The north of England is no longer a safe haven for its indigenous population. For a number of years, southern asylum seekers have been migrating here to escape the ludicrous house prices and general nastiness of their origins. As a result, pockets of Manchester are now infiltrated with nasty southerners who have forced house prices up and infiltrated the populace with their Guardian-reading, lefty attitudes.
Me and Trump sometimes frequent a cafe on the high-street that offers a corking full English or Irish breakfast, along with other stuff that's a lot healthier, but doesn't prepare you for a trip to B&Q and Ikea. We went there yesterday to find that we could hardly get in for a number of huge baby buggies parked in the doorway: a group of young mothers had colonised one of the tables and were enjoying a breakfast morning. Nobody else was enjoying their breakfast morning through the random squeals of their infants and the droning rubbish coming from the mouths of the southern earth mothers. "Oh, it's so wonderful up here; I love Chorlton, but THIS part of Manchester is great. There's such a wonderful mix of social class and ethnic background - it's so rich! And the housing is wonderfully cheap. We're thinking of buying a third to let out to students." How they found the time to eat their veggie breakfasts while talking so much is beyond me.
A man in his fifties ate his lunch in solitude at the table next to the brood. Most of the group had drifted off and as the final two forced their massive buggies through the chair and table legs and people's feet, the man stopped them. "Would you ever consider going to one of those baby screamer sessions at the cinema?"
Her: "Oh yah, I used to go to one at the Ritzy in London with my first, it was fantastic. We could all relax and watch a film while the little ones just screamed - and nobody cared."
Him: "Is there anything like that in Manchester?"
Her: "I think there's something way out in Salford, but I wouldn't go THERE!"
The conversation continued and it turned out that the bloke was thinking of trying to set something up where women (and I assume men too) could take their babies to the cinema and watch the film with screaming toddler without worrying about disturbing other people.
What a load of fucking crap. If you want to watch a film, you're going to be so annoyed if somebody else's kids are screaming away and they're getting up and down to change nappies. It's just another excuse for parents to take over places where normal people could once escape from them. You can imagine them taking over cinema foyers with their stupid three wheeler buggies and then taking over the cafe afterwards.
Why can't they just stay at home and look after their kids without inflicting them on everybody else? For fuck's sake. NOBODY WANTS TO BE AROUND YOU AND YOUR OFFSPRING! If they did, they'd go to visit you, or you'd be invited around to their house. You get in everyone's way, expect special treatment and you piss people off when your baby doesn't stop screaming. Just organise a coffee morning like parents used to do, you selfish twats.
A richness in social class
These are the sort of people who live in areas that are sheltered from the realities that the rest of us endure. The "richness in social class" that they refer to are what we call "fucking scumbags" who make peoples' lives a misery. I'm sure they'd welcome the richness in social class tearing up and down the streets around their houses on mini scooters for hours on end during the summer. They'd love to meet the richness in social class in their local kebab shop and strike up a conversation with them about the latest trends for wearing sports pants just below the buttocks with the legs tucked into socks.
And they allow these people to vote.
And breed.
All hope is gone, bring on the revolution.
Saturday, 28 April 2007
Tuesday, 24 April 2007
Memmmmmreeeeeeeeeeeze
Light the corners of my mind...
Only they don't. I'm becoming increasingly furious with my inability to remember things. My short term memory is reliant on notes and electronic gadgets. Remember... Sammy Jenkiss was it? You know, that film about that bloke who had no short term memory so he had to take polaroid photos of things and people so he knew he'd seen or met them. Memorabilia... (good tunah) or something.
Anyway, as I sat watching reruns of Frasier earlier, something came to mind that I was going to have a look for on the internet. Was is something to buy, some information I was looking for? I can't remember. I'd forgotten by the time I'd found a piece of paper to write it down on.
Am I going bonkers? Is it CJD, or is it laziness, as I don't need to use my brain that much anymore.
Or is it just that it wasn't important enough to remember?
Flatpack fiasco
Check out Trump's account of the huge flatpack set of tumbling dominoes that came from Habitat.
One lump or two?
I understand that eco warrior Sheryl Crowe has suggested that we should only be allowed to use one sheet of toilet paper to wipe up after a wee and maybe two after a poo.
Stupid cunt. She may not mind going about stinking of piss and poo because of her inadequately-wiped nether regions, but I'd rather stay as clean as possible between bum washes, thankyouverymuch.
So here's a question for you all, half of it probably won't apply to blokes:
How many sheets of toilet paper do you use to clean up after:
A) A wee, or
B) A poo, or
C) Both?
And do you fold or scrunch?
Only they don't. I'm becoming increasingly furious with my inability to remember things. My short term memory is reliant on notes and electronic gadgets. Remember... Sammy Jenkiss was it? You know, that film about that bloke who had no short term memory so he had to take polaroid photos of things and people so he knew he'd seen or met them. Memorabilia... (good tunah) or something.
Anyway, as I sat watching reruns of Frasier earlier, something came to mind that I was going to have a look for on the internet. Was is something to buy, some information I was looking for? I can't remember. I'd forgotten by the time I'd found a piece of paper to write it down on.
Am I going bonkers? Is it CJD, or is it laziness, as I don't need to use my brain that much anymore.
Or is it just that it wasn't important enough to remember?
Flatpack fiasco
Check out Trump's account of the huge flatpack set of tumbling dominoes that came from Habitat.
One lump or two?
I understand that eco warrior Sheryl Crowe has suggested that we should only be allowed to use one sheet of toilet paper to wipe up after a wee and maybe two after a poo.
Stupid cunt. She may not mind going about stinking of piss and poo because of her inadequately-wiped nether regions, but I'd rather stay as clean as possible between bum washes, thankyouverymuch.
So here's a question for you all, half of it probably won't apply to blokes:
How many sheets of toilet paper do you use to clean up after:
A) A wee, or
B) A poo, or
C) Both?
And do you fold or scrunch?
