that they can lower the seatbelt to stop them having to do that fucking annoying thing of holding it away from their chest. On the occasions when the seatbelt has been lowered, Dad will always make a point of raising it again, very loudly with a huff and a grunt.
I can't have my sister in my car without her whinging about my music. She'll skip tracks on the CD, alter the volume to her own comfort level (depending on track). But God forbid that I should be allowed to listen to MY music in MY car should she receive a call on her mobile. On average, she gets a call on her mobile every 2 minutes: "OK, hon, I'm just with our Tina, I'll see you in a bit hon. Yeah, I was out with them last night and I still feel like shit..."
Just fucking shut up, HON!!!
And why, oh why, oh friggin' WHY can't people sit in the back of my car without smearing their fucking hands all over the insides of the windows, OPENING the windows (but never completely shutting them), or kicking the backs of the front seats? Why can't they do it? What is it that compels people to touch the insides of the windows? I'm going to break the fingers of the next person I find doing this.
Fucktards.
I could never be a taxi driver.
Connie update
Mother is still in hospital, where she was allowed out of bed to use the bathroom facilities this morning. Her heart responded by increasing bpm-wise, but it is still erratic. She's having a trace and a scan (?) today. She is feeling much better, but is still concerned by the strangeness of her heartbeat. I reckon she'll be in at least till the weekend while a definitive diagnosis and action plan are devised.
This information is brought to you by Patientline at a cost of £15.
Apparently, they're so pleased with her progress that she is probably going to moved to a less intensive unit later on today. She still requires observation and care because of her erratic heartbeat, so they want to keep her there for the moment. So they're moving her to "L7", which I assume means L for "Ladywell" = elderly care = elderly neglect, although they "claim" the L7 is for cardiology and rheumatology patients. Yes, all elderly patients with heart and rheumatic problems who the NHS would like to kill off through systematic neglect.
This information is brought to you by my annoying sister Anna.
Of course, while Mother (awwww) is laid up in hospital, Dad has regressed and is acting like a pathetic 5 year old. Admittedly, he loves my mum to bits (awwwww) and is completely lost with out her (awwwww). He is also worried sick about her, as we all are. However, he is being an annoying bastard. He is now incapable of doing things that normally come as second nature to him. I now need to hear his over the top reaction to the news that Mum may have been moved by the time he gets to visit this afternoon.
An edit: Congratulations Tony Blair (and Gordon Brown of course)
This is wonderful news for all us hard-pressed, impoverished tax payers.
BBC News article that says how shit the British government is
Yes, the economy is safe under New Labour, everything's brilliant, the UK is the best place to live on the PLANET. Nearly 8 million people in the UK are economically inactive - that's about 13% of the population .
Shocked and appalled, but are we surprised?
Tuesday 17 January 2006
Patientline
Hospitals in the UK have this wonderful system called "Patientline", which provides TV, radio, telephone and internet at a patient's bedside. Patients pay up front and can get a number of hours' worth of TV or telephone calls at a specific rate. Family members can contact their loved ones at the rate of 39p/min off peak or 49p/min peak (mobile and international rates vary, please contact your operator for more information). Fuck off, you parasitic bastards.
I just phoned Connie. It took 2 minutes to get through to her after hearing all the shit from the automated information line.
She's OK, but annoyed that we forgot her makeup bag: "I haven't got any eyebrows, I need my eyebrow pencil!". And she's not had any sleep because of a death on the ward and a talkative neighbouring patient. When she did finally drop off, a nurse woke her to see that she was OK (not dead): "Constance, Constance, are you OK? Your pulse has dropped to 20!"
The doctors seem to think that she'd had a reaction to long term beta-blocker use and that a few days off them would restore her to "normal" without the need for further intervention (e.g. pacemaker).
We'll see...
I just phoned Connie. It took 2 minutes to get through to her after hearing all the shit from the automated information line.
She's OK, but annoyed that we forgot her makeup bag: "I haven't got any eyebrows, I need my eyebrow pencil!". And she's not had any sleep because of a death on the ward and a talkative neighbouring patient. When she did finally drop off, a nurse woke her to see that she was OK (not dead): "Constance, Constance, are you OK? Your pulse has dropped to 20!"
The doctors seem to think that she'd had a reaction to long term beta-blocker use and that a few days off them would restore her to "normal" without the need for further intervention (e.g. pacemaker).
We'll see...
Monday 16 January 2006
"I really don't think "cock" is polite"
Coloquialisms are great. All over the UK, you can go from place to place and, despite people supposedly speaking the same language, it's often quite difficult to understand what people are saying to you. Particulalry difficult are the Jocks and the Yorkshires, oh and not forgetting the Newcastles.
After being taught some Hul'qumi'num by everybody's favourite squaw, I thought it only fair that I reciprocate - in the name of intercontinental cultural exchanges and such. She got my best "Salford":
Anyway, some questions answered:
Connie said...
Anyway, if things go well, there's a chance that there'll be blog news involving pizzas, Cakesniffers and YorkshireJockmen. Unfortunately however, my blogging activity may be curbed a little this week because Connie (awww) - no, not Connie, CONNIE - is in hospital: rushed in with a pulse of 25 and hardly any blood pressure.
Gotta go! Back to do my Sniffy Nightingale at mother's bedside.
After being taught some Hul'qumi'num by everybody's favourite squaw, I thought it only fair that I reciprocate - in the name of intercontinental cultural exchanges and such. She got my best "Salford":
- You're dead right, love!
- Y'righ' thenorwha'?
- Y'arigh' cock?
Anyway, some questions answered:
Connie said...
