Hunted down

The problem with people you know finding out that you have a blog is that they generally want to find it. I've been hunted down like a wild animal by a vicious soon-to-be-ex-colleague and here I am, discovered, opened like a book for her to read my inner thoughts.

Fuck.

I may have to kill her. She lives in Moss Side, so it shouldn't be too difficult to fashion something that makes it look like mistaken identity.

Cap in yo ass, Evans. If not that, I may have to give her a good bitch-slapping at her leaving do tomorrow evening. The bitch didn't even bother commenting.

I feel somewhat violated. Still, apart from Trump, I can't imagine anybody nicer to be violated by.


Pink Panther
For some reason, I've been unable to get the Pink Panther theme out of my head for the past few days. Not the crappy Henri Mancini theme from the Pink Panther films, this is the proper rinkydink Pink Panther Show theme.

I watched the Pink Panther Show religiously every Staurday night when I was young and I have no idea why. It wasn't that funny as far as I can remember. There was usually something and a bit weird like a line or something and that daft faux French copper. But I loved it for the theme song and the titles with the Pink Panther's face and its different expressions. I loved the way the song at the end was different from that at the beginning.

He really is a groovy cat
What a gentleman, a scholar, what a' acrobat


Scholarly scrambles
The students are back in town. Fuckers. I had to go the University Students' Union the other day to buy a card or two from the shop and the place was swarming with them - surprisingly.

Looking at the little blighters these days, it makes you think back to when you started at university getting on for 20 years ago and how with-it today's students are. They are so very trendy with fashionable clothes, good hair, gadgets. I was packed off to Leeds with a couple of pairs of jeans, some t-shirts, underwear and one baggy jumper that had to last me for three years (and it did). I even wore that jumper in bed when I was cold.

Those were the days.

But despite all their fancy clothes, en suite student accommodation, laptop PCs, mobile phones and MP3 players, students of today are on average a lot more stupid than when me and my peers were in higher education. It's simple maths: more students enter higher education = on average a thicker student population.

Stood in the queue in the Union shop I noticed that some things hadn't changed since my day: there's always a real smelly one lurking amongst them. Dirty fucker hadn't even been at university a week and had already started fermenting. Surely their one bar of soap/bottle of shower gel that was packed off with them by their parents hadn't run out already?

I've noticed a number of the fuckers wearing scarfs tied in that European style that offends me so much. They don't wear coats of course; just a jumper and a scarf. What's the point of that?

The good thing about this country is that there are so many different groups that are Sniffy fodder. I'll be compiling my list over the coming weeks and working through it systematically through the long winter ahead. Suggestions are always welcome.

Unwelcome visitors

The Labour Party are in town for their annual backstabbing and self-glorification conference . Nobody wants them here, but Manchester City Council are delighted! Here's what they have to say about the city being invaded by thousands of arse-licking cunts:

"Manchester is preparing for thousands of extra visitors during the Labour Party Annual Conference in the city in September, from Friday September 22 for one week. Manchester bids to host major conferences as part of its regeneration strategy – conferences mean big business, visitors, investment and return tourism."

Unfortunately, because everybody hates the government, security has to be tight and this means that loads of the city's major roads have been shut. The Council's website gives lots of information about where you can't go, but none about where you can, just in case you happen to want to go about your normal daily life. Fuckwits.

I've no idea how shutting down the city and preventing people going about their normal business for a whole week can be good for commerce or tourism, but there you go. I'm just using it as an excuse to stay at Trump's for a few days, so YAY! to Labour, please come again... when you're condemmed to decades in opposition, you useless tossers.


Gasping Gordon
I've long been a fan of the man who would be prime minister, Chancellor Gordon Brown. Oh hang on, I got that wrong, I hate this incompetent thieving bastard more than I hate Blair. I'd love to get the opportunity to heckle him at the conference, or at least get near enough to him to hold up a placard that asks: "HAVE YOU WASHED YOUR HAIR YET, GORDON?". Dirty bastard. Just look at him, for fuck's sake. He looks like some sort of freak weirdo arch nemesis from Batman or something. Creepy.


Cats and spiders
Cats might not be much use for many things, but they can be quite good at catching spiders... if the mood takes them.

