Under the hammer horror

It's great to know that a new batch of Hammer Horrors will be getting churned out. Fantastic films.

But that aside, I happened to catch the TV programme "Under the hammer" the other day. Basically, people buy rotten old houses in auctions, do them up and either live in them, rent them out or sell them. One couple bought a plot of land and, before they'd even had planning permission to build on it, they were pondering how much the proposed two homes would be worth "at today's prices" - two homes that they and their father/in law would be living, respectively. So if they're going to be living in them, what does it matter how much they're worth?

I get so pissed off with this obsession that people have over the values of their homes. The value is often an awful lot less than what people actually have to pay for them, thanks to the ludicrously inflated house prices in the UK.


The God Delusion
I picked this book up because it was on offer in Waterstone's. Basically, Richard Dawkins - scientist and confirmed atheist - assembles a number of very good arguments against the possibility of there being a supernatural being "out there", in charge of stuff. Reading his long-winded arguments, you see how totally illogical religion is. It's basically something that has been used for centuries for the sole purpose of population control. So we're in a situation, in the 21st century, where we have to consult with all sorts of people about things to gauge their feelings, based not on evidence or logic, but superstitious mumbo jumbo.

The monotheistic religions have whittled away at all the ancients Roman, Greek and Viking gods of this or that, leaving just the one. It's about time we got rid of the last one.

This book should be compulsory for all school children, politicians and religious leaders. Far too many people try to justify their own bigotry or just plain stupidity and stubbornness, because of their faith. It's about time modern society stopped bending over backwards to accommodate them. In another age, or with a different "God", the same people might be accused of having a mental illness.


The dog delusion - aka Pets in head buckets
I love it when animals have operations and they have to wear those cones on their heads. I might suggest a company makes some special designs with pictures of flowers, radiant sunshine, spirals and that. They'd be cool.


It ain't rocket science
As I drove into Manchester from Rochdale this morning (about 14 miles), it struck me how many sets of lights there were on my route. What also struck me was the proportion of them that were on red as I reached them. I wasn't exceeding the speed limit, I wasn't racing between sets, just driving along fairly sensibly.

I pondered.... If I could be bothered - and I would have done this back in my obsessive compulsive, let's count everything phase - I would count all the sets of lights on this route and also calculate the proportion that were on red, green, or amber. With a map, you'd be able to measure the distance between the lights and calculate the average speed covered between them - either at a constant 30 or 40mph (depending on the stretch of road), or in terms of acceleration from zero. Doing a bit of simple maths, you'd then be able to come up with some sort of formula for ensuring that the majority of the lights were on green as you reached them if you travelled at the speed limit.

Now, if I can think of this in my sleepy state on the way to work, why the fuck doesn't the Department of Transport?

Cunts.


Gadgets
I'll soon be undertaking a new role at work. As part of this, I'll be getting: laptop with 3G card for internet anywhere; mobile phone; PDA (already have a good one, but it'll be OK for novelty/play value for a day or so); perhaps even a shat nav (I'll Ebay this and pretend it got nicked). Do they not realise what providing me with all this gadgetry will do to me? Fools.

Nobody puts baby in the corner

I've had the time of my life... 20 years ago... and now it's all a bit tired and washed out.

I was thinking about Dirty Dancing the other, not doing it you understand, the actual film Dirty Dancing. I just don't get it; it's a stupid film, but I know so many people who love it. It just doesn't make any sense to me - for the 1950s or 60s, the music is wrong, the hairdos are wrong, and she - Baby - wears the wrong knickers.

Awakening
Tiredness has consumed me. Having suffered interrupted sleep all week, I have now reached Friday afternoon in a zombified state that has a high probability of getting me involved in another car accident. Yes, another, on top of the one in the car park at work this morning.

Here's a little quiz for you: you're in your car park at work, or any other multistorey car park, or any car park for that matter, you're driving along looking for a space and you see the car in front of you reversing into a space, do you:

a) Wait for them to complete their manoeuvre, or
b) Try to drive in between them and the parking space they are reversing in to?

I fell victim of someone who'd forgotten to take their anti-fucktard pill opting for scenario b. My rear bumper is twatted, their car was undamaged.

"Didn't you see that I was reversing into that parking space?" I asked her.

"I was trying to park", was her plea.

Fuck.

At least it's only plastic. At least nobody was hurt. At least I have a huge overdraft facility to pay for the fucking repair myself since my insurance company says that it'd probably be a joint claim. How it's a joint claim when somebody effectively drove into the back of me, I don't know, but there you go.

