Christmas Day is probably the only day of the year where you graze from getting up in the morning until going to bed at night. The grazing is only interrupted for a huge meal smack bang in the middle of the day. A huge meal with about three puddings and lots of fizzy drinks.
Needless to say, after consuming about half a kilo of salty snacks, 400g turkey, 200g bacon, 100g sausage, 250g sprouts, plus roast potatoes and parsnips and then two helpings of Christmas pudding and a generous slice of panettone... oh, and not forgetting an orange and a satsuma, just so as I could kid myself that I'd had something slightly health today... after all that food, I'm bloated like a blimp, I'm doing the most toxic farts imaginable, and everything hurts. It hurts to breathe.
I'm in bed now, as another Christmas Day draws to a close, looking forward to the morning in the sure hope that relief from my pain will come after a cup of coffee and the thought of a cigarette - of all the things that I have admitted to my parents, smoking cigarettes is one secret that I'm keeping to myself because, even though telling them I'm gay was quite traumatic, they will definitely kill me if they ever find out I smoke.
My brother is a lovely man, but he really gets on my tits and I hate the way he dominates the telly when he's here. He insisted on watching some shite on Zone Horror instead of proper Christmas TV, and then he fell asleep during it. I went off and occupied myself by burning a DVD of a film I'd downloaded from the internet this afternoon. The Night of the Demon (or Curse of the Demon in the US) was made in 1957 and starred Dana Andrews as an American Psychologist who comes to the UK to debunk the claims of the leader of a devil-worshipping sect. He is cursed by the said leader and tries avoid the same fate that befell a colleague - a big demon came out of the woods ("It's in the trees, it's coming!") and forced him to drive into some live power lines. Anyway, since TV was so utterly shocking tonight, we watched that and thoroughly enjoyed it.
Tomorrow is the Boxing Day running buffet. Hurrah! It's quite good that the shower here at my folks' is absolutely useless as it gives me an excuse to go home and have loads of fags to build up my nicotine levels before the noise in the afternoon starts again. There will be my sister and Little Con, Alan (who always shouts) and Jane (who puts up with him for some god unknown reason, love I think), Jackie (cousin) and her husband Dave. All talking over each other, with Mum not paying attention and demanding that things are repeated at least twice each time they're said. Me and Dad just keep ourselves to ourselves.
At least we won't be joined by Jackie's brother and his wife, who has been on a diet since the day I met her in 1984 and who won't touch a thing to eat because "Oh no, I don't like that, it's hangin'. I can't stand that, it's mingin'" and then insisting that their son won't eat anything either "Oh no, he won't eat that, he doesn't like it", which I think is the most rude behaviour imaginable when somebody has gone to the effort of preparing a load of stuff. She never takes her coat off either and just sits huddled (usually over the buffet, whinging) with a face so sour that I'm sure it's begging to be punched really hard... repeatedly. I've never punched anybody and I don't think I ever will. I wonder if I could pay somebody to do it.
I think there's a half-chewed sprout blocking my colon. I am in lots of pain.
Thursday, 25 December 2008
Tuesday, 23 December 2008
Is it hometime yet?
It's about a quarter past ten, the 23rd December 2008. I'm at work. I have sent an mail-merge e-mail - get me! - and a couple of work-related e-mails. There is absolutely nothing going on as we run down towards the Christmas holiday.
Should you have to take annual leave for a day or two off if things are so quiet at work? I suppose it's better than being laid off or being forced to work reduced hours, as so many people are at the moment. I'd normally have a "working from home" day, but I don't think I'd get away with it somehow.
So what am I doing instead? Well, I have my iPod with me and unrestricted internet access. The only things missing are Frasier or MTV Dance, an endless supply of coffee, a comfy sofa and a bouncy little dog and I could be at home.
It's very cold here too and I'm about to call on the services of the cardie of mirth.
Today's Daily Mash brings us some useful Government advice from the Department of Stating the Blindingly Obvious and Nannying:
"BRITAIN GETS THE STUPID CHRISTMAS ADVICE IT DESERVES"
GOVERNMENT guidelines on how to avoid accidents at Christmas are every bit as obvious as they need to be, it was confirmed last night.
As the emergency services braced themselves for three days of utter chaos, experts said the government had done everything it possibly could short of strapping everyone to a chair and feeding them pulped turkey through a tube.
Professor Henry Brubaker, of the Institute for Studies, said: "You will notice page five of the Daily Mail carries an angry story about 'why oh why does the government have to treat us like Christmas morons?'.
"But if you then turn over to page six you will see a story about a man from Dorset who called the fire brigade after shoving at least 18 inches of Norwegian Spruce firmly up his back passage.
"Page seven is devoted to the Yorkshire family who celebrate Boxing Day by piling all the empty boxes in the middle of the living room before setting fire to them.
"And we then turn over to a double-page spread featuring a heart-breaking interview with the sole survivor of the Great Hemel Hempstead Turkey Disaster of 1983."
A department of health spokesman said: "Instead of a real Christmas tree this year why not go for a small, laminated photograph of a Christmas tree? Leave it floating in a bucket of water in case you're tempted to set fire to it.
"And if you're worried about food poisoning from an undercooked turkey, just eat a load of crisps instead. But not the sharp ones. Go for a soft, round crisp like a Wotsit or a Quaver. And don't forget to keep a bucket water nearby in case you're tempted to set fire to them."
This article is actually closer to the truth than seems imaginable as the Department of Health in England has produced an Advent Calendar-style leaflet that warns of perils associated with the festive season. I don't know how we'd get out of bed without causing ourselves life-threatening injury without our wonderful government telling us what to do.
Papa-Ratzi's Christmas good will to all men (so long as they're not gay, lesbian or transgender)
[caption id="attachment_1796" align="aligncenter" width="460" caption="Kiss the ring, muthafucka"]
[/caption]
Thank goodness for Pope Benedict! He's going to help re-train all us queers so that humanity will survive, or rather, heterosexuality will survive. Apparently, saving the world from sexual deviants is as important as saving the rain forests. Fucking Nazi.
How about saving the world from religious nutcases? Why do they feel the need to be so hateful?
I suppose that's what you get when you appoint somebody who was in the Hitler Youth as the top bloke and voice on earth for the invisible bearded man in the sky. The pope condemns gender bending. This is a man who wears lovely white frocks, accessorised with a red stole & matching ruby slippers.
Cunt.
Should you have to take annual leave for a day or two off if things are so quiet at work? I suppose it's better than being laid off or being forced to work reduced hours, as so many people are at the moment. I'd normally have a "working from home" day, but I don't think I'd get away with it somehow.
So what am I doing instead? Well, I have my iPod with me and unrestricted internet access. The only things missing are Frasier or MTV Dance, an endless supply of coffee, a comfy sofa and a bouncy little dog and I could be at home.
It's very cold here too and I'm about to call on the services of the cardie of mirth.
Today's Daily Mash brings us some useful Government advice from the Department of Stating the Blindingly Obvious and Nannying:
"BRITAIN GETS THE STUPID CHRISTMAS ADVICE IT DESERVES"
GOVERNMENT guidelines on how to avoid accidents at Christmas are every bit as obvious as they need to be, it was confirmed last night.
As the emergency services braced themselves for three days of utter chaos, experts said the government had done everything it possibly could short of strapping everyone to a chair and feeding them pulped turkey through a tube.
Professor Henry Brubaker, of the Institute for Studies, said: "You will notice page five of the Daily Mail carries an angry story about 'why oh why does the government have to treat us like Christmas morons?'.
"But if you then turn over to page six you will see a story about a man from Dorset who called the fire brigade after shoving at least 18 inches of Norwegian Spruce firmly up his back passage.
"Page seven is devoted to the Yorkshire family who celebrate Boxing Day by piling all the empty boxes in the middle of the living room before setting fire to them.
"And we then turn over to a double-page spread featuring a heart-breaking interview with the sole survivor of the Great Hemel Hempstead Turkey Disaster of 1983."
A department of health spokesman said: "Instead of a real Christmas tree this year why not go for a small, laminated photograph of a Christmas tree? Leave it floating in a bucket of water in case you're tempted to set fire to it.
"And if you're worried about food poisoning from an undercooked turkey, just eat a load of crisps instead. But not the sharp ones. Go for a soft, round crisp like a Wotsit or a Quaver. And don't forget to keep a bucket water nearby in case you're tempted to set fire to them."
This article is actually closer to the truth than seems imaginable as the Department of Health in England has produced an Advent Calendar-style leaflet that warns of perils associated with the festive season. I don't know how we'd get out of bed without causing ourselves life-threatening injury without our wonderful government telling us what to do.
Papa-Ratzi's Christmas good will to all men (so long as they're not gay, lesbian or transgender)
[caption id="attachment_1796" align="aligncenter" width="460" caption="Kiss the ring, muthafucka"]
[/caption]Thank goodness for Pope Benedict! He's going to help re-train all us queers so that humanity will survive, or rather, heterosexuality will survive. Apparently, saving the world from sexual deviants is as important as saving the rain forests. Fucking Nazi.
How about saving the world from religious nutcases? Why do they feel the need to be so hateful?
I suppose that's what you get when you appoint somebody who was in the Hitler Youth as the top bloke and voice on earth for the invisible bearded man in the sky. The pope condemns gender bending. This is a man who wears lovely white frocks, accessorised with a red stole & matching ruby slippers.
Cunt.
Saturday, 20 December 2008
Hey, Mr DJ
I've had a very rewarding, but rather dull day.
In the days before digital music players, you'd take a 7" or 12" vinyl record, a cassette, or a CD and you'd play it using the appropriate piece of equipment. You listened to the music, enjoyed it - or not, but invariably, a track would be listened to in full.
Albums were compositions of related songs, often based on a theme that developed from one track to the next, and you'd absorb the whole thing, drawing your own inferences as to the meanings of the music, the words, and that. After reaching the end, it was tempting to listen again, and again.
Enough of my love for Bros and Kylie. These days, with the advent of MP3 and listening to music on iPods, Zens, PCs, our relationship with music is so transient. I find it difficult to get the end of a single track, let alone to listen to a whole album. But I wonder whether music has moved on too? Does an album still contain those individual compositions, eached linked by a common theme? Who knows? I haven't listened to entire album in such a long time. Instead, I have all the music I care to listen to loaded onto an MP3 player, where I listen to all the tracks on shuffle play, often skipping many of them before they even get going.
Being pretty good when it comes to recognising music: I can usually tell what I'm listening to within a couple of seconds of it starting, but sometimes I get duped it it's an obscure album track - obviously - or something crappy world music that I downloaded in the misguided hope of expanding my musical horizons, but have failed to delete. So I come to listen to my music on shuffle play and I find myself stumped as to the identity of a track. It often helps that the artwork for an album is displayed on the lovely screen of my iPod Touch, which I can see from the comfort of my sitting position all the way over to where the shiny device of genius sits in its docking station. But herein lies the problem: since I don't usually get my music from iTunes, a lot of my albums didn't have the artwork associated with it on the player, so I'd have to actually get up and look at my iPod so I could see what was playing.
My life really sucks at times, doesn't it?
Having a full library of the music artwork would obviously forewarn me that a track from El Guincho's Alegranza, or some other crap was next up as I sit skipping track after track. It'd also allow me to know when a track that I actually liked was coming on.
Because of this, I spent the day downloading and associating all the missing album art for the music on my iPod, all of it. How tedious, but as I said, how very rewarding.
I could always delete the stuff that I don't like, but I might just get a bang on the head one day that changes my musical tastes.
Apparently, my dislike of most rap and hip-hop music, and that awful southern African music with the guitars and the deep male voices actually makes me a racist! No, I'd say it makes me somebody with decent musical taste.
Guitar man
I tried to play my guitar last night. It's so difficult! I started playing when I was about eight and it was so hard to stretch my tiny fingers over the fretboard, but I worked hard at it and was actually quite good at it. Did exams and everything - passed them, even got distinctions in a couple of them (or whatever you get when you're quite good).
I've forgotten it all now. And my fingers, despite being a little bit bigger than 25 years ago, are so very very weak.
Fuck it though, I can't even get through a single track without needing to skip to the end so I've got no hope of making my way through a piece of sheet music without getting bored half way through.
In the days before digital music players, you'd take a 7" or 12" vinyl record, a cassette, or a CD and you'd play it using the appropriate piece of equipment. You listened to the music, enjoyed it - or not, but invariably, a track would be listened to in full.
Albums were compositions of related songs, often based on a theme that developed from one track to the next, and you'd absorb the whole thing, drawing your own inferences as to the meanings of the music, the words, and that. After reaching the end, it was tempting to listen again, and again.
Enough of my love for Bros and Kylie. These days, with the advent of MP3 and listening to music on iPods, Zens, PCs, our relationship with music is so transient. I find it difficult to get the end of a single track, let alone to listen to a whole album. But I wonder whether music has moved on too? Does an album still contain those individual compositions, eached linked by a common theme? Who knows? I haven't listened to entire album in such a long time. Instead, I have all the music I care to listen to loaded onto an MP3 player, where I listen to all the tracks on shuffle play, often skipping many of them before they even get going.
Being pretty good when it comes to recognising music: I can usually tell what I'm listening to within a couple of seconds of it starting, but sometimes I get duped it it's an obscure album track - obviously - or something crappy world music that I downloaded in the misguided hope of expanding my musical horizons, but have failed to delete. So I come to listen to my music on shuffle play and I find myself stumped as to the identity of a track. It often helps that the artwork for an album is displayed on the lovely screen of my iPod Touch, which I can see from the comfort of my sitting position all the way over to where the shiny device of genius sits in its docking station. But herein lies the problem: since I don't usually get my music from iTunes, a lot of my albums didn't have the artwork associated with it on the player, so I'd have to actually get up and look at my iPod so I could see what was playing.
My life really sucks at times, doesn't it?
Having a full library of the music artwork would obviously forewarn me that a track from El Guincho's Alegranza, or some other crap was next up as I sit skipping track after track. It'd also allow me to know when a track that I actually liked was coming on.
Because of this, I spent the day downloading and associating all the missing album art for the music on my iPod, all of it. How tedious, but as I said, how very rewarding.
I could always delete the stuff that I don't like, but I might just get a bang on the head one day that changes my musical tastes.
Apparently, my dislike of most rap and hip-hop music, and that awful southern African music with the guitars and the deep male voices actually makes me a racist! No, I'd say it makes me somebody with decent musical taste.
Guitar man
I tried to play my guitar last night. It's so difficult! I started playing when I was about eight and it was so hard to stretch my tiny fingers over the fretboard, but I worked hard at it and was actually quite good at it. Did exams and everything - passed them, even got distinctions in a couple of them (or whatever you get when you're quite good).
I've forgotten it all now. And my fingers, despite being a little bit bigger than 25 years ago, are so very very weak.
Fuck it though, I can't even get through a single track without needing to skip to the end so I've got no hope of making my way through a piece of sheet music without getting bored half way through.
Thursday, 18 December 2008
All my own work
After stealing somebody else's talent with my last post, I think it's only fair that I think of something original of my own.
Watching the music channels recently, it's refreshing to see how the artists use their talents to come up with original Christmas songs. You've got Roy Wood and Wizzard (I wish it could be Christmas every day), Cliff (Mistletoe and wine), Elton (that song that he did at Christmas), and those others that I can't be arsed to remember, mainly because my brain has been saturated with them for the past three weeks and it is now using protective measures to prevent recall.
Anyway, there are some songs that have been done to death - Do they know it's Christmas (three different versions, too many releases), White Christmas, Santa Baby, errm and some others (again, the protective measures have kicked in and I daren't delve too deep in case something fuses and I end up running around the house nakes, chomping on the cardboard tube from a roll of wrapping paper while screaming All I want for Christmas, is yoooooooooooooo-hooooooooooo!!!)