Monday, 23 April 2007
Where in the world?
Where in the world could you be subjected to aural torture, incompetence and frustration for over an hour, when you're actually wanting to spend about £700?
Where in the world?
PC FUCKING WORLD, that's where. Bunch of shits.
Trump has been after a new laptop and had spotted a rather nifty model when we'd nipped in to PC World a couple of weeks ago. On that occasion, we'd been hounded by the spotty staff more than once as we browsed. "No, we're just looking thanks".
"Nice laptop, we'll look online and see if it's cheaper anywhere."
We did, and it was. But you couldn't actually buy it online, you had to reserve it, then go and pick it up. The logic of this defies all reason, but hey ho, there you go.
So on Saturday, we went to PC World, Pin Hill, Manchester, clutching the piece of paper that said we'd reserved the laptop for pickup online.
As we entered the store, we were met with the most horrendous noise as the super wide screen TV and surround sound system that was playing Shrek at full blast - a gang of monged-out toddlers staring hypnotically at the screen. Walking through the store, it became apparent that everything that made a noise was turned on full blast. Very pleasant.
We looked for somebody to help out, there wasn't anybody. A PC World store on a Saturday afternoon and no spotty geeks to help? What the hell was going on? We were told by somebody wearing a jacket (duty manager?) that he'd get somebody to help. Nobody came, the noise from the TVs, PCs, tannoys were all unbearable. Tempers were getting frayed as more people queued up for help.
An angry mob was gathering... in my head.
Where the fuck was everyone?
After an hour, the jacketed man finished dealing with the bloke who he'd helped pay for something after trying four credit cards and a finance deal. "Has nobody come to help?"
"Err, no" Actually, we like standing here getting increasingly annoyed while being offended by all the fucking noise in here, so we're just hanging out.
"I'll go and get somebody".
He arrived, as did a number of other youths who must've been in the staff room, surfing porn.
"We've reserved one of these and would like to buy one please" Trump showed him the paper.
"Errm, there's no reference number on here, we need a reference number. Have you already paid for it online?"
"No, it won't let you pay for it or order it online, you can only reserve it and come and collect it."
"Well, we can't give you the online price without the reference number. This banner advert has printed over it."
"So you're telling us that the advert from your site has printed over the reference number?"
"It appears to have done that yes."
"Well, let us on the internet here and we'll get another reference number."
"We can't do that."
"But you must have a PC with internet access here?"
"We can't do that, you'll have to go and print it out to get the reference number and come back."
"I don't think so"
I turned on my heel and walked out.
Here are some suggestions for PC World:
Makes my blood boil.
Tossers.
Tomorrow: Flatpack fun and frolics with Habitat.
Where in the world?
PC FUCKING WORLD, that's where. Bunch of shits.
Trump has been after a new laptop and had spotted a rather nifty model when we'd nipped in to PC World a couple of weeks ago. On that occasion, we'd been hounded by the spotty staff more than once as we browsed. "No, we're just looking thanks".
"Nice laptop, we'll look online and see if it's cheaper anywhere."
We did, and it was. But you couldn't actually buy it online, you had to reserve it, then go and pick it up. The logic of this defies all reason, but hey ho, there you go.
So on Saturday, we went to PC World, Pin Hill, Manchester, clutching the piece of paper that said we'd reserved the laptop for pickup online.
As we entered the store, we were met with the most horrendous noise as the super wide screen TV and surround sound system that was playing Shrek at full blast - a gang of monged-out toddlers staring hypnotically at the screen. Walking through the store, it became apparent that everything that made a noise was turned on full blast. Very pleasant.
We looked for somebody to help out, there wasn't anybody. A PC World store on a Saturday afternoon and no spotty geeks to help? What the hell was going on? We were told by somebody wearing a jacket (duty manager?) that he'd get somebody to help. Nobody came, the noise from the TVs, PCs, tannoys were all unbearable. Tempers were getting frayed as more people queued up for help.
An angry mob was gathering... in my head.
Where the fuck was everyone?
After an hour, the jacketed man finished dealing with the bloke who he'd helped pay for something after trying four credit cards and a finance deal. "Has nobody come to help?"
"Err, no" Actually, we like standing here getting increasingly annoyed while being offended by all the fucking noise in here, so we're just hanging out.
"I'll go and get somebody".
He arrived, as did a number of other youths who must've been in the staff room, surfing porn.
"We've reserved one of these and would like to buy one please" Trump showed him the paper.
"Errm, there's no reference number on here, we need a reference number. Have you already paid for it online?"
"No, it won't let you pay for it or order it online, you can only reserve it and come and collect it."
"Well, we can't give you the online price without the reference number. This banner advert has printed over it."
"So you're telling us that the advert from your site has printed over the reference number?"
"It appears to have done that yes."
"Well, let us on the internet here and we'll get another reference number."
"We can't do that."
"But you must have a PC with internet access here?"
"We can't do that, you'll have to go and print it out to get the reference number and come back."
"I don't think so"
I turned on my heel and walked out.
Here are some suggestions for PC World:
- Don't have exclusive online offers unless you're going to let people actually BUY things online
- Don't have banners ads that cover the oh-so-important reference number when you print the bloody page
- Turn off all the sodding TVs in your shops. In fact, you're a PC shop, sell PCs not tellies, arseholes
- Train your staff to come and help people when they need it, and not hassle them when they're just browsing
Makes my blood boil.
Tossers.
Tomorrow: Flatpack fun and frolics with Habitat.
Thursday, 19 April 2007
Chase you with a ladle
I'm not sure how you spell ladle ; that doesn't look right some how.
Ok, so it's a hockey stick and not a ladle, but the image sums up the out of control cat from the Bear comics. I have an out of control cat on my lap right now. Otto does a very good impression of a pyjama case...
...as does my arse. But soon enough I shall be back into my fit, fit, FIT ways as I start exercising again. I have no excuse either since I've just discovered that I can transfer my gym membership to the one near Chez Trump. Oh lordy, the accounts of pain I shall be recounting here.
