*

*So there's this chain of shops that are present in and near most NHS hospitals in the UK - or in England at least, since the UK doesn't really exist any more thank you very much Tony Blair you fucking wanker. This chain of shops is called McColl's and they're a general store that functions as a newsagents, grocers, off-licence, that type of affair. Because they have the monopoly for being THE retail outlet of the NHS, this means that they can get away with hugely inflated prices for the shit they peddle.

Frexample, take Cup a soup: Tesco price 89p per pack (or 2 packs for £1.40), McColl's price £1.40 per pack; packet of crisps: Tesco (Express) price, 30p; McColl's price, 50p. Get the idea? My snot sandwich the other day cost me something like £2.50 and others were over £3.

It's the type of place that has a wall of fridges that stock solely Coca Cola products and still mineral water - no fizzy mineral water. I challenged the assistant in the McColl's in my local hospital the other week: "Haven't you got any chilled fizzy water? You seem to have LOADS of varieties of still mineral water."

"We don't put sparkling mineral water in the chillers."

"Why is that?"

"We just don't"

"Perhaps you should. Then people might actually buy it."

Not

Good

Enough

Wankers


Don't fuck with me today
There's nothing worse than an ex-smoker.

This might be true, but I'm pretty easy-going when it comes to people smoking. I oppose the ban on smoking in pubs and clubs where food isn't sold. I think smoking in these establishments is part of the culture and the atmosphere. The country is now in danger of all its pubs become sterile clones and Whacky Warehouses full of families with young children. A large chunk of the British tradition has been lost.

However, there are places where smoking is wholely inappropriate and this includes hospitals. Most hospitals now provide smoking shelters in the vicinity of their main entrances where people can go for a fag without becoming too exposed to the elements. It's pretty undignified and I'd favour the provision of dedicated smoking lounges within the buildings (with proper extraction and the like) - there's something not quite right about seeing people wheeled outside in their pyjamas, IV in situ, while they hurry to smoke a cigarette. Nevertheless, the situation is that smoking isn't allowed in the hospitals and is restricted to designated areas.

I was so very, very fucked off at having to negotiate a wall of smoke in the vestibule of the main entrance to the hospital when I went to visit Mother this evening - going in and coming out - esepcially since the smoking shelter was literally a 5 second walk around the corner. I challenged the culprits: "There's a smoking shelter there, you're not supposed to smoke here."

"But it's cold out there"

I was stunned

"I don't care, that's not my problem, you're not supposed to smoke here."

"Everybody smokes here."

"What if everybody else shat themselves here, would you?"

They looked at me indignantly and carried on. I left before I got angry.

Ignorant cunts.

I'm going to write to the hospital Chief Executive and propose that a sprinkler system is installed that is triggered by people smoking in the entrance. Either that, or I'm going to set the fire hose on the next set of fuckers I see there.

On returning to my car, still annoyed at the altercation at the hospital entrance, I noticed that some lazy twat minicab driver had parked right behind me in a position that restricted the turning angle for my exit from my parking bay. He'd (I'm assuming "he") obviously left his car there because he was too lazy to drive a bit further and find a proper parking space - there were plenty of parking spaces.

Did I take extra special care when manoeuvring out of my parking space? Did I perform mutliple turns of the wheel and repeated forward and reverse steps to get out without hitting the offending vehicle? Did I bollocks.

If you'd been parked legally, I'd have gladly avoided hitting you pal. Leave your car where it was because you're too lazy to walk from a proper parking space and I'll twat your fucking wheel arch. That, my friend, is what bumpers are for.

Do not fuck with Wendy Testaburger!

Everybody enjoy their pancakes?

Is it my imagination?

Or have I finally found something worth living for?

I was looking for some action, but all I found were screaming pets and parasols...

Ahem, finding myself on Sesame Street again there for a minute.

Today is pancake day in the Sniffy household. I was very restrained and had just the two with sugar and lemon for my pudding. We were supposed to be having them tomorrow, it being Shrove Tuesday (Pancake Day) and all, but Mother (awwww) is back in hospital having here pacemaker leads moved about so she won't be in any fit state to be making pancakes for my tea. Having found a book on "Influencing people", I persuaded her that it'd be a shame if she had to miss out on pancakes and that having them a day early would mean that she could enjoy (making) them (for me).


What's the story?

Is it wrong to like Oasis songs from ten years ago? Pootling through my music collection the other day, it dawned on me that I didn't have any of their stuff and that I actually quite liked some of it. Strange that I never really was into them back then because "Cigarettes and alcohol" just about summed me up when it was released back in the mid-nineties.


PEGged back
During a conversation with my ever-cheery friend David last night, I told him that I'll be having a general anaesthetic when I have my op in a couple of weeks' time. "Have you, you know, got anything written down? Just in case?"

"Well," I replied, "Mum gets everything and my debts should be sorted with the loan insurance and stuff."

"No," he continued, "I mean like, if, you know, you have a reaction to the anaesthetic and end up in a permanent vegetative state."

"Oh right, I hadn't thought of that." I hadn't. "I don't want a PEG feed, no way!"

PEG feeds (or percutaneous endoscopic gastronomy) are feeding tubes that are inserted surgically and they are all but permanent - their removal can only be performed surgically. Of course, once they're in situ the medical team aren't allowed to remove them without the consent of the patient or their next of kin. There have been high court battles over these things where one side of the family wants them removed so the patient can die with some dignity, yet other family members insist on them remaining in place - hoping against hope for some recovery. Famous cases include Tony Bland in the UK and Terri Schiavo in the States.

Should anybody in their right mind want one of these? Hell no! I'd recommend that anybody of a similar opinion carries a signed bit of paper with a "DO NOT PEG FEED" statement written on it. You never know when you might suffer a neurological trauma that renders you in a condition where there's no chance of recovery, but where somebody might be tempted to put one of these things into you because it's easier than reinserting an NG-feed that keeps popping out.

Besides, what's the point of having a feeding tube if you can't get pizza, curry or Pot Noodle through it - or even taste the stuff? Bah! To that.

Of course, other people have different attitudes to this and you have to respect that.

I ain't havin' no feedin' toob, FOOL! Then again, knowing me, I might be the first person ever to recover from that state when I got hungry. I'm always being woken up through being starving hungry.



Cheery
No, I'm not, but I'm sleep-deprived because of my pathetically-needy and neurotic miniature tiger. Little bastard was scratching and crying at my bedroom door for ages throughout the night because I decided that I wanted my bed to myself for a change. Shithead.



Nu Shooz
I put that reference in for people Googling the one-hit-wonders who brought us "I can't wait" in 1986. But I did buy new shoes last week - really borin' black school shoes. Schuh was a nightmare: the thing I admire about Asian people is their sense of family and how they all stick together and look after each other, but surely the entire extended family isn't required when one person needs to buy shoes? Hence the shop was a little crowded with hubby, wife, sister, aunt, kids, toddler (screaming, incessantly), mother, etc, etc, etc. I browsed the shelves and found that I only liked the trainers and the boots, which I have plenty of already, so I ended up buying sensible black Kickers for work. I guess I've always worn trainers and Docs for playing out and I don't think anything's going to change now. I did try a few pairs of playing out shoes, but they all looked really spazzy in my size, so I didn't bother.

I've noticed that shoe sizes are changing and that my feet appear to have shrunk down to a size 3 (36 in Europe, something daft like 4½ in America) . It's all a bit of a disaster because of my diamante anatomy: I really can't be doing with tapering down any further at my foot end.

Enjoy your pancakes tomorrow.

Question of the week:

What are you giving up for Lent?

Q

Phheeeeewwwhheeeeee! My Saturdays are starting to get VERY hectic now that we're finally exiting winter and spring is round the corner. I think I've been quite depressed since October, but look at me now, the model of happiness and joy, almost leaping out of bed on Saturday mornings.