So yes, cover versions. There's a bit of controversy at the moment because somebody (the winner of a TV talent show no less) DARE do a re-hash of Leonard Cohen's Hallelujah. Who's complaining, Cohen? Like hell he is, he needs to fill the $10m hole in his pension that was left when his manager shafted him. Nope, the evangelical fans of deceased singer Jeff Buckley are kicking up a stink because somebody who can sing better than Jeff (even before he drowned himself) will probably get to the top of the chart with their version of the song. You see, Jeff's fans see his version of the song as sacred, never to be touched again. Not that his is the best version, having listened to a load of them (and there have been gazillions) the best version is probably John Cale's - as featured in Shrek, but not on the soundtrack (that was the perpetually flat Rufus Wainwright).
It's a bloody song, for goodness sake. Jeff Buckley, my arse. If he was alive, do you really think that he'd give a shit whether the latest talent show hopeful had done yet another cover of a song that he didn't even write? No, he wouldn't, unless he was an idiot, which he might have been since he went for a swim and drowning - even I couldn't manage that (because I know I can't swim and I wouldn't try it).
People get so precious about things. If you don't like a new version of a song, don't listen to it. Get your Walkman out, find your Jeff Buckley tape and listen to your heart's content. Just stop fucking whinging. And let's face it, nobody would've even heard of Jeff Buckley if it hadn't been for Alexandra Burke singing the song as X Factor winner.
Jean genie
Last night, I tried some jeans on that I bought in 2006, they'd been consigned to the back of the wardrobe since summer 2007 because I'd grown too fat for them. They're baggy now: arse crack-exposing baggy.
I celebrated by having Dominos pizza for tea.
And there's another thing. Dominos must've delivered here about 4 or 5 times now and they STILL have to phone up to ask where I am. I know this is a a new estate and the road's not on any maps yet, but don't you think they'd make a note of where these new places are when they deliver to them?
Nice pizza though. Mighty meaty with extra jalapenos and black olives (no onions, I detest onions on pizza, but quite as much as I detest pineapple or peppers).
Watching the music channels recently, it's refreshing to see how the artists use their talents to come up with original Christmas songs. You've got Roy Wood and Wizzard (I wish it could be Christmas every day), Cliff (Mistletoe and wine), Elton (that song that he did at Christmas), and those others that I can't be arsed to remember, mainly because my brain has been saturated with them for the past three weeks and it is now using protective measures to prevent recall.
Anyway, there are some songs that have been done to death - Do they know it's Christmas (three different versions, too many releases), White Christmas, Santa Baby, errm and some others (again, the protective measures have kicked in and I daren't delve too deep in case something fuses and I end up running around the house nakes, chomping on the cardboard tube from a roll of wrapping paper while screaming All I want for Christmas, is yoooooooooooooo-hooooooooooo!!!)
So yes, cover versions. There's a bit of controversy at the moment because somebody (the winner of a TV talent show no less) DARE do a re-hash of Leonard Cohen's Hallelujah. Who's complaining, Cohen? Like hell he is, he needs to fill the $10m hole in his pension that was left when his manager shafted him. Nope, the evangelical fans of deceased singer Jeff Buckley are kicking up a stink because somebody who can sing better than Jeff (even before he drowned himself) will probably get to the top of the chart with their version of the song. You see, Jeff's fans see his version of the song as sacred, never to be touched again. Not that his is the best version, having listened to a load of them (and there have been gazillions) the best version is probably John Cale's - as featured in Shrek, but not on the soundtrack (that was the perpetually flat Rufus Wainwright).
It's a bloody song, for goodness sake. Jeff Buckley, my arse. If he was alive, do you really think that he'd give a shit whether the latest talent show hopeful had done yet another cover of a song that he didn't even write? No, he wouldn't, unless he was an idiot, which he might have been since he went for a swim and drowning - even I couldn't manage that (because I know I can't swim and I wouldn't try it).
People get so precious about things. If you don't like a new version of a song, don't listen to it. Get your Walkman out, find your Jeff Buckley tape and listen to your heart's content. Just stop fucking whinging. And let's face it, nobody would've even heard of Jeff Buckley if it hadn't been for Alexandra Burke singing the song as X Factor winner.
Jean genie
Last night, I tried some jeans on that I bought in 2006, they'd been consigned to the back of the wardrobe since summer 2007 because I'd grown too fat for them. They're baggy now: arse crack-exposing baggy.
I celebrated by having Dominos pizza for tea.
And there's another thing. Dominos must've delivered here about 4 or 5 times now and they STILL have to phone up to ask where I am. I know this is a a new estate and the road's not on any maps yet, but don't you think they'd make a note of where these new places are when they deliver to them?
Nice pizza though. Mighty meaty with extra jalapenos and black olives (no onions, I detest onions on pizza, but quite as much as I detest pineapple or peppers).
Wednesday, 17 December 2008
Daily Mash
I've discovered my new favourite website in the whole world.
The Daily Mash provides a slightly off the wall analysis of current affairs, along with much humour. Rather than describe it, I think it's best to give you a taste. Here's the Mash's take on the Gordon Brown/Alistair Darling recovery plan for the UK's doomed economy.
DARLING HAS SECRET PLAN TO KEEP BUGGERING ABOUT
CHANCELLOR Alistair has a secret plan to keep buggering about with the British economy until he finds something that works, it was revealed last night.
A confidential Treasury memo, published on a government website, proposes a series of tax rises and tax cuts introduced for two weeks at a time over the next five years.
The memo suggests a 75% 'supertax' for pantomime stars between December 5th and January 31st, suspending VAT on forks, cutting corporation tax for companies run by men named Ian and increasing child benefit for families who roam the land singing songs and performing magic tricks.
It adds: "Failing that we can just whack up VAT, murder the aristocracy and steal their houses."
The memo also reveals Mr Darling's secret plan to breed unicorns and sell them to Chinese millionaires.
The chancellor would invest public money in up to a dozen unicorn farms across the country churning out thousands of magical horses which would then be vacuum packed and shipped to the Far East.
Mr Darling believes that at £250,000 a unicorn the government could have paid back its £120bn of borrowing by the time Star Trek becomes reality.
The Conservatives last night dismissed the plan as the latest 'government con', insisting there was probably no such thing as unicorns and that it would simply be a load of donkeys with a bread stick glued to their foreheads.
I particularly like the Mash's analysis of the news that the police are to be given 10,000 more tasers too:
POLICE CANNOT WAIT TO GET TASERS
POLICEMEN across England and Wales could not sleep last night after being told they were going to get electric stun guns.
The Home Office said 10,000 tasers would be issued to forces across the country, causing the Police Federation to jump up and down while holding its privates to stop it from urinating.
Tom Logan, a constable from Norwich, said: "I'll be like 'freeze scumbag!' and then he'll be like 'no way, copper' and I'll be like 'zzzzap!'.
"And then he'll be on the ground all jiggling and stuff and the electricity will be all over his body and it'll be all blue and sparky and then his eyes will just, like, pop out of his head and explode!"
According to the Home Office tasers can be used in almost any situation, apart from disabling Brazilian electricians who have 'built up an immunity'.
A Home Office spokesman said: "It will allow frontline officers to confront potentially dangerous suspects with increased confidence and be totally amazing."
He added: "Tasers are better than ordinary guns because they're electric. They're actually a bit like lasers. And who in their right mind is going to want want a gun when they could have a laser?
"Imagine, right, if you had a gun and I had a laser, you could shoot at me and I could, like, use my laser to deflect the bullet and then shoot you. Guns... fuck off."
In a separate announcement the Department of Health has predicted a 100,000% increase in members of the public electrocuted for being cheeky.
So why are you all still reading this shite? Get over to the Daily Mash and have a laugh!
The Daily Mash provides a slightly off the wall analysis of current affairs, along with much humour. Rather than describe it, I think it's best to give you a taste. Here's the Mash's take on the Gordon Brown/Alistair Darling recovery plan for the UK's doomed economy.
DARLING HAS SECRET PLAN TO KEEP BUGGERING ABOUT
CHANCELLOR Alistair has a secret plan to keep buggering about with the British economy until he finds something that works, it was revealed last night.
The proposed logo for British Unicorns Ltd
A confidential Treasury memo, published on a government website, proposes a series of tax rises and tax cuts introduced for two weeks at a time over the next five years.
The memo suggests a 75% 'supertax' for pantomime stars between December 5th and January 31st, suspending VAT on forks, cutting corporation tax for companies run by men named Ian and increasing child benefit for families who roam the land singing songs and performing magic tricks.
It adds: "Failing that we can just whack up VAT, murder the aristocracy and steal their houses."
The memo also reveals Mr Darling's secret plan to breed unicorns and sell them to Chinese millionaires.
The chancellor would invest public money in up to a dozen unicorn farms across the country churning out thousands of magical horses which would then be vacuum packed and shipped to the Far East.
Mr Darling believes that at £250,000 a unicorn the government could have paid back its £120bn of borrowing by the time Star Trek becomes reality.
The Conservatives last night dismissed the plan as the latest 'government con', insisting there was probably no such thing as unicorns and that it would simply be a load of donkeys with a bread stick glued to their foreheads.
I particularly like the Mash's analysis of the news that the police are to be given 10,000 more tasers too:
POLICE CANNOT WAIT TO GET TASERS
POLICEMEN across England and Wales could not sleep last night after being told they were going to get electric stun guns.
The Home Office said 10,000 tasers would be issued to forces across the country, causing the Police Federation to jump up and down while holding its privates to stop it from urinating.
Tom Logan, a constable from Norwich, said: "I'll be like 'freeze scumbag!' and then he'll be like 'no way, copper' and I'll be like 'zzzzap!'.
"And then he'll be on the ground all jiggling and stuff and the electricity will be all over his body and it'll be all blue and sparky and then his eyes will just, like, pop out of his head and explode!"
According to the Home Office tasers can be used in almost any situation, apart from disabling Brazilian electricians who have 'built up an immunity'.
A Home Office spokesman said: "It will allow frontline officers to confront potentially dangerous suspects with increased confidence and be totally amazing."
He added: "Tasers are better than ordinary guns because they're electric. They're actually a bit like lasers. And who in their right mind is going to want want a gun when they could have a laser?
"Imagine, right, if you had a gun and I had a laser, you could shoot at me and I could, like, use my laser to deflect the bullet and then shoot you. Guns... fuck off."
In a separate announcement the Department of Health has predicted a 100,000% increase in members of the public electrocuted for being cheeky.
So why are you all still reading this shite? Get over to the Daily Mash and have a laugh!
Tuesday, 16 December 2008
MIA
Well, my blog is still stuck somewhere between Berlin and Manhattan, so the old posts are still missing, but hey, why look to the past when the future has so much to offer??
Hrrrrm. The fuuuuutuuuuuuuuuuuuuure. God.
Anyway, somebody talking about the past this week was good old Sir Paul "I politicised the Beatles" McCartney. Yes, Macca (peace signs all round) has finally put the record straight and, confirming what we all knew all along, told the world that it was he who politicised the Beatles. Apparently, he had a cup of coffee with Bertrand Russell who told him about the war in Vietnam. He went back to his bandmates and said something like "Hey, you know, there's this was in Vietnam and it's like, really bad, man (peace sign)" and so The Beatles were dragged into current affairs.
Of course, if they had been around in present times, they'd have been appearing on an episode of the Celebrity Weakest Link Christmas Special, dressed as pantomime characters or some such. Their collective knowledge of really bad wars and things would've guaranteed them scooping the grand prize for their pet charity, which would probably have been something to do with, well supplying pot and acid to struggling musos.
As it was, they had to wait until 1967 before they got to wear the pantomime outfits and it was John who took all the credit for being the political one, along with Yoko ("A Vellee Mellee Chismaaaasssss!"), while Paul was off playing bagpipes and writing themes for James Bond films.
Love and peace to you all.
Christmas triffids
Oh no, there's a whole MASSIVE greenhouse full of poinsettias on the telly. BURN IT TO THE GROUND! Hideous fucking things.
Ice, ice baby
I'm going to ice my Christmas cake either tonight or tomorrow night. I didn't make it myself this year, couldn't be arsed, but I bought one from Tesco and I've been feeding it copious quantities of brandy for a week. Even if it tastes like shit, it'll give me a lovely warm feeling ... until it makes me be sick up my nose.
Beneath the royal icing, the cake will be encased first in a layer of marzipan. Not that lardy dar stuff, the proper stuff that's fluorescent yellow.
Bell ends
Jo is making look at a photo of a bell end. When will the torture ever end? Fucking bitch. Should have killed her when I could've got away with a diminished responsibilities plea.
Saturdays... bereft
Now that the X factor has finished, what on earth am I supposed to do on Saturday evenings? When does Britain's got talent start? I find myself looking forward to Celebrity Big Brother starting on 2nd January, and that's only on for a fortnight.
Fuck.
I need some friends.
Or prescription drugs.
Hrrrrm. The fuuuuutuuuuuuuuuuuuuure. God.
Anyway, somebody talking about the past this week was good old Sir Paul "I politicised the Beatles" McCartney. Yes, Macca (peace signs all round) has finally put the record straight and, confirming what we all knew all along, told the world that it was he who politicised the Beatles. Apparently, he had a cup of coffee with Bertrand Russell who told him about the war in Vietnam. He went back to his bandmates and said something like "Hey, you know, there's this was in Vietnam and it's like, really bad, man (peace sign)" and so The Beatles were dragged into current affairs.
Of course, if they had been around in present times, they'd have been appearing on an episode of the Celebrity Weakest Link Christmas Special, dressed as pantomime characters or some such. Their collective knowledge of really bad wars and things would've guaranteed them scooping the grand prize for their pet charity, which would probably have been something to do with, well supplying pot and acid to struggling musos.
As it was, they had to wait until 1967 before they got to wear the pantomime outfits and it was John who took all the credit for being the political one, along with Yoko ("A Vellee Mellee Chismaaaasssss!"), while Paul was off playing bagpipes and writing themes for James Bond films.
Love and peace to you all.
Christmas triffids
Oh no, there's a whole MASSIVE greenhouse full of poinsettias on the telly. BURN IT TO THE GROUND! Hideous fucking things.
Ice, ice baby
I'm going to ice my Christmas cake either tonight or tomorrow night. I didn't make it myself this year, couldn't be arsed, but I bought one from Tesco and I've been feeding it copious quantities of brandy for a week. Even if it tastes like shit, it'll give me a lovely warm feeling ... until it makes me be sick up my nose.
Beneath the royal icing, the cake will be encased first in a layer of marzipan. Not that lardy dar stuff, the proper stuff that's fluorescent yellow.
Bell ends
Jo is making look at a photo of a bell end. When will the torture ever end? Fucking bitch. Should have killed her when I could've got away with a diminished responsibilities plea.
Saturdays... bereft
Now that the X factor has finished, what on earth am I supposed to do on Saturday evenings? When does Britain's got talent start? I find myself looking forward to Celebrity Big Brother starting on 2nd January, and that's only on for a fortnight.
Fuck.
I need some friends.
Or prescription drugs.
Sunday, 14 December 2008
Sunday in hell
I wish Sundays could be consigned to hell, rather than me always finding myself in a personal hell on Sundays.
Spending the day waiting for things to happen: for it to get light outside; for the heating to come on; for the washing machine to finish; for it to give up on trying to get light outside and just go dark; for the light that's on timer to come on; for bed time.