Little Con
She is five weeks old today. She doesn't half whinge alot. I think my sister's breast milk is poisonous and they are cries for help. "Please give me a bottle, my Mum's boob is toxic!!!"
I'm sure she must be ready to try her first Pot Noodle.
Off
I'm off work for a week from tomorrow. Yay! Activities will include:
...as does my arse. But soon enough I shall be back into my fit, fit, FIT ways as I start exercising again. I have no excuse either since I've just discovered that I can transfer my gym membership to the one near Chez Trump. Oh lordy, the accounts of pain I shall be recounting here.
Little Con
She is five weeks old today. She doesn't half whinge alot. I think my sister's breast milk is poisonous and they are cries for help. "Please give me a bottle, my Mum's boob is toxic!!!"
I'm sure she must be ready to try her first Pot Noodle.
Off
I'm off work for a week from tomorrow. Yay! Activities will include:
- Waiting in for a delivery
- Going up to Barrow
- Coming back from Barrow
- Stripping Trump's bathroom
- Getting some repairs done on the car
- Watching somebody do some decorating at Trump's
- Eating vast amounts of chick pea curry at the Nawab Indian buffet
- Moving stuff into Trump's so I can officially become a kept woman
Wednesday, 18 April 2007
A match made in hell
Tesco and Esso
Why on earth did Esso hand over the franchise for its petrol stations to Tesco? Instead of having a filling station that has eight to ten pumps, with a little shop that sells fags, chocolates and magazines at high prices, we now have these useless fucking things with three fuel pumps attached to a Tesco express.
Picture the scene:
I feel shame for being rude to the assistant who served me, but anger at Tesco for making me feel this way.
And they don't accept Clubcard on petrol sales.
Cunts.
Comments
Since I am currently incarcerated in Base 2a and I can't access Blogger to comment or post, I am unable to answer comments made about my previous post other than here in an "e-mail" post. So here we go:
Tazzy and Piggy, yes, it was the Spinners who sang The ink is black, but I didn't want to embarrass myself by admitting that I knew this. What a great song to instil the values of equality and symbiosis in the minds of youngsters who would not encounter a black or ethnic minority person until they were at least 11. Please add it to the T&P playlist, it'll be a hit. I might drive through BNP stronghold areas and play it really loudly through my car stereo, or tannoy.
Loz - we had plenty of hymns that we sang, both traditional and modern hippy ones, but our favourites were still singing along to Peter Paul and Mary and the Spinners and the New Seekers. But it was strange how, when I was listening to Go tell it on the mountain last night, that my sister said it reminded her of our primary school. There was another song with the lines "Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, let my people go" - or perhaps I'm getting a few songs mixed up. Another one mentioned "So high you can't get over it, so low, you can't get under it", but I can't remember the rest. Perhaps it was actually a curse upon the size of my arse for years to come. Who knows?
Piggy, yes, I am looking a little fatter around the chops and everywhere else. I need to get back to the gym, which I haven't really attended for some time. It will happen once my life is a little more settled. Cunt.
Piggy again. I have no idea what the fuck happened to my eyebrows in that photo, but I don't think they looked like that in real life. I'm hoping it's a trick of the angle. I'll just go and check... if you saw them closer, you'd notice that the hairs on my right eyebrow stick up at the end near my nose and this gives the impression that the eyebrow is thinner than the left one. There are the same numbers of hairs there, they just go in a different direction.
Piggy again. You're a total shit
Mass shootings
While the events at Virginia Tech were horrific, I found it odd that state leaders rushed to send out messages of support and sympathy, where none are becoming when folk get massacred in their hundreds every day because of the mess that has been made in Iraq.
Scotch eggs
Are scotch eggs the work of the devil? Having just eaten TWO for my lunch, I feel the need flagellate myself before a life-sized image of Nigella Lawson to absolve myself of this terrible sin. Perhaps I have the urge to do this anyway.
Scotch eggs are dirty food - food that you really shouldn't touch with the longest of bargepoles for the sake of all that is good - but dirty food is so very necessary at times. Other dirty food includes:
Do people ever have cravings for things like apples or muesli? Do they bollocks.
Anyhoo, I'm going to hit send and see if this appears on my blog.
Why on earth did Esso hand over the franchise for its petrol stations to Tesco? Instead of having a filling station that has eight to ten pumps, with a little shop that sells fags, chocolates and magazines at high prices, we now have these useless fucking things with three fuel pumps attached to a Tesco express.
Picture the scene:
- Sniffy leaves for work at 7.20 and realises that she'll have to get petrol in order to get to work. She curses the relies who were visiting the previous evening, who had blocked her car on the drive and who didn't leave until 12.30.
- She drives to the Tesco/Esso filling station on the top road. There's a queue of cars trying to get to the three pumps while avoiding people parking to go in to do their weekly shop, and the delivery truck that's blocking half the forecourt.
- Eventually a pump comes free as somebody moves the car they've parked there while doing their shop.
- She puts £10 worth of unleaded in the tank and runs in to pay.
- Two tills are open and there's a queue, she stands, tenner in hand, hopeful of a quick payment.
- As she stands next in line for a till, one checkout assistant leaves his till, leaving Sniffy to wait behind somebody who is getting their weekly shop.
- FUCKERS!
- Sniffy finally gets to the till, says "Number 1!" and thrusts tenner into the hand of the assistant.
- Turning on her heel, Sniffy is stuck behind Mr Weekly shop as he stands to check his receipt in front of her.
I feel shame for being rude to the assistant who served me, but anger at Tesco for making me feel this way.
And they don't accept Clubcard on petrol sales.
Cunts.