Today's leap took me to the car wash. Those automated things scare the shit out of me, especially since my wing mirror cover is only held on with dirt. Consequently, I tend to wash my car myself and I've never taken this one through a carwash. It was very exciting, almost like being on a rollercoaster: you're sat there, waiting for something to happen; the motor whirs into life and the rollers start spinning; the adrenaline levels start to rise and your heart races; you vision is obscured by foam and fear; contact! after their threatening whirling dance, the spinning rollers finally get to work on your car; you watch in trepidation as one hits the fragile wing mirror... Anyway, it was OK and it didn't do too bad a job.

How interesting.

As I was waiting for the final spin cycle to finish, I recalled my annoyance at not being able to have Shreddies for breakfast because there was insufficient milk. Onto Tesco then. Did all that and, after admonishing myself for forgetting to get cashback when paying for my stuff, I went to the cashpoint outside the supermarket. Fiddling with my wallet to retrieve my card, I half heard "There's a queue here, love" coming from the crowd of people near the drop-off point. I ignored it. Again, I heard a woman's voice in typical Salford squawking, "We're queuing here!!!", so I looked up and there they were, at least 20 paces from the cashpoint was a queue of folk waiting to use it. "You're a bit far away, I thought you were waiting for taxis", I uttered in my defence. The same fishwife bawled out sanctimoniously "You're supposed to give people space when they're using the machine". "I agree, but I think a mile is a bit over the top."

Fucking stupid Salford retards. In fact, Walkden has the worst of all worlds because there's a nasty mix of Salford and Bolton going on there. Tossers.


Sniffy University Degree Programme 2006
You can do all sorts of noddy degrees these days, including a BA in Noddy and Big Ears from the University of Farnworth. It seems that there is such a demand for a university qualification, academic centres of mediocrity are popping up all over the place so that thickos can get a "degree". Of course, the courses have to match the abilities of the students so as you keep raking in the cash from them for the entire three or four years without risking them dropping out because things are proving too difficult... Things like getting out of bed before midday and managing more than 4 lectures a week.

To match sky-rocketting demand for a degree from a UK university, I'm going to set up my own university in the garden shed. My initial degree programme, starting in September 2006, will include subjects such as:

• The history of de/rehydrated foodstuff in the UK
• Pooing science
• Salford history: centuries of scum
• Medium studies: Doris Stokes from beyond the grave
• Shoe design for spaz-footed cretins (a modular course that can be mixed and matched with elements from the Hooded top and leisurewear BA)
• Charlie's Angels and the Dukes of Hazzard - When telly was good
• Salty snacking
• Staying in
  
• Takeaway evolution studies

I reckon I could get about £2000 per student each year with that lot. Let's face it, every other so called university is at it, so why not me?


"You should've been a gay man"
That's what my sister said to me last night when I was playing my latest playlist. What does the public think of this lot, just a bit queer?

1. Lola's theme - Shapeshifters
2. Take me away - Haji & Emanuel
3. Feel good inc. - Gorillaz
4. What you waiting for - Gwen Stefani
5. Back to basics - Shapeshifters
6. Sexy mother fucker - Prince & New Power Generation
7. Move that body - Technotronic
8. Dare - Gorillaz
9. Incredible - Shapeshifters
10. So good - Rachel Stevens
11. Gonna make you sweat (everybody dance now) - C&C Music Factory
12. I bet you look good on the dancefloor - Sugababes
13. Let me show you - K Klass
14. Oops up - Snap

Tasteless

If water could be solidified at room temperature and solid water had the texture of airy bread with slimy stuff when eaten, then eating solid water would give you the exact same experience as I had lunchtime today. Being unable to avail myself of my usual minestrone cup-a-soup, I nipped to the shop where I spent a good while browsing the overpriced* lunch snacks that were on sale there. The choice was: Ginsters high fat, super-filled sandwich with bacon and mayonnaise; huge, overflavoured and expensive wrap; Weight Watchers varieties; chilled savoury pastry products.

I went for Weight Watchers prawn mayonnaise; I just fancied a prawn mayo sarny. It tasted of exactly nothing. I've never known anybody with the ability to remove every single molecule of flavour from anything, but Weight Watchers managed it with this particular sandwich.

Thank god for the high-salt, high-fat, extreeeeeemely high-flavour, bacon Frazzles that I'd bought to accompany it. Did you know that Frazzles have been on the market for 30 years now? No, neither did I.

Other corn-based crisp-type snacks that have been going for a while are good old Monster Munch. I love em, particularly the pickled onion variety. Love the snack, but the smell is pretty rank. Imagine my delight at being in two meetings in part of the hospital that smells exactly the same as pickled onion Monster Munch! DIZGUSSTING.



"TUUUUUNE....EHHR!"
My sister has a habit of ending every exclamation with "..EHR!". So we'll regularly hear protests of "NOOOOOEHR!" and even things like "Don't be so STEEEUUUUPID....EEEHHHR!". It's quite irritating. One of her worst crimes is crying out "TUUUUUUUUUUUUNE..EEHHHR!" whenever there's a song that she likes playing.

Jesus.


Pimp my nanny
Christ, whatever next?

Sunny day, sweepin' the clouds away

On my way, to where the air is sweet
So today I thought about what you see when you first wake up in the morning, the first thing you see when you look out onto the world. The first thing I usually see is Otto's face, very close, and when I stumble downstairs to open the curtains, I'm met with hazy street lights through the condensation on the window; not much else being visible in the pitch blackness except perhaps the moon or the odd axe murderer's shadow as it scurries by beyond the garden hedge.

But when you open your curtains/blinds in the morning and look out onto your world, wouldn't it be brilliant if you were met with this:

Won't you tell me how to get, how to get to Sesame Street? (clicky)

It'd be top notch if you looked through the window to see Big Bird delivering your morning newspaper. Actually it wouldn't, it'd be a complete head-fuck, besides which, Big Bird was a pathetic, annoying twat and I hated him... her... it.

But just imagine the rest of it: the bin men coming on Friday, to be verbally assaulted by Oscar the Grouch;

People talking Spanish and using sign language for no apparent reason; a weird obsessive-compulsive vampire who can't stop themselves from counting things;

Bert and Ernie's totally acceptable (yet not really talked about) same sex relationship; a furry monster with Prader Willi syndrome and a totally BIZARRE woolly mammoth...

Come and play, everything's A OK.
Yeah right, sure it is.

You rub your eyes and Chorlton and the Wheelies roll on by while Finella the Kettle Witch pops up on the lawn. "'Ello, little old lady!"

Beg pard?

Friendly neighbours there

I don't think so, not around here. My neighbour would come charging out of his house to complain that the mammoth was blocking his drive "I've got disabled kids you know!". It's not just the kids that have special educational needs, is it, you thick bastard?

What on earth is going on? You need to catch your breath, so you sit down and turn the telly on:

Maisie wanders in to check why her breakfast isn't ready,

Something's not right, you take another look:

AAAAAARRRRRRGGGGGGGGHHHH!!!

And with thought processes like these, is it any wonder that I got Pancake Day wrong?

Survival of the fattest

Good news today! Great British crisp brand Golden Wonder has been saved from extinction by Irish salty snack favourite Tayto. There's something pleasing about learning this; it's like the little boy with his finger in the dike, holding back the oppressive force of water.

I suppose we run the danger of always gunning for the underdog, irrespective how their quality compares with their bigger competitors. Big is seen to bad, but if the quality is good, or better than the alternative, then so what. But Golden Wonder ARE nicer, I'm convinced of this.

All this fuss over something that we shouldn't be having anyway.


The great travel to work triathalon
The new multistorey car park has finally opened at work, ending 18 months of park and ride misery as most of us were chucked off site during its construction.

