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.
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