From the mouths of babes

I don't get children.  They're like a completely different life-form, from another planet.  They look like little versions of us, but that's where all notions of expecting anything like reasonable behaviour or debate end.

You can't communicate with them properly and the slightest disagreement with whatever thought process whizz through their developing brains results in the most bizarre displays of behaviour.

Don't like what you're given for tea?  Well, normal people just tuck in, chew on it till it no longer resembles the thing that caused mental trauma when it was first sighted, put themselves in their happy place and swallow.  "Mmmm, that was DELISH!", we purr politely, pour platitudes on whoever provided the meal, while grumbling to ourselves.  But we get over it, move on.

Toddlers?  They haven't developed the social inhibitions that prevent us from throwing our cutlery around, spitting food out, launching our plates across the room and throwing ourselves to the floor, banging our fists and sobbing.  There's no reasoning with them.  You just have to wait until the tsunami settles back into the ocean and pick up the wreckage left in its wake.  The wreckage is often still a bit wriggly, teary and snotty; still as unreasonable.

And those charged with the care of them are hit by tidal waves of tantrums at least four times a day.

Of course, when you don't have one of these little critters  in your family, you find them utterly hateful - because they are!  But when your family is blessed (for want of a better word) by one, that particular one is so fucking funny.

Little Con, now two and a bit, is adorable.  For all her tantrums and tears (and all the snot that seems to have been part of her for about 18 months), she's so lovely.  I like the effect she has on the little dog: one moment he's being a total pain in the arse - not dissimilar to a tantrum-afflicted toddler himself; Little Con arrives and he's a different dog.  He sits, calmly.  He sits, watches.  He sleeps.  He lets her flick his nose.  He lets her kiss him (he likes to lick her tongue).  She tells him off:  "Boo-HAVE ROCKY!".  He knows his place when she is around.It's brilliant.

Con herself called me Rocky long before she learned to say my real name and, whenever she arrives at my folks' house and sees that my car is there, she runs into the house calling for him - not for me, for the little dog.

So Little Con may well have saved Rocky from the risk of being destroyed because of attacking a child.  Because of her, and despite his barky protestations, he's actually quite tolerant around them.  Just as well, since he can't leave the house or get back in through the front door without being accosted by four of five of the local kids who insist on running over to him, while screaming "It's the little dog!" (scaring the shit out of him).  They all gather round, stroking him and cuddling him two and three at a time; the smallest of them insists on having his tongue licked by him too.

"Does he bite?", they ask as he barks and growls at them.

"Any dog might bite", I issue my disclaimer, "you should always be VERY careful near dogs and try not to scare them."

"Is that a different dog?", tongue-lick boy asked me tonight.

"No, he's just had a hair cut".

Gonna set my soul on FIRE

I can't believe it, let's just check the date... Yep!  I go on holiday next week.  I'm looking forward to it immensely.  The memory of last year's trip there needs obliterating.  I'm going to have the holiday that I was supposed to have, only more fun!  I didn't really take much in last year as I wandered around in a haze of despair.  This time will be much different and happier.

I retrieved some shorts that Bomb had "borrowed" (without asking) from the drawer where they'd been kept at my mum's.  I wouldn't have fit in them when I went to Vegas last year, but I do now!

Yay! For being shat on and losing loads of weight as a result!

Whatever I said, whatever I did

I didn't mean it!

Anyway, I'm back.  At last.

But this is just a short note for now as:

A) I need to get dressed and take Rocky out so he can embarrass me for an hour

B) I'm cooking beans and I need to keep an eye on the pot (and that's not a metaphor for anything toilet-related - yet)

So yes, nothing has happened:  Vegas looms (YAY!); the weather is slightly warmer but wetter; I hope to be enjoying new living arrangements within the next couple of months (YAY FUCKING YAY!).

Oh, and Rocky has had a haircut at last.  Ain't he beautiful?

Love still eludes and baffles me.  Perhaps I'm just not right for anybody.  But perhaps it's not me, it's them.  Keep telling myself that and it'll all be OK.

I need to quit my Facebook habit and learn how to write in structured paragraphs again.

Slacker!

It's been a while. Things have happened, but not to me. Life is still in a state of paralysis, and I'm doing my well-practised ostrich impression as just hope all my problems will fuck off and die. But dwelling on that only brings me down, so I'll forget about all the shit and carry on.

So, what have I been up to, apart from slacking from my blog? Well, spring has sprung, at long fucking last. The sun has been shining lots. I've been enjoying the company of the little dog, hanging out together, doing bits of training, telling him to SHUT THE FUCK UP AND STOP FUCKING BARKING! But perhaps the most exciting experience of the past month was my trip to a theme park, Alton Towers, with my favourite poofs, Taz and Pig.

Fuck. That's all I can really say about it. Apart from looking at the rollercoaster at New York New York and the ridiculous rides at the top of the Stratosphere in Vegas and thinking No fucking way! I hadn't been near a white knuckle ride since 1995 and my last trip to Alton Towers was in something like 1990. All the tamer rides that had been there on my last visit had been replaced by despicable constructions of terror.

The day started quite sedately with a McBreakfast

and a ride on a cable car

And then it all started with this:

Rita: Queen of Speed is a bog-standard rollercoaster to look at, but the bloody thing happens to set off by accelerating from 0-100mph in TWO SECONDS before throwing its victims around the track.  The experience is over in 20 seconds, but my word, what a 20 seconds!  I was shaking when I got off it, but I'd been bitten by the bug and wanted MORE.

We headed towards Oblivion.  Now, there's not much to this, apart from a face-down, free-fall drop from a fucking great height into a massive hole in the ground.  I was up for it, ready to be brave, to stride on up to the queue, take my seat with confidence and go for it.  But as we approached, we saw this:

With the pause in my stride, my bravado evaporated... time for lunch.  KFC.  The worst, fat-dripping KFC I'd ever experienced.  It sat heavy on my stomach and it was decided that an hour on the more gentile rides was called for, so I got piss wet through on the log flume:

And watched Piggy and Tazzy soak unsuspecting victims on Battle Gallions.

I dried off in the aquarium - cue fish thing:

Then we headed towards.... NEMESIS.  I hadn't been looking forward to this one bit after seeing this video.

Hrrrm

We waited in the front seat queue, the ride set off ten or so times as we waited.  My bladder twitched increasingly with each minute.  I was scared.