Are you going to come see us too?!?!?!
Jenn and I will take VERY good care of you... take care of your every need.
It's only a cheap 1 hour flight from Vancouver to the most wonderous place in Canada... The Okanagan!
Certainly hope to, Connie. We've got time to have a look at the itinerary and I'll hopefully get to get over and see the pair of you.
funny thing said...
So give us the itinerary then, T. I've got questions. Don't know yet. Land in Vancouver on 30th of June, take off for Manchester on 14th July
Are you: spending two weeks with PO or just popping in? Spending the time with April and her tribe (poor bastards)
Are you: Planning to move there (hurray!) (oops) I've only ever heard wonderful things about Canada and, looking at it, it's certainly the type of place where I'd be happy
Have you: ever done a whole holiday on your own? No, I've never really done a holiday
Have you: ever survived a plane crash before? No
Anyway, if things go well, there's a chance that there'll be blog news involving pizzas, Cakesniffers and YorkshireJockmen. Unfortunately however, my blogging activity may be curbed a little this week because Connie (awww) - no, not Connie, CONNIE - is in hospital: rushed in with a pulse of 25 and hardly any blood pressure.
Gotta go! Back to do my Sniffy Nightingale at mother's bedside.
Sunday 15 January 2006
Should be fun...
I've finally done the deed and booked my holiday for this year. I must be fucking mad. Last year, I booked my holiday in Rome about 5 months in advance and I was so stressed out for every single day in the run up to jetting off. I don't travel very often and, rather than looking forward to a wonderful holiday, I get myself worked up about worst-case scenarios.
So this year, I've given myself about six months in which I can panic each day. And we're not talking a couple of hours in a plane going to Italy, oh no, I'm talking fucking ages in a plane, going back in time eight hours, covering thousands of miles to get to....
So this year, I've given myself about six months in which I can panic each day. And we're not talking a couple of hours in a plane going to Italy, oh no, I'm talking fucking ages in a plane, going back in time eight hours, covering thousands of miles to get to....
British Columbia, Canada
I must be mad. For somebody who has hardly travelled, going on a trip like this on their own is some feat. Luckily though, there's a direct flight to Vancouver from Manchester, so at least there won't be the apprehension about missing connecting flights and baggage getting lost. I was checking out the Zoom airlines website last night and it shows you a graphic of the routes that its flights take from various cities to their destinations. My flight will go over Iceland, Greenland, Northern Canada - right through the Arctic Circle. I bet it crashes. But I'll survive, only to be eaten by a polar bear.
But who do we know who lives in BC?
Yep, he'll be there. And there'll be a wonderfully warm welcome from this young lady.
"pissoff"
Those Canadians are so friendly.
But Canada is one country that I've always wanted to go to, so when this chance presented itself, I decided to take it. So, I'm going to have to spend the next few months learning how to speaka da language, strengthening my arms for my day out seal clubbing and harpooning whales, dancing round a fire wearing a bear skin, that kind of affair. I'm also going to have to lose weight because I want to be able to wear normal clothes.
I'm going to need a higher-capacity memory card for my camera.
Me at my desk
This one's for Piggy and Tazzy (Jesus, they've changed the template AGAIN!).
Maisie the cat helps set up the shot
Me at my desk.
But who do we know who lives in BC?
Yep, he'll be there. And there'll be a wonderfully warm welcome from this young lady.
"pissoff"
Those Canadians are so friendly.
But Canada is one country that I've always wanted to go to, so when this chance presented itself, I decided to take it. So, I'm going to have to spend the next few months learning how to speaka da language, strengthening my arms for my day out seal clubbing and harpooning whales, dancing round a fire wearing a bear skin, that kind of affair. I'm also going to have to lose weight because I want to be able to wear normal clothes.
I'm going to need a higher-capacity memory card for my camera.
Me at my desk
This one's for Piggy and Tazzy (Jesus, they've changed the template AGAIN!).
Maisie the cat helps set up the shot
Me at my desk.
Look at how fat my face is! Christ, I'm off to the gym.
Saturday 14 January 2006
It wants washing then
Unusually for me, I commented to somebody the other day that their hair looked different. She then told me "Oh, I've not done anything different with it. I washed it last week and then it got wet yesterday and dried like this".
Eh? You washed it LAST WEEK? This isn't some blue-rinsed old lass who goes to the hairdressers once a fortnight for a wash and set, it's a forty year old woman. She's not a skanky mare by any stretch of the imagination either, so I think that's why it took me by surprise.
Last week?
I have to wash mine every day, not because it gets particularly scummy, but because it needs "styling" and I obviously need to wash the crap out of it that's been there from the previous day.
I remember when I was a teenager, none of my class mates ever washed their hair more frequently than once or twice a week. If the entire lot of us washed our respective barnets on a Sunday, the RSPCA would be washing marine wildlife with Fairy Liquid come Monday afternoon.
But how often should we really wash our hair? If you have a shower every day, it's just part of the process. It's actually quite therapeutic, a nice head message in the morning, all that warm foaminess cascading all over... Eh, Piggy? I have a routine: wash and rinse hair (twice); wash face; apply conditioner; wash pasty white body; rinse hair; rinse body; rinse foam from bath, etc, etc.
On the other hand, there are those manky bastards who do that "If you leave it for about six weeks, it goes through a really manky stage then it's just as if it's washed every day" thing. Yeah right. I bet it stinks of shit.