Comments
Since I am currently incarcerated in Base 2a and I can't access Blogger to comment or post, I am unable to answer comments made about my previous post other than here in an "e-mail" post. So here we go:
Tazzy and Piggy, yes, it was the Spinners who sang The ink is black, but I didn't want to embarrass myself by admitting that I knew this. What a great song to instil the values of equality and symbiosis in the minds of youngsters who would not encounter a black or ethnic minority person until they were at least 11. Please add it to the T&P playlist, it'll be a hit. I might drive through BNP stronghold areas and play it really loudly through my car stereo, or tannoy.
Loz - we had plenty of hymns that we sang, both traditional and modern hippy ones, but our favourites were still singing along to Peter Paul and Mary and the Spinners and the New Seekers. But it was strange how, when I was listening to Go tell it on the mountain last night, that my sister said it reminded her of our primary school. There was another song with the lines "Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, let my people go" - or perhaps I'm getting a few songs mixed up. Another one mentioned "So high you can't get over it, so low, you can't get under it", but I can't remember the rest. Perhaps it was actually a curse upon the size of my arse for years to come. Who knows?
Piggy, yes, I am looking a little fatter around the chops and everywhere else. I need to get back to the gym, which I haven't really attended for some time. It will happen once my life is a little more settled. Cunt.
Piggy again. I have no idea what the fuck happened to my eyebrows in that photo, but I don't think they looked like that in real life. I'm hoping it's a trick of the angle. I'll just go and check... if you saw them closer, you'd notice that the hairs on my right eyebrow stick up at the end near my nose and this gives the impression that the eyebrow is thinner than the left one. There are the same numbers of hairs there, they just go in a different direction.
Piggy again. You're a total shit
Mass shootings
While the events at Virginia Tech were horrific, I found it odd that state leaders rushed to send out messages of support and sympathy, where none are becoming when folk get massacred in their hundreds every day because of the mess that has been made in Iraq.
Scotch eggs
Are scotch eggs the work of the devil? Having just eaten TWO for my lunch, I feel the need flagellate myself before a life-sized image of Nigella Lawson to absolve myself of this terrible sin. Perhaps I have the urge to do this anyway.
Scotch eggs are dirty food - food that you really shouldn't touch with the longest of bargepoles for the sake of all that is good - but dirty food is so very necessary at times. Other dirty food includes:
- Gala pie
- Sausages
- Bacon barm
- Steak and kidney pudding
- Pot Noodle
- Kebab
- Fried bread
Do people ever have cravings for things like apples or muesli? Do they bollocks.
Anyhoo, I'm going to hit send and see if this appears on my blog.
Tuesday, 17 April 2007
If I had a hammer
I'd most likely use it on somebody's skull.
But apart from that, for some reason, I've been having flashbacks to my childhood; to the uncomplicated days of the early seventies, where in primary school they made us sing along to the timeless classics of Peter, Paul and Mary.
To much concern from Trump, I downloaded the wonderful tunes If I had a hammer and Go tell it on the mountain followed by I'd like to teach the world to sing from the New Seekers, or Seekers - whoever.
These were the songs that we sand along to when we were nippers, along with The ink is black from fuck knows who. All good, wholesome stuff for impressionable four year olds.
I wonder what went wrong with me.
I wonder how many people would take out their colleagues or collegemates with automatic weapons if guns were readily available in the UK.
Wi-Fi theft
A couple of people have been successfully prosecuted after stealing people's wireless internet connections. One culprit aroused suspicion by sitting in his car outside a house and covering his windows with cardboard while he surfed away. Remind you of anything?
But what a nob, fancy doing it in open view of everyone rather than from behind closed doors (like the rest of us do).
And people who don't enable security on their wireless networks deserve to have people piggybacking them and stealing their bandwidth.
Stupid fucktards.
Full house
There's a full house here at Chez Sniffy tonight. I can't cope. I am hiding in the little room (study/spare bedroom, not toilet) to escape. Both of my cameras are drawing much attention from gadget loving rellies. I love it when people covet my ox, especially people with a penchant for one-upmanship. Although it does run the risk of me having to talk to people when I'm not feeling particularly communicative.
Hey ho.
Hair bear update
Despite having a pathological hatred and fear of hairdressers, I let my hormonal and tired sister cut my hair the other day. Here are the before and after shots.
Oh, I haven't got any before shots because we only take photos of newborn babies these days, but here's the after:
But apart from that, for some reason, I've been having flashbacks to my childhood; to the uncomplicated days of the early seventies, where in primary school they made us sing along to the timeless classics of Peter, Paul and Mary.
To much concern from Trump, I downloaded the wonderful tunes If I had a hammer and Go tell it on the mountain followed by I'd like to teach the world to sing from the New Seekers, or Seekers - whoever.
These were the songs that we sand along to when we were nippers, along with The ink is black from fuck knows who. All good, wholesome stuff for impressionable four year olds.
I wonder what went wrong with me.
I wonder how many people would take out their colleagues or collegemates with automatic weapons if guns were readily available in the UK.
Wi-Fi theft
A couple of people have been successfully prosecuted after stealing people's wireless internet connections. One culprit aroused suspicion by sitting in his car outside a house and covering his windows with cardboard while he surfed away. Remind you of anything?
But what a nob, fancy doing it in open view of everyone rather than from behind closed doors (like the rest of us do).
And people who don't enable security on their wireless networks deserve to have people piggybacking them and stealing their bandwidth.
Stupid fucktards.
Full house
There's a full house here at Chez Sniffy tonight. I can't cope. I am hiding in the little room (study/spare bedroom, not toilet) to escape. Both of my cameras are drawing much attention from gadget loving rellies. I love it when people covet my ox, especially people with a penchant for one-upmanship. Although it does run the risk of me having to talk to people when I'm not feeling particularly communicative.
Hey ho.
Hair bear update
Despite having a pathological hatred and fear of hairdressers, I let my hormonal and tired sister cut my hair the other day. Here are the before and after shots.
Oh, I haven't got any before shots because we only take photos of newborn babies these days, but here's the after:
Hairdressers? Pfhah!