But it was fucking fantastic, brilliant amazing.  LOVED IT.  We went on again,  went on Rita again, and walked back towards Oblivion.  I wimped out.  I couldn't do it.  I froze.  As I watched it complete its cycle over and over, hearing the woosh as it plummeted towards the earth, I noticed the silence of the riders - too shocked to scream.  I pondered, and an idea came to me.  In fifty years' time or so, there might be a theme park where you can actually go to choose a thrill-seeking death.  It would be...

Suicide theme park

Rita: the carriage flies off the track as it hits 100mph and plummets into a snake pit fifty feet below.  Those not crushed in the tangled wreckage endure paralysis and death from snake bites.

Battle Gallions:  AK47s instead of water pistols

Log flume: the log is carried on a wave of concentrated sulphuric acid that bathes riders and slowly burns and dissolves them at the end of the ride

Nemesis:  no safety harnesses, you hold on as much as you can until you are catapulted into the air, landing on a spike-filled pit beneath the ride.

Oblivion:  the carriage doesn't drop from the top.  Instead, when in position, the safety harnesses are released and the riders fall into a fiery pit below.

If only I was in charge...

Anyway, I never made it onto Oblivion, but Super Taz did.

The man is a lunatic, he gave a running commentary of every bend, kink, loop, reverse, inverse of every ride.  He even kept his eyes open for the duration of each one.  And actually smiled throughout.  There must be something missing from the part of the brain that tells normal folk to scream like a baby.  Enough loop-de-loops and G forces might obliterate the same part from my brain I suppose.

So that's that.

Vegas: the return!
In other news, I'm heading back to Vegas to have the holiday that I should've had last year. It's the sort of place where you should have a fantastic time, but circumstances didn't really allow it when I went.

Am I going on my own?

Hell no!

Who the hell would want to go on holiday with me?

Well, I happened to be having a chat with that April woman today, she told me that she and a friend were going to Vegas in June and she asked me if I'd like to meet them there. Too fucking right I would! So I booked it, and I'm off there for nearly a week in just a few weeks' time.

Should be coooooool.

I need to lose weight.

A brush with death

One of the reasons for taking the little dog to the behaviourist (he accompanies me while it's actually me who gets training) is so that I can learn how to brush him and so he can get used to that sort of mithering contact so I can bribe somebody with clippers to come round and cut his wiginess without them getting their fingers bitten off.

It's a very slow process that involves bribing him with tasty and extremely smelly treats, namely chopped up bits of braised lamb offal. FYI braised lambs hearts have the same smell as any cooked lamb, which I find bizarre. Anyway, the process of brushing His Lordship involves a handful of lamb bits, a lead, a brush (which he must not see). He gets held in place with a short lead while I shove bits of meat into his mouth and try to touch him with the brush. After an arduous and bad tempered start, and rapid stop, we're making progress! I have so far brushed quite a bit of his back, his tail, the back of his neck, the top of his head, his beard, his back legs. His tummy is some way off yet, and first rule of doggy fight club is "DO NOT LET IT DEVELOP INTO A FIGHT!" Apparently, Cesar Millan's way of holding down a pooch until it submits to your will just won't work with a dog like Rocky and you have to use the softly, softly, catchy monkey method. This means that any sign of stress from the dog and we stop.

Why couldn't I get a normal dog? I should've known when I saw his dad (as mental as he is) and him as a 12 week old pup - I think it was a 12 week old pup that I saw; all I witnessed was a little black blob of excitement tearing around his first mum's kitchen. Cute though.

And now he's doing toxic farts.

Going Dutch
I really hate the way the Dutch speak when they speak in English. I don't care how they speak when they speak Dutch because I obviously switch off. I don't care that they have nothing to do but learn fifteen different languages by the time they're out of nappies, I can't stand the way they speak English.

I pity my cousin though. She's from Liverpool, but married a Dutch man and has lived in Holland since the late 1980s. She speaks Dutch very well, but has forgotten how to speak English, which given her unfortunate start in this aspect of her life, puts her at quite a disadvantage when she comes back to England. Her accent/language is now what can be described as Douse, or Scutch I suppose.

Even worse than the Dutch English accent is when English people copy the Dutch English accent for the sake of comedy or advertising. Why do people do it? Why do people think that the Dutch are significant enough to use as characters in films or adverts? And when they do deem it absolutely necessary to include such people, why don't they go for an authentic Dutch person instead of some English cunt doing a Dutch accent?

Gawd. Just a thought.

Notting Hill
Notting Hill is on telly. It has Hugh Grant playing Hugh Grant in it. There's not really much that I can add to that.

But why???

I rarely listen to the radio: I have an intense dislike of the BBC stations presenters' narcissistic obsession with hearing their own voice at the expense of providing entertainment, or simply playing some music; the adverts on commercial radio are generally too frequent and too irritating. But I do listen to my local commercial radio station as I travel to work each morning; the presenters are actually funny and are almost in touch with their listeners, making references to local events, places, customs, etc. My tiredness at 7am generally means that I can block out the irritating segments and, more importantly, the adverts. Except two:

Lufthansa European flight deals
Woman: "Come on, stop doing that now, we've got to pack."
Child: "But why?"
Woman: "Because we're going away on a short break."
Child: "But why?"
Woman: "Because Lufthansa have got some good deals and we're leaving today."
Child: "But whyyyyyyyyy?"

After the first "But why?", I'm ready to unclip my seatbelt and drive into the nearest brick wall at full speed, so by the third, I really want to take a whole load of innocent bystanders with me too.

<strong?Volkswagen commercial vehicles
In this advert, we have a bloke with a rough voice and ridiculously strong Cockney accent, talking about Vowkswaaagen Commerciaw Vayns. He says "vayns" about ten times. I will punch him if I ever meet him.

SHUT THE FUCK UP!

There is something intensely irritating, to the point of driving me to the edge of murder, about the sound of children's voices, particularly when they're being deliberately irritating... or singing. Why do advertisers insist on using annoyance and regional accents in their adverts. Will I be tempted to use Lufthansa, or to buy a Volkswagen van because of these adverts? Hell no!

For fuck's sake.

Come dine with me
I am currently cooking some delectable cuts of meat in the oven. Yes, I am braising some lambs' hearts. Stuffed with breadcrumbs and fresh herbs for me? No, they're braised as they come with all their bits for the dog. I actually had good fun washing the things before I put them in the roasting tin. They being hearts, they have chambers and tubes and things; you can fill one chamber with water and it then squirts out of one of the large blood vessels. Brilliant. But holding that cold organ in my hand, and looking at my little dog, I'm led to thinking that his little heart is probably no bigger than the very one that was not long ago beating inside the bouncy body of a New Zealand lamb. Awwww. But that's life, and farming, and meat supply, and dog rehabilitation.