It's a lovely car park - HUGE, with fabulous sweeping slopes and generous parking bays. No tight corners to catch your car on, oh no, this place is a beauty. There's just a slight problem. It has been built to provide parking for a massive hospital site and it is on the furthest possible part of the site from where most people work, so there's a ten to fifteen minute walk to or from your desk. The car park is so far away from any of the clinical areas that there's even a shuttle bus service to take patients and visitors around the site.

Walk? Yes, Tina, it's that thing you do when you go to the bar.

That's progress for you.

Lovely car park though.


A series of unfortunate typos
The standard typewriter keyboard is a weird thing, all the letters being jumbled up so as to prevent proficient early typists become too fast and mashing up the typewriter keys. A consequence of this is the positioning of the letter 'U' next to the letter 'I'. With a name like "Tina", this can result in the unfortunate typo of me signing off e-mails as:

Best wishes,

Tuna


A series of unfortunate skin complaints
I am in my mid thirties and I am still suffering from terrible pustulous boils on my face, and now neck. My latest spot is right on the margin of my top lip and it hurts like a complete bastard.

You'd think that I'd have learned by now that my spots are never really that good for squeezing, but I still always give them a go. They're just agonisingly painful for a few days before disappearing, so I suffer the idnignity of disfigurement as well as the pain, but rarely get to experience the pleasure of splattering one out against a clean mirror.

Life is a constant let down.


Pancake day
Tomorrow is Pancake Day, or Shrove Tuesday (or Mardi Gras if you're poncy). It's something to symbolise Jesus's 40 days and nights in the wilderness while he found himself. It was just as well he'd nipped into that Little Chef before he went. It was there that he enjoyed a plate of delicious pancakes with maple syrup and ice cream before he wandered off. The calorific value of 15,000 was just about enough to see him through his ordeal. A few of the facts may be a bit hazy there, but that's something like how it was.

I love pancakes, but I only tend to have them on Pancake Day. Like they say, everything in moderation. But since I like virtually everything, there has to be a trade off whereby I can only have certain things once a year (McDonald's, Pizza Hut, pancakes, sex, etc).

I was surprised to learn that my Muslim colleague would also be enjoying pancakes and that she wouldn't turn her nose up to a hot cross bun. The cheek on it! I don't know, Muslims complain about westerners' lack of understanding, but they constantly confuse us and shift the goal posts: it's OK for them to do Easter and Christmas things, but ask them get you a sausage barm when they're at the canteen, or offer them a pork pie and they're up in arms, burning your duffle coat!

I don't know, you just can't win with some people.

Anyway, back to pancakes. In terms of fillings, despite generally going for the savoury alternative for most things (nuts, popcorn, etc), I prefer sweet fillings for my pancakes. The absolute BEST way to enjoy them is with a sprinkling of sugar and drizzled with lemon juice - simplicity and perfection. Of course, I wouldn't turn down maple syrup and ice cream, or oranges in Cointreau syrup, but lemon and sugar does it for me just fine.

So today's burning question is:

How will you be having your pancakes?

Potty mouth

At 19 February, 2006 16:43, Anonymous said...

"Why must young people always use the F word in their Bio. Free speech and all that I know. I used to be that way when I was young too. Now I am middle aged and have teenagers that insist on using the F word. Now I find it disgusting."

This was a comment that was left today on one of my posts from a few weeks back. In all fairness, I agree that I swear too much, both in real life and in my blog. It was something that started out as a bit of a joke then became a bad habit. One that is hard to kick. I don't like hearing swearing much either, but it all depends on the context I suppose. I think here, I write the things I wish I could say to people and that includes all the expletives that I wish on the world on a daily basis.

However, I'd like to point something out to this commenter. Firstly, I ain't that young. Secondly, I can't take credit for the profile text that they are referring to:

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
  They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
  And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
  By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
  And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
  It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
  And don't have any kids yourself.

This is actually Philip Larkin's This be the verse, which I'd never heard of because I'm an uncultured yob, but Garfer kindly posted into a comment he left somewhere. I absolutely love it; it sums up my attitude to life and, since many of my gripes relate to my parents and other people's kids, it seems apt for this blog.

For the rest of my blog? Yes, I am foul-fucking-mouthed, but so what? Nearly 2,000 died in a mudslide at the tail end of last week, the muslims are still going potty and wanting us all wiped off the face of the earth, the fundamentalist Christians have got a stranglehold of the American government, we're living in a dictatorship, we pay too much tax and get nothing back for it, and half the world is starving. My use of colourful language seems rather insignificant in comparison.


Shoo!
Well, my heart has been well and truly warmed by the overwhelming response to my plea for help in my epic quest for a pair of shoes that I like. Here are the suggestions from the wonderful Land of Blog.

Bearing in mind I said that I only ever wear "comfortable" shoes or trainers and I never wear anything "girly", I was really pleased with people's suggestions.

First up was that wonderful Irish man, SID


Thanks, SID. I really appreciate the effort you went to in identifying these as something that I might wear.

Jesus help me.







Then we had Indiana Jones's suggestion:




Not bad, but I might have trouble finding my size in some of That Merrill's styles.








Inexplicable Device chose these:


Interesting

And here are some that I quite the look of:


Stuff it, I'll just stick with my trainers I think. It's far too difficult.

A quest

Right you tossers, since I have a severe problem in finding shoes that I like, why don't YOU find some for me?

Take a look at the Schuh website and choose a pair that you think might suit me. Nothing daft, no strappies (ho, ho, ho!), something that might be OK for me based on the problems I highlighted in the previous post. If you find a pair that you think is suitable, e-mail me the link using the "e-mail a friend" feature at the website.

I'll post the piccies here and I may buy the most popular pair.

NB I don't need trainers and I've recently bought some Docs, so I'm after a pair of shoes that'll look good with jeans.

Saturday post

For the benefit of "Squeal like a" Piggy, here is a post for this sunny Saturday afternoon.

Today's post consisted of yet another offer of a loan, this time from Abbey. Cunts.

When I was desperate for a bit of cash so I could put a deposit down on a flat I was renting, none of the fuckers would help out, I had to borrow the money off a friend while I sorted out something with my bank. Now that I don't need any money, well I do, but I don't want to borrow it, they're inundating me with offers of cheap loans. Fucking wankers.


At the Trafford Centre
I went to this big tumour on the landscape of Greater Manchester this morning in the hope of finding some shoes that I liked, and also to see what was going on with GAP. Schuh was STILL closed and the GAP has been shut for refurbishment. All the other shoe shops were only selling Timberland roll-tops, knee high boots and strappy numbers that I wouldn't be seen dead in.

I am extremely fussy when it comes to footwear: I can only wear trainers or boots and I feel a complete spaz in anything else. The problem is that my feet are too small and, what with my huge arse and diamond-formation shape, I look fucking ridiculous unless I wear wide-legged of boot-cut trousers and jeans. Of course, with wide-legged or boot-cuts, you look even more ridiculous if you have tiny little feet with just your toes poking out from the bottoms.

Hence I like quite substantial shoes - "comfortable shoes", as some might call them, or "dyke shoes", as others might refer to them.

Perhaps I worry too much, but I just know that my arse/foot size ratio presents me with a huge problem when buying footwear. I lose sleep over it.

Anyway, my main outlet for buying shoes is Schuh, which has been closed for refurbishment for my last 4 visits to the Trafford Centre. In fact, loads of stores are shut at the moment and the whole place is a huge disappointment. Some say it's a prime target for a terrorist attack, but not even the muslim fundamentalists can be bothered with it at the mo.

Strappy sandals. I hate girly shoes, particularly strappy sandals and things with heels. The thing is, I can't see how anybody can be comfortable wearing them.

While I'm on the subject of shoes, I might as well go through my trainer collection. I never buy Nike footwear, preferring Adidas and K-Swiss on the fashion front. For sporty things, I go for Asics and New Balance - proper shoes for running you see, and since it's the running that gives me most trouble to my ankles, it's proper runners that I go for.