Thursday, 12 April 2007
This is a test
After the timely reminder from Convict, I thought I'd try posting to my blog via e-mail. Last time I tried this, it took 3 days for anything to appear.
Ha! Success in abundance!!!! Those fuckers in the NHS tried to stop me, but Blogger shall prevail in the hearts and minds of the bored millions as they watch the office clocks and count down their dismal lives in terms of home times and pay days.
Ha! Success in abundance!!!! Those fuckers in the NHS tried to stop me, but Blogger shall prevail in the hearts and minds of the bored millions as they watch the office clocks and count down their dismal lives in terms of home times and pay days.
Have you got the decorators in?
There’s a report in the news this morning about a standard appraisal questionnaire, used for staff in the Indian Civil Service, that has caused a bit of an uproar. Apparently, it asks women about their menstrual cycles and when the last time they were off with “confinement” (mat leave). The women who are subject to undertaking the survey as part of their annual appraisals are apoplectic with rage, but give them a few days and they’ll probably calm down once their progesterone levels settle down.
Ho ho ho.
Sleeeeeeeeeeep
I decided to come to Base 2a today. I couldn’t face the other place for some reason and, despite coming here involving a 30mile drive, I get half an hour extra in bed and I can wear my jeans and lesbian shoes (since there’s barely anybody here). I don’t know why they do, but the extra bed minutes count a lot when you’re so tired.
Sleep isn’t coming easily at the moment. At home, I get woken by a crying baby – well, not so much the crying baby, but its grandmother who leaps out of bed to assist as soon as her “mum radar” kicks in to detect the slightest bit of moses basket disturbance. Once I’m awake there, I notice the birdsong outside, which now starts at about 3am. At Trump’s, the local demographic seems to include some very nocturnal and very loud men from somewhere in Africa (from the sounds of their accents) who choose to stand in the street and have lengthy conversations at all times of the night. You know those deep and booming voices that certain blokes have? Well, those ones. It’s strange really, because if they made that sort of noise in the Serengeti, they’d be lion bate. Not that all men who originate from Africa here in the UK come from the Serengeti or anything, just the ones who come here to escape repeated nocturnal lion attacks.
Anyway, back to Base 2a. The fuckers have blocked Blogger access, so I can no longer post from here (I can’t even READ T&Ps’ pages from here – they have a firm “ACCESS DENIED” slapped on them). Instead, I have to write things in Word to upload later. Things kind of lose their vitriolic edge this way, as I tend to have calmed down once I am away from the incessant onslaught of insanity. But hey ho, it’s better than trying to fight with Microsoft Access, and typing in Word at least makes it look like I’m working.
Down tools!
I think most people have it hard in the workplace, none more so than our poor beleaguered teachers. Apparently, they’re going to refuse to work once classroom temperatures rise above 26°C. Bless their cotton socks, or sandaled feet, or whatever it is they wear these days. Let’s face it, we won’t get our first proper hot day until June and by this time of year, most teachers are already winding down their classes in readiness for the exam season and summer break. Perhaps they find it too hard to invigilate over students taking exams when it’s a bit warm. When you think about it, sitting at a desk at the front of a sports hall doing fuck all while a bunch of stressed out kids work through exam papers really saps your energy.
From May onwards, primary school teachers just fuck about outside doing “nature projects” or sports events. We’ve all been school children; we know what it’s like.
Hair bare
My phobia of hairdressers is getting worse. It’s getting to the stage where I’d rather look (even more) like Ronald McDonald than just bite the bullet and go and get it cut. I just never know how to describe what I want and they never seem to know what to do anyway. So I am currently suffering from something akin to an overgrown curly mullet. How do you tell them what you want, especially when you’re not sure yourself? And hairdressers are hardly the most attentive people on the planet are they? All that seems to be going around their heads are thoughts of:
a) Going out at the weekend
b) Going away on holiday
c) Latest bargains from Primark
All other intellectual activity has long since been obliterated by overexposure to hair styling chemicals. The combination of lack of residual synapses plus them being confronted with my hair leads to total sensory overload and meltdown, resulting in Sniffy looking like Elaine Paige.
So I find myself at the mercy of my sister and her hormones. She doesn’t do a bad job, but she won’t cut my hair short enough. Trump has now offered to pay for me to get my hair cut. I’m tempted to take her up on this offer and go to either:
a) The bloke in Afleck’s Palace who wears loads of makeup and talks a lot, or
b) The hairdressers in “The Village”, where they’ll probably try to make the most of my hair’s innate ability to grow in a mullet
What a life.
Ho ho ho.
Sleeeeeeeeeeep
I decided to come to Base 2a today. I couldn’t face the other place for some reason and, despite coming here involving a 30mile drive, I get half an hour extra in bed and I can wear my jeans and lesbian shoes (since there’s barely anybody here). I don’t know why they do, but the extra bed minutes count a lot when you’re so tired.
Sleep isn’t coming easily at the moment. At home, I get woken by a crying baby – well, not so much the crying baby, but its grandmother who leaps out of bed to assist as soon as her “mum radar” kicks in to detect the slightest bit of moses basket disturbance. Once I’m awake there, I notice the birdsong outside, which now starts at about 3am. At Trump’s, the local demographic seems to include some very nocturnal and very loud men from somewhere in Africa (from the sounds of their accents) who choose to stand in the street and have lengthy conversations at all times of the night. You know those deep and booming voices that certain blokes have? Well, those ones. It’s strange really, because if they made that sort of noise in the Serengeti, they’d be lion bate. Not that all men who originate from Africa here in the UK come from the Serengeti or anything, just the ones who come here to escape repeated nocturnal lion attacks.
Anyway, back to Base 2a. The fuckers have blocked Blogger access, so I can no longer post from here (I can’t even READ T&Ps’ pages from here – they have a firm “ACCESS DENIED” slapped on them). Instead, I have to write things in Word to upload later. Things kind of lose their vitriolic edge this way, as I tend to have calmed down once I am away from the incessant onslaught of insanity. But hey ho, it’s better than trying to fight with Microsoft Access, and typing in Word at least makes it look like I’m working.