They actually look quite nice...



... they're made the house smell a bit though.

During Rocky's remedial behavioural lessons, it's been discovered that the best way to bribe the little shit is with bits of cooked heart - the £3 bag of training treats just don't do the trick sometimes and we need to bring out the heavy artillery when needs be.

Anyway, it'll all be worth it when I can take him for a walk safe in the knowledge that he's not going to kick off at the slightest little thing, and when I can invite a groomer round to clip him without being worried that he'll attack somebody.


Spring has sprung
My mood has lightened somewhat over the past week or so. The days are getting longer, the weather warm, even the sun has been shining. Sniffy feels good.

The love of common people

I went to a restaurant on Friday night. I also went to a restaurant last Saturday night. I ate out for lunch yesterday too.

Fat pig.

Anyway, I love eating at restaurants; there's something absolutely lovely about having having a choice of meals that you'd probably not cook for yourself, about having food brought to you, about being waited on, about enjoying the company and conversation of others while having a meal.


Canal Street, Manchester


But a pleasant experience like having a meal out wouldn't be the same without one of the party being slightly annoying; not even annoying, just doing something that I wouldn't think acceptable. For instance, at the restaurant last Saturday, there'd been a mistake with the booking and we had to wait for a table to come free instead of being seated immediately. The waiter gave us each a menu and asked if we didn't mind waiting in the bar until they could free up a table. Forty minutes later, we were seated and given another five minutes until the waiter returned to take our order. It was at this point that one of the party decided to look at the menu for the first time.

I held my breath.

More wine flowed, I enjoyed my Diet Pepsi (no ice) and the starters came. Mine was moules marinere - fuckin' delish, if you like that sort of thing. My good friend, and she is a great friend, then said that she didn't fancy trying mussels because she was scared, but could she dip some garlic bread into the sauce to give it a try? Of course she could, which she did, repeatedly, while I was trying to eat my food.

Don't mind me.

And then my main course arrived. Essentially it was steak and chips, but the chips in that restaurant (Velvet, Manchester) are wonderful. My companions weren't getting chips with their meals, so they took it upon themselves to tuck into mine.

What the fuck?

Is it just me? Would you do that? In the pavilion of etiquette, does that count as being really fucking rude?

I don't mind toooo much because the company was exceptional apart from their unconventional dining standards, and they'd been drinking and I was stone cold sober, so I tend to notice more.

It's like that thing, isn't it? "Oh I don't want any crisps, I'll just have a couple of yours". No you fucking won't! You only get about ten in a packet and you're not touching them, cheeky twat.

On Friday, me and another friend went to a very nice restaurant together (Choice in Manchester), where the ambience is perfect, but the food always gives my friend an excuse to find criticism. She's a bit of a foodie, so she likes things to be just right. I suppose if you're paying, then you've a right to expect good quality. And it's fair enough to give feedback to the waiters when they ask if everything's OK, but there's a certain point where you need to stop, generally when the message has got through, and just before the waiter reached the threshold that makes them instruct the kitchen staff to spit in your pudding.

But it was nice, another lovely night out. Me and Sarah now find ourselves single. She's a good friend and I enjoy her company and I'm looking forward to getting out and about with her as my wingman, although I am slightly scared of her when her confidence is in Rioja-fuelled hyperdrive. We'll see.


Rocky and the Dog Whisperer
Rocky is in remedial behavioural classes. One-to-one behavioural classes at £25 a time. His trainer is quite famous apparently. I arrived at her little yard and her appearance was as I'd expected: rambler clothing; a hat (fair enough since she's outdoors all day).

Lesson 1: The the gentle leader; the dummy and the heart of an ox
We discussed his diet. "Why do you give him dry food? He's a dog! Dogs are carnivores. I recommend this. It stinks, but it's really good. You need to get him motivated by food. One great way of controlling your dog is to control his food and you can't do that if he doesn't like what you give him. He needs to be almost begging for his meal and then you can control him with it".

Fair point.

I wondered how much the smelly meaty food would cost. Jesus, this is going to rack up.

"Let me see him on his lead"

By this point, the little dog had reached ten thousand feet mentally and was bouncing like something on a bouncy castle. She got the message about his woeful lead skills (my woeful lead skills) pretty quickly and went into her little wooden cabin to retrieve a Gentle Leader head harness and double-ended training lead. To entice him to walk on his lead, he was fed bits of boiled ox heart every couple of paces. I had a pocket full of cheese and ox heart bits, my hands were covered in it. Fuck.

After getting him used to walking with the new lead, she had me lead him round a little activity course while she brought out a life-sized dummy dog and stood with it at the other end of the yard. Rocky had already gone mental at a dog silhouette, so he went berserk when he saw what he thought was a dopey looking black labrador staring at him from the distance. I calmed him down by the power of cheese and he was a little better when she brought the next dummy dog out. She moved the head and tail of this one and, while Rocky had a look at it, he didn't jump out of his skin. And when she brought out a real dog, while he was far from perfect, he managed to walk around it without an unmanageable degree of distress.

So, that was lesson one: change his diet (kerching!), get him a double-ender (kerching!!) and a gentle leader (kerching!!!); that's £25 thanks and I'll see you in a fortnight (KERCHING!!!!).

Anyway, I've changed his diet, bought his new equipment and I've been trying to install the new world order on our cheesy walks - he must get through half a pound each time I take him out. Of course, my back is wrecked from all that bending over to give him a treat every four paces, but it'll be worth it, I hope. Today wasn't too good unfortunately - we encountered a jogger being followed by his dog (who then turned round and ran passed us from behind within a minute of passing us in the forward direction); this was followed immediately by two cyclists; a walker; and another dog walker - all in the space of about 2 minutes. Rocky couldn't cope - knowing that pulling would hurt his nose, he defaulted to barking his head off for the remainder of our ten minute walk home.

We'll get there. He's got two years of bad behaviour to unlearn and I've got to train myself to be more disciplined with him.

Yawn.

One interesting thing about Rocky's new therapist is that she trains Police dogs for GMP. I must ask Jo if it was her who house-trained Pigsnout.