So a trip round the motor body repair shops is on the cards as I try to get a quote to have my bumper unsquished/replaced.

What a fucking life.



Weekend workshop
I think I might use the long weekend to perfect my mind control skills. I haven't got any mind control skills as yet, but I'm sure it won't take too long to figure out. I'll start with staring out the dog, sending her signals to start growling or bum-walking. My ethereal thoughts will pierce her tiny brain: "Imagine there's an intruder, Jazz, what do you do, what do you do???" "Your mind and soul are mine, Jaaaaaazzzzzzzzzzz, you cannot resist. You have an itch you just can't scratch. The expensive rug will offer relief. Use it, Jazz, use it!"

Moving on to the difficult Looshkin, who I will compel to walk around miaowing incessantly, using only the power of my mind. "Loooosh-kiiiiin, hear me, you are mine, talk to me Looshkin, tell me your dreams, am I in them? Worship me as the great pouch opener and giver."

My hardest conquest will be Trump: "Trump, you know you want to provide Sniffy with coffee this Saturday morning and every weekend day for the rest of your lives together. Do it Trump, it is your dessssstineeee"

I shall become the greatest controller of minds. Others will be powerless against my will. Nobody will be able to offer resistance.

And when I've got that sorted, I may go to the cinema and perhaps take some photos too.

"Reply me immediately"

From: ramin razaq <ramin_razaq22@hotmail.fr> Sent: Wednesday, 23 May, 2007 1:39:32 PM Subject: Reply me immediately From: Dr Ramin Razaq Attention please, I am Dr Ramin Razaq the bank manager of AFRICA BANK (AB) BURKINA FASO WEST AFRICA BRANCH. I am contacting you based on Trust and confidentiality that you will keep this as top secret. don't be scared or surprised, i am the manager of AFRICA BANK and i have an opportunity to transfer sum of US$10.5MILLION (TEN MILLION FIVE HUNDRED UNITED STATE DOLLARS) I have the courage to look for a reliable and Honest Person who will be capable for this important business Transaction, believing that you will never let me down either now or in Future. The owner of this account is JOSEPH F. GRILLO, foreigner and he is the Manager Of petrol chemical service, a chemical engineer by Proffession.He died in world trade center as a victim of the September 11,2001 Incident that befall the United State of America, the bank has made series of efforts to contact any of the relatives to claim this money but without success, you can confirm through this website:http://www.september11victims.com/ and my Investigation proved to me as well that his company does not know anything About this account. I want to transfer this money into a safe foreign account abroad but I Don't know any foreigner,I know that this message will come to you as a surprise as we don't know ourselves before, but be sure that it is real And A Genuine business. hope that you will never let me down in this transaction, at the conclusion of this business, you will be giving 30% of the total amount, 70% will be for me. I look forward to your earliest reply by email for more details Thanks. Best regards Dr Razaq.

So, how should Sniffy reply?

1. Fuck off
2. Learn to type/spell, you ignorant shite
3. What the fuck is "TEN MILLION FIVE HUNDRED UNITED STATE DOLLARS"?
4. Is this the same as "Sucky-sucky, ten dollah. I love you long time?"
5. Just fuck off

Bored
I'm at work. I can't access blogs. Half of my other favourite sites have also been blocked. Nobody to talk to. Need Kit Kat. Want to go home.


Looshkin respite
Looshkin the psychotic cat is enjoying her stay at Trump's parents' home. She is a cat transformed: cuddly, friendly happy. We're puzzled by this. What is wrong with her that she doesn't like her real home in a Manchester 'hood, where she can enjoy watching youngsters enjoying the open space of the field behind the house; the scratbag yobs on scooters, flying around the roads at all times of day and night; the nicotine as it drifts in from the neighbours on one side; the sound of the young father playfully chasing his daughter around the house (with an axe) on the other; the threat from Snowy, the nicotine-stained cat, as he stares up at her from the top of his fence.

Of course, her attitude to her current temporary dwelling might change if she happens upon a chance encounter with Jazz, the toe-licking Staffordshire Bull Terrier.

Telegram from the back of beyond

House and dog-sitting with Trump in deepest Lancashire STOP No wireless networks in area to hijack STOP Bastards! STOP Job is shite STOP Need taser STOP Need food STOP And some milk because we've run out STOP And don't forget to pick up hair conditioner when you nip home later STOP Oh, and don't forget you've got a dentist appointment tomorrow STOP

Little shitbag

Not happy with having her photo plastered on the internet, along with disparaging comments and general indifference, Looshkin the cat left a dirty protest for me to find when I got in from work yesterday.