Don't look a' me, I'm really BORIN'
I shall try to make this the ULTIMATE in boring posts by errm, just ending it here and going down the shops for some bread.

Friday web watch

I'm being purred at by a desperate-looking, lardy-arsed ginger tom. Uh oh, he's creeping nearer.

I love it when people get absolutely obsessed with something. Well, I find it interesting that people can take their own interest/hatred/fascination so far that they don't just restrict themselves to one or two posts in a blog, but they set up a whole website devoted to the object of their obsession.

Two that popped up from this week's Popbitch round up are:

I hate Pete Doherty and
The Diana-Morrissey Phenomenon

The first of the two is pretty self-explanatory. Pete Doherty is a talentless, smacked-up wanker who is supposed to be a "popstar", but who has earned notoriety more for his relationship with Kate Moss and his never-ending run-ins with the police over drugs offences. It looks quite a good site though.

It's the sort of site I'd like to set up myself and dedicate to one of my colleagues: "The evidence: she is a lazy cunt who, from day one, has ensured the systematic redistribution of her workload to everybody else in the department; she is boring; she says "v" or "f" instead of "th" ("wiv", "somefin"); I hate her."

Or I could devote an entire site to my hatred of Asda or Tony Blair or Davina McCall. But I haven't got the energy.

The other site, "The Diana-Morrissey Phenomenon" is much scarier and I hope it's been put together by somebody who is taking the piss. It does have the look of the ramblings of somebody who is a little bit mad though. Still, it's good fun and worth a look.

And at last! Something to shove up smug bastard Mac users' arses. Apparently there's a malicious worm that 's making its way around the iChat system. Good. Fucking pious Mac users and their "People target Windows because they're protesting against the Microsoft monopoly". Well at last somebody is protesting against Mac smugness and shit PC-ness. I'm just amazed they found anything worth attacking in a Mac since they're completely shite to the core.


Electrickery
The electric man has just been here to read the meter. They don't have electric and gas meters in convenient places in older houses; that's unless Social Services have wasted £70,000 on a rennovation for people claiming to have difficulty "coping" with normal houses and they've moved the meters to outdoor boxes. But our gas meter is under my desk here and the electric meter is behind the TV/video/cable box/dvd in the living room. Dad has made a vanity cover to hide it and the fuse box, but this just gives my folks somewhere else to stick loads of shit like this:

I've no idea why, but my dad loves collecting utter crap like this - free things from packets of tea and coffee and breakfast cereal, stuff he finds on the street. I could kill him for it (and many other crimes he's committed against humanity over the years).

So, as much as I try not to be, I'm a bit of a hoarder too. It stems from anything I ever throw away being retrieved from the bin by my dad, with the result that I've given up on throwing things away because they just end up being dragged out of the bin anyway.

"Dad, why have you taken this out of the bin?"

"Because I thought you might want it."

"But I'd put it in the bin because I didn't want it, it's no use... at all... for ANYTHING!"

"Mumble, mumble...Just THROW it away then!"

"Yes, if it's no good for anything, chuck it away."

Simple rule of thumb: if you haven't used/worn something for a year or so, unless it's something very special, the likelihood is that you won't use it ever again. I was looking in the back of the kitchen cupboard the other day - one of the kitchen cupboards that are full to bursting with my parents' medication rather than kitchen-type things - at the back of the cupboard was a box of Premarin, which is an HRT drug. I asked Mum when she stopped her HRT, it was only ten years ago. They've had a new kitchen fitted since then, for fuck's sake.

But they've passed their bad habits onto me; I resist chucking things out because they "might come in". For example, let's have a look through these desk drawers:

• Ring reinforcements for punched paper;
• Box of floppy disks (stolen from previous job)
  
• Expresson cover for Nokia 8210 mobile phone (2001)
  
• Another Expresson cover for a Nokia 8210 mobile phone (2001)
  
• 2001 desk diary
• Packet of photos (35mm!) ca 2001
• My old ring (replaced by one that ended up being unceremoniously disposed of in takeaway leftovers after a row)
  
• Some Blutak
• Palm instructions (bought 2001)
  
• Radio instructions (received Christmas 2000)
  
• Packet of retractable pencil rubbers (stolen from previous job)
  

In fact, I've realised what this desk drawer represents. It represents the "Just find somewhere for it!" actions of somebody who is moving back into the parental home temporarily. Somebody who moved back in 2001 with the intention of only staying 6 months.

It's time to get out.

Oh, what a bother!

Did you know that if you're caught with a load of deadly chemicals and you have the intention of using them to kill people in like a terrorist attack, you could be convicted of "conspiracy to cause a public nuisance".

I don't mean to sound funny, but causing a public nuisance is getting a bit pissed and shouting a lot at passers by. Or running up to people really fast then running round them in circles till they get dizzy.

Getting hold of a load of ricin (which is one of the deadliest naturally occuring things on the planet) and plotting to use it to kill a load of people isn't my idea of being a bit of a nuisance.

"Oh what bother, hundreds of people have been killed by ricin getting into the water supply. Tsk!"

Never mind.



Unholy thoughts
A friend has just sent me a text message to ask if it's wrong to have improper thoughts about a priest? Well, it's not wrong for her because she's clearly a sex-crazed fiend and it just comes naturally, but what does everybody else think?

People of the cloth - worth one?

Personally, I have a bit of a nun thing going on, but I blame Julie Andrews for that.

At the bank

Before I proceed:

Yessssssssssssssssssssssssssss!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

They even cleaned over the headlamps so they could perform the headlamp aim tests. Saves me a job.


Bankers!
Yesterday, I was unlucky enough to have to visit the bank near where I work at Base 1, which is essentially next to the largest university campus in Europe (sounds impressive, but isn't). I made the mistake of mis-timing my trip to the "university branch" of my bank and I ended up not setting off from work until shortly before midday.

I had to fight my way through hoards of students who seemed to be loitering on the pavement as I made my way up the main road towards the bank. What were they doing, just standing around in their scruffy clothes, all young and happy and IN MY FUCKING WAY. Bastards.

Come on!! Get out of my fucking way, the queue at the bank will be huge by the time I get there. MOVE, you retarded tit. How can somebody so utterly brain dead be at university? You lot deserve to be in thousands of pounds of debt; they'd have laughed at your frigging application form in my day. You should've got a job at McDonald's when you were 18 because that's where you're going to end up when you're 21!

I got to the bank and, having broken through the lines of more mongoloid students as they stood around in front of the building, I found myself stuck behind another as they tried to work out why the door wouldn't open when they pushed or pulled it. "You need to press that button to release the security lock"... rattle, bang, bang... as they ignored me and continued their struggle. Eventually, somebody exited and we made our way in.

I was fourth in the queue of people awaiting attendance from the single cashier. It's 12.05pm, why is there only one position open?.... I stood patiently and listened to the nature of business of the young woman who was being dealt with:

"Hiya (cheerily)!!! Can I transfer £3 from this account into this one please?" The cashier set about the task with an air of super efficiency, "Anything else?"

"Yes, and £17 back from that one to this one too?" Tippy tappy, tap, tap. "Anything else that I can help you with?"

"Errm, yeah, can you just check the balance in this account?"

"Oh, and this one too please?"

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

"Anything else?"

"Could I withdraw £20 from this account please?"

For fuck's sake.

The cashier composed herself, smiled, "Next please".

The next man deposited a cheque and was gone, as quick as a flash.

"Next please."

"Hello, could you check the balance on this account please...."

....

....

"...Oh, sorry, I've given you the wrong card, it's errrm, hang on, this one!"

....

....

"...Oh no! Sorry!!! It's THIS card, sorry, yes this one. Or.... can I just have a look at that card you've got? Oh, errrm..."