Out of sync

You know that thing from the 1970s when, for one reason or another, foreign films were always dubbed into English, as opposed to the translation being provided by subtitles? I think this might be related to the sorts of foreign films that I used to see back then; they were mainly spaghetti westerns, whose audience probably wouldn't have appreciated having to attempt reading while trying to keep up with the twists and turns of the intricate plot and character interactions. Anyway, the thing about dubbed films that really bugged me was the way the characters' mouths didn't move in time to what was being said. I'd go further and say that it really got on my tits. Of course, a spaghetti western's dialogue was limited to the odd grunt from Clint and Lee van Cleef, and the occasional "This is my moment of stardom" from a young Spanish actress playing the whore in the only saloon bar for miles, so there was never much of a mismatch between mouths moving and sound coming out.

These days, if I'm watching a foreign film, it has subtitles, which I like. I'm sure the translations are pretty faithful, since I find myself enjoying the film and generally understanding everything that's going on. Watching a film in its original format is also often much better than watching it after Hollywood have given the story its own particular brand of sparkle (The Ring, The Grudge, etc). So that's good.

Now, I have a thing for the cinema - I really don't like it that much: too expensive, too many other people, too dark, too loud, too not at home. This being the case, I'd much rather watch a film at home: no rushing to get to the cinema on time; snacks to hand; pause button; volume control. It doesn't take too long for a film to come out on DVD these days, but if you really can't wait that long, all sorts of cheeky people put them on internet even before they're released at the cinema and you sometimes come across them and download and burn them to DVD by accident. Sometimes though, when you come to watch them, the sound is hopelessly out of sync with the image.

What's all that about then? It's really annoying and I'm certainly not going to watch a film at the pictures when they can't sync the sound properly. No way Jose!

And why don't people who make DVD players or TVs come up with some sort of technology where you can re-phase the sound with the image?


Politics
I might get political. I'm thinking of getting involved in politics so I can feel like I'm doing my bit in the fight against the systematic erosion of the British people's civil liberties.

Here are some of the laws and proposed laws (quoted from Philip Pullman, writing in The Times) that we have had forced on us under the Labour Government over the past ten years or so:

It is inconceivable to me that a waking nation in the full consciousness of its freedom would have allowed its government to pass such laws as the Protection from Harassment Act (1997), the Crime and Disorder Act (1998), the Regulation of Investigatory Powers Act (2000), the Terrorism Act (2000), the Criminal Justice and Police Act (2001), the Anti-Terrorism, Crime and Security Act (2001), the Regulation of Investigatory Powers Extension Act (2002), the Criminal Justice Act (2003), the Extradition Act (2003), the Anti-Social Behaviour Act (2003), the Domestic Violence, Crime and Victims Act (2004), the Civil Contingencies Act (2004), the Prevention of Terrorism Act (2005), the Inquiries Act (2005), the Serious Organised Crime and Police Act (2005), not to mention a host of pending legislation such as the Identity Cards Bill, the Coroners and Justice Bill, and the Legislative and Regulatory Reform Bill

We are the most watched nation in the developed world and nobody seems to be doing anything about it. We are turning into a Police State, where anti-terrorism laws can be used against people taking photographs in public places. We're not allowed to gather to protest in numbers greater than two at a time. We have our DNA stolen and stored on a database if we are arrested, and the information retained even if no charges are brought - there are about one million innocent people, some never even charged with an offence, whose DNA is stored.

Our Information Commissioner, the man put in place to try to ensure that privacy laws are adhered to, wrote an excellent piece in The Times too. In it, he warned that proposals to allow widespread data sharing between Whitehall and the private sector were too far-reaching and that plans to create a giant database of every telephone call, e-mail and text message risked turning everyone into a suspect. “In the last 10 or 15 years a great deal of surveillance in public and private places has been extended without sufficient thought to the risks and consequences,” said Mr Thomas, 59. “Our society is based on liberty and democracy. I do not want to see excessive surveillance hardwired into British society.”

Nothing to hide, nothing to fear? What happens when you don't want the government to know which websites you visit, who you phone, who you e-mail? We have everything to fear.

I know it's hypocritical for somebody to complain about lack of privacy and then go and spout off on the internet, but how long before we're not allowed freedom of speech in these sorts of forums before the Police come knocking when what we write is deemed inapprorpriate?

Will the people do anything? No, I doubt it. I'm sat here whinging about it and doing fuck all. But no more, I'm going to be stand up and be counted! I'm off to join the militant wing of the Women's Institute.

Local news

I'm watching the evening local news bulletin, Northwest Tonight.  The stories swing from relatively interesting to totally dull.  The sports reporter looks like a badly turned-out chimp; the weather reporter is nice, but  is a bit too thin.  But the main presenters, Jesus, a robotic TV presenter with no charisma who shares the sofa - and each storyline - with the youthful female presenter of Asian origin, who eclipses him in talent, looks, charm.

Why do they have to share each report though?  One of them says the opening line, the other says the next, and they alternate the lines through to the report's conclusion.  I say "report" in the loosest sense of the word, some story about a school play or Google Maps putting Lytham in the wrong place hardly classes as hard-hitting journalism.

OMG, that man from Queen looks like Mick Hucknall.  Not the one with all the hair who's married to Angie from Eastenders, who also has all the hair - the other one.

Oh, it's finished.

Pootling

I took the day off work and did a bit of pootling today.  Pootled with the dog on his new favourite walk; I've found that the rough ground beyond the playing field isn't guarded by dragons and spectres, it's just some rough boggy ground that leads to a big drop... with dragons... down to a river.  Rocky is getting braver and has started trying to clamber down the steep bank towards the river tens of feet below.  But here he is enjoying himself.

[caption id="attachment_1978" align="aligncenter" width="300" caption="Rocky's realm"][/caption]

[caption id="attachment_1977" align="aligncenter" width="300" caption="Rocky hunts for dragons"][/caption]

[caption id="attachment_1981" align="aligncenter" width="300" caption="Rocky river"][/caption]

[caption id="attachment_1982" align="aligncenter" width="300" caption="Rocky river racer"][/caption]




eHarmony - anti queer?

No I'm not dating, but I did check out an online dating agency this evening after hearing their cheesy adverts on the radio.  EHarmony promises something different, things like shared values, aspirations, love of chick peas.  Anyway, I had a look and went to the search page.  Can we all see what's wrong with this picture?

[caption id="attachment_1984" align="alignleft" width="301" caption="Oh dear, someone's gonna get in trouble!"][/caption]

Yep, that's right, us queers can't use eHarmony because you can only be a man seeking a woman or a woman seeking a man.  Now, while it's no great loss to me that I may never find a fellow lover of chick peas by using eHarmony, it might be a great loss to eHarmony themselves as this is illegal under the Provision of goods and services Act.