Dark:
Today is a bad day. I've left ironing to build up to ridiculous proportions. I'm looking at the pile now, the coat hangers waiting patiently on the table. Just look at it. Actually, just LOOK at it:
It's not even therapeutic doing it because I know I have to then cram the freshly ironed garments into my overcrowded wardrobe. And when you get to wear them, they are worn under a jumper or cardigan, or in the case of wearing them in my office at work, under a jumper, a cardie of mirth, a scarf and a fleece because it's so bloody cold in there.
So, having changed my bed, taken the dog for a walk along the canal, done the pots, washed the bedding, I'm having a rest before I tackle all those sleeves, cuffs, collars, and the bits between the buttons.
I'm pleading with the central heating to start warming me up. COME ON!
Contrast Sundays in winter to those in the summer. Those lovely warm, sunny days that start when you want them to and only start to end at 10pm. Actually I can't remember the last Sunday that we had like that in England, but you catch my drift.
Today, I woke buried in my nest-like bed, surrounded by pillows, curled beneath my duvet and new, ooh-la-la quilted bedspread. The curtains kept out what light there was of the grey day outside. I received a text message shortly after 9am, my sister wanting to know if I'd like to go for a walk with her and Little Con. Is she mad? Sundays like today should be given over to trying to stay warm and moping, preferably by staying in bed all day, smacked up on codeine derivatives.
The shortest day is coming up, thankfully, I bet that's on a fucking Sunday too. But once I'm through that, things can start to get better. As the end of January approaches, my mood usually starts to lift slightly - with March only four weeks away, I can start imagining lighter mornings and evenings, new buds on trees, the shoots of spring bulbs making their way to say hello to us all (unless they've all died in the clay-heavy soil that I have here), warmth.
Therapy
I had my final counselling session on Thursday. I've been feeling OK for the past month or two and now it's up to me to get on with my life, whatever that may turn out like. More of the same old crap no doubt, but at least I know that the same old crap is much easier to deal with and can even actually be quite nice when you don't hide yourself away and avoid people. God, do I really have to bother?
One thing about the reception at the counselling service disturbed me: poinsettias. I hate these plants. They're just some horticultural joke that tries to look like an imitation plant. A fuck-ugly one at that.
Spending the day waiting for things to happen: for it to get light outside; for the heating to come on; for the washing machine to finish; for it to give up on trying to get light outside and just go dark; for the light that's on timer to come on; for bed time.
Dark:
Today is a bad day. I've left ironing to build up to ridiculous proportions. I'm looking at the pile now, the coat hangers waiting patiently on the table. Just look at it. Actually, just LOOK at it:
It's not even therapeutic doing it because I know I have to then cram the freshly ironed garments into my overcrowded wardrobe. And when you get to wear them, they are worn under a jumper or cardigan, or in the case of wearing them in my office at work, under a jumper, a cardie of mirth, a scarf and a fleece because it's so bloody cold in there.
So, having changed my bed, taken the dog for a walk along the canal, done the pots, washed the bedding, I'm having a rest before I tackle all those sleeves, cuffs, collars, and the bits between the buttons.
I'm pleading with the central heating to start warming me up. COME ON!
Contrast Sundays in winter to those in the summer. Those lovely warm, sunny days that start when you want them to and only start to end at 10pm. Actually I can't remember the last Sunday that we had like that in England, but you catch my drift.
Today, I woke buried in my nest-like bed, surrounded by pillows, curled beneath my duvet and new, ooh-la-la quilted bedspread. The curtains kept out what light there was of the grey day outside. I received a text message shortly after 9am, my sister wanting to know if I'd like to go for a walk with her and Little Con. Is she mad? Sundays like today should be given over to trying to stay warm and moping, preferably by staying in bed all day, smacked up on codeine derivatives.
The shortest day is coming up, thankfully, I bet that's on a fucking Sunday too. But once I'm through that, things can start to get better. As the end of January approaches, my mood usually starts to lift slightly - with March only four weeks away, I can start imagining lighter mornings and evenings, new buds on trees, the shoots of spring bulbs making their way to say hello to us all (unless they've all died in the clay-heavy soil that I have here), warmth.
Therapy
I had my final counselling session on Thursday. I've been feeling OK for the past month or two and now it's up to me to get on with my life, whatever that may turn out like. More of the same old crap no doubt, but at least I know that the same old crap is much easier to deal with and can even actually be quite nice when you don't hide yourself away and avoid people. God, do I really have to bother?
One thing about the reception at the counselling service disturbed me: poinsettias. I hate these plants. They're just some horticultural joke that tries to look like an imitation plant. A fuck-ugly one at that.
Friday, 12 December 2008
Mental with boredom
It's been so long since I've been able to post to my blog, because my blog has been stuck somewhere between Berlin and Manhatten, that I'm almost going mental with boredom. This has been the longest period I've had without writing anything and, well, I've been getting itchy.
So now that I'm tippy tapping away, I'm not sure what I want to impart on the world.
Of course, today the people of Greater Manchester blew a massive hole in the government's ridiculous plans for the introduction of road charging (in addition to Vehicle Excise Duty, fuel tax, insurance tax and council tax). With a resounding "No" vote against the proposed Manchester Congestion Charge, we say a big fat FUCK YOU! and hopefully saved the rest of the country from other such nonsense.
Just watching Gordon Ramsay plucking turkeys straight after their death. I'm imagining this is a much more pleasant experience than plucking dead pheasants that have been hanging for a couple of weeks. Stinking of shit, covered in gore and feathers, the result never seems the effort and the mental scarring. Let's face it, you can generally buy a couple of the things ready prepared from the market for about two quid, so why bother with the caveman antics?
Expenses
Of course, it's Christmas coming up. This has kind of passed me by so far because, I don't really know why - I can't be bothered with it this year I suppose. But I've done my bit and bought a load of presents online and now all I need to do is find a book that my mum wants and I'm done. I suppose I have to wrap the things too, but I'm not bothering with the expensive giftwrap and bows like in other years. I suppose it looks nice under the Christmas tree, but so what.
I thought I'd be saving a fair bit of cash this year because I wouldn't have to buy anything for a certain somebody and also for a certain somebody's birthday at the end of December, but things have conspired against me and my obsessive nature has meant that I've been pursuing expensive replacements for things that I've accidentally fucked up.
Still, I'm sure that only amounts to about half of what I'd have spent on Jo for Christmas, so I'm still quids in.
Madness
My dad suggest that we have pork for Christmas dinner this year. I'm looking for a home for him in the new year.
So now that I'm tippy tapping away, I'm not sure what I want to impart on the world.
Of course, today the people of Greater Manchester blew a massive hole in the government's ridiculous plans for the introduction of road charging (in addition to Vehicle Excise Duty, fuel tax, insurance tax and council tax). With a resounding "No" vote against the proposed Manchester Congestion Charge, we say a big fat FUCK YOU! and hopefully saved the rest of the country from other such nonsense.
Just watching Gordon Ramsay plucking turkeys straight after their death. I'm imagining this is a much more pleasant experience than plucking dead pheasants that have been hanging for a couple of weeks. Stinking of shit, covered in gore and feathers, the result never seems the effort and the mental scarring. Let's face it, you can generally buy a couple of the things ready prepared from the market for about two quid, so why bother with the caveman antics?
Expenses
Of course, it's Christmas coming up. This has kind of passed me by so far because, I don't really know why - I can't be bothered with it this year I suppose. But I've done my bit and bought a load of presents online and now all I need to do is find a book that my mum wants and I'm done. I suppose I have to wrap the things too, but I'm not bothering with the expensive giftwrap and bows like in other years. I suppose it looks nice under the Christmas tree, but so what.
I thought I'd be saving a fair bit of cash this year because I wouldn't have to buy anything for a certain somebody and also for a certain somebody's birthday at the end of December, but things have conspired against me and my obsessive nature has meant that I've been pursuing expensive replacements for things that I've accidentally fucked up.
- Timberland jacket. I bought a lovely Timberland jacket in Vegas: waterproof with a cableknit zip pure wool cardigan insert that could be worn as an item in its own right, a bargain at £40. I washed the cardigan on a wool cycle at 30°C and it came out the size of something that would fit Little Con. Annoyed? Extremely. So what do I do? Go on eBay and buy a padded Timberland jacket for £55.
- Timberland boots. Having toiled with my Doc Marten boots for three years, without any sign of them ever becoming comfortable (or fashionable), I gave up and bought a pair of Timberlands. £82
- WinRAR. This was a major techno retard fuck up. For some reason, my avi files got associated with WinRAR to open instead of Windows Media Player. I figured that my evaluation copy of WinRAR had finally caught me out and that I needed to by a licensed copy. Thick fuck. £33
- Mini digital camera. I was out taking the little dog for a walk on Sunday afternoon. The sun was going down, it was a lovely crisp winter's day, so I decided to take my little camera with me so I could take some photos along the canal bank. We were pootling along when I spotted a robin really close by, so I whipped the camera out, turned it on, then Rocky decided to yank on his lead and I lost grip of the camera, which plummeted to the icy groung in slow motion. Fucked. Beyond repair. New camera £125.
Still, I'm sure that only amounts to about half of what I'd have spent on Jo for Christmas, so I'm still quids in.
Madness
My dad suggest that we have pork for Christmas dinner this year. I'm looking for a home for him in the new year.
Thursday, 4 December 2008
Hello world!
Sniffytastic has successfully been migrated to a new server.
Updates are underway and will be ready in a few hours, once the data has fully migrated.
Yes, there's a big gap between the end of September and the present day, but I'm sure those posts will come back.... one day. They're currently being held to ransom by international terrorists who are demanding a payment of 50 cases of Haywards Piccalilli before they'll restore them.
Updates are underway and will be ready in a few hours, once the data has fully migrated.
Yes, there's a big gap between the end of September and the present day, but I'm sure those posts will come back.... one day. They're currently being held to ransom by international terrorists who are demanding a payment of 50 cases of Haywards Piccalilli before they'll restore them.
Saturday, 27 September 2008
Cheerio
See you at
www.sniffytastic.com
Fuck's sake, what are you still coming here for? Have you still not got the hang of typing Sniffytastic in your address bar?
Go on, try it, it won't hurt!
S... N... I...F... F... Y... T... A... S... T... I... C
www.sniffytastic.com
Fuck's sake, what are you still coming here for? Have you still not got the hang of typing Sniffytastic in your address bar?
Go on, try it, it won't hurt!
S... N... I...F... F... Y... T... A... S... T... I... C
Thursday, 25 September 2008
Off
Sniffy is taking her ball with her and moving the Cakesniffing experience to a new home.
Things are being tidied up at the moment, but I'll hopefully be able to shut down Cakesniffers in a few days and reopen elsewhere.
Anybody wanting a sneak preview (don't get excited) of my miserable take on my miserable world can drop me a line and I'll tell them where I'm going.
Adios, amigos.
But before then, check this out
TO: MR. JAMES THATCHER
BRAND MANAGER, PROCTER & GAMBLE
Dear Mr. Thatcher
I have been a loyal user of your Always maxi pads for over 20 years, and I appreciate many of their features. Why, without the LeakGuard Core(tm) or Dri-Weave(tm)absorbency, I'd probably never go horse riding or salsa dancing, and I'd certainly steer clear of running up and down the beach in tight, white shorts. But my favourite feature has to be your revolutionary Flexi-Wings. Kudos on being the only company smart enough to realize how crucial it is that maxi pads be aerodynamic. I can't tell you how safe and secure I feel each month knowing there's a little F-16 in my pants.
Have you ever had a menstrual period, Mr. Thatcher? Ever suffered from 'the curse'? I'm guessing you haven't. Well, my 'time of the month' is starting right now. As I type, I can already feel hormonal forces violently surging through my body. Just a few minutes from now, my body will adjust and I'll be transformed into what my husband likes to call 'an inbred hillbilly with knife skills.' Isn't the human body amazing?
As brand manager in the feminine-hygiene division, you've no doubt seen quite a bit of research on what exactly happens during your customers' monthly visits from Aunt Flo. Therefore, you must know about the bloating, puffiness, and cramping we endure, and about our intense mood swings, crying and out-of-control behaviour. You surely realise it's a tough time for most women. In fact, only last week, my friend Jennifer fought the violent urge to shove her boyfriend's testicles into a George Foreman Grill just because he told her he thought Grey's Anatomy was written by drunken chimps.
Crazy! The point is, sir, you of all people must realize that the UK is just crawling with homicidal maniacs in Capri pants. Which brings me to the reason for my letter.
Last month, while in the throes of cramping so painful I wanted to reach inside my body and yank out my uterus, I opened an Always maxi pad, and there, printed on the adhesive backing, were these words: 'Have a Happy Period.'
Are you *+*#*ing kidding me?
What I mean is, does any part of your tiny middle-manager brain really think happiness - actual smiling, laughing happiness - is possible during a menstrual period? Did anything mentioned above sound the least bit pleasurable?
Well, did it, James? FYI, unless you're some kind of sick S&M freak girl, there will never be anything 'happy' about a day in which you have to jack yourself up on Nurofen and Kahlúa and lock yourself in your house just so you don't march down to the local Tesco's armed with a hunting rifle and a sketchy plan to end your life in a blaze of glory. For the love of God, pull your head out, man. If you just have to slap a moronic message on a maxi pad, wouldn't it make more sense to say something that's actually pertinent, like 'Put Down the Hammer' or 'Vehicular Manslaughter Is Wrong'?- Or are you just picking on us?
Sir, please inform your accounting department that, effective immediately, there will be an £8 drop in monthly profits, for I have chosen to take my maxi-pad business elsewhere. And though I will certainly miss your Flexi-Wings, I will not for one minute miss your brand of condescending bullshit. And that's a promise I will keep. Always.
Best,
Wendi Aarons
Things are being tidied up at the moment, but I'll hopefully be able to shut down Cakesniffers in a few days and reopen elsewhere.
Anybody wanting a sneak preview (don't get excited) of my miserable take on my miserable world can drop me a line and I'll tell them where I'm going.
Adios, amigos.
But before then, check this out
TO: MR. JAMES THATCHER
BRAND MANAGER, PROCTER & GAMBLE
Dear Mr. Thatcher
I have been a loyal user of your Always maxi pads for over 20 years, and I appreciate many of their features. Why, without the LeakGuard Core(tm) or Dri-Weave(tm)absorbency, I'd probably never go horse riding or salsa dancing, and I'd certainly steer clear of running up and down the beach in tight, white shorts. But my favourite feature has to be your revolutionary Flexi-Wings. Kudos on being the only company smart enough to realize how crucial it is that maxi pads be aerodynamic. I can't tell you how safe and secure I feel each month knowing there's a little F-16 in my pants.
Have you ever had a menstrual period, Mr. Thatcher? Ever suffered from 'the curse'? I'm guessing you haven't. Well, my 'time of the month' is starting right now. As I type, I can already feel hormonal forces violently surging through my body. Just a few minutes from now, my body will adjust and I'll be transformed into what my husband likes to call 'an inbred hillbilly with knife skills.' Isn't the human body amazing?
As brand manager in the feminine-hygiene division, you've no doubt seen quite a bit of research on what exactly happens during your customers' monthly visits from Aunt Flo. Therefore, you must know about the bloating, puffiness, and cramping we endure, and about our intense mood swings, crying and out-of-control behaviour. You surely realise it's a tough time for most women. In fact, only last week, my friend Jennifer fought the violent urge to shove her boyfriend's testicles into a George Foreman Grill just because he told her he thought Grey's Anatomy was written by drunken chimps.
Crazy! The point is, sir, you of all people must realize that the UK is just crawling with homicidal maniacs in Capri pants. Which brings me to the reason for my letter.
Last month, while in the throes of cramping so painful I wanted to reach inside my body and yank out my uterus, I opened an Always maxi pad, and there, printed on the adhesive backing, were these words: 'Have a Happy Period.'
Are you *+*#*ing kidding me?