Down tools!
I think most people have it hard in the workplace, none more so than our poor beleaguered teachers. Apparently, they’re going to refuse to work once classroom temperatures rise above 26°C. Bless their cotton socks, or sandaled feet, or whatever it is they wear these days. Let’s face it, we won’t get our first proper hot day until June and by this time of year, most teachers are already winding down their classes in readiness for the exam season and summer break. Perhaps they find it too hard to invigilate over students taking exams when it’s a bit warm. When you think about it, sitting at a desk at the front of a sports hall doing fuck all while a bunch of stressed out kids work through exam papers really saps your energy.
From May onwards, primary school teachers just fuck about outside doing “nature projects” or sports events. We’ve all been school children; we know what it’s like.
Hair bare
My phobia of hairdressers is getting worse. It’s getting to the stage where I’d rather look (even more) like Ronald McDonald than just bite the bullet and go and get it cut. I just never know how to describe what I want and they never seem to know what to do anyway. So I am currently suffering from something akin to an overgrown curly mullet. How do you tell them what you want, especially when you’re not sure yourself? And hairdressers are hardly the most attentive people on the planet are they? All that seems to be going around their heads are thoughts of:
a) Going out at the weekend
b) Going away on holiday
c) Latest bargains from Primark
All other intellectual activity has long since been obliterated by overexposure to hair styling chemicals. The combination of lack of residual synapses plus them being confronted with my hair leads to total sensory overload and meltdown, resulting in Sniffy looking like Elaine Paige.
So I find myself at the mercy of my sister and her hormones. She doesn’t do a bad job, but she won’t cut my hair short enough. Trump has now offered to pay for me to get my hair cut. I’m tempted to take her up on this offer and go to either:
a) The bloke in Afleck’s Palace who wears loads of makeup and talks a lot, or
b) The hairdressers in “The Village”, where they’ll probably try to make the most of my hair’s innate ability to grow in a mullet
What a life.
Wednesday, 11 April 2007
What a dish
“Getting warm up here isn’t it?Whooph!”
The clouds have cleared and as we approach mid afternoon, the sun is shining.
It’s too warm for a jumper and a coat, but it is really pleasant in the April air, with a gentle breeze to freshen things up.
Posh Scouse will be in linen and sole-slapping flip flops tomorrow, complaining about the heat and demanding that all windows and doors be opened from 8am. I’m glad I won’t be here to witness it.
What a great plate of food
I’m getting to really dislike cookery programmes on TV. That’s not strictly true; I only really dislike anything with Antony Worrall Dwarf-face (mumbling little shit) in it and “Masterchef”.
Hosted by two of the most repellent men to have been let loose on the UK’s telly-viewing public, Masterchef pits amateur cooking enthusiasts against each other in a competition to win something like a cheese grater or something. It’s a great idea for a programme, and quite enjoyable apart from the nob judges, John Torode and Gregg Wallace.
Utter fucking twats, the pair of them. One is a toad-faced prat while the other (Torode) is a po-faced big-head who is incapable of stringing sentences together, opting merely for adjectives.
Clip from the show:
Wallace: “Right, let’s have a look at this plate of food that you’ve prepared. Hmm it’s a simple salad of shredded pan-fried duck on Thai greens and a chilli dressing. I love the way the dressing cuts through the fat in the duck. It’s really out there.”
Torode: “I’m getting: duck, green, leaves, meatiness, lemongrass. A great plate of food”
And it never matters how “really out there” any of the women contestants are, they ALWAYS choose a man as the winner.
A couple of things that particularly annoy me are:
“plate of food”
“cuts through”
“This is a wonderful salad dressing whereby the lime gives a gentle flavour, while having the acidity to cut through the wonderful olive oil without diluting its flavour.”
Oh fuck off you fucking stuck-up spastic.
You hear the same thing with people tasting wine to accompany a dish (sorry, plate of food). “This is a great wine that stands up in its own right, but is great for cutting through all those wonderful fats in the dish.”
Well, try a can of Pepsi Max pal, that’d cut through your stomach lining, teeth and bones!
Have toy
Yes, Sniffy has a new toy. I’ve finally got myself a digital SLR camera. It is divine. There’s a kind of connection between the user and the camera that means you can feel each shot as it’s taken. A beautiful bit of gadgetry courtesy of Canon.
I hope to be taking lots of photos, ably assisted by Trump, who can look out for bandits while I compose shots and the like. In anticipation of her not being mad keen on the idea, I’m also checking out a camera club and I might meet some new friends. I’m not really one for meeting new people, since most people are cocks, but I’ll give it a go. I don’t have to talk to any of them.
Keep Sniffy in gadgets
I’m thinking of having a Paypal “donate” button on here so people can donate a pound at a time and contribute to my gadget fund.
Blogging code of conduct
I know that the filthy Yorkshire homos have already covered this, and very eloquently too, but this is something that’s hovering in the news and is getting me a bit annoyed – let’s face it, it doesn’t take much.
Essentially, some woman in America has a blog or something that isn’t really a blog because it’s actually a commercial enterprise, but she posts her daily musings on there and invites comments from her adoring readership. I can’t even be arsed to find out what her name is or what her blog is called, but we’ve all seen this sort of shite before when we’ve clicked on the “next blog” button. Anyroadup, somebody has been leaving threatening comments on her blog and she’s got upset and some people have come out in support of her and have demonstrated their support by suspending posts to their own sites. These same people, whoever the fuck they are, have come out and proposed a Blogging code of conduct. Excuse me, but who died and put them in charge?
Tossers.
In some respects, you can have a modicum of sympathy because the woman in question was targeted at her own site. What I don’t understand is how people have the audacity to complain and get offended by blogs that they visit voluntarily, especially when the blog author gives it back to them. For a “frexample”, check out the comments on the following posts.