I e-mailed them to tell them so.

Naughty, naughty, naugty.

I'm not particularly interested in campaigning  on behalf of people who should be able to look after themselves.  They'll probably get back in touch with me and tell me that they don't provide services for queers because trying to match  a bunch of self-obsessed, lentil-eating, cat-loving, boiler suit-wearing, hairy munter lesbos would crash their database and ruin it for normal people who are trying to find real love and not somebody to go walking with while wear matching fleeces.

You can't blame them really.  Perhaps they know that most lesbians aren't interested in proper relationships, that two years is the limit  before they get bored and move on to  growth hormone-enhanced members of the constabulary.

Oh no, that's not ALL lesbians, it's just Jo.

Cunt






On the pull

I'm going on the pull at the weekend.  Not really, but I'm going out in The Village, on a Saturday night, for the first time since becoming single (actually, that's a lie, but I had responsibility for somebody last time).  I'm just going out for a meal with friends, but I'm going to keep my eyes peeled for talent and go in for the kill if somebody catches my eye.

Yeah right.

Mess

A friend of mine came round on Sunday afternoon and she kindly cooked tea for us.  But my, what a mess she made of my sparkling kitchen.  I don't understand how some people can be so messy when they cook, but when somebody has been so kind as to do that, there's no way I can hover in the kitchen, meeping in anally-retentive anguish with each microscopic bit of stuff that hits the worktop or hob.

Still, five minutes' clearing up is small price to pay to have decent company and a nice meal cooked for me.

Cash machine

I went to a cash machine today; had to wait while the woman in front of me finished, but she soon walked away and I approached the ATM.  And there, in the machine, waking to be plucked out, was about £60-80 that the previous customer had neglected to take with her.  I disappointed myself, it didn't even cross my mind to do anything other than take the cash and call after her to tell her she'd forgotten it.  Honesty, decency, morals, bollocks.

Finger licking goooood

I've just had to curtail Rocky's blast on the field because he PISSED ME OFF!  We'd been having a lovely time, hiding from each other in the undergrowth, chasing after crows, sniffing (him, not me).  After covering the perimeter of the playing field just the once, I took him back over to the wooded area that leads to the canal to have another sniff and a game of sniff and seek in the undergrowth.  Ready to start my second circuit, I set off walking away from him and, as the distance between us increased, I realised that he was paying even less attention to me than usual - he was concentrating very closely on something, picking it up, throwing it about, catching it again, chewing it.  Had he finally, at long last, caught a mouse?  Had he done what he was bred for?

I started towards him to see what he was up to, but he was having none of it and decided to play the "act like cheeky robin" game, whereby I'd get within a couple of metres of him, he'd pick up whatever it was that he was tormenting, then bounce off.

Then he spotted the dog on the other side of the field.  I've given up trying to run after him, especially while wearing wellies, and I just hope that the object of his attention (and its owner) is friendly enough not to chew his face off. He never comes when called, ever.  He's a total shit and I could kill him.  Anyway, trudging through the mud, I finally got near him to find that he was still chomping away on whatever it was that'd he'd picked up on the other side of the field.  He made the mistake of a dropping some of it.

What could have been so fascinating?  What could've been so very good that he played with it for finve minutes and carried it from side of the field to the other?  Was it a small furry animal?  No, it was a bit of chicken carcass.  No meat or anything, just the bone.  I pulled the remainder of it from his mouth and, my fingers covered in dog spit, I dragged him home.  Finger licking good.

He came so close to being left there, the little fucker.  He's so disobedient, annoying, embarrassing.  I have a friend coming over on Sunday and we're supposed to be taking him on a nice walk.  Nice doesn't come into it, it's always such a fucking toil.

All I ever wanted was a dog that I could take on a nice walk, that'd bring things that I threw for it, that wouldn't hassle other animals, and that would come back to me when called.

And I get him.

He's funny as fuck when he runs at full pelt though.

Le Weekend

Yay, it's the weekend.  At last!  I'm going to be creative in the kitchen tomorrow (after tidying up in there), make a lasagne for me and a special one for the freezer... just in case unexpected visitors drop by.

As I said, I have a friend coming over on Sunday and she'll be staying over too.  A sleep over, at my age!

And I think I'm taking Monday off because I can't be fucked going in to work

But the weekend starts properly at 8pm this evening when Taz Radio goes live.  An evening of all my favourite music.  Fabulous!




Peanuts

I see that the end of peanut allergies might be in sight.  A small trial in 4 children showed that they could be desensitised to peanut allergens by gradual exposure to increasing amounts of peanut flower.  After suffering severe allergies to peanuts all their lives, the children can now eat up to ten peanuts.

But where's the fun in that?  The good thing about having friends with peanut allergies is the tricks you can play on them.

"I've cooked you a meal."

"Ooh, thanks, I'm STARVING; been saving myself for this all day!"

"Great, I bought some really special ingredients.  Now... what did it say about being packaged in a nut-free environment?  It either was, or wasn't, but I can't remember which.  Have you got your epi-pen handy?"

Fag patchwork

I'm running out of places to stick my fag patches to.  Every bit of skin that has previously had one attached to it is now very red, quite sore and rather itchy.  The things are a nightmare.  I've taken to cutting them up so they'll fit into what remains of my unaffected skin.  I'll be moving on to my shins next.

Still, I've not had a cigarette in about ten days and not really thought of having one.  More than anything, it's just breaking the habit, but wearing a patch kind of adds a psychological boost to my efforts.  "It's called a PLACEEEEEEEEEEBO".

Put that away

What do these photos have in common?

[gallery]

Well from today, here in the UK, you can get into an awful lot of trouble for taking them.  The authorities can confiscate cameras, remove film, or delete digital images, or even arrest you if they don't like the look of you taking photos of public places, shopping centres, people, parades, government buildings, transport hubs, members of the armed forces, but especially our boys and girls in blue.  In fact, taking a photo of an on-duty police officer can get you a ten year prison sentence.  For more information, see here.

It's all part of the Government's anti terrorism legislation, you see.  But we all know it's part of the Government's planned destruction of our civil liberties and desire to turn the UK into a Stalinist Police State.

We're already the most watched nation in the world.  From March, all our e-mail records will be kept, as will records of our mobile phone usage.  Soon enough, they'll be tracking which websites we visit.