What I mean is, does any part of your tiny middle-manager brain really think happiness - actual smiling, laughing happiness - is possible during a menstrual period? Did anything mentioned above sound the least bit pleasurable?
Well, did it, James? FYI, unless you're some kind of sick S&M freak girl, there will never be anything 'happy' about a day in which you have to jack yourself up on Nurofen and Kahlúa and lock yourself in your house just so you don't march down to the local Tesco's armed with a hunting rifle and a sketchy plan to end your life in a blaze of glory. For the love of God, pull your head out, man. If you just have to slap a moronic message on a maxi pad, wouldn't it make more sense to say something that's actually pertinent, like 'Put Down the Hammer' or 'Vehicular Manslaughter Is Wrong'?- Or are you just picking on us?
Sir, please inform your accounting department that, effective immediately, there will be an £8 drop in monthly profits, for I have chosen to take my maxi-pad business elsewhere. And though I will certainly miss your Flexi-Wings, I will not for one minute miss your brand of condescending bullshit. And that's a promise I will keep. Always.
Best,
Wendi Aarons
Off
Sniffy is taking her ball with her and moving the Cakesniffing experience to a new home.
Things are being tidied up at the moment, but I'll hopefully be able to shut down Cakesniffers in a few days and reopen elsewhere.
Anybody wanting a sneak preview (don't get excited) of my miserable take on my miserable world can drop me a line and I'll tell them where I'm going.
Adios, amigos.
But before then, check this out
TO: MR. JAMES THATCHER
BRAND MANAGER, PROCTER & GAMBLE
Dear Mr. Thatcher
I have been a loyal user of your Always maxi pads for over 20 years, and I appreciate many of their features. Why, without the LeakGuard Core(tm) or Dri-Weave(tm)absorbency, I'd probably never go horse riding or salsa dancing, and I'd certainly steer clear of running up and down the beach in tight, white shorts. But my favourite feature has to be your revolutionary Flexi-Wings. Kudos on being the only company smart enough to realize how crucial it is that maxi pads be aerodynamic. I can't tell you how safe and secure I feel each month knowing there's a little F-16 in my pants.
Have you ever had a menstrual period, Mr. Thatcher? Ever suffered from 'the curse'? I'm guessing you haven't. Well, my 'time of the month' is starting right now. As I type, I can already feel hormonal forces violently surging through my body. Just a few minutes from now, my body will adjust and I'll be transformed into what my husband likes to call 'an inbred hillbilly with knife skills.' Isn't the human body amazing?
As brand manager in the feminine-hygiene division, you've no doubt seen quite a bit of research on what exactly happens during your customers' monthly visits from Aunt Flo. Therefore, you must know about the bloating, puffiness, and cramping we endure, and about our intense mood swings, crying and out-of-control behaviour. You surely realise it's a tough time for most women. In fact, only last week, my friend Jennifer fought the violent urge to shove her boyfriend's testicles into a George Foreman Grill just because he told her he thought Grey's Anatomy was written by drunken chimps.
Crazy! The point is, sir, you of all people must realize that the UK is just crawling with homicidal maniacs in Capri pants. Which brings me to the reason for my letter.
Last month, while in the throes of cramping so painful I wanted to reach inside my body and yank out my uterus, I opened an Always maxi pad, and there, printed on the adhesive backing, were these words: 'Have a Happy Period.'
Are you *+*#*ing kidding me?
What I mean is, does any part of your tiny middle-manager brain really think happiness - actual smiling, laughing happiness - is possible during a menstrual period? Did anything mentioned above sound the least bit pleasurable?
Well, did it, James? FYI, unless you're some kind of sick S&M freak girl, there will never be anything 'happy' about a day in which you have to jack yourself up on Nurofen and Kahlúa and lock yourself in your house just so you don't march down to the local Tesco's armed with a hunting rifle and a sketchy plan to end your life in a blaze of glory. For the love of God, pull your head out, man. If you just have to slap a moronic message on a maxi pad, wouldn't it make more sense to say something that's actually pertinent, like 'Put Down the Hammer' or 'Vehicular Manslaughter Is Wrong'?- Or are you just picking on us?
Sir, please inform your accounting department that, effective immediately, there will be an £8 drop in monthly profits, for I have chosen to take my maxi-pad business elsewhere. And though I will certainly miss your Flexi-Wings, I will not for one minute miss your brand of condescending bullshit. And that's a promise I will keep. Always.
Best,
Wendi Aarons
Things are being tidied up at the moment, but I'll hopefully be able to shut down Cakesniffers in a few days and reopen elsewhere.
Anybody wanting a sneak preview (don't get excited) of my miserable take on my miserable world can drop me a line and I'll tell them where I'm going.
Adios, amigos.
But before then, check this out
TO: MR. JAMES THATCHER
BRAND MANAGER, PROCTER & GAMBLE
Dear Mr. Thatcher
I have been a loyal user of your Always maxi pads for over 20 years, and I appreciate many of their features. Why, without the LeakGuard Core(tm) or Dri-Weave(tm)absorbency, I'd probably never go horse riding or salsa dancing, and I'd certainly steer clear of running up and down the beach in tight, white shorts. But my favourite feature has to be your revolutionary Flexi-Wings. Kudos on being the only company smart enough to realize how crucial it is that maxi pads be aerodynamic. I can't tell you how safe and secure I feel each month knowing there's a little F-16 in my pants.
Have you ever had a menstrual period, Mr. Thatcher? Ever suffered from 'the curse'? I'm guessing you haven't. Well, my 'time of the month' is starting right now. As I type, I can already feel hormonal forces violently surging through my body. Just a few minutes from now, my body will adjust and I'll be transformed into what my husband likes to call 'an inbred hillbilly with knife skills.' Isn't the human body amazing?
As brand manager in the feminine-hygiene division, you've no doubt seen quite a bit of research on what exactly happens during your customers' monthly visits from Aunt Flo. Therefore, you must know about the bloating, puffiness, and cramping we endure, and about our intense mood swings, crying and out-of-control behaviour. You surely realise it's a tough time for most women. In fact, only last week, my friend Jennifer fought the violent urge to shove her boyfriend's testicles into a George Foreman Grill just because he told her he thought Grey's Anatomy was written by drunken chimps.
Crazy! The point is, sir, you of all people must realize that the UK is just crawling with homicidal maniacs in Capri pants. Which brings me to the reason for my letter.
Last month, while in the throes of cramping so painful I wanted to reach inside my body and yank out my uterus, I opened an Always maxi pad, and there, printed on the adhesive backing, were these words: 'Have a Happy Period.'
Are you *+*#*ing kidding me?
What I mean is, does any part of your tiny middle-manager brain really think happiness - actual smiling, laughing happiness - is possible during a menstrual period? Did anything mentioned above sound the least bit pleasurable?
Well, did it, James? FYI, unless you're some kind of sick S&M freak girl, there will never be anything 'happy' about a day in which you have to jack yourself up on Nurofen and Kahlúa and lock yourself in your house just so you don't march down to the local Tesco's armed with a hunting rifle and a sketchy plan to end your life in a blaze of glory. For the love of God, pull your head out, man. If you just have to slap a moronic message on a maxi pad, wouldn't it make more sense to say something that's actually pertinent, like 'Put Down the Hammer' or 'Vehicular Manslaughter Is Wrong'?- Or are you just picking on us?
Sir, please inform your accounting department that, effective immediately, there will be an £8 drop in monthly profits, for I have chosen to take my maxi-pad business elsewhere. And though I will certainly miss your Flexi-Wings, I will not for one minute miss your brand of condescending bullshit. And that's a promise I will keep. Always.
Best,
Wendi Aarons
Wednesday, 24 September 2008
Twat
I'm a twat. I'm a twat. I'm a twat.
A couple of swigs of cheap plonk on an empty stomach and I go completely off my tits.
Arsehole.
Anyway, to save me getting into further trouble, I thought it best to post some photos. Aaaahhh, I feel myself stepping back into the light.
The Grand Canyon
It's a deep long hole with a river running through it. One... two... three.... JUMP!
Wonder Woman's Helicopter
Yes, the delish superheroine is alive and living at the Grand Canyon shuttle site. She was off doing dirty bitch things with her truth lasso, so I didn't actually see her unfortunately, but she'd left her helicopter parked there.
Yeeeeeeeee-Haaaaaaaaaaw Cowgirl
I had a strange experience with a card trickster at this ranch, but this cowgirl made me go a bit whatsit when she beckoned me over as I took this photo. She thought I was taking a picture of the horse, for fuck's sake. The horse is called Jackson, and he smells a bit like a horse. I'm sure the cowgirl did too, but you'd let her off for that.
Actually, she looks a bit rough on this photo, but it wasn't her teeth I was looking at.
Fremont Street Experience
Look at these nasty pieces of work!
Imagine coming across any of these on a dark night. What a thought, or several...
A couple of swigs of cheap plonk on an empty stomach and I go completely off my tits.
Arsehole.
Anyway, to save me getting into further trouble, I thought it best to post some photos. Aaaahhh, I feel myself stepping back into the light.
The Grand Canyon
It's a deep long hole with a river running through it. One... two... three.... JUMP!
Wonder Woman's Helicopter
Yes, the delish superheroine is alive and living at the Grand Canyon shuttle site. She was off doing dirty bitch things with her truth lasso, so I didn't actually see her unfortunately, but she'd left her helicopter parked there.
Yeeeeeeeee-Haaaaaaaaaaw Cowgirl
I had a strange experience with a card trickster at this ranch, but this cowgirl made me go a bit whatsit when she beckoned me over as I took this photo. She thought I was taking a picture of the horse, for fuck's sake. The horse is called Jackson, and he smells a bit like a horse. I'm sure the cowgirl did too, but you'd let her off for that.
Actually, she looks a bit rough on this photo, but it wasn't her teeth I was looking at.
Fremont Street Experience
Look at these nasty pieces of work!
Imagine coming across any of these on a dark night. What a thought, or several...
Twat
I'm a twat. I'm a twat. I'm a twat.
A couple of swigs of cheap plonk on an empty stomach and I go completely off my tits.
Arsehole.
Anyway, to save me getting into further trouble, I thought it best to post some photos. Aaaahhh, I feel myself stepping back into the light.
The Grand Canyon
It's a deep long hole with a river running through it. One... two... three.... JUMP!
Wonder Woman's Helicopter
Yes, the delish superheroine is alive and living at the Grand Canyon shuttle site. She was off doing dirty bitch things with her truth lasso, so I didn't actually see her unfortunately, but she'd left her helicopter parked there.
Yeeeeeeeee-Haaaaaaaaaaw Cowgirl
I had a strange experience with a card trickster at this ranch, but this cowgirl made me go a bit whatsit when she beckoned me over as I took this photo. She thought I was taking a picture of the horse, for fuck's sake. The horse is called Jackson, and he smells a bit like a horse. I'm sure the cowgirl did too, but you'd let her off for that.
Actually, she looks a bit rough on this photo, but it wasn't her teeth I was looking at.
Fremont Street Experience
Look at these nasty pieces of work!
Imagine coming across any of these on a dark night. What a thought, or several...
A couple of swigs of cheap plonk on an empty stomach and I go completely off my tits.
Arsehole.
Anyway, to save me getting into further trouble, I thought it best to post some photos. Aaaahhh, I feel myself stepping back into the light.
The Grand Canyon
It's a deep long hole with a river running through it. One... two... three.... JUMP!
Wonder Woman's Helicopter
Yes, the delish superheroine is alive and living at the Grand Canyon shuttle site. She was off doing dirty bitch things with her truth lasso, so I didn't actually see her unfortunately, but she'd left her helicopter parked there.
Yeeeeeeeee-Haaaaaaaaaaw Cowgirl
I had a strange experience with a card trickster at this ranch, but this cowgirl made me go a bit whatsit when she beckoned me over as I took this photo. She thought I was taking a picture of the horse, for fuck's sake. The horse is called Jackson, and he smells a bit like a horse. I'm sure the cowgirl did too, but you'd let her off for that.
Actually, she looks a bit rough on this photo, but it wasn't her teeth I was looking at.
Fremont Street Experience
Look at these nasty pieces of work!
Imagine coming across any of these on a dark night. What a thought, or several...
Sunday, 21 September 2008
Fear and loathing in Las Vegas
Las Vagas is an amazing place. Sat in the middle of vast desert, it is an oasis of madness, fun and light.
A fantastic venue for a holiday, but not when your life has fallen apart. Things should have been so much different there, it would've been brilliant in different circumstances, but I've just had the most miserable holiday of my entire life; I'm having the most miserable time of my entire life.
The sun shone, it was lovely and warm, I spent lots of money, lost about $120 in the slot machines, chain-smoked cheap fags. For these reasons alone, the holiday was worth it, but trying to act "normal" and pretend that I was OK with everything was just too much for me. I guess things were compounded by Jo acting as if nothing was wrong, as she has done and continues to do.
So now I'm back and life goes on, even though I wish it wouldn't. Too cowardly to put an end to things, you just wait for a 70mph coming together with a brick wall or truck. Or you smoke yourself to death.
Bring it on.
A fantastic venue for a holiday, but not when your life has fallen apart. Things should have been so much different there, it would've been brilliant in different circumstances, but I've just had the most miserable holiday of my entire life; I'm having the most miserable time of my entire life.
The sun shone, it was lovely and warm, I spent lots of money, lost about $120 in the slot machines, chain-smoked cheap fags. For these reasons alone, the holiday was worth it, but trying to act "normal" and pretend that I was OK with everything was just too much for me. I guess things were compounded by Jo acting as if nothing was wrong, as she has done and continues to do.
So now I'm back and life goes on, even though I wish it wouldn't. Too cowardly to put an end to things, you just wait for a 70mph coming together with a brick wall or truck. Or you smoke yourself to death.
Bring it on.
Fear and loathing in Las Vegas
Las Vagas is an amazing place. Sat in the middle of vast desert, it is an oasis of madness, fun and light.
A fantastic venue for a holiday, but not when your life has fallen apart. Things should have been so much different there, it would've been brilliant in different circumstances, but I've just had the most miserable holiday of my entire life; I'm having the most miserable time of my entire life.
The sun shone, it was lovely and warm, I spent lots of money, lost about $120 in the slot machines, chain-smoked cheap fags. For these reasons alone, the holiday was worth it, but trying to act "normal" and pretend that I was OK with everything was just too much for me. I guess things were compounded by Jo acting as if nothing was wrong, as she has done and continues to do.
So now I'm back and life goes on, even though I wish it wouldn't. Too cowardly to put an end to things, you just wait for a 70mph coming together with a brick wall or truck. Or you smoke yourself to death.
Bring it on.
A fantastic venue for a holiday, but not when your life has fallen apart. Things should have been so much different there, it would've been brilliant in different circumstances, but I've just had the most miserable holiday of my entire life; I'm having the most miserable time of my entire life.
The sun shone, it was lovely and warm, I spent lots of money, lost about $120 in the slot machines, chain-smoked cheap fags. For these reasons alone, the holiday was worth it, but trying to act "normal" and pretend that I was OK with everything was just too much for me. I guess things were compounded by Jo acting as if nothing was wrong, as she has done and continues to do.
So now I'm back and life goes on, even though I wish it wouldn't. Too cowardly to put an end to things, you just wait for a 70mph coming together with a brick wall or truck. Or you smoke yourself to death.
Bring it on.
Friday, 12 September 2008
A week in the world's party capital
Is that what they call Las Vegas?
They won't do after I've had my miserable face there next week.
We're off to Vegas! Yes, Tina, Jo and the outlaws are going away on Saturday on our trip that we planned a long time ago, when Tina wasn't as apparently unbearable and depressing to live with. Like I wasn't a few weeks ago when we bought a house together. Fucking tool.