Arise, Sir Bonio
Blasted from the past, and when I stopped allowing comments on this post, she found me at:
The very best of British
And just for fun, Solitary mind games
As you can see, I am sometimes targeted by a Cliff Richard-loving visitor from Alabama, who never leaves a link to their own blog and rarely leaves a name.
If you ask me, any blogging code of conduct should include the obvious clause that if you leave a critical comment on somebody’s blog, expect it back at least ten-fold.
Tossers.
The clouds have cleared and as we approach mid afternoon, the sun is shining.
It’s too warm for a jumper and a coat, but it is really pleasant in the April air, with a gentle breeze to freshen things up.
Posh Scouse will be in linen and sole-slapping flip flops tomorrow, complaining about the heat and demanding that all windows and doors be opened from 8am. I’m glad I won’t be here to witness it.
What a great plate of food
I’m getting to really dislike cookery programmes on TV. That’s not strictly true; I only really dislike anything with Antony Worrall Dwarf-face (mumbling little shit) in it and “Masterchef”.
Hosted by two of the most repellent men to have been let loose on the UK’s telly-viewing public, Masterchef pits amateur cooking enthusiasts against each other in a competition to win something like a cheese grater or something. It’s a great idea for a programme, and quite enjoyable apart from the nob judges, John Torode and Gregg Wallace.
Utter fucking twats, the pair of them. One is a toad-faced prat while the other (Torode) is a po-faced big-head who is incapable of stringing sentences together, opting merely for adjectives.
Clip from the show:
Wallace: “Right, let’s have a look at this plate of food that you’ve prepared. Hmm it’s a simple salad of shredded pan-fried duck on Thai greens and a chilli dressing. I love the way the dressing cuts through the fat in the duck. It’s really out there.”
Torode: “I’m getting: duck, green, leaves, meatiness, lemongrass. A great plate of food”
And it never matters how “really out there” any of the women contestants are, they ALWAYS choose a man as the winner.
A couple of things that particularly annoy me are:
“plate of food”
“cuts through”
“This is a wonderful salad dressing whereby the lime gives a gentle flavour, while having the acidity to cut through the wonderful olive oil without diluting its flavour.”
Oh fuck off you fucking stuck-up spastic.
You hear the same thing with people tasting wine to accompany a dish (sorry, plate of food). “This is a great wine that stands up in its own right, but is great for cutting through all those wonderful fats in the dish.”
Well, try a can of Pepsi Max pal, that’d cut through your stomach lining, teeth and bones!
Have toy
Yes, Sniffy has a new toy. I’ve finally got myself a digital SLR camera. It is divine. There’s a kind of connection between the user and the camera that means you can feel each shot as it’s taken. A beautiful bit of gadgetry courtesy of Canon.
I hope to be taking lots of photos, ably assisted by Trump, who can look out for bandits while I compose shots and the like. In anticipation of her not being mad keen on the idea, I’m also checking out a camera club and I might meet some new friends. I’m not really one for meeting new people, since most people are cocks, but I’ll give it a go. I don’t have to talk to any of them.
Keep Sniffy in gadgets
I’m thinking of having a Paypal “donate” button on here so people can donate a pound at a time and contribute to my gadget fund.
Blogging code of conduct
I know that the filthy Yorkshire homos have already covered this, and very eloquently too, but this is something that’s hovering in the news and is getting me a bit annoyed – let’s face it, it doesn’t take much.
Essentially, some woman in America has a blog or something that isn’t really a blog because it’s actually a commercial enterprise, but she posts her daily musings on there and invites comments from her adoring readership. I can’t even be arsed to find out what her name is or what her blog is called, but we’ve all seen this sort of shite before when we’ve clicked on the “next blog” button. Anyroadup, somebody has been leaving threatening comments on her blog and she’s got upset and some people have come out in support of her and have demonstrated their support by suspending posts to their own sites. These same people, whoever the fuck they are, have come out and proposed a Blogging code of conduct. Excuse me, but who died and put them in charge?
Tossers.
In some respects, you can have a modicum of sympathy because the woman in question was targeted at her own site. What I don’t understand is how people have the audacity to complain and get offended by blogs that they visit voluntarily, especially when the blog author gives it back to them. For a “frexample”, check out the comments on the following posts.
Arise, Sir Bonio
Blasted from the past, and when I stopped allowing comments on this post, she found me at:
The very best of British
And just for fun, Solitary mind games
As you can see, I am sometimes targeted by a Cliff Richard-loving visitor from Alabama, who never leaves a link to their own blog and rarely leaves a name.
If you ask me, any blogging code of conduct should include the obvious clause that if you leave a critical comment on somebody’s blog, expect it back at least ten-fold.
Tossers.
Friday, 6 April 2007
Tuesday, 3 April 2007
Gas
Babies are crap at burping. I'd have thought that anything spawned of my bilious sister would have no trouble letting rip, but Little Con doesn't burp, so she gets trapped wind and then her tummy hurts.
Blah, blah, new parent diary shite.
But have you seen the crap that people peddle to new parents? You can buy DVDs showing you how to wind a baby. The demonstrations show people doing exactly what you do anyway, with a model child that is obviously sedated with strong opiates. It doesn't work with the Sniffy infant. Then again, her mother's milk might just well be very bitter and poisonous and she could well be better off being bottle fed.
It's weird though, how we are so eager to congratulate a belching or farting infant, yet this turns into admonishment as soon as the poor child learns a language and starts to develop manners. Well, this happens in some houses, but I still congratulate myself on every loud or noxious trump.
Ripper!
Excitement
Tomorrow marks the first anniversary of the day when I met my lovely, gorgeous, funny, kind, compassionate, clever, trumpy Trump. It's been a wonderful year and I am very lucky.
What should I do to mark the occasion? I have planned very very badly indeed. In fact, I haven't planned at all. I am hoping for some inspiration by the time we mark our official anniversary of when we started seeing each other... officially, i.e. when we became a couple after she split from her missus. This happens at the weekend. She was a quick worker.