Already, more than two people can't gather in protest without permission from the police.  We've had concentration camp survivor who dared heckle at the Labour Party conference arrested under anti-terrorism legislation.  An opposition MP's offices and home were raided by anti-terror police and he was arrested under the same legislation.

We are having ID cards forced on us (to help prevent terrorism) too.  Of course, the terrorists that have been  involved in attacks here were all British anyway and all would've held an ID card anyway.

And yet we sit and let it happen.  The people are either blind or apathetic, or maybe they're too scared to protest.  We had fewer restrictions on our liberties when we were under threat of invasion from the fucking Nazis.

Fucking nobhead government can go fuck themselves right up the arse for all I care.  It'd be nice if everybody took their camera out with them and took as many photos of the police and public places as they can and then e-mail all the images to Jackie Smith and Gordon Brown, the pair of useless cunts.

iSniffy

Those delightful poofs, Tazzy and Piggy, have done some wonderful technological things to my blog and visitors who drop by on their iPhone will see a very nifty version of my site.  Loverly.

Paint the whole world

Following a poor approval rating for my previous blog template, I've decided to change it to something slightly more colourful. There are still a few bits that I don't like, but in general it's OK.

Also adding a bit of colour to the world, I've started my own version of the atheist bus campaign. It's actually going to be a nationwide thing that was started by the Yorkshire Poofs and is now being rolled out across the North West by me.

[caption id="attachment_1951" align="aligncenter" width="480" caption="Sniffy's bus campaign"][/caption]

These boots were made for limping

I bought some new boots for school yesterday.  They're OK, but they're not as comfortable as my normal "comfortable" shoes, mainly because they're women's boots.

I am crippled this evening and I've come to realise that my toenails have gone past the point where I can no longer get away without cutting them.

These dreams

As predicted the other day, wearing a 24hr nicotine patch has resulted in four nights of sleep that have been disturbed by vivid dreams.  I'm knackered.  In addition to this, the first few hours of wearing a new patch each day bring unwanted physiological effects, mainly nausea.  Still I suppose it'll be worth it once I can do without both fags and patches in a couple of weeks' time.

But back to the dreams, they've been quite odd.  Perhaps all dreams are; I don't usually have or remember them, but these ones have been odd.  Here's what I can remember of a few of them:

Night 1

Hovel

Jo had forced me to move out.  She'd identified a lovely little bedsit that was a bedroom and a sink to have a stand up wash in and was showing me around, very proud of herself.  I can't remember much else, other than complaining that there was no Coffeemate - not that there was a kitchen or a kettle or anything.

I woke up annoyed.

Ireland and the magic fag packet

The second dream that night found me in Ireland of all places.  It was Ireland, but it looked more mediterranean.  I think there was a castle, a shopping centre, a monorail, some chips, the obligatory argument with my sister that resulted me dropping the empty duty free Marlboro Lights carton (you know the big cartons that hold ten packets, but look like a big fag packet?).  I'd been carrying this huge empty fag packet around with me and dropped it at the table of a cafe after the chips (I think this is where the chips came in - no gravy, just ketchup).  I went back to pick it up from the floor and found that it had come open to reveal a solitary cigarette inside it.

I decided to save the cigarette until later, but as the dream progressed (probably about a millisecond in real time), more and more fags found their way into the once empty carton until it was nearly full by the time I woke up at 5am.

At that very moment of hazy waking, I remember being really happy that there was a full packet of cigarettes in the house, only to realise a second later that a) there wasn't, b) I'd been dreaming and c) I was supposed to have stopped.

Bummer.

I spent the day completely shattered and slept relatively well that night, and the night after... I think, can't quite remember.

Last night

The stroll, the sneaky fag and the curious incident with the BMW

I'd been at my parents' and it was getting a bit too much for me, so I found myself taking a walk and having a fag.  The top road had somehow turned into a motorway, so it took a while for me to buck up the courage (and speed, and ability to assess distance and speed of oncoming vehicles) to get across.  For some reason, when I'd got to the safety of the other side, I stopped behind a stationary BMW, which then reversed over me.  I think it was a BMW, it might have been my old car that I wrote off  - it was black anyway.  While I was nursing my bruises and being told off by the driver of the offending vehicle (a fifty-something bint with blonde hair), my sister turned up and got run over too.  She complained for a bit and blamed me... and then I woke up... at 2.39am.

An argument over a washing up bowl

After recovering I was back in the kitchen at my mum and dad's.  Dad was doing something in the sink; he was messing about, washing something in the washing up bowl - orange bits of plastic.  He got into a strop when I told him he wasn't doing it right, so he took the bowl out and put it on the kitchen floor.

Actually, that might've happened in real life a few times too.

Bette from the L Word falls in love with me

This was the best one so far.  I don't know how it happened, but I met Bette (Jennifer Beals) from the L Word and started doing really dirty things with me.  And then she told me she loved me.   And then I woke up.

So the dreams you get with nicotine patches aren't all that bad.  I think everyone should try wearing a 21mg patch for a few days and then tell me what dreams they've been having.  I don't want to know about dreams where Bette tells other people she loves them though.

Out

I'm going out tonight, round to some friends who I've known forever.  It should be good, but I need to go through the rigmarole of getting ready.  In terms of outfit, this never presents much of a problem because I always wear the same thing - jeans, blouse/shirt, jumper.

The thing I'm looking forward to least is plucking my face.  Eyebrows, moustache, beard, hairy moles - they all need attention.  This will bring about much pain and much sneezing.  And lots of frustration too, as the lighting in the bathroom doesn't favour such detailed activities.

It's not as if there's the chance of pulling anyone while I'm out since they're all straight.  Then again, I have this thing about flirting with straights... and that's probably why I'm still single.  But it's just that knowledge that most straight women are probably curious, some have tried a bit of ladylove, so it's nice to play on that curiosity and see how far it gets you.  In my case, nowhere, but there's always a first time.

Template

I've changed my template.  What do you think, does it need a bit of colour?

Crunched

I've been shocked and appalled by the price of things these days. After not really eating for three months, and not buying groceries during this period, I have returned to the world of supermarket shopping to be truly horrified by the escalating cost of living.

Here are some frexamples:

Antiperspirant: was £1.96, now £2.96

Chopped tomatoes: were 24p a can, now 33p a can

Lean minced steak (250g): was £2.19, now £2.69

I can't think of anything else, I never really look at the price of stuff, but those things really stick out.

All I can say is, fucking hell, things were much cheaper when I was starving myself.  But not as much fun, obviously.