I think I'm doing the right thing by still going... just. I need a holiday and some sunshine (not had any in over 2 years) and Jo's family are really nice (I wonder if she's adopted). There'll be plenty of things to take photos of, and if I'm any good at the Black Jack table, I might win enough money to buy her out of the house and tell her to sling her hook (which would make a difference from what's been proposed so far).
Do I want her to sling her hook? Nope, absolutely not, but that's what that crazy little thing called love does to you. Fries your brain and makes you lose all sense.
Failing winning a stack of cash in the casino, a fatal "accident" at the Grand Canyon might result in a positive outcome.
"It was a mercy killing!" You'll see me being led away by the FBI, or state police, or by a band of cheering admirers.
These things I mention in jest, so I really do hope that nothing happens to anybody in the party.
I'm a celebrity, get me out of here!
Yes, so you book a trip to Vegas with the intention of taking in one of shows from a superstar. Who's in residence there at the moment? We have the wonderful Bette Midler, Cher and Mr David Furnish's partner Elton (accompanied by his amazing performing eyebrow [check out Princess Di's funeral]). Unfortunately, they're all on holiday for the week while we're there, so a celebrity hunt would be rather fruitless unless I mozy on down to the courthouse to catch a look at OJ Simpson, who's on trial AGAIN.
Smoking
I'd forgotten how quickly I get addicted to things. Aren't Marlboro Lights divine? I don't think most people who read this blog would ever have smoked Marlboro Lights because they're all quite common and prefer things like Regal, or Royals, or dimps that they pick up from the ashtrays of outside cafe tables. It was people like these who complained about the smoking ban, but they're really benefiting from recycling used cigs from ashtrays.
Anyway, I haven't bought any more fags since I finished the last of a packet yesterday, so I hope I can get it out of my system and ignore the constant nagging in my head long enough to get back on the straight and narrow.
And then I don't know what I'll do. Keep chewing my fingers I guess.
What a mess they are: a sad reflection of my chewed up and spat out life.
They won't do after I've had my miserable face there next week.
We're off to Vegas! Yes, Tina, Jo and the outlaws are going away on Saturday on our trip that we planned a long time ago, when Tina wasn't as apparently unbearable and depressing to live with. Like I wasn't a few weeks ago when we bought a house together. Fucking tool.
I think I'm doing the right thing by still going... just. I need a holiday and some sunshine (not had any in over 2 years) and Jo's family are really nice (I wonder if she's adopted). There'll be plenty of things to take photos of, and if I'm any good at the Black Jack table, I might win enough money to buy her out of the house and tell her to sling her hook (which would make a difference from what's been proposed so far).
Do I want her to sling her hook? Nope, absolutely not, but that's what that crazy little thing called love does to you. Fries your brain and makes you lose all sense.
Failing winning a stack of cash in the casino, a fatal "accident" at the Grand Canyon might result in a positive outcome.
"It was a mercy killing!" You'll see me being led away by the FBI, or state police, or by a band of cheering admirers.
These things I mention in jest, so I really do hope that nothing happens to anybody in the party.
I'm a celebrity, get me out of here!
Yes, so you book a trip to Vegas with the intention of taking in one of shows from a superstar. Who's in residence there at the moment? We have the wonderful Bette Midler, Cher and Mr David Furnish's partner Elton (accompanied by his amazing performing eyebrow [check out Princess Di's funeral]). Unfortunately, they're all on holiday for the week while we're there, so a celebrity hunt would be rather fruitless unless I mozy on down to the courthouse to catch a look at OJ Simpson, who's on trial AGAIN.
Smoking
I'd forgotten how quickly I get addicted to things. Aren't Marlboro Lights divine? I don't think most people who read this blog would ever have smoked Marlboro Lights because they're all quite common and prefer things like Regal, or Royals, or dimps that they pick up from the ashtrays of outside cafe tables. It was people like these who complained about the smoking ban, but they're really benefiting from recycling used cigs from ashtrays.
Anyway, I haven't bought any more fags since I finished the last of a packet yesterday, so I hope I can get it out of my system and ignore the constant nagging in my head long enough to get back on the straight and narrow.
And then I don't know what I'll do. Keep chewing my fingers I guess.
What a mess they are: a sad reflection of my chewed up and spat out life.
A week in the world's party capital
Is that what they call Las Vegas?
They won't do after I've had my miserable face there next week.
We're off to Vegas! Yes, Tina, Jo and the outlaws are going away on Saturday on our trip that we planned a long time ago, when Tina wasn't as apparently unbearable and depressing to live with. Like I wasn't a few weeks ago when we bought a house together. Fucking tool.
I think I'm doing the right thing by still going... just. I need a holiday and some sunshine (not had any in over 2 years) and Jo's family are really nice (I wonder if she's adopted). There'll be plenty of things to take photos of, and if I'm any good at the Black Jack table, I might win enough money to buy her out of the house and tell her to sling her hook (which would make a difference from what's been proposed so far).
Do I want her to sling her hook? Nope, absolutely not, but that's what that crazy little thing called love does to you. Fries your brain and makes you lose all sense.
Failing winning a stack of cash in the casino, a fatal "accident" at the Grand Canyon might result in a positive outcome.
"It was a mercy killing!" You'll see me being led away by the FBI, or state police, or by a band of cheering admirers.
These things I mention in jest, so I really do hope that nothing happens to anybody in the party.
I'm a celebrity, get me out of here!
Yes, so you book a trip to Vegas with the intention of taking in one of shows from a superstar. Who's in residence there at the moment? We have the wonderful Bette Midler, Cher and Mr David Furnish's partner Elton (accompanied by his amazing performing eyebrow [check out Princess Di's funeral]). Unfortunately, they're all on holiday for the week while we're there, so a celebrity hunt would be rather fruitless unless I mozy on down to the courthouse to catch a look at OJ Simpson, who's on trial AGAIN.
Smoking
I'd forgotten how quickly I get addicted to things. Aren't Marlboro Lights divine? I don't think most people who read this blog would ever have smoked Marlboro Lights because they're all quite common and prefer things like Regal, or Royals, or dimps that they pick up from the ashtrays of outside cafe tables. It was people like these who complained about the smoking ban, but they're really benefiting from recycling used cigs from ashtrays.
Anyway, I haven't bought any more fags since I finished the last of a packet yesterday, so I hope I can get it out of my system and ignore the constant nagging in my head long enough to get back on the straight and narrow.
And then I don't know what I'll do. Keep chewing my fingers I guess.
What a mess they are: a sad reflection of my chewed up and spat out life.
They won't do after I've had my miserable face there next week.
We're off to Vegas! Yes, Tina, Jo and the outlaws are going away on Saturday on our trip that we planned a long time ago, when Tina wasn't as apparently unbearable and depressing to live with. Like I wasn't a few weeks ago when we bought a house together. Fucking tool.
I think I'm doing the right thing by still going... just. I need a holiday and some sunshine (not had any in over 2 years) and Jo's family are really nice (I wonder if she's adopted). There'll be plenty of things to take photos of, and if I'm any good at the Black Jack table, I might win enough money to buy her out of the house and tell her to sling her hook (which would make a difference from what's been proposed so far).
Do I want her to sling her hook? Nope, absolutely not, but that's what that crazy little thing called love does to you. Fries your brain and makes you lose all sense.
Failing winning a stack of cash in the casino, a fatal "accident" at the Grand Canyon might result in a positive outcome.
"It was a mercy killing!" You'll see me being led away by the FBI, or state police, or by a band of cheering admirers.
These things I mention in jest, so I really do hope that nothing happens to anybody in the party.
I'm a celebrity, get me out of here!
Yes, so you book a trip to Vegas with the intention of taking in one of shows from a superstar. Who's in residence there at the moment? We have the wonderful Bette Midler, Cher and Mr David Furnish's partner Elton (accompanied by his amazing performing eyebrow [check out Princess Di's funeral]). Unfortunately, they're all on holiday for the week while we're there, so a celebrity hunt would be rather fruitless unless I mozy on down to the courthouse to catch a look at OJ Simpson, who's on trial AGAIN.
Smoking
I'd forgotten how quickly I get addicted to things. Aren't Marlboro Lights divine? I don't think most people who read this blog would ever have smoked Marlboro Lights because they're all quite common and prefer things like Regal, or Royals, or dimps that they pick up from the ashtrays of outside cafe tables. It was people like these who complained about the smoking ban, but they're really benefiting from recycling used cigs from ashtrays.
Anyway, I haven't bought any more fags since I finished the last of a packet yesterday, so I hope I can get it out of my system and ignore the constant nagging in my head long enough to get back on the straight and narrow.
And then I don't know what I'll do. Keep chewing my fingers I guess.
What a mess they are: a sad reflection of my chewed up and spat out life.
Saturday, 6 September 2008
Dull
Jesus, you're going through emotional turmoil, spending too much time on your own and what is there to distract you? Telly is crap, time differences mean that I have to be awake in the early hours to have online chats about baby oil fights with delicious Canadians, and the blogworld is crap at the moment too. I mean, I've even resorted to posting messages in Facebook of late, that's how bad things are.
So, to save plummeting further into the abyss of despair, I need to post something.
Things are rubbish, let's just leave it at that. I don't really know where I am or what the future will hold. My emotions are running high, or should I say, to the extreme. I have had shameful lapses with nicotine and booze, neither of which I'm intending to repeat ever again.
Anyway, washing machines. What is it with these things? I'm staying at my folks' this week as they're in Italy again. Their washing machine is really confusing, it's not one that you turn the dial to the "dye everything pink and shrink" setting, it has buttons and flashing lights and different options. I got a bit muddy earlier (nothing to do with lesbian wrestling) and so I'm having to wash my otherwise clean jeans and some socks, knickers and stuff. I put the washing on about 2 hours ago and it's still going! What the fuck is going on?? I could've taken it down to the Irwell and bashed it against some rocks on the riverbank.
I hate Fax machines too. Stupid bloody things.
The liver of a Chinaman
I don't know why I did it, other than stupidity I suppose and possibly because, well if I can't have a drink now, when the hell can I have one, but I had two moderate glasses of whisky last night. I was tired, I hadn't eaten. On top of this, I haven't touched a drop in over eight years. What this means is that my liver has no alcohol dehydrogenase. Whot, whot, whot? It's an enzyme that breaks down alcohol at the start of the metabolic process. Of course, my liver doesn't have any of the enzymes further down the metabolic pathway that help to clear the circulation of aldehydes - the things that make you feel shite when you're hungover - you only synthesise these enzymes if your liver is exposed to the stimulus (alcohol in this case).
Anyway, I got absolutely shitfaced within about 2 minutes and spent all day today feeling utterly wretched, moreso than I had been doing.
So there's a lesson there. You think you want something so much, crave for it, think about it so much that it becomes all consuming, you think Yes, this is what I need, I can't be happy without it. So you cross the line, taste the forbidden fruit, but when you finally get it, it's really disappointing and you wish that you'd have stayed the way you were before. Worst still, you know you've actually cheated yourself and let yourself down, people who know you will be let down and betrayed too and you can never go back to that time just a short while ago; it's been tainted. The fact that you can't go back, that you've blotted your copy book, is much worse than the disappointment of realising that smoking is pretty disgusting and that being drunk just makes you feel crap.
If where you're at is OK, just stick at it.
And if you decide to do some washing, see if there's a "quick wash" setting.
So, to save plummeting further into the abyss of despair, I need to post something.
Things are rubbish, let's just leave it at that. I don't really know where I am or what the future will hold. My emotions are running high, or should I say, to the extreme. I have had shameful lapses with nicotine and booze, neither of which I'm intending to repeat ever again.
Anyway, washing machines. What is it with these things? I'm staying at my folks' this week as they're in Italy again. Their washing machine is really confusing, it's not one that you turn the dial to the "dye everything pink and shrink" setting, it has buttons and flashing lights and different options. I got a bit muddy earlier (nothing to do with lesbian wrestling) and so I'm having to wash my otherwise clean jeans and some socks, knickers and stuff. I put the washing on about 2 hours ago and it's still going! What the fuck is going on?? I could've taken it down to the Irwell and bashed it against some rocks on the riverbank.
I hate Fax machines too. Stupid bloody things.
The liver of a Chinaman
I don't know why I did it, other than stupidity I suppose and possibly because, well if I can't have a drink now, when the hell can I have one, but I had two moderate glasses of whisky last night. I was tired, I hadn't eaten. On top of this, I haven't touched a drop in over eight years. What this means is that my liver has no alcohol dehydrogenase. Whot, whot, whot? It's an enzyme that breaks down alcohol at the start of the metabolic process. Of course, my liver doesn't have any of the enzymes further down the metabolic pathway that help to clear the circulation of aldehydes - the things that make you feel shite when you're hungover - you only synthesise these enzymes if your liver is exposed to the stimulus (alcohol in this case).
Anyway, I got absolutely shitfaced within about 2 minutes and spent all day today feeling utterly wretched, moreso than I had been doing.
So there's a lesson there. You think you want something so much, crave for it, think about it so much that it becomes all consuming, you think Yes, this is what I need, I can't be happy without it. So you cross the line, taste the forbidden fruit, but when you finally get it, it's really disappointing and you wish that you'd have stayed the way you were before. Worst still, you know you've actually cheated yourself and let yourself down, people who know you will be let down and betrayed too and you can never go back to that time just a short while ago; it's been tainted. The fact that you can't go back, that you've blotted your copy book, is much worse than the disappointment of realising that smoking is pretty disgusting and that being drunk just makes you feel crap.
If where you're at is OK, just stick at it.
And if you decide to do some washing, see if there's a "quick wash" setting.
Dull
Jesus, you're going through emotional turmoil, spending too much time on your own and what is there to distract you? Telly is crap, time differences mean that I have to be awake in the early hours to have online chats about baby oil fights with delicious Canadians, and the blogworld is crap at the moment too. I mean, I've even resorted to posting messages in Facebook of late, that's how bad things are.
So, to save plummeting further into the abyss of despair, I need to post something.
Things are rubbish, let's just leave it at that. I don't really know where I am or what the future will hold. My emotions are running high, or should I say, to the extreme. I have had shameful lapses with nicotine and booze, neither of which I'm intending to repeat ever again.
Anyway, washing machines. What is it with these things? I'm staying at my folks' this week as they're in Italy again. Their washing machine is really confusing, it's not one that you turn the dial to the "dye everything pink and shrink" setting, it has buttons and flashing lights and different options. I got a bit muddy earlier (nothing to do with lesbian wrestling) and so I'm having to wash my otherwise clean jeans and some socks, knickers and stuff. I put the washing on about 2 hours ago and it's still going! What the fuck is going on?? I could've taken it down to the Irwell and bashed it against some rocks on the riverbank.
I hate Fax machines too. Stupid bloody things.
The liver of a Chinaman
I don't know why I did it, other than stupidity I suppose and possibly because, well if I can't have a drink now, when the hell can I have one, but I had two moderate glasses of whisky last night. I was tired, I hadn't eaten. On top of this, I haven't touched a drop in over eight years. What this means is that my liver has no alcohol dehydrogenase. Whot, whot, whot? It's an enzyme that breaks down alcohol at the start of the metabolic process. Of course, my liver doesn't have any of the enzymes further down the metabolic pathway that help to clear the circulation of aldehydes - the things that make you feel shite when you're hungover - you only synthesise these enzymes if your liver is exposed to the stimulus (alcohol in this case).
Anyway, I got absolutely shitfaced within about 2 minutes and spent all day today feeling utterly wretched, moreso than I had been doing.