League of Gentlemen
I went round to a friend's house last night and we enjoyed watching the League of Gentlemen's Apocalypse. We ran through the extras on the DVD and it struck me how lucky this group of four blokes, who have been friends for years, are. It must be wonderful to have the talent and the opportunity to be in a position to work with your friends, making a living out of making each other laugh.
Bastards.
Eh? You washed it LAST WEEK? This isn't some blue-rinsed old lass who goes to the hairdressers once a fortnight for a wash and set, it's a forty year old woman. She's not a skanky mare by any stretch of the imagination either, so I think that's why it took me by surprise.
Last week?
I have to wash mine every day, not because it gets particularly scummy, but because it needs "styling" and I obviously need to wash the crap out of it that's been there from the previous day.
I remember when I was a teenager, none of my class mates ever washed their hair more frequently than once or twice a week. If the entire lot of us washed our respective barnets on a Sunday, the RSPCA would be washing marine wildlife with Fairy Liquid come Monday afternoon.
But how often should we really wash our hair? If you have a shower every day, it's just part of the process. It's actually quite therapeutic, a nice head message in the morning, all that warm foaminess cascading all over... Eh, Piggy? I have a routine: wash and rinse hair (twice); wash face; apply conditioner; wash pasty white body; rinse hair; rinse body; rinse foam from bath, etc, etc.
On the other hand, there are those manky bastards who do that "If you leave it for about six weeks, it goes through a really manky stage then it's just as if it's washed every day" thing. Yeah right. I bet it stinks of shit.
League of Gentlemen
I went round to a friend's house last night and we enjoyed watching the League of Gentlemen's Apocalypse. We ran through the extras on the DVD and it struck me how lucky this group of four blokes, who have been friends for years, are. It must be wonderful to have the talent and the opportunity to be in a position to work with your friends, making a living out of making each other laugh.
Bastards.
Friday 13 January 2006
Monopoly
Are you supposed to enjoy playing Monopoly? I suppose Monopoly Smackdown Challenge might be fun and, let's face it, that's how the game usually ends up anyway - somebody always ends up in a strop.
I once had a major hissy fit when I got trounced at Scrabble by the blogger formerly known as Trillion. Or the former blogger "Trillion". Whatever. She was supposed to be being nice to me but did the queyntish thing of, well, this:
"How many points for queynte?"
Yep, the addition of "cove" to "omit" gave her a triple word score on "cove" plus the additional points from "vomit" quite literally made me sick. With an unassailable lead, I admitted defeat by throwing the board off the table and stropping away, muttering "I can't even fucking play fucking scrabble".
Everyone knows that cheese and onion is GREEN!
But back to Monopoly, or monopolies. This consumer champion wants fairness in the market place. It should be up to us, the consumers, to decide what brands we want to buy and things shouldn't be forced on us by the large retailers. My main argument is the availability of Coca Cola brands over Pepsi brands, there only ever being chilled still water and never chilled fizzy water.
This week, salty snack manufacturer Golden Wonder called in the administrators as it admitted financial difficulties. There was a time when Golden Wonder brand crisps dominated the market. The "golden age" of snacking was the late 1970s and early 1980s when, not only did they have a healthy share of the crisp market, but they also had the genius idea of coming up with the FUCKIN' DELISH Pot Noodle. Things couldn't have been better.
In the late 1980s, something odd happened: a new brand of crisps emerged in the North West. These were weird, their packet colours didn't conform to the traditional norms: cheese and onion (always green/yellow) were blue, salt and vinegar (always pale blue) were green. What the fuck was all this about?
The brand that suddenly appeared was "Walkers". We'd never had them before, but when I moved about to universities and things, I noticed that Walkers were becoming more and more prevalent. It got to the point in the mid 1990s whereby you'd notice similar product placement in supermarkets: Walkers would take prime spot in Tesco, weird colours and all. Why? What was going on?
Walkers crisps are OK, but they're not as nice as Golden Wonder. I guess I still can't come to terms with having salt and vinegar crisps in a green packet. Green??? Everybody knows that green is cheese and onion.
INCORRECT!
I find it a shame, but also very annoying, that companies that have done nothing wrong (except selling Pot Noodle to Proctor and Gamble or some other weird multinational conglomerate) have essentially been driven into extinction because of aggressive marketing within our supermarkets. It shouldn't be up to the supermarkets to decide what brands we buy. In fact, I'd expect the supermarkets to be entirely independent and give all brands an equal footing once they'd decided to stock a product.
Gets right on my tits so it does. Queynting fuckers.
Cove and vomit indeed.
I once had a major hissy fit when I got trounced at Scrabble by the blogger formerly known as Trillion. Or the former blogger "Trillion". Whatever. She was supposed to be being nice to me but did the queyntish thing of, well, this:
"How many points for queynte?"
Yep, the addition of "cove" to "omit" gave her a triple word score on "cove" plus the additional points from "vomit" quite literally made me sick. With an unassailable lead, I admitted defeat by throwing the board off the table and stropping away, muttering "I can't even fucking play fucking scrabble".
Everyone knows that cheese and onion is GREEN!
But back to Monopoly, or monopolies. This consumer champion wants fairness in the market place. It should be up to us, the consumers, to decide what brands we want to buy and things shouldn't be forced on us by the large retailers. My main argument is the availability of Coca Cola brands over Pepsi brands, there only ever being chilled still water and never chilled fizzy water.
This week, salty snack manufacturer Golden Wonder called in the administrators as it admitted financial difficulties. There was a time when Golden Wonder brand crisps dominated the market. The "golden age" of snacking was the late 1970s and early 1980s when, not only did they have a healthy share of the crisp market, but they also had the genius idea of coming up with the FUCKIN' DELISH Pot Noodle. Things couldn't have been better.