I don't quite understand the point of house spiders. You know those big massive ones that start to appear at this time of year? They're so very scary and so very fast, but what exactly do they do? Admittedly in them days, they were probably good for killing mice and things, but we don't generally have rodent problems these days. They don't even make webs because they wouldn't be able to make anything that would support their weight. I doubt they catch flies or other insects, so what the hell do they do, other than sit on walls and look threateningly at you?

They're probably alien spies.

Hard

There's never a dull moment when it comes to Sniffy and her PC! For the past week or so, I've been noticing strange switch noises coming from within the box that sits on my desk here, like something powering down then up again. Well, it turns out that one of my hard drives is goosed!

Realising that hard disks can just go has scared the crap out of me. This PC contains archives of things that are about 15 years old, not to mention all my photos and music, e-mails and shite. What the hell do you do if you lose all that?

I count myself very lucky since it's my spare drive that is dying. It's one that I use for backing up my stuff, so I'm just going to get one of those external hard drive things as a backup instead.

Think on.


This life
This episode has made me realise how important my PC is to me. What would life be like without one? It doesn't bear thinking about. I'd end up some sort of catatonic wreck, rocking back and forth in a chair. Jesus, I'd have to watch TV or do something dreadful like go out.

Heaven forbid.

It's clicking at me now.

I used to like This Life and I'm pleased that a one-off episode that catches up with the characters ten years on is now being filmed. I remember watching one episode in front of my parents, cousin and her ten year old son: Ferdy and that horrible Scottish bloke were shagging in a toilet or something. Brilliant.


I hate ebay
I never get anything good on ebay. I never win auctions, or see anything that makes me think Oh that's a real bargain, just what I've been after! It is shite and it has been taken over by sellers from the far east peddling their wares at seemingly good prices but with huge postal costs.

Can anybody tell me the last thing they won in an ebay auction (not bought) that has been really good?

I suppose I'm looking for the wrong things. If I wanted to collect thousands of issues of Shoot! magazine from the 1970s, I'd probably be really happy (until I caught a fatal mycelial infection from all the mold that had grown on them).

So here's a challenge for anybody who happens to have a heart: Put something really good up for sale on ebay and let me win the auction for a bargain price of 20p with free P&P.


Oddness
I got an e-mail from somebody yesterday. It said that if I put up a simple link for Endsleigh life insurance that they'd give me £40, or £50 if did it today. So I did. We'll see what happens.

If anybody else fancies advertising their services here, I'm pretty cheap. In all honesty, the best way for people to advertise themselves here is to offer decent service. Be good and I'll tell the world, be bad and I'll let you have it with both barrels.

Good books:
Tesco
Marks and Spencer
Amazon UK
Suburb

Bad books:
Asda
GE Capital
BT
Greggs
Vauxhall
New Labour

There are others, plenty of them, but that'll do for now.

Appropriate

There was washing drying on the line when I got home last night. As usual, next door's had washing out too. Theirs stays out for days on end in all weather and must often be dirty again by the time it is taken back into the house.

Anyway.

I looked at both sets of washing as it billowed in the wind: t-shirts; underwear; hand towels; jumpers. Small things. Why were both sets of washing propped up then? The laundry was nowhere near ground level. Odder still was the fact that my neighbour's washing was lofted up to about 15 feet high, and blowing into the trees.

I propose new legislation to ensure that the nation pegs out properly and does not engage in inappropriate use of clothes props.

1. Washing must be pegged out at every opportunity;
2. Washing should be pegged out if the outside temperature falls below 10°C;
3. Washing must be brought it in at the slightest hint of rain or other inclement weather;
4. Washing must not be left out overnight;
5. Washing should not be hung out on the Queen's birthday;
6. Knickers must never be pegged by the gusset;
7. Hang jeans and trousers by the waist;
8. Hang t-shirts and shirts by the base and not the shoulder;
9. Socks should be hung by their tops and never by the heel;
10. A clothes prop should only be deployed if the weight of your washing drags it onto the ground, or if you have large items like sheets and duvet covers and that.
    

So you see, both my dad and my fucktard cunt of a neighbour were in contravention of rule 10. Dad often breaks rules 6 and 9, and 2 for that matter.

TSK!


Gnashers
Aware of the fact that I'd not been for a dental check up for a couple of years, I set Connie the task of trying to book an appointment at my dentist for me. She phoned me back to tell me that they said I wasn't registered with them and that they de-register patients who they haven't seen for over a year. I have to go and re-register tomorrow.

Cheeky twats.