So there's a lesson there. You think you want something so much, crave for it, think about it so much that it becomes all consuming, you think Yes, this is what I need, I can't be happy without it. So you cross the line, taste the forbidden fruit, but when you finally get it, it's really disappointing and you wish that you'd have stayed the way you were before. Worst still, you know you've actually cheated yourself and let yourself down, people who know you will be let down and betrayed too and you can never go back to that time just a short while ago; it's been tainted. The fact that you can't go back, that you've blotted your copy book, is much worse than the disappointment of realising that smoking is pretty disgusting and that being drunk just makes you feel crap.
If where you're at is OK, just stick at it.
And if you decide to do some washing, see if there's a "quick wash" setting.
So, to save plummeting further into the abyss of despair, I need to post something.
Things are rubbish, let's just leave it at that. I don't really know where I am or what the future will hold. My emotions are running high, or should I say, to the extreme. I have had shameful lapses with nicotine and booze, neither of which I'm intending to repeat ever again.
Anyway, washing machines. What is it with these things? I'm staying at my folks' this week as they're in Italy again. Their washing machine is really confusing, it's not one that you turn the dial to the "dye everything pink and shrink" setting, it has buttons and flashing lights and different options. I got a bit muddy earlier (nothing to do with lesbian wrestling) and so I'm having to wash my otherwise clean jeans and some socks, knickers and stuff. I put the washing on about 2 hours ago and it's still going! What the fuck is going on?? I could've taken it down to the Irwell and bashed it against some rocks on the riverbank.
I hate Fax machines too. Stupid bloody things.
The liver of a Chinaman
I don't know why I did it, other than stupidity I suppose and possibly because, well if I can't have a drink now, when the hell can I have one, but I had two moderate glasses of whisky last night. I was tired, I hadn't eaten. On top of this, I haven't touched a drop in over eight years. What this means is that my liver has no alcohol dehydrogenase. Whot, whot, whot? It's an enzyme that breaks down alcohol at the start of the metabolic process. Of course, my liver doesn't have any of the enzymes further down the metabolic pathway that help to clear the circulation of aldehydes - the things that make you feel shite when you're hungover - you only synthesise these enzymes if your liver is exposed to the stimulus (alcohol in this case).
Anyway, I got absolutely shitfaced within about 2 minutes and spent all day today feeling utterly wretched, moreso than I had been doing.
So there's a lesson there. You think you want something so much, crave for it, think about it so much that it becomes all consuming, you think Yes, this is what I need, I can't be happy without it. So you cross the line, taste the forbidden fruit, but when you finally get it, it's really disappointing and you wish that you'd have stayed the way you were before. Worst still, you know you've actually cheated yourself and let yourself down, people who know you will be let down and betrayed too and you can never go back to that time just a short while ago; it's been tainted. The fact that you can't go back, that you've blotted your copy book, is much worse than the disappointment of realising that smoking is pretty disgusting and that being drunk just makes you feel crap.
If where you're at is OK, just stick at it.
And if you decide to do some washing, see if there's a "quick wash" setting.
Thursday, 28 August 2008
TTFN
There comes a time in everyone's lives where something impacts on them badly and they need to take time out to regroup and sort themselves out.
Circumstances chez Trumpsniffer are in terminal decline, dead in fact. A couple of months after moving in, before we'd got started on moving to the next phase of our lives together, Trump decided - with an impeccable sense of timing - that it is over for us.
Sniffy has been left in a state of devastation and confusion that is impossible to describe. Having the world collapse around a person doesn't leave them in the best state of mind for anything other than alternating between various emotional states, none of which are conducive to any activity resembling what might be normal for a person. The need for self preservation might include the occasional outpouring of hurt, grief, anger in a blog, but I think I need to concentrate on doing things like getting out of bed in the morning, getting a shower, eating, etc, etc.
Pretending things are ok for the timebeing. That'll be fun. It won't leave much energy for blogging.
Cheerio for now. I'll be back soon when things have started to heal a bit.
Circumstances chez Trumpsniffer are in terminal decline, dead in fact. A couple of months after moving in, before we'd got started on moving to the next phase of our lives together, Trump decided - with an impeccable sense of timing - that it is over for us.
Sniffy has been left in a state of devastation and confusion that is impossible to describe. Having the world collapse around a person doesn't leave them in the best state of mind for anything other than alternating between various emotional states, none of which are conducive to any activity resembling what might be normal for a person. The need for self preservation might include the occasional outpouring of hurt, grief, anger in a blog, but I think I need to concentrate on doing things like getting out of bed in the morning, getting a shower, eating, etc, etc.
Pretending things are ok for the timebeing. That'll be fun. It won't leave much energy for blogging.
Cheerio for now. I'll be back soon when things have started to heal a bit.
Tuesday, 26 August 2008
FUCK!
FUCK
FUCK
FUCK
FUCK
FUCK
FUCK
FUCK
FUCK
FUCK
Fuckety fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck
And that just about sums it all up.
FUCK
FUCK
FUCK
FUCK
FUCK
FUCK
FUCK
FUCK
Fuckety fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck
And that just about sums it all up.
Tuesday, 19 August 2008
INTERVIEW!
I had to interview some candidates for a job in our department yesterday.
Could you imagine being interviewed by me? Those poor, poor people. Most of them were really nice, one was a bit odd, one we just didn't like, and one, I really threw with a stupid jokey question:
"I'll run through the job, then ask you a couple of questions before my colleagues ask theirs and then I'll finish off by going through your criminal record", meaning, we'll go through the mandatory questions, one of which asks about convictions, cautions, etc. Having never been to an interview before, she didn't know about "mandatory questions" and was completely thrown by it.
I'm such a twat. Luckily, she recovered really well and gave a very good account of herself.
The problem with interviews is, there's no real point to them. You're not allowed to ask the questions you really want to ask, and you're certainly not allowed to document the real decision process for picking your preferred candidate for the benefit of the Human Resources department.
We have to tell them our selection criteria and score each candidate against each one. Having the highest score doesn't get you the job, but it helps. Getting the highest score against the official selection criteria doesn't automatically get you the job because there are unwritten selection criteria such as:
Anyway, Sniffy had to phone the unsuccessful candidates and give them the bad news... and feedback. Not a nice job, but it's better than letting people hang on and not telling them at all.
In the night garden
Who'd have thought that this would work as an instant anxiolytic for baby throwing a tantrum?
Amazing.
How does it work? Is there a formula for tapping into a toddler's mind other than a cattleprod to the head?
I think the formula must include things like a brightly coloured asexual "thing" - Iggle Piggle - that dances and sings, but not in any discernible language. Add some other companions that are also brightly coloured, but slightly different in shape; again without a defined sex, but clearly a different sex than the main character - Upsy Daisy. And they jump around, dance, play hide and seek, then sleep in a boat.
Hey presto! All the children calm down. Unless its something to do with all newborns being chipped at birth with a device that can be activated by a specific signal from CBeebies.
CBeebies is a government tool for controlling the minds our children, thus eventually giving the country a generation of numbed zombies who they can control at the push of a button!
I suppose they said the same thing when they introduced the National Lottery.
Could you imagine being interviewed by me? Those poor, poor people. Most of them were really nice, one was a bit odd, one we just didn't like, and one, I really threw with a stupid jokey question:
"I'll run through the job, then ask you a couple of questions before my colleagues ask theirs and then I'll finish off by going through your criminal record", meaning, we'll go through the mandatory questions, one of which asks about convictions, cautions, etc. Having never been to an interview before, she didn't know about "mandatory questions" and was completely thrown by it.
I'm such a twat. Luckily, she recovered really well and gave a very good account of herself.
The problem with interviews is, there's no real point to them. You're not allowed to ask the questions you really want to ask, and you're certainly not allowed to document the real decision process for picking your preferred candidate for the benefit of the Human Resources department.
We have to tell them our selection criteria and score each candidate against each one. Having the highest score doesn't get you the job, but it helps. Getting the highest score against the official selection criteria doesn't automatically get you the job because there are unwritten selection criteria such as:
- Did we like them?
- Are they normal, or a bit weird?
- Do they have good social skills, or do they avoid eye contact and twitch alot?
- Are their kids likely to keep them at home at short notice?
- Would they be a pain in the arse?
- Are they likely to fuck off and do something a lot more challenging?
- Do they come from Stornoway?
Anyway, Sniffy had to phone the unsuccessful candidates and give them the bad news... and feedback. Not a nice job, but it's better than letting people hang on and not telling them at all.
In the night garden
Who'd have thought that this would work as an instant anxiolytic for baby throwing a tantrum?
Amazing.
How does it work? Is there a formula for tapping into a toddler's mind other than a cattleprod to the head?
I think the formula must include things like a brightly coloured asexual "thing" - Iggle Piggle - that dances and sings, but not in any discernible language. Add some other companions that are also brightly coloured, but slightly different in shape; again without a defined sex, but clearly a different sex than the main character - Upsy Daisy. And they jump around, dance, play hide and seek, then sleep in a boat.
Hey presto! All the children calm down. Unless its something to do with all newborns being chipped at birth with a device that can be activated by a specific signal from CBeebies.
CBeebies is a government tool for controlling the minds our children, thus eventually giving the country a generation of numbed zombies who they can control at the push of a button!
I suppose they said the same thing when they introduced the National Lottery.
Saturday, 16 August 2008
But how do I make it WORK???
I'm fed up buying stuff that doesn't work. Thanks very much Tesco for selling the following pile of shite items:
The cross cut shredder is great so long as you use for no more than 30 seconds in any one time, giving it half an hour's rest before even thinking of attempting to shred another single piece of paper.
We've had two of these now. Both rubbish.
The water pistol was bought to train Rocky to walk on his lead properly. The original super power soaker merely dribbled, so I took it apart, tried to fix it, and then it leaked. That ended up in the bin.
We bought another this evening, it didn't work at all, not even a dribble of water.
Fucking rubbish.
Don't Tesco check these things before they sell them? What do they pay their buyers to do? Pick things that they know that are rubbish that people will buy, but won't bother to return?
I don't know, I really don't.
Adios, Fucktards!
One thing I've kept quiet about since moving here to Bellend Towers has been our neighbours. Not the fellers next door, not the family next door but one, but the scratbag tenants in the flat around the back.
Day one - Awww how lovely! The day we moved in, I saw "Sam", the female, leaving the flat with a very cute puppy. Strange... I'd seen the advert for the lease and it said no smokers, no DSS, no pets. Hrrrm.
Day three - What the fuck? Got home from work and found one of their visitors had parked in my parking space in front of my garage. Cocks. I blocked them in. They wouldn't do that again, but it didn't stop their visitors parking in the residents only parking area or in other residents' parking spaces. Grassed them in to Carol, the marketing woman, who informed us that Simon, their landlord, lives just round the corner "I'll tell him!" I happened to mention the dog too, and the cig butts all over the parking spaces that they dropped from their window "I saw the advert for the lease and they're not supposed to have a dog or smoke."
Week one - Eezer Good. It was obvious in our first week of being here that the young occupants of the flat were dealing drugs. And endless stream of vehicles would come each evening, visit the flat clutching bundles of cash, leave no more than a couple of minutes later stuffing things in their pockets.
Trump mentioned it to our neighbours, who may well have told the coppers. Whether this resulted in anything or not, I don't know, but the activities stopped after a couple of weeks when they must've cottoned on that they were very conspciuous now that other residents had moved in.
Week three - "Gizmooooooo!". Did I mention that their puppy is a St Bernard? In a small flat? Gizmo was left to roam the parking lot and crap all over the place, including on our parking space. Gizmo was left out at all times of day and night and frequently our sleep would be disturbed in the early hours by Sam shouting him, "Gizmooooooooooo!". Fucking cunt.
Week four - The sound of music. Not only was our sleep disturbed by "Gizmooooooo!". Sam and Jason (for that is his name) had a delightful habit of playing their music ever so loudly at all times of day, but especially in the early hours.
Week four and half - A knock on the door. One evening I saw their landlord trying to get them to answer the door. They had a habit of not bothering to answer it and he ended up having a conversation from the doorway up through the open lounge window. He'd return the next day. He did.
Week five - Thank you for the music. Gizmo was getting bigger, his poos bigger, the music was getting louder. I was on the verge of putting a note through the landlord's door, telling him to get rid of his scumbag tenants, but I held off. The blokes from next door joined us for an evening of merriment and we found the experience therapeutic, airing our displeasures and plotting ways of getting rid of them.
Week six - Gone. They've gone. They moved out last night.
Can't wait to see what we get next.
Fucking buy to let bastards, allowing any fucking scumbag into a place without worrying about their neighbours. I suppose we're lucky in that we know who the landlord is and where he lives, but bugger me, you shouldn't have to be plotting to burn somebody's house down within days of moving into a place!
Isn't the weather shit?
- Texet cross cut shredder
- Crappy battery powered water pistol
The cross cut shredder is great so long as you use for no more than 30 seconds in any one time, giving it half an hour's rest before even thinking of attempting to shred another single piece of paper.
We've had two of these now. Both rubbish.
The water pistol was bought to train Rocky to walk on his lead properly. The original super power soaker merely dribbled, so I took it apart, tried to fix it, and then it leaked. That ended up in the bin.
We bought another this evening, it didn't work at all, not even a dribble of water.
Fucking rubbish.
Don't Tesco check these things before they sell them? What do they pay their buyers to do? Pick things that they know that are rubbish that people will buy, but won't bother to return?
I don't know, I really don't.
Adios, Fucktards!
One thing I've kept quiet about since moving here to Bellend Towers has been our neighbours. Not the fellers next door, not the family next door but one, but the scratbag tenants in the flat around the back.
Day one - Awww how lovely! The day we moved in, I saw "Sam", the female, leaving the flat with a very cute puppy. Strange... I'd seen the advert for the lease and it said no smokers, no DSS, no pets. Hrrrm.
Day three - What the fuck? Got home from work and found one of their visitors had parked in my parking space in front of my garage. Cocks. I blocked them in. They wouldn't do that again, but it didn't stop their visitors parking in the residents only parking area or in other residents' parking spaces. Grassed them in to Carol, the marketing woman, who informed us that Simon, their landlord, lives just round the corner "I'll tell him!" I happened to mention the dog too, and the cig butts all over the parking spaces that they dropped from their window "I saw the advert for the lease and they're not supposed to have a dog or smoke."
Week one - Eezer Good. It was obvious in our first week of being here that the young occupants of the flat were dealing drugs. And endless stream of vehicles would come each evening, visit the flat clutching bundles of cash, leave no more than a couple of minutes later stuffing things in their pockets.
Trump mentioned it to our neighbours, who may well have told the coppers. Whether this resulted in anything or not, I don't know, but the activities stopped after a couple of weeks when they must've cottoned on that they were very conspciuous now that other residents had moved in.
Week three - "Gizmooooooo!". Did I mention that their puppy is a St Bernard? In a small flat? Gizmo was left to roam the parking lot and crap all over the place, including on our parking space. Gizmo was left out at all times of day and night and frequently our sleep would be disturbed in the early hours by Sam shouting him, "Gizmooooooooooo!". Fucking cunt.
Week four - The sound of music. Not only was our sleep disturbed by "Gizmooooooo!". Sam and Jason (for that is his name) had a delightful habit of playing their music ever so loudly at all times of day, but especially in the early hours.
Week four and half - A knock on the door. One evening I saw their landlord trying to get them to answer the door. They had a habit of not bothering to answer it and he ended up having a conversation from the doorway up through the open lounge window. He'd return the next day. He did.
Week five - Thank you for the music. Gizmo was getting bigger, his poos bigger, the music was getting louder. I was on the verge of putting a note through the landlord's door, telling him to get rid of his scumbag tenants, but I held off. The blokes from next door joined us for an evening of merriment and we found the experience therapeutic, airing our displeasures and plotting ways of getting rid of them.