Jesus fucking Christ Almighty! How many cards and bank accounts do these fucking people have? They're too stupid to have anything more complicated than a fucking piggy bank, how on earth have they managed to get more than one bank account??? For fuck's sake, you fucking nobheads, you've just been queuing up behind some other friggin' spaz for half an hour, couldn't you have used that time to sort out which fucking card you were using?

Gosh.

I'd hate to be a cashier.

Once I'd conducted my business, I had to endure the idiot in front of me trying to figure out what "Press to exit, push door when green light is lit" means.


He's not fat, he's "big-boned"
My lard-arse cat Sonny is asleep on the bed next to me here. Sonny is an extremely handsome, but very nervous ginger tom. He is quite high-maintenance. Here he is on a good day:

My, what sharp claws he has.

Sonny is very nervous, he tends to comfort eat. He comfort eats a lot. He comfort eats to such an extent that he has now put on so much weight that his fur doesn't fit him. His little orange coat is a bit stretched so that his fur is sticking up.

Fat pig.

How do you put a cat on a diet when it shares its home with three normal specimens? I might get him some speed.

Does:

neurotic cat + speed = good combination?

Five three one

Can I go on?

Of course I can, I always seem to. More's the pity.

You can stick your poncy Duke of Edinburgh award, FT! This is a tale of real adventure, real danger of life-threatening moments where split-second decisions were vital.

Yes, I had to WALK home from Swinton, a mile and half away, this evening. Walk. "It's that thing you do when you go to the bar", somebody once told me when I questioned the suggestion that we "WALK???" home from Coventry city centre after a night out. Walking a mile and a half in school shoes (those ones with really hard, but thin soles) is a killer, especially on uneven paving slabs.

When you're walking along and you come to a junction and you stop because you've seen that a car is turning into that junction and you don't want to cause the motorist any delay, why is it that the motorist invariably waves you on? You've stopped for fuck's sake, it's no odds to you, but they might miss a gap in the traffic if they don't make the turn there and then and then they'll hate you forever. So you have to set off in a half-hearted run to show your appreciation for their courtesy, mumbling to yourself all the to the other pavement "Stupid fuckers, fancy making me run. Twats."

But what tragedy befell me to plunge me into such a test of my endurance? My car is getting MOTd tomorrow and I had to drop it into the garage this evening because I won't have chance to take it there before work in the morning. The garage is OK. I just hope that the chap who I handed my keys to - who isn't the sharpest of the bunch of the blokes there - remembers to lock my car away inside the workshop before they go home tonight. Should I go and check?

I'm sure the MOT is a complete rip off. For those not in the know, MOT stands for "Ministry of Transport" (I think) and is the name given to the annual test of roadworthiness of all vehicles of 3 years of age and over. The test costs about £40 at the moment, but they always manage to find minor repairs that bring the total bill to over £100.

Of course in the olden days of my first car, the MOT was an annual event that filled me dread. Already wallowing in the mire of postgraduate debt, my car was a continual drain on my resources. It was a 12 year old, 1980 Ford Fiesta 1.1 GL (that meant that it had a rear windscreen wiper!). It overheated all the time and I had to drive with the radiator on hot through all weather conditions. I later discovered that it needed a new radiator, after 3 thermostats and lots of very uncomfortable journeys - not only because of the heat, but also the smell of curry that wafted through the car when the heater blower was turned on. I think I replaced just about everything on that car at least once by the time I got rid of it. I did many of the repairs myself and when it became necessary to replace the starter motor a second time, I just couldn't face battling with the thing while lying on the frosty February ground. I got myself a loan and bought a new(er) car. That little car was famous around here; I painted eyelashes on the bonnet above the headlamps you see. The things you do when you're bored and you have a Hammerite-loaded paintbrush in your hand.


Heated debate
There was a burning issue that I was determined to open a debate on, but I can't remember what it was.

OK then, instead of that, let me ask the incredibly important question: what is your favourite type of bean?

Anybody want one?

There's a big political debate and vote in the UK Parliament today as the government tries to push through laws to introduce ID cards in Britain. They tell us that ID cards will be vital to:

• Prevent terrorism
• Prevent crime
  
• Counter benefit fraud
• Double up as a passport/drivers' licence
  
• Enable us to have all our necessary identifications in one place

To implement the scheme, the Government will have to set up a huge IT system to store lots of our personal details, plus biometric data. This will mean that people who have never committed a crime, who have never done anything other than be a citizen of the UK, will have to have DNA tests, their fingerprints taken and an iris scan. Carrying ID cards will not be compulsory. They will cost "in the region of £100" to those who wish to have them.

No doubt the database will be outsourced to India for maintenance. Whatever happens, I'd like to bet that personal data ends up being sold to the highest bidders.

In terms of playing the prevention of terrorism card, it's already been established that the terrorists who perpertrated the 7th July London bombings were UK citizens; they'd have had UKID cards in the same way as they carried UK passports to go to Pakistan. Those who committed the train bombings in Madrid carried Spanish ID cards. And what about foreign terrorists entering a country, they wouldn't have an ID card anyway.

I've yet to see one argument or shred of evidence to convince me that ID cards can be of use in prevention of terrorism.

It's all a load of complete and utter bollocks, thought up by a paranoid government that is hell-bent on having total control of the people of UK. It is also part of a wider plan of the Europeans to ensure that all people in the EU carry ID cards, with all sorts of personal data being available to share between countries.

Hrrrrrm, not liking the sound of this. Why not just come out and barcode us at birth, or give us serial numbers in the same way that the Nazis treated the Jews and their other victims?

Fuckers. They can shitting well shit off. This is something that I definitely will demonstrate about. I know who I am, my family knows who I am, I can prove my ID ten times over, I do not want or need an ID card. I especially do not want to be fingerprinted or have my DNA analysed or iris scanned and stored on some central computer, along with other information about my family, who I live with, who I vote for, where I shop, how often I leave the country, etc, etc.

How about a quick vote? Who would like an ID card that:

• Is compulsory to have, but not to carry
  
• Contains biometric data such as fingerprints, iris scans, DNA profiles
  
• Contains personal data about you and your family
• Results in all your personal and health data being kept on one database
  
• Can be used to track a person's movements from job to job, country to country
• Can act as a passport (which we already have)
• Can act as a driver's licence (which we already have)
• Can act as proof of ID (which we already have)
• Will cost at least £100

Come on, any takers?


Seven seven, nine eleven
While I'm on about terrorism, which I'm not, there's something that really pisses me off about terrorist attacks (apart from horrific murder and destruction of course): the way they are identified through the abbreviated date of the attack, rather than the location or the targets.

It all started with the attacks on the World Trade Centre and Pentagon on 11th September, 2001. These atrocities, in which thousands of real people died and in which others' lives were destroyed, became abbreviated to 9/11. I think people were trying to signify a link between the loss of life from the NY Fire Department and Emergency Services - dial 911 you see. But in years to come, people will only know of 9/11, not about where the attacks took place, who it affected and why they made such an impact.

Of course the 11th of September 2001 was a kind of watershed, but the dehumanisation of the outrage seems to me to be a dangerous thing.

On 7th July 2005, 52 people were murdered by terrorists on the public transport network in London. To continue the trend, the press insist on describing these events simply by saying 7/7. This is impersonal and disrespectful.

Worse still, it's yet another example of annoying Americanisms creeping into our culture and it gets right on my fucking tits!

Staring at breasts

It's fascinating, finding out how people get referred to this blog. I'm sure everybody has a look to see what Google or MSN search terms people use.

Here are some good ones from the past day or so.

A visitor from Kuala Lumpur asks: "Is it wrong to stare at women's breasts?" . To put your mind at ease, no, it's not wrong at all. Certainly not if they're a nice purt pair that are worth having a good ogle at. Of course, some ladies may object, but I'm sure most would find it quite flattering.