In the late 1980s, something odd happened: a new brand of crisps emerged in the North West. These were weird, their packet colours didn't conform to the traditional norms: cheese and onion (always green/yellow) were blue, salt and vinegar (always pale blue) were green. What the fuck was all this about?
The brand that suddenly appeared was "Walkers". We'd never had them before, but when I moved about to universities and things, I noticed that Walkers were becoming more and more prevalent. It got to the point in the mid 1990s whereby you'd notice similar product placement in supermarkets: Walkers would take prime spot in Tesco, weird colours and all. Why? What was going on?
Walkers crisps are OK, but they're not as nice as Golden Wonder. I guess I still can't come to terms with having salt and vinegar crisps in a green packet. Green??? Everybody knows that green is cheese and onion.
INCORRECT!
I find it a shame, but also very annoying, that companies that have done nothing wrong (except selling Pot Noodle to Proctor and Gamble or some other weird multinational conglomerate) have essentially been driven into extinction because of aggressive marketing within our supermarkets. It shouldn't be up to the supermarkets to decide what brands we buy. In fact, I'd expect the supermarkets to be entirely independent and give all brands an equal footing once they'd decided to stock a product.
Gets right on my tits so it does. Queynting fuckers.
Cove and vomit indeed.
There will be dancing
I'm not very good at English and I get bored with reading if it's too difficult. I've never read any proper literature; it was never something that I was in to as a youngster and I guess it's a difficult thing to get into the habit of. I was more used to reading text books I suppose, and with my studies, I had little time for reading as a leisure activity.
As a child, I was lazy. I shared a bedroom with my sister and she used to read stories to me. She was very good at this and anything that meant that I didn't have to read was good in my book (no pun intended). I think the problems started with how I was taught to read. There was this weird phonetic alphabet called ITA that schools experimented with in the early-mid seventies. I picked this up really quickly, but like many children, found the transition to proper reading very difficult and quite confusing.
Laziness and studying had the consequence of me only really enjoying easy books to read once I started to pick up the odd work of fiction when I was in my twenties. I did the Stephen King thing and the usualy horror writers, moving on to thrillers and the like. But there are only so many axings a person can take, especially when they're going slightly mental as I'd found myself going a few years back. This was when I discovered the Harry Potters (three had been published at the time). I liked the way the books just told a story while capturing the imagination. But they were a doddle to read.
It was during this period that I discovered two other children's fiction writers: Robin Jarvis and Phillip Pullman. Robin Jarvis wrote, amongst others, a trilogy of Wyrd Museum books. I enjoyed these immensely. One of the characters is a barm pot old woman from the beginning of time. She and her two sisters work to weave the threads of fate of man, but are old and frail when we meet them. The youngest of the three was always obsessed with grand parties and flirting with suitors. She sent out invitations to imaginary guests for parties that would never happen. The invitations would promise "There will be dancing", but the poor nutter would end up walzing round the ballroom on her own.
Philip Pullman is perhaps most famous for his trilogy His Dark Materials - an absolute masterpiece. However, he also wrote another successful series of completely different stories based on the trials, tribulations and adventures of Sally Lockhart. Viewers of the BBC's Dr Who might be interested to know that Billie Piper, who plays the Doctor's assistant Rose, will be playing Sally Lockhart in a new drama series that has been commissioned by the Beeb.
So, those of you who read this blog and mutter "Tsk, Tina is right crap at English", I hope this rather lame post goes some way to explaining why: I couldn't read until I was about 14 and I never read any fiction till I was 20; to this day I only read kids' books. Still no excuse for poor spelling and grammar, but it's a fucking blog, not the Booker friggin' prize.
As a child, I was lazy. I shared a bedroom with my sister and she used to read stories to me. She was very good at this and anything that meant that I didn't have to read was good in my book (no pun intended). I think the problems started with how I was taught to read. There was this weird phonetic alphabet called ITA that schools experimented with in the early-mid seventies. I picked this up really quickly, but like many children, found the transition to proper reading very difficult and quite confusing.
Laziness and studying had the consequence of me only really enjoying easy books to read once I started to pick up the odd work of fiction when I was in my twenties. I did the Stephen King thing and the usualy horror writers, moving on to thrillers and the like. But there are only so many axings a person can take, especially when they're going slightly mental as I'd found myself going a few years back. This was when I discovered the Harry Potters (three had been published at the time). I liked the way the books just told a story while capturing the imagination. But they were a doddle to read.
It was during this period that I discovered two other children's fiction writers: Robin Jarvis and Phillip Pullman. Robin Jarvis wrote, amongst others, a trilogy of Wyrd Museum books. I enjoyed these immensely. One of the characters is a barm pot old woman from the beginning of time. She and her two sisters work to weave the threads of fate of man, but are old and frail when we meet them. The youngest of the three was always obsessed with grand parties and flirting with suitors. She sent out invitations to imaginary guests for parties that would never happen. The invitations would promise "There will be dancing", but the poor nutter would end up walzing round the ballroom on her own.
Philip Pullman is perhaps most famous for his trilogy His Dark Materials - an absolute masterpiece. However, he also wrote another successful series of completely different stories based on the trials, tribulations and adventures of Sally Lockhart. Viewers of the BBC's Dr Who might be interested to know that Billie Piper, who plays the Doctor's assistant Rose, will be playing Sally Lockhart in a new drama series that has been commissioned by the Beeb.