I've now rekindled my fondness for messing about in the kitchen and seeing what I can make from my cupboard that includes the staples: onions, garlic, chilli, ginger, chopped tomatoes, chick peas, olive oil, herbs, spices, pasta (a variety), rice.  It's not surprising that I'm a whiz at dishing up a red sauce for pasta and chick pea curry.  Nice though.

I should be more adventurous, I have the skills.  I've threatened my good friends Taz and Pig with a lasagne.  It's not really a threat, my lasagne is usually fuckin' delish, even if I do say so myself.  Based on Mum's recipe, which she stole from a genuine Italian woman, so it's authentic and everything.  I even do a veggie version for my friends that uses Quorn instead of minced steak and it goes down a treat with them, and me.  Apart from the first time I made it....

Take yourselves back to the summer of 2000.  I was having a bit of a rough time of things for one reason or another and my dear friends opened their home in Leeds to me most weekends so I could spend some time away from the solitude of my life in Sheffield.  We did normal, boring things, like doing a bit of gardening, sitting in the sunshine, cooking, watching TV, smoking... lots of smoking.

One day me and David decided to make a lasagne together.  The red sauce was made and it was time to get on with the bechemel - easy peasy, I'd seen my mum do this a million times and it looked a doddle.  Using her method, I warmed milk in a pan and made an emulsion from cornflour and cold milk.  At least I thought it was cornflour, but I couldn't be sure because David had a habit of taking the labels off everything, it had the right powdery consistency, so I went with it.  The warmed milk was added to the flour/milk emulsion and returned to the heat to thicken.  Only it didn't.  So more flour emulsion was added without much success.  I found some different flour and tried that and it thickened a little bit, so I went with it - adding grated nutmeg, salt, pepper, mozzarella, parmesan, etc, etc.  The dish was assembled and cooked and we sat down to eat with the summer sun still relatively high in the evening sky, shining through their dining room window where it emanated a warming yellow glow.

We each took a mouthful of our meal, paused simultaneously and looked at each other with puzzled expressions on our faces.  Speaking over each other, the three of us uttered the words "Does this taste a bit sweet to you?".

So the moral of this story: don't take the labels off things in your store cupboard; icing sugar doesn't half look like cornflour to the clinically depressed.

Fag patches

Following my short-lived attempt to give up smoking back in October, I have decided that the time is right to make a proper effort at weening myself off the delightful weed and today, I am wearing a fag patch.

Apart from itching like a bastard and nearly falling off after just ten minutes, things have settled down and I've been OK today.  On a day when I have been looking at spreadsheets from the comfort of my own home, a day when normally I'd have been chain smoking to get me through the boredom, I've not wanted one.  Well, of course I've wanted a cigarette, but I've decided that I'm not going to have one, so I've been OK.

The problem with being a bored smoker as opposed to an addicted smoker is that nicotine patches don't really do much to substitute the punctutation of your day that smoking a cigarette affords.  Instead though, the slow and constant release of nicotine provides a different type of punctutation in that you find that you nearly shit yourself every hour, on the hour.

I'm looking forward to going to bed wearing my 24hr patch.  It'll bring nightmares and much grinding of teeth, and possibly a few emergency trips to the en suite.

All part of life's rich tapestry.

Yackety Yack

Have you noticed my Chatroom?  Check out the link in the sidebar and come and join in.

Haggis power

I had a run in with my energy company, Scottish Power, this week. They provide both gas and electricity and the bill they sent out for the winter quarter was a touch high, despite it being based on an actual meter reading, rather than an estimate. At £200, the gas portion was relatively reasonable, considering that it's been freezing for five months and the heating's been on seemingly permanently for this period. And even though I can never be bothered to turn off electrical appliances at the plug when I'm not using them, I'm not that bad at turning off lights and not using power excessively, so when the electricity bill was £550, I was a little puzzled to say the least. A check of the meter reading and a phone call to the company rectified the problem - they'd fucked up and the electricity bill was actually only £150 for the quarter.

But how to stop a payment of £850 going out of my account?

"Oh, just cancel the direct debit, and when you get the new bill, set up another one, it'll be fine."

Fair enough, so the direct debit was cancelled and I waited for the correct bill to arrive.

On Tuesday, I got another correspondence from Scottish Power:

"Since you've cancelled your direct debit, you now have to go on a monthly payment plan and pay your bill for £850 over the next three months, starting with an instalment of £220 on 14th February, please set up a direct debit."

Fucking numpties.

So I had to phone them up and this meant that I had to get embroiled in their automated answering system, with instructions being given to me in Scottish.

"Och nock nook, accoont numberrrrrr"

"Och nock aye the noo, date of birrrrth"

I could just about make out the important requests for input, but their system relies on voice recognition that doesn't understand an accent unless it sounds like it's from Take the High Road, so I ended up shouting at it, very slowly, the way you have to do when you're trying to be understood by foreigners.

Eventually, I got through that bit and was put on hold because "All oor ooperatorrrrs are extrrreeemly buzzy at the mooment, yoor call is verrry impoortant te us" whatever the fuck that meant.

And then the "on hold" music started. For fuck's sake. I can't remember whether it was Vivaldi or Beethoven, but it was shite. I was in hell. There was the obligatory 20 seconds of music, which faded out momentarily while some Scottish words interrupted it; I don't know what they were saying, some sort of recipe for root vegetables cooked in sick or something, then back to the music.

After a while, I got through the Tracy, who had had special training in speaking in English as part of a five day residential course on Summerisle. It's the course where they learn to speak to English people on days one and two, then the rest of the week is spent learning how to build a huge wicker effigy of a man for burning English people and baby animals in while they all stand naked, swinging their arms and eating haggis.

I much prefer calling call centres in Bombay, or Mumbai, or whatever it's called at the moment. Yes, yes, I know Bombay was the colonial name and we need to respect the Indian peoples' name for their own city, but how come you don't see Mumbai potatoes on the menu in Indian restaurants eh?

However, my favourite call centre is the Orange mobile phone one. They're usually based in the north east of England, so this brings its own language barrier, but the people, "associates", I think they're called these days, are always brilliant. You phone up, get put on hold, but get to listen to chart music instead of Vivaldi (or Beethoven, whichever it was) and when you get through, the associates do anything to keep you as a customer, even if you have no intention of leaving the company.

"Hello, I'd like to know what my handset upgrade options are please?"

"Oh, are you thinking of leaving Orange?"

"No, I just want to know whether I can get a new handset and how much it'll cost me."