Then again, if you happen to be a Muslim - as you might be, judging from your location - then YES! It's extremely wrong to stare at women's breasts and you should be throroughly ashamed of yourself. You're lucky not to have your head lopped off for even thinking such vile things. Perv.


Another visitor from Australia has just found me by searching for "the kill ers wallpaper". No idea, sorry.


Some others include:

• "hairy people"
• "videos of manky mating"
• "heather mills mccartney hate"
• "twat"
• "twat sniffer"
• "sniff my cunt"
  

I think we're seeing a theme here. Dirty fuckers.


Wet
It's been raining for the past 12 hours. Shitting weather.

What would I have done if the weather had been fine?

1. Washed my car
2. Gone for a walk up a hill
3. Raked up the leaves from the front lawn
4. Helped Dad erect a fence (MSN search: "erect dad")
5. Sat and pissed about on the internet all day

I'm going for number 5.


Pork
There's a very Piggy feel to the weekend. Not only has blogworld been shocked and worried by that cunt Piggy being put to the mercy of the NHS , but I've been going mad buying all sorts of pig-products .

I love pork products and pigs have got to be the absolute BEST animals on the planet for the variety of meats we can get from them. Not only that, they're cute little (big) buggers when they're not slaughtered and chopped up into various bits of things. It's true when they say "You can eat everything except the squeak".

I just wish meat didn't come from animals, it's a real shame.


The smell of Sunday
In a line from kd lang's Summer Fling, she sings "The smell of Sunday in our hair, we ran on the beach with Kennedy flair".

Oh if only I could get the smell of Sunday out of my hair. The smell of Sunday chez Sniff is a mixture of persistent Dad poo and boiling veg.

I've no idea what it is about my dad's Sunday poos, but he saves up some of the rankest smelling shite for the day of rest. How anybody is supposed to rest with that permeating the house is beyond me. The smell survives open windows and multiple blasts of air freshener. I'm currently trying to keep it at bay with Toilet Duck and a closed toilet lid.

There's something odd about men; they can't just go for a poo, they have to go for a "sit". How can having a poo become an event? Do all men save their poos for a special occasion, or are they generally normal during the week, but have some Y-linked thing that compels them to sit on the toilet for an hour each Sunday, making smells that could fell a herd of buffalo?

Who knows???

I'm off to see if it's safe to lift the lid on the toilet again. I may be some time.

Like being constantly poked

Ooooh, my poor back! It's been hurting me for a week now. The pain feels like it's above my right kidney, but I think it's muscular rather than anything horrid like a kidney stone. It's like being constantly poked.

I shall have to make sure I keep it covered and warm. A bit of gentle exercise should be ok too.


Groundhog life
For the third consecutive Saturday, I found myself in Costco and Asda. Asda, I just can't get used to it. Everything about the place just irritates me. Today's annoyance was their bread organisation. Looking for a standard white sliced loaf, all I could see was 3/4 of the shelving occupied with granary, wholemeal and other brown breads, with the remaining quarter of the shelving being given over to white sliced bread. But they were all those tiny granny loaves that have small slices. I couldn't fathom out where the normal sized white loaves were, or whether they just didn't sell them. Wandering to the next aisle, which advertised "cakes", I found the bread I was looking for. Mongs.

Coscto was good though. I went mad on pork products today. In fact the trolley encapsulated my life:

• 3 crates of Pepsi Max;
  
• 1 crate of fizzy water;
  
• 2 crates of Whiskas;
  
• 1 crate of Felix;
  
• 1 packet of sliced Napoli sausage;
  
• 1 packet of sliced mortadella;
  
• 1 haggis (don't ask);
  
• 1 packet of Grandma Porco's Italian-style sausages
• 1 crate of peeled plum tomatoes
• 2 jars of stuffed green olives

The only thing missing was an item techno gadgetry I suppose.


Fashion
I love fashion! Actually, that's a lie. I'd much rather wear clothes that were comfortable than those that were deemed "fashionable". Straight-legged jeans, for goodness sake!

One trend that I really can't accept is the wearing of clothes in a way that reveals the midrif and lower back - certainly not with my lower back problems! I just think it looks really common and horrible to have your tummy on show - especially some of the bloated examples that are on display in Greater Manchester and Salford. Perhaps you can make concessions for young women with nice flat tummies, but Jesus, they're so few and far between around here.

After my gripe about uncomfortable clothing labels that rub and scratch, another irritant is when tops come out of my trousers and expose my lower back. I really hate it; it's so uncomfortable. Why can't then make things long enough so they stay tucked in? I've take to buying boys' t-shirts because they're longer in the body. Perhaps if my tits and tummy were a bit slimmer, I wouldn't encounter this problem.

Killing time

Tenth of February 2006, 3.16pm
Tina sat at her desk at Base 2a, watching as the second hand ticked its way around the clock face - again. Fuck, she thought, I think I get bored, but at least I'm not a second hand. Imagine how crap it must be if you're an hour hand! Jesus. We should be thankful for small mercies.

Days are weird things. Days at work are weirder: you set yourself tasks to complete, but you always end up being interrupted - allowing yourself to be interrupted I suppose - and nothing ever gets done. This is down to being bored with the tasks that we've set ourselves, or that have been set for us.

Today I am preparing a presentation for a teaching session that I'm giving on Monday. It's quite an interesting subject, but I can't be fucked to do it. Why? Because it involves changing a previous Powerpoint presentation that is full of shitting animations on every single bastard paragraph. Why, oh why, oh WHY do they do it? Each paragraph appears v-e-r-y s-l-o-w-l-y too, which rubbish for my ten-to-the-dozen style of delivery (others call it rushed panic).


Have your say!
So instead of pissing about, altering fonts and animations, I've been tuning in to the "Can the gap between the West and Islam be narrowed?" Have your say debate on the BBC News website.

Whenever I read the comments on those things, I find myself tutting and muttering to myself "Oh just fuck off!" whenever somebody posts something like "I love my faith and according to my religion, you are wrong and you have no right to have an opinion or to live your life because I find it terribly offensive." Nobs.

Perhaps it says more about my own impatience with mankind than anything else, but it gets right on my lumpy tits when people think their views are more valid than anybody elses, to the point that they riot, burn things or blow things up if somebody like me says something that offends them.

I'm offended by Baptists and Jehovas Witnesses. I do not throw rocks in the street or burn their places of worship - I ignore them, but accept that they probably find me equally offensive. C'est la vie.

An edit: I tell you what's fucking freaky? I just had a change of contact detail from the bloke that made me have issues with Baptists. We resolved our differences years ago - after we both moved on after finishing our PhDs - but while we were students together, he was a complete pain in the arse and every day I faced a torrent of his religious harrassment as he tried to bring me to Jesus. Very aggressive, the Baptists. Or at least that's how he made them seem.

I'm offended by any fundamentalist wackos trying to impose their views on me. They're all the same when they gang up with each other, revving each other up into such a lather that they lose all perspective.

But I do love Have your say on the BBC, it really does justify my dislike of a lot of people. The best ones are ones like: "Do you support civil partnerships?", "Tell us what you think of Gay bishops in the Church of England", "London bombings: what now for ID cards since Britain is perfectly capable of breeding its own Islamic terrorists?" (OK, the last one was a little joke). They then throw in something completely banal like "Celebrity Big Brother winner not a celebrity: tell us what you think!".

I don't know where that little outburst came from. Perhaps I shouldn't read online debates and should concentrate on changing font and animation settings instead. Much healthier for me.

Penny for them?

That's so annoying; when people ask "Penny for your thoughts?" Piss right off! My thoughts are PRICELESS, there's no way I'm giving anything away so cheaply. Cheeky bastards. But something occurred to me yesterday at work, and then on my journey home in the car: the extent to which we mutter on to ourselves during the course of the day is pretty mind-boggling at times.