This is just a rouse so that, by insisiting we go for check ups ever six months - where they generally give us a needless scale and polish as well - dentists are guaranteed an annual income of about £40 for each adult patient on their books, plus whatever they get from the NHS for seeing each patient too (about £80 I think).

I'm lucky in that my NHS dental practice is still taking on NHS patients - this means that you get your treatment subsidised by the government - and I should be able to register for subsidised treatment. Around the country, there's an outcry that there's a terrible shortage of NHS dentists and that people are being forced to go private. Because of this shortage, practices kick people off the books who don't attend for check-ups twice a year. However, all the dentists big wigs recognise that we only need two-yearly check-ups anyway and that by insisting on six-monthly ones, practices are essentially quartering their capacity for patients.

Could you imagine if your GP kicked you off their books because you didn't go for a check-up every six months? I don't go to my doctor unless I really have to and the same should be true for my dentist. The bastards are essentially charging an annual fee.


Hoiking up
As I approached the shopping centre on my luncthime walk, I came up behind an older lady who had varicose veins. She was taking her time walking and stopped occasionally to catch her breath and have a cough and a splutter. She was stopped as I walked passed her. When I was alongside her, she coughed up a meaty little number and spat it onto the floor in front of her.

How ladylike.

Table manners

I don't claim to have the best table manners, but I get by. I get by on what was beaten into me by scary dinnerladies and scary parents when I was a little un.

When I attended primary school, scarier than any teacher was that creature known as "The Dinnerlady". Dinnerladies hunted in packs around the dining room, watching over quivvering children as they tucked into plates of gristle, concrete chips, mashed potato that was covered in baked beans.

Mashed potato and baked beans - keep them well apart on the plate, same as gravy - nothing, absolutely NOTHING must encroach on my mash, or into my beans without my say so. The fact that the dinnerladies used to pour beans over the mash was their first point in the battle of wills against tiny children: they knew that by doing this, they would scar a child's eating habits for life.

Don't put beans on my ma...

Left handed children were forced to eat correctly. None of this "hold the knife and fork however is most comfortable for you" nonsense: knife in the right hand, fork in the left; no arguments. Deviation from this rule would elicit a harsh stare and the evil eye from whichever geriatric terrorist was watching your table that day. Mrs Bray was a kindly-looking soul: her face was wrinkled and it bore many of those little skin tags that you can't keep your eyes off. She was a whizz at giving loose teeth that final pull that allowed the child to eat - NOTHING must get in the way of these children receiving their nutrition! There was a Mrs ("Wiggy") Mann, who had a hair do that looked like a big wig, was lovely away from the confines of the school, but she ran that dining room with a pinny of iron, never a hair out of place.

And so it was that generations of Britain's youngsters learned to eat at the table: knife in the right hand, fork in the left; elbows off the table; sit still with your feet on the floor (if they reach); no talking while eating; no shouting! Any visit to a Pizza Hut will inform the observer that today's schools could do with a few Mrs Brays and Mrs Manns.


Spaghetti combat jungle training
But learning how to eat properly wasn't restricted to the school dining room, I remember being taught how to eat by my parents too. Normal things don't come back to the memory particularly easily, but I'll always remember being taught how to eat spaghetti... it was pure torture. Imagine a three year old with tiny hands being taught how to hold a fork and spoon in the correct manner to allow the efficient winding of noodles onto a fork. How I cried. Oh the shouting from my dad as he despaired that his own flesh and blood couldn't do something as Italian as shouting and arm waving.

He taught me:

• Hold the fork in the right hand so that its length is parallel to the dish and prongs are perpendicular to it;
  
• Hold the spoon in the left hand;
• Pick up a few strands on the bottom two prongs of the fork and ease them away from the tangled noodles in the dish by pulling them in an upwards direction;
• Lower the spaghetti strands onto to spoon and twist the fork in a clockwise direction to wind the pasta around prongs;
• Lift the fork to your moth and deposit the spaghetti into it.
  

I got there eventually, and I'm a whiz at getting just the right amount of pasta onto my fork and I have even changed the technique so that I deposit the wound up noodles onto my spoon before eating them. This prevents slippage from the fork and it also prevents dropping bits of sauce as the spaghetti makes its way to my mouth.