And all the time I was cleaning up, my knees were being attacked by the little fucker.

I despair. We could have another fifteen years with that little bundle of fun.


Holiday
I want to go on holiday. Somewhere where the sun shines and it is warm, where there is good regional cooking and lots of photo opportunities.

But what do we do with the psychotic cat for a week while we're off having fun in the sun? I vote for an anaesthetic/Whiskas IV infusion with her locked in my parents' shed. Actually, why just do it for a week? We could have her in a permanent state of suspended animation! In a nappy!!!


Sniffy on the beat
I'm thinking of joining the police. Nothing to do with my overwhelming sense of public duty, of defending the good guys, of helping folk and trying to make my community a better place to live for everybody. No, I want to join the police because there is a suggestion of standard bobbies on the beat being given tasers. You won't even have to be a firearms officer, just a normal bobby!

What next? In a few years' time, they might be giving them to traffic wardens and crossing ladies! Imagine that, a crossing lady whose lollipop has been converted into a taser, or maybe just a cattle prod, to zap anybody of their choosing who crosses their path. Ace. Personally, I'd be on the lookout for "Chorlton mum" as she takes little Zeb and Cressida to school while pushing baby Tomassina in the three-wheeler.

Gotcha!


Home alone
Me and Loosh are on our own this evening. Trump is off to her parents' place in readiness for a fortnight's fun and frolics house and dog sitting. Me and the cat, locked down together. It'll be like the first night in a prison cell for a nervous convict; knowing that an attack from their cell mate is inevitable, but never knowing when it's going to happen.

Stay out of the rain

We had spring and now we've gone straight through to autumn. It's been pissing it down for a week now and the temperature has plummeted to October levels.

After a year of being plagued by squeaky, streaky windscreen wipers, I bought a new set the other week. Seventeen pounds, thankyouverymuch. They worked magnificently as I merrily squirted screenwash. I was so happy when the sun was shining and I didn't actually need to use my wipers; I'd give my windscreen a daily squirt, and it'd clear with a smooth and silent sweep across the glass.

Now the rain is back. I need my wipers all the time... or I may actually die... and they're squeaking like total fuckers. It's got to the point where I'd rather not have my wipers on in torrential rain to save me from the pain of my noisy wipers.

The rain will be with us until at least the end of the week. Joy.


Eurovision song farce
As usual, the Eurovision song contest was reduced to a farce as neighbouring "new European" countries from the former Eastern Bloc and Baltic states voted for their neighbours. This competition just shows why we shouldn't have anything to do with Europe.

Serbia won it this year. After a lot of delving through the internet, I finally managed to find out that the winning artiste is a lesbian. I would never have known from the look of her, or from her routine; surrounded by a load of femmes, pawing her, running their hands over her shoulders, singing close to her ears, mouth.

Of course, Eurovision is so gay that any gay act is bound to get a huge proportion of votes from the millions of queers gathered across the continent in their parties and in the gay bars of Europe. I bet the girls at Coyotes in Manchester were glued to the widescreen TV, eagerly texting away in support of Marija. They should really be looking after those fingers and not wearing them out on futile text voting!


A to Z of swearing
Courtesy of Jamie Smart's Bohda Te:

The house of flying kitties
This is what generally greets us when we return home from work, just substitute the gingham fish for a shin or kneecap.

Monday, Monday
It's bedtime on Sunday.

Fuck.

I really hate Mondays. And every other day apart from weekend days and bank holidays.

Ruby slippers

By popular demand, I bring you:

Yes, they are the most luxurious slippers you can buy for £5.99 (plus P&P). Unfortunately, I don't have the rug and bale of fine towels to go with them. But I can dream, and with those beauties on my feet I am in the lap of luxury.

I wear them and I am Dorothy!

There's no place like home.


Who the frig are you?
It seems that the current estimated cost of the UK's proposed ID card scheme is above £5bn. Gosh, don't you think they'd just stop before they start? I certainly hope so. Over £5bn for a scheme so that UK citizens can prove who they are... and be spied on by having all their personal information linked in their yummy steamy database.

Still, anything to stop us being blown up. Unfortunately, I don't think many people will be declaring their occupation as "islamic terrorist" in their applications.

Tossing shower of shite government.

Anyhoo, I need to provide ID and proof of address at work because I'm being police checked! It's full, enhanced check that they do to see if you're safe to work with children and vulnerable people. Hrrrm, I won't be declaring my blog address on that particular application.

Red

I've noticed more drivers creeping through traffic lights as they turn to red. Twats. But not as bad as the utter tosspot who drove past a line of stationary traffic that was stopped at a pelican crossing on red, yes, narrowly missing the folk who were crossing. Nobrot.