So, those of you who read this blog and mutter "Tsk, Tina is right crap at English", I hope this rather lame post goes some way to explaining why: I couldn't read until I was about 14 and I never read any fiction till I was 20; to this day I only read kids' books. Still no excuse for poor spelling and grammar, but it's a fucking blog, not the Booker friggin' prize.
Thursday 12 January 2006
The Hoarse Whisperer
Some people speak in a semi whisper, but are still very loud all the same.
Odd.
The same peoples' normal talking is EXTREMELY loud.
Annoying.
These are the type of people who try to say too much and run out of breath at the end of a sentence, rushing the final words as the last millilitre of air expires from their lungs.
Gasp.
Toxic soup
Today I'm having a rare old treat: Connie's homemade soup for my lunch. I've got a flask full and I'm going to tackle the microwave and see if I can make it hot. My mum's soup is packed with all sorts of great things and it's lovely and tasty too. But it sometimes disagrees with the already sensitive lining of my colon. This is BAD news today as I am suffering from whipped-up poos. These are not quite the consistency of diarrhoea, but are no way near solid - a little like whipped cream. Lots of vegetables on top of this might make my journey hone very interesting today. Just how fast can a person drive 30 miles in rush hour traffic? We'll probably find out later on.
There's a lot of noise around the offices here today; lots of people rabbiting on about stuff, none of it work related. Unless you count the usual ongoing whining about "Agenda for change" as work related.
Queyntessential
Can I make this be a real word please? It can be a new word to describe typical colleagues. I like it.
Snappy Tomato Pizza
The midlands are very greedy. Looking at the Snappy Tomato Pizza (UK) website, I'm outraged at the fact that Coventry has THREE of these outlets, Aberdeen has three too. In between Burton on Trent andAberdeen
Oh god, they're STILL going on about Agenda for fucking change! This queynting government must realise that it's paralysed the entire NHS with this hare-brained scheme of theirs. Twats.
Odd.
The same peoples' normal talking is EXTREMELY loud.
Annoying.
These are the type of people who try to say too much and run out of breath at the end of a sentence, rushing the final words as the last millilitre of air expires from their lungs.
Gasp.
Toxic soup
Today I'm having a rare old treat: Connie's homemade soup for my lunch. I've got a flask full and I'm going to tackle the microwave and see if I can make it hot. My mum's soup is packed with all sorts of great things and it's lovely and tasty too. But it sometimes disagrees with the already sensitive lining of my colon. This is BAD news today as I am suffering from whipped-up poos. These are not quite the consistency of diarrhoea, but are no way near solid - a little like whipped cream. Lots of vegetables on top of this might make my journey hone very interesting today. Just how fast can a person drive 30 miles in rush hour traffic? We'll probably find out later on.
There's a lot of noise around the offices here today; lots of people rabbiting on about stuff, none of it work related. Unless you count the usual ongoing whining about "Agenda for change" as work related.
Queyntessential
Can I make this be a real word please? It can be a new word to describe typical colleagues. I like it.
Snappy Tomato Pizza
The midlands are very greedy. Looking at the Snappy Tomato Pizza (UK) website, I'm outraged at the fact that Coventry has THREE of these outlets, Aberdeen has three too. In between Burton on Trent and
I want to know why there's such a concentration of these stores in the Midlands and little place else in
- Working really hard to get fit then putting on loads of weight over the autumn and winter? Well, it's something that we all do so Yes, but it'd so much better if the answer could be no. Then again, what's wrong with comfort eating and staying in the house to keep warm?
- Flirting with your stand-in line manager (again!). Well, Yes, sort of. I'm told that I'm a flirt and that I don't even know that I'm doing it.
- Offering advice to hopeless drunks and fag addicts (not you, Piggy). Defo, YES! It's such fun to see people doing without for a change. Offering my words of wisdom, sharing my own experiences, being smug as they struggle. HAH!
- Stalking your readers by checking their ISPs on sitemeter - Bovis Lend Lease is the company that's doing the PFI construction at the Trust where I work, btw. Yes, I'm addicted. Sorry. I don't really do proper stalking, not any more, but I just find it fascinating.
- Traditional school dinners. Yes, love em. I'd love to start a restaurant that had a special menu containing all the best dishes from our school dinners, only made properly. At my primary school, ours were fuckin' delish (in the main) and, made well, they'd be a hit. Lovely hotpot, beef and onion pie, beef cobbler... And the puddings were to die for: chocolate sponge and chocolate sauce; jam sponge and custard; warm prunes with custard; yoghurt flan. There were plenty of things that were disgusting too (tapioca), but a lot of it was lovely.
- Having more than two excellent bowel movements per day. It's a rare occurrence, but I had THREE fabulous motions the other day; all with a perfect consistency, so I'd say YES again here. However, two is usually my limit and anything above that can be a bit dangerous.
- Porridge. Yes, it's ok. Nice and creamy (made with milk) with just the right amount of sugar and the slightest pinch of salt.
- Porridge vomit. Hell no!
- Winter. No! I've had enough, I'm fed up, depressed, tired, cold, miserable. MAKE IT STOP!
- Going on holiday to Vancouver Island and staying with a fed-up, foul-fucking-mouthed, donkey-fucking Canuck squaw? Why the devil not? And I'd love to do the cooking.
Oh god, they're STILL going on about Agenda for fucking change! This queynting government must realise that it's paralysed the entire NHS with this hare-brained scheme of theirs. Twats.
Wednesday 11 January 2006
Starving hungry, knackered, bored
Cutting out the crap from my diet has made me realise that crap must be good for you. Without it, you feel completely wrecked. Tempted to succumb to sausage barm (with brown sauce) for my brekkie, I resisted and managed to hold out until cup-a-soup time. In the intervening period, I couldn't get the thought of chicken and mushroom Pot Noodle out of my head.