This dirty cow could do with some spaghetti combat training

So, after all the trouble I went through to learn how to eat spaghetti, after all the shouting, all the tears when my dad refused to cut my spaghetti up for me, imagine how completely and utterly fucked off I get with him when he eats the bloody stuff by shovelling it into his gob, half a plate at a time and then proceeds to eat the remainder by slicing it up into one inch strands and then spooning it in like a coal man fuelling a steam engine. Getting all that pasta into one mouth is an almost impossible task and most ends up hanging out of his mouth before being slurped in very slowly, with as much accompanying noise as possible, where it is chewed for an age before finally being swallowed.

If I'd have eaten like that when I was a child, I'd have been severely beaten - and quite rightly so.

Because of my intensive spaghetti combat training, I have grown to dislike having things hanging out of my mouth when I try to eat them. It really annoys me when I lose control of a noodle and it hits my chin, leaving a greasy deposit there. I struggle to retrieve the situation, hoping that nobody has noticed. Some of the worst food for this sort of thing are salad ingredients; things with stalks that protrude from your mouth and deposit oily dressing over your face as you try tongue acrobatics to get it into your mouth. So annoying.

At least you don't get third degree burns from salads though. Have you ever bitten into a pizza and had a clump of super-heated mozzarella drop onto your bottom lip? Hurts like a bastard, I can tell you.


"Hey look, I can do it one-handed!"
My early training at the table has triggered a mental switch that means that I cannot stand the way certain people eat. My particular hate is that thing the Americans do where they eat with only a fork. Why? Why do they do this? Do they think they look like cowboys sat round their wild west camp fires? They try to hack away at things with a fork when there is a knife provided. Fuckwits. I once witnessed a particularly freaky American do this with a pastry base, and I even offered to cut their food up for them because it was winding me up so much. What are they trying to prove? Next time I see somebody do this, I'm going to tie one of their arms behind their back for a laugh, or even cut one of them off with a chainsaw, or the knife that they refuse to use.

I might try to patent a fork with long prongs where the outer ones have serated edges. Or one where's there's just one prong that has a serated edge. Something called a "knife".

For goodness' sake!

It seems that the Pope, whom we all love as leader of the fantastic Catholic faith, has upset the "Muslim Nation" by quoting something that was said nearly 700 years ago.

In a speech about the concept of holy war or something or other, and stressing that they were not his own words, Pope Benedict XVI quoted Emperor Manual II Paleologos of the Byzantine Empire, the Orthodox Christian empire which had its capital in what is now the Turkish city of Istanbul.

The emperor's words were, he said: "Show me just what Muhammad brought that was new and there you will find things only evil and inhuman, such as his command to spread by the sword the faith he preached."

Benedict said "I quote" twice to stress the words were not his and added that violence was "incompatible with the nature of God and the nature of the soul"

Ann Widdecome couldn't have put it better herself.

But now Muslim "leaders" around the world are kicking off, yet again. I don't know, cartoons, speeches, quotations, everything seems to offend Muslim sensitivities without any one person being given the voice or the opportunity to act rationally and engage in grown up debate about the issues. It always seems that the first response is to go on the attack. "We ask the Pope to apologise to the Muslim nation for insulting its religion, its Prophet and its beliefs."

I also find the idea of a faith identifying itself as a "nation" or "brotherhood" (clearly not sisterhood) rather alarming.

Gets on your nerves a bit.

I may get criticised for this post, but I'm just sick of religious bullies thinking their opinions should have influence over a majority of people who don't agree with them and who don't give a shit about their backward supersticions. Let's face it, a lot of the world's problems result from one religion or anothers perceived right to impose its view and rule of law on other people. Do us all a favour and get rid of the lot of them.

Top up

I have a digital set top box for receiving Freeview digital TV broadcasts. It's OK and it's one of those that you can "top up" your TV channels by paying a few pounds a month - you get a few extra channels essentially, most of which are never on air.

Top up TV is changing, apparently. From October, a new system will be available whereby you can get a new box that records TV and stuff - is it like that Sky Plus/Tivo thing? Who knows, who cares? Well, I do because the existing channels will be phased out from the normal service so that you can't access the extra ones without the new box. So Top up TV send customers this e-mail:

Dear Dr Sniffy, Top Up TV Anytime is the brand new service that gives you a selection of hand-picked programming, giving you over a 100 programmes to choose from at any one time, from a wider range of channels than ever before. With programmes refreshed on a daily basis, you'll be spoilt for choice. Enjoy programming from a host of popular channels such as LIVINGtv, Hallmark Channel, MTV, Paramount Comedy and Nickelodeon to name just a few. The great news is you can be one of the very first people to start watching Top Up TV Anytime this autumn. It’s easy to order your new DTR, just click here now or give us a call on 08700 543210. And because we value our loyal customers Top Up TV are offering you some great savings – save over £100, visit www.topuptv.com for full details. Visit the website for all the latest channel news. Best wishes, The Top Up TV Team

So, out of curiosity, I thought I'd see how much a new Anytime box would cost, so I clickied the link. The only information that they give you is that you pay a £20 deposit for the receiver now and then the balance when it's delivered. You can't find the full cost of the receiver anywhere on their site without going through the order process.