Oh the joys of motoring, and the hazards of being a pedestrian. UK pedestrians can't help but notice the changes to pavements on the approach to crossings. In their wisdom, councils have done away with the nice, smooth slope down to the kerb in favour of tactile paving slabs with raised bumps. These are intended to warn blind people that they're approaching the road. That's what they're intended for; what they actually do is cause agony for older people with arthritis and anybody with sore feet or joints. They also break up and cause a trip hazard.

Look at the shadow of the person in the picture. They're scratching their in puzzlement at the crazy paving before them. "How do I traverse this dangerous footway unharmed?". That's what they're saying to themselves.

So all this for the benefit of, oh I have no idea of the proportion of population that is 100% absolutely, can't see a fucking thing BLIND, but I know a much greater proportion suffer from arthritis, sore feet and joints, and tripping up over broken paving slabs. I hate them, they REALLY hurt my feet.

I think making things easier for people with disabilities is absolutely necessary, but there must be a better way of doing this. Imagine if you're totally blind with arthritic knees and ankles? At least people who can see can avoid these bumpy pavements, and they do. Next time you're out and about, have a look at the people walking in front of you and watch how they skirt round the bumpy approaches to the crossings. Most will, believe me.


Ups and downs
Trying to upload 75MB worth of photos to Costco for printing while downloading Windows updates. Network and Trump not happy.


Slippers
They're here, they are wonderful. I bet I could run really fast in them.

Frigid

In the year or so since I've been using Trump's fridge, I've always been most puzzled by the door. There's this bit where nothing really fits; you can slot in a bottle of salad dressing, or a salami, or a bag of mozzarella... until it goes off and explodes.

As the rest of the fridge was becoming short on space - mainly because of the huge ice monster that was encroaching from the useless icebox - I searched for an alternative location for my cans of pop. And then I had an epiphany:

Well, you'd have thought she'd have told me, wouldn't you?

I don't really like fridges; they tend to be hiding places for long-forgotten groceries. Are they fit to eat? Will they taste nasty? Will they taste OK, but be toxic? You end up playing a game of Russian roulette with a jar of pesto.

Who'd have thought a fridge could cause such excitement? The whole experience had me scouring the internet for fridges. They're not cheap, and you don't pay much less for one that doesn't have an icebox. Why pay for something that doesn't freeze anything, that wastes electricity and takes up valuable space that could otherwise be occupied by good things like gala pie or scotch eggs.


The L Word
I love The L Word and I can't wait until series 4 is available here in the UK. But until then, I am forced to watch the previous series on DVD , over and over. After the first couple of viewings, you get over the excitement of watching some of the hottest women play out some fairly steamy sex scenes and you start to notice some pretty terrible acting.

Now, only those who have ever seen the show will understand this, but how crap is Tina? Bette (the gorgeous Jennifer Beals) loses grant money, she informs Tina who, with a look of a seven year old in a school play being told to "act like you don't believe what you've just been told", mouths a "wha?" and says "That's totally fucked up!" Awful.

And I, along with the entire lesbian population, would love it if Jenny would just fuck off.

But the one thing that pisses me off about this is the patronising way the owner and manager of the show's social centre refer to "these people", "our community". For example, "Many of our community like to use wireless internet, so let's hook up a network". Or "Many of our community are vegetarians". Or "These people deserve a place where they can come and be themselves and enjoy themselves." And of course, nobody else likes any of these things.

That's totally fucked up.


Slippers
I'm getting new slippers. I am very excited.

Why?

There are some things that make you ask the simple question, Why? The answer is probably not that easy to find though.

Frexample, why does Whoopi Goldberg have no eyebrows? I've never quite understood that. But why do we have eyebrows anyway? What purpose could they have served in humans as they evolved from walking fish? Just looking at some silverback gorillas on the telly, they have the furrowed brow, but they don't look they're hairy in the way that humans' are.

So eyebrows are weird things. I'm particularly disturbed by:

• Monobrows (Noel Gallagher, me circa 1986-2000). Ugly, ugly boys.
  

• Black eyebrows, white hair (government minister Alistair Darling). Fucking ridiculous.
  

• Shocking over-plucking. This is where the eyebrow is plucked to within a hair of its life, result in a constant look of surprise (me in about 2004).

Black pepper, madam?
Why don't they leave you a black pepper grinder on the table in Italian restaurants? I think the waiting staff enjoy the power of making diners wait for them to sidle along with a huge grinder - "Pepper, ladies?". They then proceed to give you two twists of their knob, which approximates to about a nanogram of ground pepper, most of which misses the plate. They give you salt, they give you white pepper (which in many cases I prefer to black anyway), they give you flavoured olive oil, but not black pepper.