Blah, blah, new parent diary shite.
But have you seen the crap that people peddle to new parents? You can buy DVDs showing you how to wind a baby. The demonstrations show people doing exactly what you do anyway, with a model child that is obviously sedated with strong opiates. It doesn't work with the Sniffy infant. Then again, her mother's milk might just well be very bitter and poisonous and she could well be better off being bottle fed.
It's weird though, how we are so eager to congratulate a belching or farting infant, yet this turns into admonishment as soon as the poor child learns a language and starts to develop manners. Well, this happens in some houses, but I still congratulate myself on every loud or noxious trump.
Ripper!
Excitement
Tomorrow marks the first anniversary of the day when I met my lovely, gorgeous, funny, kind, compassionate, clever, trumpy Trump. It's been a wonderful year and I am very lucky.
What should I do to mark the occasion? I have planned very very badly indeed. In fact, I haven't planned at all. I am hoping for some inspiration by the time we mark our official anniversary of when we started seeing each other... officially, i.e. when we became a couple after she split from her missus. This happens at the weekend. She was a quick worker.
Sunday, 1 April 2007
Wild in the country
Now that spring has finally arrived and the sun is shining on us (all be it with freezing cold gale-force winds) I thought I should persuade Trump to venture out of the urban sprawl of the city and have a wander where the air is clean. It's not far to go to get to the edge of the Cheshire countryside, so we headed off to Lyme Park "Just for a wander round, nothing strenuous", I promised her.
As we got into the car to set off, I noticed that there was a touch more than a gentle breeze. Once we arrived and we opened the car doors, trying not to worry about the people wearing winter fleeces and woolly hats, we caught a blast of arctic air that said "You're not wearing the right clothes for this weather!". I found my emergency "cardie of much mirth" and thin rain coat in the boot of my car. The cardie just about kept out the freezing cold wind for me, but I felt for Trump in her t shirt and double layer of painfully thin jackets. We needed coffee before we could do anything else. I hugged a radiator in the hope that residual heat would be retained in the fibres of my cardie.
"Come on! If we walk up to The Cage, there's a deer sanctuary and a nice view, we just need to go up this hill." She looked up the hill and the mud-covered steps that we were to use to ascend it, her mood darkened, she got a face on. We walked in near silence for twenty minutes, with Trump kicking the odd stone at unsuspecting children up ahead of us. We got to the deer sanctuary, I decided we should turn back.
She always told me she didn't like the countryside, I thought she was having me on. She wasn't. Not even cute puppies could lighten her mood, which only lifted as we approached the coffee shop. But she was freezing, and she had warned me. What she DIDN'T tell me until it was too late was that she'd have liked to have gone around the stately home that sits in the park. Tsk.
Anyway, all was well once well once we returned to the land of walkers in matching fleeces and walking skewers (some even had two!), and I FINALLY got a photo that I've been thinking about for some time:
As we got into the car to set off, I noticed that there was a touch more than a gentle breeze. Once we arrived and we opened the car doors, trying not to worry about the people wearing winter fleeces and woolly hats, we caught a blast of arctic air that said "You're not wearing the right clothes for this weather!". I found my emergency "cardie of much mirth" and thin rain coat in the boot of my car. The cardie just about kept out the freezing cold wind for me, but I felt for Trump in her t shirt and double layer of painfully thin jackets. We needed coffee before we could do anything else. I hugged a radiator in the hope that residual heat would be retained in the fibres of my cardie.
"Come on! If we walk up to The Cage, there's a deer sanctuary and a nice view, we just need to go up this hill." She looked up the hill and the mud-covered steps that we were to use to ascend it, her mood darkened, she got a face on. We walked in near silence for twenty minutes, with Trump kicking the odd stone at unsuspecting children up ahead of us. We got to the deer sanctuary, I decided we should turn back.
She always told me she didn't like the countryside, I thought she was having me on. She wasn't. Not even cute puppies could lighten her mood, which only lifted as we approached the coffee shop. But she was freezing, and she had warned me. What she DIDN'T tell me until it was too late was that she'd have liked to have gone around the stately home that sits in the park. Tsk.
Anyway, all was well once well once we returned to the land of walkers in matching fleeces and walking skewers (some even had two!), and I FINALLY got a photo that I've been thinking about for some time:
Cool eh?
Timewarp
It was a day of contrasts with our evening plans being centred around seeing the fabulous Sugababes in concert. We decided to eat out and I fancied returning to a restaurant that la famiglia Sniffy used to frequent when there was only one Italian restaurant in the whole of Manchester.
I don't know whether it was comforting or disturbing to note that Pizzeria Italia hadn't changed one tiny bit since the last time I was there thirty years ago. Everything was exactly the same, including the menu and crockery. The queue outside the door to get in was an indicator that the proprietors had found a winning formula forty years ago and they were jolly well going to stick to it. Good for them, but not quite good enough for me.
Push the button
Sugababes were ace. Enough said. Actually I'd like to add that seeing three very attractive young ladies virtually pole dancing while singing - to me - was an excellent way to spend an hour and half. Well done girls.
Timewarp
It was a day of contrasts with our evening plans being centred around seeing the fabulous Sugababes in concert. We decided to eat out and I fancied returning to a restaurant that la famiglia Sniffy used to frequent when there was only one Italian restaurant in the whole of Manchester.
I don't know whether it was comforting or disturbing to note that Pizzeria Italia hadn't changed one tiny bit since the last time I was there thirty years ago. Everything was exactly the same, including the menu and crockery. The queue outside the door to get in was an indicator that the proprietors had found a winning formula forty years ago and they were jolly well going to stick to it. Good for them, but not quite good enough for me.
Push the button
Sugababes were ace. Enough said. Actually I'd like to add that seeing three very attractive young ladies virtually pole dancing while singing - to me - was an excellent way to spend an hour and half. Well done girls.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)