Is that allowed?

Who gives a shit.

I e-mailed them to complain and tell them that I've a mind to report them to the advertising standards authority. I wonder if I'll get a free box out of them for my troubles.

Tossers.


Nice weather for ducks
Across the north west of England it is raining and has been doing since late on last night. It is very dull too. I am wearing heavy boots.

I am wearing heavy boots because I am now back in the real world: a job with no rewards, little pay and plenty of hassle; summer well and truly over.

As we drift into another autumn, the birds are acting weird. I think the geese have already gone - they've been practising their flight formations - but it's the ducks that are behaving really oddly. There are about a hundred of the buggers congregated on the grass next to the pond here. They've been there all week apparently. What's all that about then? Perhaps the water is a bit too wet for them. I even saw some of them drinking out of puddles that had formed from rainfall on the road.

This my first day back at Base 2a for about a month. Jesus help me.

What a tosser

I read this news report in disbelief.

I have nothing else to add.

"I'll have the full English, please"

It didn't surprise me that the man occupying the seat on the other side of the aisle ordered a full English breakfast when his order was taken on the London-bound train yesterday. He'd joined us at the first stop after Manchester and strolled down the carriage, bundle of newspapers under one arm, briefcase carried by the other.

He was a big bloke, 50s, greying hair, pinstriped suit. Not keen on sitting against the direction the train was travelling in, he rearranged the place setting at the table so he could occupy a forward-facing position.

He took two pieces of toast and a croissant from the basket, with butter. As I enjoyed mine, with marmalade, I couldn't help but notice the noise he made while he ate. It made my stomach turn. My bacon toastie (it's worth travelling first class on Virgin trains just for these) came after he'd finished bread and pastry, while he was waiting for his hot breakfast. He took the opportunity to make the first of many calls on his mobile phone, "Hello mate, yeah, just looking now... hee, hee, hee... Gary Neville eh? Yeah mate. Look. What? Sorry mate, yeah, I'm on my way down to London on the train, I'm losing... eh?... yeah, I'm losing the signal. I'll call you back."

He aborted the call in time for the arrival of his breakfast: a plateful of fuckin' delishness that I'd have gone for had I not been concerned for the safety of my suit. He ate like a pig, scoffing down overloaded forkfuls of beans, egg, bacon, sausage. The noise was sickening. Once finished, he accosted one of the staff for more toast, which was slurped down with coffee.

Glad that feeding time at the trough was over, I started to read the papers for the meeting I was due to attend. It was interrupted in no time by the noise of what sounded like a siren, but turned out to be pigman's phone revving up to the theme from the Benny Hill show. Why let it play nearly the entire tune before answering when you've got hold of the thing?

Most of the two hour journey was disturbed by his phonecalls to people, I assumed colleagues, complaining about tips for horses that were "dead-certs" being no good. It seems that he worked in the betting industry, or perhaps for one of the newspapers that gives betting tips to their readers. "He told me, 'It's a dead cert, couldn't lose under any circumstances' and it came in fifth from eight".

Good. Who gives a crap?

I watched in amusement as he got up to use the lav, despite the sign to say that it was occupied being illuminated. He pushed the button to open the door. Stepped forward in anticipation of it opening. Stopped. Tried the button again. Waited. Benny Hill.

Yeah, mate.

I really don't mind people using mobiles on trains, but I find it alarming that some folk get so irritated when the calls get cut off. The train is moving at over 100mph through the countryside, dipstick. You should forget using your phone and perhaps pick up a book on table manners instead.


New York state of mind
Some folks like to get away, take a holiday from the neighbourhood
Hop a flight to Miami Beach or to Hollywood
But I'm taking a Greyhound on the Hudson River line
I'm in a New York state of mind

Seen all the movie stars in their fancy cars and their limousines
Been high in the Rockies under the evergreens
But I know what I'm needing and I don't want to waste more time
I'm in a New York state of mind....