The women here are obsessed with their weight and there are a set of bathroom scales in the kitchen for them to check themselves on a weekly basis. Odd then, that in all the time such weight watching has been going on here (about 3 years), none of them seem to have altered in any way. I made the mistake of availing myself of this facility. FU-KING-HELL! I didn't really need to since too-tight clothes are generally a good indicator that you're a fat fucker.
After a couple of hours of gradual loss of brain-stem activity, I thought it'd be a laugh to check my weight again: a gain of 2lbs. How? How can this be when I'd had precisely one cup of coffee, a couple of high-volume wees and a satisfying poo?
What does this mean?
Trust no one. We're all victims of some conspiracy or other that taps into a person's insecurity du jour and plays on it.
Either that or the scales aren't particularly good and I'm better off relying on how comfortable my clothes are.
Fuck, I'm shagged. Not literally, obviously - this is me afterall. It's that sort of weird pre-cold/flu feeling and my brain (or my brain being manipulated by The Mysterious "They") is telling me that a Gregg's pasty and a packet of crisps is what's required to bring me back from the brink of death.
Jesus, Cynthia is whispering to herself ten to the dozen. She does it all the time: you can watch out the office window and observe her approach to work in the morning, rabbiting on to herself about goodness only know what. She's over-conscientious, taking it upon herself to try and solve the problems of the world rather than just doing enough to get the job done, or perhaps going that little extra. She's great, a wonderful, fantastic oddball, but an oddball all the same. I heard her on my approach to the kitchen as I hurried to prepare my coup-de-soup earlier. As I stirred in the hot water and watched in amazement as my hot, delicious soup appeared before my eyes, she said something to me and I swear it was in Russian. She's fluent you see, after living there for a number of years. I think she was testing me to see if I'd respond, perhaps checking to see if I was a sleeper who'd been planted in the UK at the height of the Cold War. Alas, this is not the case, I'm just an average, boring Brit.
I wonder what my desk tastes like. There must be a couple of calories' worth of accumulated food stuff that I've spilt on here over the years. I shall give it some tongue action and dream of Snappy Tomato Pizza.
The women here are obsessed with their weight and there are a set of bathroom scales in the kitchen for them to check themselves on a weekly basis. Odd then, that in all the time such weight watching has been going on here (about 3 years), none of them seem to have altered in any way. I made the mistake of availing myself of this facility. FU-KING-HELL! I didn't really need to since too-tight clothes are generally a good indicator that you're a fat fucker.
After a couple of hours of gradual loss of brain-stem activity, I thought it'd be a laugh to check my weight again: a gain of 2lbs. How? How can this be when I'd had precisely one cup of coffee, a couple of high-volume wees and a satisfying poo?
What does this mean?
Trust no one. We're all victims of some conspiracy or other that taps into a person's insecurity du jour and plays on it.
Either that or the scales aren't particularly good and I'm better off relying on how comfortable my clothes are.
Fuck, I'm shagged. Not literally, obviously - this is me afterall. It's that sort of weird pre-cold/flu feeling and my brain (or my brain being manipulated by The Mysterious "They") is telling me that a Gregg's pasty and a packet of crisps is what's required to bring me back from the brink of death.
Jesus, Cynthia is whispering to herself ten to the dozen. She does it all the time: you can watch out the office window and observe her approach to work in the morning, rabbiting on to herself about goodness only know what. She's over-conscientious, taking it upon herself to try and solve the problems of the world rather than just doing enough to get the job done, or perhaps going that little extra. She's great, a wonderful, fantastic oddball, but an oddball all the same. I heard her on my approach to the kitchen as I hurried to prepare my coup-de-soup earlier. As I stirred in the hot water and watched in amazement as my hot, delicious soup appeared before my eyes, she said something to me and I swear it was in Russian. She's fluent you see, after living there for a number of years. I think she was testing me to see if I'd respond, perhaps checking to see if I was a sleeper who'd been planted in the UK at the height of the Cold War. Alas, this is not the case, I'm just an average, boring Brit.
I wonder what my desk tastes like. There must be a couple of calories' worth of accumulated food stuff that I've spilt on here over the years. I shall give it some tongue action and dream of Snappy Tomato Pizza.
Tuesday 10 January 2006
Stop exercising!
...If you feel:
Cross trainer. This could invoke images of an angry coach, as in fitness coach rather than big bus or horse-drawn vehicle.
Ain't the English language super? It's just a shame that I'm crap at it.
Fit, fit, fit
The friggin' gym was packed out this evening. All those poor bastards who have made New Year resolutions to get fit, punishing themselves for their self-indulgent lifestyles. I, on the other hand, only need to go to maintain my athletic figure. As if! I'm a fucking fat bloater too.
It's a strange routine that you build up (if you go often enough to remember what you do week-in, week-out): if your usual locker isn't free, it doesn't feel right; you have to use the same pieces of equipment in the same order. I'm sure the slight muscle-pull in my calf is the result of using the wrong treadmill this evening.
Fuckers.
The current mood at work surely reflects that of the country: one of guilt, regret and willingness to change, that results in people on near starvation diets, or at least "being good". No doubt there are plenty who are starting to suffer the effects of nicotine patches: disturbed sleep; strange bowel movements; itchy patches of skin and localised dermatitis. My recommendation is to keep at it, go the course, perhaps try gum if patches are making you go off your tits.