Week six - Gone. They've gone. They moved out last night.
Can't wait to see what we get next.
Fucking buy to let bastards, allowing any fucking scumbag into a place without worrying about their neighbours. I suppose we're lucky in that we know who the landlord is and where he lives, but bugger me, you shouldn't have to be plotting to burn somebody's house down within days of moving into a place!
Isn't the weather shit?
Sunday, 27 July 2008
Lazy Sunday
At least that's how I hope it's going to pan out - I've had a busy week or so and I could do with putting my feet up.
It all started with looking after Casa Cakesniffer and the Mousesniffer family of moggies while the venerable ones were away on holiday.
Those bloody cats are such hard work. Only Max does his toilets outside so this means twice daily litter changes. Then there are constant demands for food and biscuits, although I couldn't find the cat biscuits in the disaster zone that is my dad's shed, so the cats followed me round whinging for four days until I finally discovered the bag of biscuits behind a chemical toilet.
Then there's Max. Dear, lovely Max with his seemingly ever-growing ears. He has a habit of demanding to go out at 10pm, but he always likes to sleep inside overnight, so he has to be called back in at bed time. Only he doesn't come in unless you play the "come and get me" game. This involves me going out onto the main road an calling him (generally after midnight) until he appears from his hiding place to follow me back home.
And my long term back problems were exacerbated by all four cats insisting on sleeping on my bed overnight.
But they're lovely and it's nice to be able to look after them.
TUESDAY brought the fabulous B52s to Manchester. They were wonderful. Approaching their sixties, I'm quite certain that there's a fair bit of botox been injected into those faces (esp Fred and Keith) and I think Fred even left the stage for an emergency top up while the girls were singing Roam.
However, this was probably my last chance to see my favourite band live and I'm so glad I did. They played a good selection of tracks from their latest album Funplex, but a good few of their classics too, including:
Mesopotamia (I think this was a bit political, Mesopotamia being today's Iraq)
Give me back my man
Private Idaho
Strobe light
Party out of bounds
Roam
Love shack
Finishing with
Channel Z
and the fabulous Rock Lobster
(Rubbish video that lost resolution during conversion)
Apparently they did Planet Claire as a second encore. What were they thinking of?
Yesterday
Yesterday was our local Pride event that Trump helps to organise. It's OK these big cities having their Pride Parades and using the whole thing as an excuse to milk the queers for all their commercial worth, but smaller towns really need to get the message out that gay people exist there too.
So well done Trump and her colleagues.
We went out to the town's only gay pub last night, Trump's mum came too. It was full of people who would never be allowed into any of the bars on Canal Street, with the exception of Paddy's Goose perhaps.
Today
Don't know, but sun is shining and it's warm. Enjoying this rare event is what's on the cards today.
It all started with looking after Casa Cakesniffer and the Mousesniffer family of moggies while the venerable ones were away on holiday.
Those bloody cats are such hard work. Only Max does his toilets outside so this means twice daily litter changes. Then there are constant demands for food and biscuits, although I couldn't find the cat biscuits in the disaster zone that is my dad's shed, so the cats followed me round whinging for four days until I finally discovered the bag of biscuits behind a chemical toilet.
Then there's Max. Dear, lovely Max with his seemingly ever-growing ears. He has a habit of demanding to go out at 10pm, but he always likes to sleep inside overnight, so he has to be called back in at bed time. Only he doesn't come in unless you play the "come and get me" game. This involves me going out onto the main road an calling him (generally after midnight) until he appears from his hiding place to follow me back home.
And my long term back problems were exacerbated by all four cats insisting on sleeping on my bed overnight.
But they're lovely and it's nice to be able to look after them.
TUESDAY brought the fabulous B52s to Manchester. They were wonderful. Approaching their sixties, I'm quite certain that there's a fair bit of botox been injected into those faces (esp Fred and Keith) and I think Fred even left the stage for an emergency top up while the girls were singing Roam.
However, this was probably my last chance to see my favourite band live and I'm so glad I did. They played a good selection of tracks from their latest album Funplex, but a good few of their classics too, including:
Mesopotamia (I think this was a bit political, Mesopotamia being today's Iraq)
Give me back my man
Private Idaho
Strobe light
Party out of bounds
Roam
Love shack
Finishing with
Channel Z
and the fabulous Rock Lobster
(Rubbish video that lost resolution during conversion)
Apparently they did Planet Claire as a second encore. What were they thinking of?
Yesterday
Yesterday was our local Pride event that Trump helps to organise. It's OK these big cities having their Pride Parades and using the whole thing as an excuse to milk the queers for all their commercial worth, but smaller towns really need to get the message out that gay people exist there too.
So well done Trump and her colleagues.
We went out to the town's only gay pub last night, Trump's mum came too. It was full of people who would never be allowed into any of the bars on Canal Street, with the exception of Paddy's Goose perhaps.
Today
Don't know, but sun is shining and it's warm. Enjoying this rare event is what's on the cards today.
Monday, 21 July 2008
Judgement day
I was draining my boiled rice for my tea earlier. What should fall into the sieve-full of nutty white grains but a big fuck-off moth! It was like a scene from Silence of the Lambs.
Hideous bloody creatures, flapping around with no real purpose.
What do moths do?
They go on my Judgement Day Z list, and there ain't no way ANYTHING on the Z list makes it into the Sniffy eternity.
I'm sure the washing machine's been running for two hours! It's like an aeroplane flight deck with all its computerised lights. I've no idea what cycle it's on. I hope it finishes before it goes dark.
As much as the automatic washing machine has to be one of the top ten inventions of the 20th century, I'd be tempted not to have them in paradise with me. I always have such traumas with washing and washing machines, I'd rather my eternal life wasn't bothered by their presence.
So anyway, back to my Z list. Most other creepy crawlies would join the moths, along with snails and slugs. Reptiles would be on their too, weird creatures. As much as I love animals, I don't have much time for anything without feathers or fur, so land-dwelling scaly things would be left behind, although fish and sea mammals would be made welcome, perhaps even octopuses (because they taste nice). Are you allowed to eat things that you invite into paradise? You can do what you want if you're in charge I suppose.
The Z list includes certain types of people, microwaves, toasters and caravans. I have an eternity to decide whether things on the Z list have to stay there. Take caravans for example. Without a doubt, those caravans that you pull along at the back of your car (Vauxhall Omega) at 38mph will stay parked in Z list hell to burn there forever, but I think I'd love a Winnebago.
I've been looking at them and new, they cost £175,000 - that's the price of a mid-range house on the Bellend estate. Who can afford that? And if you can afford that, why can't you afford to stay in a hotel?
But a Winnebago is the ultimate mobile luxury. Just look at these photos:
Amazing.
And imagine how many motorists you could piss off driving one of those buggers!
Hideous bloody creatures, flapping around with no real purpose.
What do moths do?
They go on my Judgement Day Z list, and there ain't no way ANYTHING on the Z list makes it into the Sniffy eternity.
I'm sure the washing machine's been running for two hours! It's like an aeroplane flight deck with all its computerised lights. I've no idea what cycle it's on. I hope it finishes before it goes dark.
As much as the automatic washing machine has to be one of the top ten inventions of the 20th century, I'd be tempted not to have them in paradise with me. I always have such traumas with washing and washing machines, I'd rather my eternal life wasn't bothered by their presence.
So anyway, back to my Z list. Most other creepy crawlies would join the moths, along with snails and slugs. Reptiles would be on their too, weird creatures. As much as I love animals, I don't have much time for anything without feathers or fur, so land-dwelling scaly things would be left behind, although fish and sea mammals would be made welcome, perhaps even octopuses (because they taste nice). Are you allowed to eat things that you invite into paradise? You can do what you want if you're in charge I suppose.
The Z list includes certain types of people, microwaves, toasters and caravans. I have an eternity to decide whether things on the Z list have to stay there. Take caravans for example. Without a doubt, those caravans that you pull along at the back of your car (Vauxhall Omega) at 38mph will stay parked in Z list hell to burn there forever, but I think I'd love a Winnebago.
I've been looking at them and new, they cost £175,000 - that's the price of a mid-range house on the Bellend estate. Who can afford that? And if you can afford that, why can't you afford to stay in a hotel?
But a Winnebago is the ultimate mobile luxury. Just look at these photos:
Amazing.
And imagine how many motorists you could piss off driving one of those buggers!
Saturday, 19 July 2008
Pie in the Sky
We finally got connected to our broadband yesterday. It wasn't as simple as it was supposed to be, i.e. we couldn't just plug in and go, we had to phone Sky's technical support. After a bit of faffing with a very patient technician's help, we were "connected".
I say "connected" because the speed was no better than dial up. Absolute rubbish. I know ADSL was rubbish, but not that rubbish.
We were connected on Sky's basic package - up to 2Mbps, allegedly. I decided to see what would happen if I upgraded to their mid-range package, which should allow up to 8meg, but for a fee of £5 a month.
Having gone through the upgrade process online, the instructions said that the modem would have to be turned off. Within seconds, we lost our internet connection. Multiple attempts to reconnect by rebooting the modem were unsuccesful. Bollocks.
So, we left it overnight and turned it back on again this morning. Still no internet. I was then inspired to use a filter provided with the modem to connect the phone to the socket. Hey presto, the internet came back on.
What sort of fucking hocus pocus shit is this? You can't connect to the internet unless your phone is connected via a filter device? And if you don't use a filter device, you get such interference on the line that the phone is unusable?
PLEASE VIRGIN, COME AND CABLE FOR US!!!!
Anyway, we were reconnected to the internet and, surprisingly, it's much faster than with the basic package. I did another speed test:
Basic (free) package Maximum: up to 2meg Actual: 150kbps
Mid (£5) pacakge Maximum: up to 8meg Actual: 3.8meg (which is the maximum allowed by our BT line)
Aint that weird? You get 1/25th of the potential connection speed on the free package, yet paying a fiver allows you to get the maximum for your line.
Twats.
So we're both back online and it feels like our severed limbs have been restored to full functionality.
Aaaahhhhhh.
I say "connected" because the speed was no better than dial up. Absolute rubbish. I know ADSL was rubbish, but not that rubbish.
We were connected on Sky's basic package - up to 2Mbps, allegedly. I decided to see what would happen if I upgraded to their mid-range package, which should allow up to 8meg, but for a fee of £5 a month.
Having gone through the upgrade process online, the instructions said that the modem would have to be turned off. Within seconds, we lost our internet connection. Multiple attempts to reconnect by rebooting the modem were unsuccesful. Bollocks.
So, we left it overnight and turned it back on again this morning. Still no internet. I was then inspired to use a filter provided with the modem to connect the phone to the socket. Hey presto, the internet came back on.
What sort of fucking hocus pocus shit is this? You can't connect to the internet unless your phone is connected via a filter device? And if you don't use a filter device, you get such interference on the line that the phone is unusable?
PLEASE VIRGIN, COME AND CABLE FOR US!!!!
Anyway, we were reconnected to the internet and, surprisingly, it's much faster than with the basic package. I did another speed test:
Basic (free) package Maximum: up to 2meg Actual: 150kbps
Mid (£5) pacakge Maximum: up to 8meg Actual: 3.8meg (which is the maximum allowed by our BT line)
Aint that weird? You get 1/25th of the potential connection speed on the free package, yet paying a fiver allows you to get the maximum for your line.
Twats.
So we're both back online and it feels like our severed limbs have been restored to full functionality.
Aaaahhhhhh.
Thursday, 17 July 2008
Sniffy et Le Big Mac
Sniffy was invited to lunch with a colleague yesterday. Faced with the prospect of a McDonald's Quarter Pounder avec fromage, she jumped at the chance.
I approached the counter: "Quarter pounder with cheese and regular fries please", I beamed with anticipation.
"Sorry, we only have a limited menu, this is all we have", the assistant gestured to the sad-looking display and empty menu, "but we have our special of the month on."
Limited menu???? Have they started rationing since I left home this morning?
Confused, and unable to figure out what the hell the special thing was supposed to be, I went for the safe option of a Big Mac and fries. Plenty of people seem to like Big Macs, Trump likes them, Bomb likes them, so why not give it a go?
I think I'd had one of these things once before. Just the once. There's obviously a reason why I'd only ever had one Big Mac prior to yesterday's:
Big Macs are fucking rubbish.
Two crappy beef burgers, shredded iceberg lettuce (!), some dodgy slimy stuff - is it mayonnaise, one slice of cheese, one slice of gherkin, shredded processed onions. And then the thing falls apart as you try to eat it.
Why do people go for a Big Mac over a quarter pounder? And why the fuck does the McDonald's on Oxford Road in Manchester have such a shit menu?*
RUBBISH, RUBBISH, RUBBISH!
*As if any McDonald's menu is the height of culinary achievement!
Snail's pace
Where have all these snails come from? We never used to see snails in these parts. Slugs? Millions, but snails? Never.
Over the past couple of years, we have been overrun with the little bastards.
Have the slugs finally saved up enough for a mortgage? There are MILLIONS of them.
I never really studied slugs or snails that much when I did biology at school; I don't like them, therefore I don't want to know about them or their weird ways - they make me feel a bit ill.
How do snails grow their shells?
What do they do all day?
Do they look down on slugs?
Do they communicate? I bet they get really dirty with those slimy antennae of theirs. Dirty little things.
Bugger only knows.
Le weekend
Yep, it's nearly the weekend. What's in store? Praying for a couple of dry days for a start. We're having another one of those summers: cold and wet.
I have a hover mower to test drive, you know.
Le Dog Whisperer
Rocky had an altercation with the neighbour's dog this evening. Apparently, the other pooch went straight for Rocky's beard.
At least it gave Trump the chance to meet one of the blokes next door. How we'll laugh about it at dinner parties over the coming years!
An edit from the bedroom
It's now 23.37, I should've been asleep an hour ago, but I never get enough sleep, so I'm used to it.
Here I am in the bed that I slept in for so many years. It's a comfortable bed and I've always liked it. Big Con has done the motherly thing of putting my favourite bed linen on, the pillows are plumped up. radio is on quiet (Country night on Radio 2). All set for dreamland.
I should be comfortable, I should be tucked up, dozing off. But I am bent like a paperclip, surrounded by all four of the cats, Otto is in his usual place under the quilt alongside me. Such odd creatures. And the dirty looks they give you if you dare to move to get into a position where your back isn't creasing you in pain.
I approached the counter: "Quarter pounder with cheese and regular fries please", I beamed with anticipation.
"Sorry, we only have a limited menu, this is all we have", the assistant gestured to the sad-looking display and empty menu, "but we have our special of the month on."
Limited menu???? Have they started rationing since I left home this morning?
Confused, and unable to figure out what the hell the special thing was supposed to be, I went for the safe option of a Big Mac and fries. Plenty of people seem to like Big Macs, Trump likes them, Bomb likes them, so why not give it a go?
I think I'd had one of these things once before. Just the once. There's obviously a reason why I'd only ever had one Big Mac prior to yesterday's:
Big Macs are fucking rubbish.
Two crappy beef burgers, shredded iceberg lettuce (!), some dodgy slimy stuff - is it mayonnaise, one slice of cheese, one slice of gherkin, shredded processed onions. And then the thing falls apart as you try to eat it.
Why do people go for a Big Mac over a quarter pounder? And why the fuck does the McDonald's on Oxford Road in Manchester have such a shit menu?*
RUBBISH, RUBBISH, RUBBISH!
*As if any McDonald's menu is the height of culinary achievement!
Snail's pace
Where have all these snails come from? We never used to see snails in these parts. Slugs? Millions, but snails? Never.
Over the past couple of years, we have been overrun with the little bastards.
Have the slugs finally saved up enough for a mortgage? There are MILLIONS of them.