Some of the greatest song lyrics have been written about New York, generally out of love for the place.

Look what happens with you get a toothless wonder of a twat moving to your city and adopting it as his home. He writes a tribute song. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, these are the lyrics to the Beautiful South's song "Manchester":

From Northernden to Partington it's rain
From Altrincham to Chadderton it's rain
From Moss Side to Swinton hardly Spain
It's a picture postcard of 'wish they never came'

And whilst that deckchair in the garden it makes no sense
It doesn't spoil the view or cause offence
Those Floridas, Bavarias and Kents
Make gentlemen wear shorts but don't make gents

So convertibles stay garage-bound
Save after-sun for later
If rain makes Britain great
Then Manchester is greater
As you dry your clothes once again
Upon the radiator
What makes Britain great
Makes Manchester yet greater

From Cheetham Hill to Wytenshawe it's rain
Gorton, Salford, Sale pretty much the same
As I'm caught without my jacket once again
The raindrops on my face play a sweet refain

And as winter turns reluctantly to spring
For the clouds above the city there's one last fling
Swallows build their nests, chaffinch sing
And the sun strolls into town like long lost king

So convertibles stay garage-bound
Save after-sun for later
If rain makes Britain great
Then Manchester is greater
As you dry your clothes once again
Upon the radiator
What makes Britain great
Makes Manchester yet greater

And the mood of this whole sodden place is melancholy
Like the sun came out to play, shone through the clouds
But dropped its lolly
And everyone looks so disappointed, so, so sorry
Like the rain blew into town, kidnapped the sun
And stole it's brolly

So convertibles stay garage-bound
Save after-sun for later
If rain makes Britain great
Then Manchester is greater
As you dry your clothes once again
Upon the radiator
What makes Britain great
Makes Manchester yet greater

Download it and have a listen if you like. You'll be able to appreciate the musicianship and subtle tones of the singer. I hate that fucking twat Paul Heaton. The uneducated, talentless, toothless, thick, chinny cunt.

Drop down

I hate drop down lists on computer databases and online forms - you know, the sorts of things where you have to enter your date of birth in dd/mm/yyyy? Why do they only drop down to 19 before you have to click on the scroll down arrow?

I'll show you what I mean:

Oh, it appears that Flickr doesn't want to upload that particular thing, but you get the idea? It's really discriminatory against people who are born after the 19th of the month. If they're going to have a drop down list, why not go all the way to 31?

I've just been sorting out car insurance for Connie Cakesniffer and I've come to the conclusion that they're all cheating, thieving cunts. Having done a search in Money Supermarket, I decided to go for the Post Office's policy, which was advertised as £220. So you click on "buy quote" and end up having to enter all the information again at the Post Office's site, and then you're told that the quote is actually £320.

Lying.

Fucking.

Bastards.


Where the devil?
For the past couple of weeks, blogging activities have been put on the back burner in favour of other things. Here is a pictorial rundown:

Manchester Pride, 26th August

It seemed that the Church had a presence, whereby it invited all of us lost children to wait in line to be saved from a life of sodomy and an eternity burning in the fiery pit:

Norfolk, 27th to 30th August

Skiathos, 1st to 8th September

Lovely.

Of course, the great thing about being abroad is the language difference. In all honesty, the Greek people are fantastic and they speak very good English, but certain things get switched around in translation.

"Wefined Vergina Sugar", eh?

Yamas!

Another thing that wasn't quite translated in the holiday brochure was the term "slight incline to some apartments" which came from the Greek for "your apartment will be right at the top of a big fuck-off hill - ha, ha, ha".

Yamas, you bastards.

Unfortunatley, coming back means that you have to congregate with all the Brits that you'd spent the previous 7 days trying to avoid. The couple in front of us on the plane were particularly friendly and were reclined so far in their seats that they were almost sat in our laps. Leg room was OK, but this was my view for the entire flight home.

Welcome to Astraeus Flight AEU 476 to Manchester. Today's flight is brought to you by the words "ignorant" and "cunts"

And now I'm back, and tomorrow's delight for my first day back at work is a trip to that stinking cesspit that is London. What a palarver! Still, at least I get to go down there first class as compensation.

I wonder if any of my work clothes fit me? I might try them on before I bother to iron them.