Life coach
Of course, having experienced two major incidents of withdrawal from my chemical dependencies, people sometimes come to me with their own stories of giving up this or that. Having been almost mocked for being tee-total by my current stand-in line manager - this obviously meaning that I'm sad and boring (which is true) - she announced proudly to me today that she's staying off the booze for a month in order to try and shed a few extra pounds. Good for her.
"Well, if you find it's getting difficult, feel free to come to me and I'll give you all the support you deserve. Remember: one day at a time."
It's odd though, the questioning about why people stop drinking and I think I've mentioned this before. There are two main reasons: religion and alcoholism, plus a few others that include morals, certain health issues, that kind of shit. So when I'm questioned as to why it is that I stopped drinking and I answer, "Oh well, I'd had enough of it", it's not strictly true, but it's easier for people to deal with than if I said the "A" word.
And how about a quick:
- Pain
- Dizzy
- Faint
- Shortness of breath
Cross trainer. This could invoke images of an angry coach, as in fitness coach rather than big bus or horse-drawn vehicle.
Ain't the English language super? It's just a shame that I'm crap at it.
Fit, fit, fit
The friggin' gym was packed out this evening. All those poor bastards who have made New Year resolutions to get fit, punishing themselves for their self-indulgent lifestyles. I, on the other hand, only need to go to maintain my athletic figure. As if! I'm a fucking fat bloater too.
It's a strange routine that you build up (if you go often enough to remember what you do week-in, week-out): if your usual locker isn't free, it doesn't feel right; you have to use the same pieces of equipment in the same order. I'm sure the slight muscle-pull in my calf is the result of using the wrong treadmill this evening.
Fuckers.
The current mood at work surely reflects that of the country: one of guilt, regret and willingness to change, that results in people on near starvation diets, or at least "being good". No doubt there are plenty who are starting to suffer the effects of nicotine patches: disturbed sleep; strange bowel movements; itchy patches of skin and localised dermatitis. My recommendation is to keep at it, go the course, perhaps try gum if patches are making you go off your tits.
Life coach
Of course, having experienced two major incidents of withdrawal from my chemical dependencies, people sometimes come to me with their own stories of giving up this or that. Having been almost mocked for being tee-total by my current stand-in line manager - this obviously meaning that I'm sad and boring (which is true) - she announced proudly to me today that she's staying off the booze for a month in order to try and shed a few extra pounds. Good for her.
"Well, if you find it's getting difficult, feel free to come to me and I'll give you all the support you deserve. Remember: one day at a time."
It's odd though, the questioning about why people stop drinking and I think I've mentioned this before. There are two main reasons: religion and alcoholism, plus a few others that include morals, certain health issues, that kind of shit. So when I'm questioned as to why it is that I stopped drinking and I answer, "Oh well, I'd had enough of it", it's not strictly true, but it's easier for people to deal with than if I said the "A" word.
And how about a quick:
- Working really hard to get fit then putting on loads of weight over the autumn and winter?
- Flirting with your stand-in line manager (again!)
- Offering advice to hopeless drunks and fag addicts (not you, Piggy)
- Stalking your readers by checking their ISPs on sitemeter - Bovis Lend Lease is the company that's doing the PFI construction at the Trust where I work, btw.
- Traditional school dinners
- Having more than two excellent bowel movements per day
- Porridge
- Porridge vomit
- Winter
- Going on holiday to Vancouver Island and staying with a fed-up, foul-fucking-mouthed, donkey-fucking Canuck squaw?
Monday 9 January 2006
Asda: Always happy to help others steal your identity
During my ten minutes of torture in Asda the other day, a couple of things struck me (other than the obvious like the dimwitted patrons, equally dimwitted staff and the ever-so-delicately-named "BOOZE" section [fucking scumbags]):
"Landing level approaching, please take care"*
How fucking annoying is this announcement, repeated every 30 bastard seconds as yet another shopper approaches the upper or ground level while stuck to the escalator behind their trolley? Of course, in the situation where there are two people approaching the upper level (on the two ascending escalators) while another nears the ground level on the descending one, there's a weird triple echo effect: Land..and..ing..anding... leve...evel...evel... app..app...roach...approaching... please...please...ease... take...ake.... care...are...care. It's enough to make a person completely demented.
In the decades that escalators have been in use, there have been numerous public information films about not standing too close to edge or messing about on them for fear of a little rag doll being chewed up in the teeth-like steps. We've got the message, thank you very much. We don't need some automated bint telling us to take care because the landing level is approaching. Besides which: a) with the potential for three of the fuckers going on at the same time, if you're blind, how do you know which one is addressing you? and b) the escalators in these sodding shops aren't even the variety with steps, the worst that can happen is you slide off when you reach your landing level.
Tossers.
If you're that fucking worried about not being careful enough on reaching the landing level, use the bloody lift!
*This was pointed out to me in a comment: Despite hearing it thousands of times in the space of ten minutes, the actual phrase is "Approaching landing level, please take care". See, all their efforts are completely wasted because nobody takes any notice anyway - people are just so fucking irritated by it all that they turn off!
And I'm a spaz with a poor grasp of English.
"Always happy to helpdesk"
Asda's staff are proud to wear uniforms emblazoned with the motto "Always happy to help". Yes, of course they are. About as much of any of us would be given that mind-numbing job and having to deal with lowest of the low in supermarket clientele on a daily basis.