People yabber on to themselves to varying degrees, from giving a full running commentary of their task lists, to just the odd outburst of despair (or joy, or completely freaky madness). One of my colleagues is an absolute darling and she's non-stop, talking to herself about the things she's done and is yet to complete on her "to do list" for that day. Another colleague can't read without reading out loud. Another just goes on and on and, I'm sure she's intending that people are listening to her, but she's so tiresome that nobody does and she essentially talks to herself all day.

What'd be really interesting is an experiment whereby a person wears a microphone and everything they say is recorded over a 24hr period. Snippets from my typical working day might include:

"Eeuurghh, hello there Otto! Move, got to get up now. Come on, love, I need to get up. MOVE! For fuck's sake!" (Thud! as Otto is shoved onto the floor).

"Move out the way you lot, come on. Going out Max? Go on then. Oh come on then, Otto, off you go. Sonny, I'm not standing with the fucking door open all morning while you decide whether it's safe for you outside today. Oh fuck off then!"

"Fuck off, shitting radio shite"

"Fucking come ON! How long does it fucking take to set off from some fucking traffic lights, you total fucking MONG! Jesus, fucking Christ almighty! Just move!"

"'Morning"

"Ugh"

"Oh fuck off, you twat. Go off and whinge to the boss again. Cunt"

"Oh bollocks!... smile ... 'Good morning, Thingy and Whatsit Department, how can I help? .... It's a pleasure, cheerio'...."

"Right, I'm off"

"Oh come on, you tosser. Why do you need to leave such a huge gap? Look, mo.. DON'T LET THAT FUCKER IN! Fuck's sake, been queuing for ages and that twat.. JEEEEZUSS!"

"Bastards"

"Vrrrooooooooooooooommm.. SCREEEEEEEEEAAACH!!!"

"Oh tits, can't they park a bit better? Spastics"

"Oops!"

"Hiya MAX! Max, Max, Max, Max, Max!!!"



At the hospital
I've got a follow up hospital appointment this afternoon. Having been given plenty of time to consider my options, I'm going ask that a benign breast lump is removed. There's no clinical need to, but having seen the thing on the mammogram, it scared the shit out of me and I want it OUT!

It's obviously an extremely rare occurrence, but people who get intimate with me can get a bit freaked when they encounter it. I've been instructed to tell the surgeon that I want it out "Because it's interfering with my sex life". I think in truth, it's my huge arse, bingo wings and udder that are the main problem when it comes to be me having a healthy sex life, I just hope this isn't pointed out to me at the hospital.

This sort of thing makes me really nervous. I hate having to talk about myself to people; my nerves get the better of me and I end up laughing and joking about things that are really rather serious.

Need a poo now.

Take it as read

Why do I never learn from my mistakes?
The number of times when I've sent out e-mail shots to LOADS of people, you'd think I'd remember to turn off the "request read receipt" before I click send. What a tit. This was today's response, or some of it. I've no idea how long I'll be getting these things back, but I'm still getting returns from when I e-mailed the entire organisation of 4,000 staff members a couple of years ago.

I love e-mails. They give you the time to get composed, to think what you're trying to convey, to correct mistakes, to get the clear message across to the recipient and your recipient has your message in writing to refer back to should they need to review the information. E-mails are also very convenient: you can send documents and data almost anywhere in the world at any time of day. As a matter of fact, I've just given some advice to a consultant this very second, which is very nice of me considering they earn about four times what I'm on. I'm not bitter though. So there you go, e-mails are brilliant, they give you documentary evidence of the information you provide people and they're convenient and super.

However, with the click of a button, your world could quite easily come to an end. It's very easy to be a bit too honest when you're writing messages to loved ones. The tone of your voice as you write may come over completely differently when read by the recipient. Avoid sending e-mails when upset. Also, one bad habit that I've got is inserting the recipient's name into the"To" field before I've composed the message and added any relevant attachments. Anybody ever noticed how close the "attach" button is to the "send" button in Outlook? Actually, they've been separated in the latest version - 'bout bloody time too.

E-mails = great

Phone calls = trauma

Answerphone messages = absolutely out of the question: "Hello, my name is Tina Indecipherable Surname (that's spelt Aye, Bee, See, Dee...) and I'm calling from such and such a department with a message for somebody I'd much rather e-mail, but they've given me the wrong address. I'd like to speak to them concerning something that's not very interesting, but it pays the bills, so if they could get back to me on extension 1234 or e-mail me - I'm on the global address list. Thanks very much, cheerio, bye-bye."

In fact, I'm tempted to unplug the phone in my office. Every time it rings I growl and snarl "Ahhh, just fuck off!...." - smile - "....Hello, Thingy and Whatsit, Tina speaking!". Frig.


Poo plugs
Something awful happened to me earlier on. Having enjoyed 3 good motions today, I went to the toilet for another evacuation of my bowel. I'd just finished washing my hands, when I experienced desperate colonic urgency and I had to go again - like horribly liquidy. And then again once more. It seems to have settled now.

I have a theory about poo plugs: these are good, satisfying poos, behind which lurk a torrent of brown, pooey liquid just waiting to catch you unawares within minutes of the release of the plug.

Very nasty if you squeeze one out before getting into your car at the beginning of a delay-filled journey.

Over to Pam

Those who aren't from the UK may not be fortunate enough to have heard of a comic genius called Victoria Wood. Those who have heard of Victoria Wood, and who have enjoyed her various sketch and stand up routines, and the discrete little one-offs that she produced in the early 1990s, might just remember one entitled Over to Pam.

Ring any bells? How does "Chuck a sausage", "It's a low fat yoghurt!", "Can I budge by, I'm borderline hypoglycaemic!" help? Not at all?

Fucking philistines.

Anyway back to today's stuff.

Labels
I don't like labels, I don't like being labelled. When you can be labelled as loads of different things, you tend to lose the person underneath and only see the label(s).

However, my main gripe about labels is related to clothes labels. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me. No, but a badly stitched label can make your day almost unbearable!

My new pulling pants (yeah, right) have a label stitched in to the inside of the waistband, but it seems to have been stitched in with that bloody plastic thread. As a result, it has really scratchy corners that really dig in and hurt. Fucking things. Forty quid they cost me, you'd have thought they could've put a comfortable label in at least.

There are some labels on t-shirts that are stitched low down into the side seam. They itch and scratch like bastards too. They put them in knickers and everything. Why? Why can't they make a garment that is worn next to the skin comfortable? Hmmm, HMMMMM?

Another label problem is when the inside neck label sticks up above the collar of a jumper. However, this can have its advantages if some kind soul puts it in its proper position for me - that nice brush against the back of neck feeling is always guaranteed to cheer me up.

So that's labels covered, what next?


Health and safety
Health and safety in the workplace should be the numero uno priority, always. Look after yourself, your colleagues and any visitors to your building.

On construction sites and transport depots and things, an aid to health and safety is high-visibility clothing - you know that bright yellow or orange stuff with the luminescent striping?

You can't miss somebody out of the corner of your eye if they're wearing a hi-vis vest. In fact, walking or driving round the streets of England at the moment and you'd be forgiven for thinking that EVERYBODY works in the construction industry since just about everybody you see seems to be wearing high visibility clothing.

• Construction workers,
  
• Traffic wardens,
  
• Street wardens,
  
• Street cleaners,
  
• Police officers,
  
• Plastic police officers,
  
• Cyclists,
  
• Wagon drivers,
  
• Construction site visitors,
  
• Public transport drivers,
  
• Transport workers,
  
• Delivery people -
  

They ALL wear the same yellow vests and coats. It's really borin'.

You're in a panic, you're on the lookout for a copper, you can flag down any number of people before you find somebody who can help... and then they just give you a crime reference number for your insurance claim.