I never really studied slugs or snails that much when I did biology at school; I don't like them, therefore I don't want to know about them or their weird ways - they make me feel a bit ill.
How do snails grow their shells?
What do they do all day?
Do they look down on slugs?
Do they communicate? I bet they get really dirty with those slimy antennae of theirs. Dirty little things.
Bugger only knows.
Le weekend
Yep, it's nearly the weekend. What's in store? Praying for a couple of dry days for a start. We're having another one of those summers: cold and wet.
I have a hover mower to test drive, you know.
Le Dog Whisperer
Rocky had an altercation with the neighbour's dog this evening. Apparently, the other pooch went straight for Rocky's beard.
At least it gave Trump the chance to meet one of the blokes next door. How we'll laugh about it at dinner parties over the coming years!
An edit from the bedroom
It's now 23.37, I should've been asleep an hour ago, but I never get enough sleep, so I'm used to it.
Here I am in the bed that I slept in for so many years. It's a comfortable bed and I've always liked it. Big Con has done the motherly thing of putting my favourite bed linen on, the pillows are plumped up. radio is on quiet (Country night on Radio 2). All set for dreamland.
I should be comfortable, I should be tucked up, dozing off. But I am bent like a paperclip, surrounded by all four of the cats, Otto is in his usual place under the quilt alongside me. Such odd creatures. And the dirty looks they give you if you dare to move to get into a position where your back isn't creasing you in pain.
Tuesday, 15 July 2008
Wakey, wakeeeeee!
Yes, I am online, courtesy of house and cat-sitting at my folks' place while they're on holiday. Broadband won't be coming to Bellend Towers until the end of the week. Why? Because BT and Sky are a bunch of fucking jokers.
I ordered my BT (telephone to those not in the know) connection the week before we moved - that was the 20th of June. We moved in on the 27th of June, our telephone was connected on the 8th of July.
I ordered Sky satellite TV and broadband on the 20th of June. We couldn't get connected without a live BT phoneline, so the telly couldn't be installed until the 9th of July. Sky then have to tell BT that one of their customers wants broadband access, then BT twiddle their thumbs for a bit before deciding to activate it. Our estimated activation date is 17th July; about a month after ordering the service... if we're lucky.
And then the maximum speed we can get through our oh-so speedy BT phoneline is about 3.5mbps.
Fucking useless.
Why they get the monopoly on providing the broadband infrastructure is beyond me. And why don't Virgin lay some fucking cables? Tossers.
So, how is Bellend Towers? It's OK. Rocky has eaten the bottom of the kitchen door and half a door mat. Loosh the cat has started pulling the carpet on the upstairs landing and depositing her hair all over the place. We've settled in really well.
There are four of five boxes still to be unpacked, but we're getting there. We bought a lawnmower yesterday and our SECOND shower tidy (we can't seem to get them to hang properly).
So what's so good about where we are? Check this out...
Good eh?
I've kind of got used to living with Trump; it's nice, it makes me feel complete - I guess that's the idea. Despite being apart from her for a few days, there are a few advantages, mainly checking out all the weird shit that my parents buy in from all the dodgy shops they go to. I've just tried a tiny tin of squid in ink sauce. It was surprisingly nice.
I've just noticed a disturbing note from Connie - she wants me to tape something. Bollocks. I have no idea how to work a video recorder anymore.
I ordered my BT (telephone to those not in the know) connection the week before we moved - that was the 20th of June. We moved in on the 27th of June, our telephone was connected on the 8th of July.
I ordered Sky satellite TV and broadband on the 20th of June. We couldn't get connected without a live BT phoneline, so the telly couldn't be installed until the 9th of July. Sky then have to tell BT that one of their customers wants broadband access, then BT twiddle their thumbs for a bit before deciding to activate it. Our estimated activation date is 17th July; about a month after ordering the service... if we're lucky.
And then the maximum speed we can get through our oh-so speedy BT phoneline is about 3.5mbps.
Fucking useless.
Why they get the monopoly on providing the broadband infrastructure is beyond me. And why don't Virgin lay some fucking cables? Tossers.
So, how is Bellend Towers? It's OK. Rocky has eaten the bottom of the kitchen door and half a door mat. Loosh the cat has started pulling the carpet on the upstairs landing and depositing her hair all over the place. We've settled in really well.
There are four of five boxes still to be unpacked, but we're getting there. We bought a lawnmower yesterday and our SECOND shower tidy (we can't seem to get them to hang properly).
So what's so good about where we are? Check this out...
Good eh?
I've kind of got used to living with Trump; it's nice, it makes me feel complete - I guess that's the idea. Despite being apart from her for a few days, there are a few advantages, mainly checking out all the weird shit that my parents buy in from all the dodgy shops they go to. I've just tried a tiny tin of squid in ink sauce. It was surprisingly nice.
I've just noticed a disturbing note from Connie - she wants me to tape something. Bollocks. I have no idea how to work a video recorder anymore.
Thursday, 26 June 2008
Moving
We're moving house over the next couple of days. Thanks to Virgin not cabling in the area we're moving to, we're having to rely on BT and Sky for telephone and broadband. Because BT are shite (as well as being robbing bastards), we won't be connected for some time. Blogging activity will be mercifully patchy, but I'll be back soon enough.
Adios!
Monday, 23 June 2008
Tragic
Back in the blogging heyday of 2005, a whole load of us used to do the rounds of a number of blogs from all over the globe, but mainly the UK, Canada and the States.
There was me, Herge, Sam Black, Connielingus, April Pissoff, Michelle, Rowan Mayfair, Trillion, Lisa from Alaska, Garfer. We'd not even HEARD of the filthy yorkshire homos - they were doing their thing, being dirty boys somewhere.
But it was great and we'd keep up with folks' lives on a daily basis. As time drifted on, I became less disciplined in checking on other blogs, but it's with great fondness that I think back to those days when it was all a bit more hectic.
I got an e-mail this morning from Rowan Mayfair's husband in Canada. Rowan is really called Heather and she'd been having a rough time of it over the years before things finally started turning round. She and her family moved into their new home a couple of weeks ago, then at the weekend, tragedy struck. A fire broke out in the home. Rowan suffered smoke inhalation problems and her youngest emerged unscathed, but tragically, her daughter died in the fire.
I'm not sure what sort of response there should be to this. Why should something that's happened to somebody who you've never met have an effect on you? I dunno, it just does. Is it appropriate to write a post about it? Possibly not. But if we are a global community, then it's probably right to share the news about its members.
Anyway, people who read this blog regularly will probably have come across Heather at some point. I'm sure there will be strong sentiment of shock on learning this news and sympathy for her and her family.
There was me, Herge, Sam Black, Connielingus, April Pissoff, Michelle, Rowan Mayfair, Trillion, Lisa from Alaska, Garfer. We'd not even HEARD of the filthy yorkshire homos - they were doing their thing, being dirty boys somewhere.
But it was great and we'd keep up with folks' lives on a daily basis. As time drifted on, I became less disciplined in checking on other blogs, but it's with great fondness that I think back to those days when it was all a bit more hectic.
I got an e-mail this morning from Rowan Mayfair's husband in Canada. Rowan is really called Heather and she'd been having a rough time of it over the years before things finally started turning round. She and her family moved into their new home a couple of weeks ago, then at the weekend, tragedy struck. A fire broke out in the home. Rowan suffered smoke inhalation problems and her youngest emerged unscathed, but tragically, her daughter died in the fire.
I'm not sure what sort of response there should be to this. Why should something that's happened to somebody who you've never met have an effect on you? I dunno, it just does. Is it appropriate to write a post about it? Possibly not. But if we are a global community, then it's probably right to share the news about its members.
Anyway, people who read this blog regularly will probably have come across Heather at some point. I'm sure there will be strong sentiment of shock on learning this news and sympathy for her and her family.
Saturday, 21 June 2008
At the "People's" Post Office
(copyright Jamie Smart and that)
This is how I felt after an exasperating visit to Manchester's main post office today. God I was furious.
The long protracted move to Bellend Towers is on for next week, definitely, absolutely, no doubts - we're moving.
We're frantically changing our addresses on things in preparation, but there's always something that slips the net - and goodness knows how I'll get on without my junk mail - so we want to do a redirect of our post to the new place. Makes sense, non?
You can do it online through the Post Office's website... only you can't, because it doesn't work. So the alternative is to go to a post office and do it in person, armed with ID and stuff. So I grabbed my wallet (photo drivers licence, bank cards, etc) and a recent Criminal Records Bureau disclosure certificate, Trump picked up her wallet and a credit card statement and off we trotted.
I was fuzzy headed and a headache was brewing.
Town was mental and we had to negotiate the usual hordes of people who just hang around in the way; standing at the top and bottom of escalators, walking right at you, being generally smelly and retarded. We got to the post office, picked up the relevant form, and I searched my pocket for a pen. Curses! I'd forgotten it. There were no pens to use, apart from at the counters themselves. Or I could've bought one, but only a blue one and the form needed to be completed in black ink.
Off to W H Smiths... off to Cafe Kasbah for caffeine and somewhere to sit to fill out the form... back to the post office.
We got to the counter, the woman checked the form and asked for our ID. We passed her our drivers licences.
"Have you got the paper counterparts?"
Er, no
"It's just that we need both parts."
"Why?"
"Because if somebody found or stole your wallet they could use your photo licence, but it'd be unlikely that you'd be carrying the paper counterpart too."
"Exactly", besides, the dog ate mine. "And if they happened to find or steal my photo licence, what is the likelihood that they'd look like my photo? What is the likelihood that two identity thieves would steal two photo drivers licences and look like the people on them?"
"We need both parts. You wouldn't like it if somebody got hold of your post and pretended to be you."
They can have my post, they can pretend to be me, more fucking fool them!
"Have you got a bank card?"
We handed our debit cards over. She took the numbers off them.
"Have you got any other ID?"
She took my CRB disclosure and looked at it thoroughly.
"I need to check whether I can use this"
Oh, for fuck's sake. My head was really hurting by this point.
"Sorry I can't accept this"
No, but you had a good fucking look at it, didn't you? Nosy bitch.
I was so annoyed. You need about four pieces of ID to get a CRB check, the document is a certificate of who you are and where you live and that you're not a fucking criminal, but it's not good enough to get your post redirected.
"Oh fine, just take my name off the application. I'm changing all my address details anyway and I could do without getting a load of junk mail redirected."
She turned to Trump, "Have you got a utility bill with you, I can't accept this either".
Fucking retarded mongs.
It's OK for them to lose half the post, deliver it to the wrong addresses, have postmen steal a load of it, or sign for things that only the recipient is supposed to sign for, but they won't accept perfectly valid ID so somebody can redirect their own post. You can buy a house with less ID than they require.
Last week, I signed a petition to stop the closure of post offices around the country. Fuck that, I'm going to start a campaign to burn the whole fucking lot of them down.
Of course, this is all part of a government ploy to make ID cards seem useful. For years, certain pieces of documentation have been perfectly acceptable to demonstrate a person's identity, but not any more... but if we had an ID Card.... Would we still need the paper counterpart, just in case somebody had stolen the photo part? No, thought not. Probably because we'd all be barcoded by then anyway.
Cunts.
Thursday, 19 June 2008
Pressie!
I got this in the post this morning.
Hoping it was a stick of dynamite, I tore the paper open to find this!
Good eh? It's a stick of Brighton Rock from my good friend Mr Herge.
I think I like the idea of rock more than I like eating it. Just look at it, beautiful colours, and that lettering running through it, wonderful stuff.
Unfortunately, Royal Mail couldn't manage to get it to me without dropping it, but hey at least they managed to get it here within a day; almost unheard of around here, especially when something is addressed to "Tina, Levenshulme, M19".
See where it was made though? Yep, up in Blackpool. The cheek on it!
Legless
I'm sure everybody's now heard the reports of disembodied feet washing up on the British Columbia coastline. The first feet (two right feet, both in trainers) rolled up in August last year. This was followed by 2 other right feet over subsequent months and the first left foot turned up on Monday.
And today THIS!
Yes, a sixth foot has washed up on Vancouver Island. I was there. My GOD, I even swallowed Vancouver Island lake water. That water may well have swirled between the toes of that foot.
Eeewww.
And all this not long after that pig farmer killed loads of women and fed their remains to his animals... that no doubt ended up as sausages and bacon sold in Vancouver.... that I MAY HAVE EATEN!!!!!!
A holiday of a lifetime may well have been a holiday from hell.
1976
It was a colleague's birthday today. During the civilised celebrations over cake and biscuits, somebody inquired as to the birthday girl's year of birth - 1976.
Ahhh. A number of us sighed, reminiscing back to our childhoods and that summer. I was approaching six years old during that summer; the longest, hottest summer ever - the one that we still refer to today.
I just remember the sunshine, and popping tarmac blisters on the road (and getting told off for making a mess of my clothes). The good thing about being a child is that you're never too hot or too cold - I certainly don't recall being uncomfortable in the sunshine (or the snow that we used to get in the winters back then). Adults are whingers.
A lot of people criticise the 1970s, and I'm sure it was rubbish if you were a grown up back then, but it was a fantastic time to be a kid. Proper summers, no responsibility, power cuts because of strikes, Father Christmas, The Banana Splits, Mohammed Ali, Elvis, Evil Knievel, snow... and then... The Sex Pistols, Blondie, The Bee Gees.
Fantastic.
Were the late seventies really that good, or is it always good for every kid at that age, no matter when? (Apart from in them days before sanitation, healthcare and education of course.)
Hoping it was a stick of dynamite, I tore the paper open to find this!
Good eh? It's a stick of Brighton Rock from my good friend Mr Herge.
I think I like the idea of rock more than I like eating it. Just look at it, beautiful colours, and that lettering running through it, wonderful stuff.
Unfortunately, Royal Mail couldn't manage to get it to me without dropping it, but hey at least they managed to get it here within a day; almost unheard of around here, especially when something is addressed to "Tina, Levenshulme, M19".
See where it was made though? Yep, up in Blackpool. The cheek on it!
Legless
I'm sure everybody's now heard the reports of disembodied feet washing up on the British Columbia coastline. The first feet (two right feet, both in trainers) rolled up in August last year. This was followed by 2 other right feet over subsequent months and the first left foot turned up on Monday.
And today THIS!
Yes, a sixth foot has washed up on Vancouver Island. I was there. My GOD, I even swallowed Vancouver Island lake water. That water may well have swirled between the toes of that foot.
Eeewww.
And all this not long after that pig farmer killed loads of women and fed their remains to his animals... that no doubt ended up as sausages and bacon sold in Vancouver.... that I MAY HAVE EATEN!!!!!!
A holiday of a lifetime may well have been a holiday from hell.
1976
It was a colleague's birthday today. During the civilised celebrations over cake and biscuits, somebody inquired as to the birthday girl's year of birth - 1976.
Ahhh. A number of us sighed, reminiscing back to our childhoods and that summer. I was approaching six years old during that summer; the longest, hottest summer ever - the one that we still refer to today.
I just remember the sunshine, and popping tarmac blisters on the road (and getting told off for making a mess of my clothes). The good thing about being a child is that you're never too hot or too cold - I certainly don't recall being uncomfortable in the sunshine (or the snow that we used to get in the winters back then). Adults are whingers.
A lot of people criticise the 1970s, and I'm sure it was rubbish if you were a grown up back then, but it was a fantastic time to be a kid. Proper summers, no responsibility, power cuts because of strikes, Father Christmas, The Banana Splits, Mohammed Ali, Elvis, Evil Knievel, snow... and then... The Sex Pistols, Blondie, The Bee Gees.
Fantastic.
Were the late seventies really that good, or is it always good for every kid at that age, no matter when? (Apart from in them days before sanitation, healthcare and education of course.)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)