If your average pleb on the shopfloor can't assist you, you can always avail yourself of the specialist help services at their "Always happy to helpdesk". As if you would. By the time you've exhausted all attempts for help from the frontline staff, you're worn to a frazzle and a dribbling wreck of a person. It takes all your efforts to find the exit. You're not going to waste your last bit of energy repeating yourself for the FIFTH time to Customer Services "Pam", who despite looking like a burns victim, just happens to be a little over enthusiastic with the latest range of "Mediterranean glow" foundations and blushers that are new in store that week. Pam is also a huge fan of complementary and herbal remedies for alleviating the symptoms of the menopause. On top of Mediterranean glow, the hot flushes and anxiety attacks provide enough energy to run the filter coffee machine and the burger griddle of the McDonald's outlet in the entrance.
Clone me
But yes, Asda are always happy to help. They even have "Always happy to help" printed on the till receipt. Also printed on the till receipt are all but 5 digits of your credit card number, the start and expiry date for the card and the name of the card holder. Nice to see them doing their bit to prevent identity theft and credit card fraud.
Are they fucking thick or what? Why on earth do they need to print that information on a till receipt?
Dicks.
It really pisses me off, having to rip receipts into tiny little bits in an attempt to destroy all evidence of card numbers and the like. Credit card bills and bank statements contain a ridiculous amount of information too. Surely they can code things so they don't include the entire card number with your address and cardholder name? It can't be that difficult.
And if you're fairly with it and like to use online banking, why do they need to send paper statements out at all? There should be the option to request a paper copy when you need one, otherwise, you should just be able to rely on the online facilities.
It's a right pain in the arse, having to shred all evidence before disposal because, as we're led to believe, all our rubbish is being closely picked at by identity thieves and if we don't take care, somebody else will become us in a weird Invasion of the bodysnatching bin-dippers scenario and it'll be OUR FAULT!
Fuck 'em. If some stupid twat really wants to be me, I'm happy for them to take over for a while and give me a friggin' break from it.
A final thought for the day
You have to be a complete nobhead to open a bank statement two weeks after Christmas and three weeks before pay day.
Eeeeek!
"Landing level approaching, please take care"*
How fucking annoying is this announcement, repeated every 30 bastard seconds as yet another shopper approaches the upper or ground level while stuck to the escalator behind their trolley? Of course, in the situation where there are two people approaching the upper level (on the two ascending escalators) while another nears the ground level on the descending one, there's a weird triple echo effect: Land..and..ing..anding... leve...evel...evel... app..app...roach...approaching... please...please...ease... take...ake.... care...are...care. It's enough to make a person completely demented.
In the decades that escalators have been in use, there have been numerous public information films about not standing too close to edge or messing about on them for fear of a little rag doll being chewed up in the teeth-like steps. We've got the message, thank you very much. We don't need some automated bint telling us to take care because the landing level is approaching. Besides which: a) with the potential for three of the fuckers going on at the same time, if you're blind, how do you know which one is addressing you? and b) the escalators in these sodding shops aren't even the variety with steps, the worst that can happen is you slide off when you reach your landing level.
Tossers.
If you're that fucking worried about not being careful enough on reaching the landing level, use the bloody lift!
*This was pointed out to me in a comment: Despite hearing it thousands of times in the space of ten minutes, the actual phrase is "Approaching landing level, please take care". See, all their efforts are completely wasted because nobody takes any notice anyway - people are just so fucking irritated by it all that they turn off!
And I'm a spaz with a poor grasp of English.
"Always happy to helpdesk"
Asda's staff are proud to wear uniforms emblazoned with the motto "Always happy to help". Yes, of course they are. About as much of any of us would be given that mind-numbing job and having to deal with lowest of the low in supermarket clientele on a daily basis.
If your average pleb on the shopfloor can't assist you, you can always avail yourself of the specialist help services at their "Always happy to helpdesk". As if you would. By the time you've exhausted all attempts for help from the frontline staff, you're worn to a frazzle and a dribbling wreck of a person. It takes all your efforts to find the exit. You're not going to waste your last bit of energy repeating yourself for the FIFTH time to Customer Services "Pam", who despite looking like a burns victim, just happens to be a little over enthusiastic with the latest range of "Mediterranean glow" foundations and blushers that are new in store that week. Pam is also a huge fan of complementary and herbal remedies for alleviating the symptoms of the menopause. On top of Mediterranean glow, the hot flushes and anxiety attacks provide enough energy to run the filter coffee machine and the burger griddle of the McDonald's outlet in the entrance.
Clone me
But yes, Asda are always happy to help. They even have "Always happy to help" printed on the till receipt. Also printed on the till receipt are all but 5 digits of your credit card number, the start and expiry date for the card and the name of the card holder. Nice to see them doing their bit to prevent identity theft and credit card fraud.
Are they fucking thick or what? Why on earth do they need to print that information on a till receipt?
Dicks.
It really pisses me off, having to rip receipts into tiny little bits in an attempt to destroy all evidence of card numbers and the like. Credit card bills and bank statements contain a ridiculous amount of information too. Surely they can code things so they don't include the entire card number with your address and cardholder name? It can't be that difficult.
And if you're fairly with it and like to use online banking, why do they need to send paper statements out at all? There should be the option to request a paper copy when you need one, otherwise, you should just be able to rely on the online facilities.
It's a right pain in the arse, having to shred all evidence before disposal because, as we're led to believe, all our rubbish is being closely picked at by identity thieves and if we don't take care, somebody else will become us in a weird Invasion of the bodysnatching bin-dippers scenario and it'll be OUR FAULT!
Fuck 'em. If some stupid twat really wants to be me, I'm happy for them to take over for a while and give me a friggin' break from it.
A final thought for the day
You have to be a complete nobhead to open a bank statement two weeks after Christmas and three weeks before pay day.
Eeeeek!
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