And while you're at it, leave the grated parmesan.

Prego!


Little Con
I'm not one for plastering photos of babies on the interweb, but I couldn't resist with this one:

Well, bugger me backwards, he's back!

My dear, dear virtual friend and blogging muse is back.

Today is filled with joy.

I'm hot. I think some people have positioned a load of mirrors so they reflect the sun's light into my office. Fuckers.

A spot of bother

I seem to be suffering from teenage acne. Or bubonic plague. Whichever, my face has fallen victim to a number of huge, painful spots - none of which can be squeezed with any satisfaction, only more pain and redness.

Hey ho.

Daddy Sniff caused us a bit of anxiety on Monday afternoon when he was found collapsed and hardly breathing in the front garden. Assuming that he'd had a massive stroke (in the medical sense) or another heart attack, he was rushed to hospital in an ambulance. But he soon came to, to reveal lots of bruising and pain from the fall, but nothing else too serious. Phew.

Unfortunately, he is in a holding area in the hospital until they decide what to do with him. It's like a transfer unit between casualty and the wards and it is temporary home to all sorts of folk. One particular chap wouldn't let me talk to my dad in peace yesterday and kept talking to me during my brief visit. Apparently, he'd claimed to have taken an overdose - and immediately called an ambulance - just so he could get a few days in the mental health unit. Nice on. Why do some people have the social skills of a whelk? Why can't they tell that people who are visiting their loved ones want to spend time with their loved ones and not some old fool in a baseball cap and high-vis fleece? I didn't want to know about his numerous hip operations, or his history with the benefits system, or his trips to Bury, or his car being burnt out by vandals. I wanted to talk with my miserable dad, who himself wanted to lie in bed and mope.

I absolutely fucking hate visiting people in hospital, especially my uncommunicative dad. Hospital visiting has to be one of the most torturous things that we have to go through in this life of ours. You should just be able to go in, say "Hello, how are you? What's going on? Is there anything you need?" and if the patient isn't in the mood for talking, you should be able to leave swiftly and without guilt. On occasion however, when visiting with Big Connie, she feels compelled to sit with the patient for hours on, end even if there is no conversation, nothing to do, no way to help.

I hope they let him out today. I can't face another visit like yesterday's.


Bring me sunshine
As I left Manchester this morning, the sun was shining and the day promised to continue the recent trend for lovely spring weather. Twenty eight miles west along the motorway and I was met by greyness that got greyer as I reached my destination here at Base 2a.

I wonder if we're going to get a nice summer at last.

If the doom merchants are correct and the world really is getting hotter, they might be able to build a super sun-catcher like the one in Seville here in the UK (probably not in Scotland though).

This thing is like something straight out of science fiction! Essentially, you have a load of ground-level mirrors that reflect the sun's rays up to a big solar cell at the top of a big tower. This then converts all the energy into 'lectric for the local town.

Personally, I'd used the harnessed energy in a different way and convert it into a massive laser beam to blast things, like caravans and big-issue sellers.

Fantastic.

Imagine the sun tan you could get from the top of that tower! Unfortunately though, we all have to take care in the sun these days and I'd probably burn to a crisp within a millisecond. Then again, according to The Mysterious They (aka, miserable fucking killjoys) even the use of light-coloured, loose-fitting clothing, sunglasses and a hat aren't enough to protect us against the oh-so-powerful northern English sunshine anymore. Apparently, we now need to wear dark-coloured, thick-woven fabric like denim, wool or polyester when the sun shines.

Are the people who suggest these sorts of things totally fucking insane? Have these eminent medical experts never heard of something called heat stroke? It could be part of a wider plot to introduce sharia law into the UK. "Cover up in the sun! Actually, have you seen these nice long gowns that Arab women wear? They're nothing to do with misogynistic repression, oh no, it's to protect Arab women from the sun - you should try it. And a head scarf and veil will protect your skin from wrinkles. Colour? Well, why have anything as cheery as colour when miserable black will do! If you all wear black, you can pretend to be ninjas! Why don't men have to wear them too? Errm, well, because they're just silly and they don't care about getting skin cancer."

Yeah right.

Then again, we all know how a bit of sunshine brings out some of the most horrible assaults on our eyes. There's nothing more like to put you off getting your own body out than a larger lady (or gent) in a revealing (or no) top, displaying the signs of sunburn and white strap marks. Fuckin' delish!