Nosy colleagues
I have a colleague who , since starting her job almost 3 years ago, has done nothing but complain about the workload while ensuring that most of her work gets passed on to other people, leaving the minimum for herself to do. A "team player" she ain't, but she seems to me to be conniving, self-centred, manipulative and a just a bit devious. She has taken to complaining about when other people are having a chat (forgetting her incessant rabbiting at times), saying that she's "really snowed under, but nobody else has anything to do".

It's not our fault if she's ineffective with her workload and time management.

Anyway, everytime she hears voices from our office, she finds some excuse to come in and earwig, trying to butt into the conversation. Another colleague was talking to me this afternoon and she just waltzed in with some stuff that I'd sent through to the printer in her office.

Wow, thanks, I've never known you to help anybody else out before. Or did you just come in here to see if we were talking about you?

I've taken to closing our office door.

Nice too that she's bagsied all her holidays without consulting with any of her colleagues first.

Ewww, slagging off colleagues, I'm losing it. Perhaps she's just exhibiting the symptoms of stress, but she's probably gone about things the wrong way if she wants to endear herself to people.


Connie's performing breast
She's still in hospital, but she's happier than she was. Apparently, they put a big magnetic control unit over the pacemaker and they can alter most of the things without having to go back in an tweak them. They've altered it once and they're going to do it again tomorrow.

Although I am absolutely delighted that she's not as distressed as she was, I'm very disappointed not to have captured her performing bosom on video.

Coming up...

Later on, we're with Tina as she discusses:

• Labels
• Health and safety issues
• Nosy colleagues
• Connie's performing breast

But for now, it's back to whatever other stuff you happened to be looking at on the internet while you were supposed to be getting on with some work.

Or you could check back every now and again to have a look at these stills from the second series of the L Word:

And this disgusting behaviour by a couple of "those women" in Canada:

Suffering succotash

My day, by Tina Cakesniffer

Get up at 9am.

Enjoy breakfast in front of PC, watching episodes 6 & 7 of series 2 of the L word. Ahhhh.

Get gym stuff on.

Travel to gym, avoiding mongs driving people carriers and Rovers in the middle lane of M60 at 50mph.

Endure an hour of torture at gym; in pain from weird ache in side and a slight muscle-pull in thigh, unable to breathe.

Travel home from gym, avoiding mongs driving people-carriers and Rovers in the middle lane of the M60 at 50mph.

Get showered and dressed. Hrrrm, these Docs do look oK with these jeans, but I prefer my Superstars...

Travel to Tesco, avoiding mongs driving people-carriers and Rovers in the middle lane of the M60 at 50mph. Avoid mong in Jaguar on roundabout who is trying to turn left from the right hand lane: "Just fuck off, you fucking mongoloid fucking retard!"

Fill hand basket with lots of heavy items: 5lb spuds;2 litres milk; bag of rapples; litre of Innocent fruit smoothy (treat); "tiger" loaf; shaving gel (couldn't do my bits in the shower because I'd forgotten to buy some last time). Get to till: empty. Minor success recorded while I reach into my pocket for my wallet. SHIT! Where the fuck is it? "Sorry, I've forgotten my wallet." "That's OK, we at Tesco realise that many of our customers are complete fucking spastics, so, so long as you return by 4pm, we'll put your stuff through and you can pay for it when you get back."

Drive home, avoiding mongs, etc, etc

Pick up wallet, drive back to Tesco, avoiding more mongs, etc, etc, etc.

Buy stuff, avoid altercation between mongs in Tesco's car park, go home

Ahhh, rela.... "Tina, I'm not happy with this pacemaker, I think one of the leads has dislodged and it's making my bosom jump - look."

"Oh yeah, that's not right, but it's a great party trick, have you considered tassles? How about phoning the hospital?"

"Yes, and they said to go to casualty. Would you mind taking me?"

"No, take yourfuckingself. You can drive now, can't you?"

...

....

.....

......

No, of course I didn't say that.

Jesus, my poor mum. Back in hospital, probably needing to be opened up again for them to readjust the leads from her pacemaker. And after all the pain and worry she went through last time too.

She's a bit distressed. She's about as distressed as my dad is completely shitting useless. at least he's good at peeling oranges for me.

Poor Mum.

Still, if we go back to the beginning of my day, that was superb! I do love The L Word. In addition to the yummysteamy sex scenes, it has fantastic plotlines, humour, the LOT! If you haven't seen any of it, try to, tis top notch. And that brings me on to another request: Connie (not Mum Connie, aircraft maintenance engineer Connie, get your friggin' act together and send me the rest of those bloody CDs woman!


Let's go burn somebody's embassy down!

I have no patience for religious fanatics, none whatsoever. It seems that certain people use their "faith" as an excuse to act the victim, to take offence at the slightest thing. It gives people a shared identity that enables them to gang up and cause trouble. As an individuals, we have to take offence on the chin, grow a hard skin, learn to stand up for ourselves through reasonable argument, by setting the example.

Faith can be a wonderful, spectacular thing. I have very little time for religion though, very little time indeed.

Shocked and appalled!


Spooked?


Offended?

I dunno, I think it's fair enough for people to find offence in things, to explain why they're offended so people can learn from each other but overreacting is SOOOO BORIN'! So destructive. So disappointing.... again!

Straight

I went shopping this morning. I was at work the other day and caught my reflection in a glass door: my trousers looked really short. I realised that they'd been washed them on a normal 40°C cycle instead of woollens and they'd shrunk as a result. Either that or my arse has grown yet again and they were being pulled up because of it.

Skip to the end...

Anyway, bought a pair of work trousers - fifty five fucking robbing bastard quid - and went on the lookout for some "pulling pants", or "jeans" to you lot. I was horrified to see that straight-legged jeans are back in fashion. Not only straight-led, but really rather tight-legged jeans. I realised this as I tried on a few pairs in River Island. I can't wear anything like that, for fuck's sake! My thighs alone have the circumference of many women's waists and my calves are, well let's just say, they're "muscly".

fucks
duck's
fucker's
fuckers
fug's
Edit...
Ignore all
Add to dictionary

calves
calf's
Calif's
calif's
clefs
Edit...
Revert to "calfs"

I don't think so!

God, straight-legged jeans. Takes me back to my horrible youth when all the skinny girls wore the tightest jeans on the planet and I tried it, but looked like something that belonged in a freak show.

But anway, found some not bad ones, so should be all sorted for any future nights out. I am still concerned about footware though. Perhaps I'm too fussy. Perhaps I just conduct a poll here and let the readers decide.

OK, here you go, see what you think of these:

1. Converse All Stars (pumps)

2. Dr Marten's boots

3. Kickers pumps

4. Kickers shoes

5. Adidas Superstars

6. Skechers shoes

Yes, I know that I have a huge arse and fat thighs. And yes, I have horrible furniture in my bedroom.

Asda - again
As much as I detest this shop, I keep finding myself in there on a Saturday, I must be a glutton for punishment. Today I needed Coffeemate (light of course). I roamed the aisles, I passed "Foreign foods", I passed "BOOZE" and found myself at tea and coffee and shit like that. HUGE tubs of Coffeemate original, tiny tubs of Coffeemate light. Fuckers. It's because people who shop there are all fat fuckers who don't believe in light anything. Tossers.

I ended up getting some tortilla wraps for tonight's tea and enjoyed a transaction in which I was clearly interrupting the conversation of two staff members, one of whom had just bought some socks at that till and was continuing to tell the checkout woman about the current range nightware at George at Asda. Don't mind me. Ignorant cunts.


Bored
It's now 1.35pm and I'm bored already. I wonder what I can do with the rest of my day. I know, I'll go and sit next to the cat and, every time it looks like he's going into a deep sleep, I'll start disturbing him by poking him and purring. Little shit.

Oooooor, I could scan some more photos into my PC and continue my series of posts in which I reminisce about my past.

Ooooooor, I could kill my Dad, who is getting right on my tits.