"I'm sorry to hear that Sniffy, we really value our customers and don't want to see them leave. I'll put you through to our customer retention department and tell them that you're going to leave unless we give you the best handset possible for free."

Eh?

Next weekend's Mail on Sunday is actually giving away a free CD of all our on-hold music hits. Imagine that?


Implicit association
Because I'm not quite insecure enough about my personality, I visited Harvard's Implicit Association Project website and had a look at the tests you can take there. Implicit association tests measure a person's subconscious attitude to a variety of things: sexuality, race, gender, age, curly hair.

The tests work by measuring reaction times when images relating to, for example homosexuality, are associated with words relating to good ("glorious", "joy", "fabulous", "dahling") or bad ("awful", "hate", "whatthefuckareyouthinkingthat'shideous!").

I took the race one and found that moderately favour white people over black people. I suppose this is understandable because of my cultural background and upbringing. I'm not a racialist, honest, no I love black people, honest!

When I took the sexuality test, I found out that I have a strong preference for straight people. That's because most queers (well, lesbians) are self obsessed, mental, Guardian-reading, lentil-knitting, duplicitous, selfish fucking cunts, that's why.

Waiting for Aslan

I know it shouldn't be surprising that it's still wintery in February, but I was kind of hoping that the new month would bring some sign that spring was coming. Certainly, it's getting lighter earlier in the mornings and taking longer before darkness descends in the evening.  In addition, the green shoots of the bulbs I planted in the autumn are showing through; the shrubs that I thought had died over winter are also sprouting new buds of leaves.  Where there is broken bark, there is hope.

And then the snow came again.  The east and south of England were worst hit, but here in Rochdale, we got a nice covering... along with gale force winds and freezing temperatures that made the -1°C temperature feel more like -5°C.

Here are some photos:





Rocky really loves the snow.  I really love the way the snow sticks to him and then leaves little puddles of water all over the house as it melts.





But as usual, it seems to have been winter forever, and there's still at least two months of it to go.  And summer never, ever, follows.  It's like living in Narnia under the spell of the White Witch.  Always winter and never Christmas.  And even though we do have Christmas, that was crap this time.

At least the sun is shining.  We certainly won't see that between June and September, so I should be thankful for it now, even with the freezing temperatures.

Blind in one eye

Anyway, things aren't that bad and the prospect of spring and sunshine has prompted me to start wearing my contact lenses again.  Why, when I can't see out of my right eye with them, I don't know, but being able to see is a small price to pay to be able to wear sunglasses.  Sunglasses are the most fantastic addition to any outfit (apart from a beige jumper of course).  Unfortunately, I always look a total twat when I'm wearing them, but I look a twat whether I'm wearing sunglasses or not.  The best thing about them is the way they hide the dark circles and bags under my eyes.... oh and the way they protect my eyesight from harmful UV rays of course.

Working from home

I've been working from home these past couple of days. Aware that the weather might turn and delay my journey home from work and being worried about getting home for the dog, I thought it sensible to stay here and be very productive indeed.  It's OK working from home, coffee on tap, warmth (compared to my office at work), saving on petrol... Rocky.

Rocky is a lovely little beast, but he won't leave me alone while I'm trying to work.  Always insisting on sitting on me, jealous that my fingers are tapping the keyboard and not tickling his ears, he has a habit of nudging my hand away from the keys.  It's quite irritating, but kind of lovely.

Here he is on my knee:



Awwww.

Better get back to work and send some very stern e-mails to people who don't know what they're talking about.

Black jeans

My favourite outfit invariably includes a pair of jeans.  Sturdy, always in fashion, often comfortable, denim jeans worn in conjunction with the correct items of clothing can be smart, casual, scruffy, useful; they're fantastic.

I've enjoyed a variety of styles of jeans over the years: (distress) flares during the seventies; skinny fit in the early eighties; pin-striped (horrendous); stone-washed; snow-washed (ohmygawdhowfuckinghorrible); baggy; slouch; bootcut; low-rise; boyfriend fit; with or without patch pockets, button pockets, buckles, turn-ups, holes.

The fabric can be hard-wearing utility-type denim, or softer cotton (generally in cheaper supermarket jeans), even corduroy, which - with my thunderous thighs - gives that odd rubbing sound as you walk along.

They come in a variety of colours too.  Even classic blue jeans can be dark blue, blue-black, faded.  But I have recently come to one conclusion, denim jeans must always come in blue and never, EVER black.

Oh for fuck's sake, Derek Acorah on Most Haunted is such a fucking drama queen fraud.  Jesus H Christ on a fucking bike.

Anyway, back to black jeans.  They're awful.  Even the smartest, most expensive pair of black jeans always a) looks shite straight away, or b) fades into a dull grey that just looks scruffy and horrible, reminiscent of something a stinking student should be wearing with a baggy jumper and Doc Marten boots.

Obviously, students these days are much more fashion-savvy than they were in my day.  Or perhaps it was just me, always too nerdy to even notice what was fashionable or even looked good.  I can't even tell what colours are supposed to go together, or what colour combinations you can get away with, and those that should be avoided at all costs.  Does a navy blue jumper go with brown trousers?  Who knows?  I don't. I love navy blue, but I'm never too sure as to what it goes with.  Certainly not black, but grey?  I don't know.

What I do know is that beige goes with EVERYTHING.  It's the most fantastic colour for a jumper or a cardigan, that I always have at least one beige v-neck jumper and a cardigan in my wardrobe.  The beige v neck can be worn with a navy or black t shirt, or a white one, or a dark brown one, or, errm a green one?  The same beige v neck can provide the perfect accompaniment for any colour of open-necked shirt.  I think.

My gallery of beige:

[gallery]

Oh the fucking Wordpress gallery has cocked it up again.  Bollocks to it.

But you see how my relationship with the beige jumper tailed off from 2006 onwards?  Well, I think that's because I thought I should get down with the kids (Jo) and try other colours.  I tried jumpers blue, maroon, black, pink, brown, errrm, that's about it really, I'm not that adventurous.  And it was during this period that my love of hooded tops developed.  Remember the hooded tops?

I think I have another four in addition to those ones.  God, I was skinny back then.  And happy.

Fucking wimmin.

Bring on the trumpets!

Speechless

[gallery]

It's the final countdown

Well, in ten hours time, I'll be packing up my car and heading off to north Wales.  I have bought provisions; I have responsibility for coffee (instant and ground), but I'm also taking Coffeemate and sugar, without which I'll be in a REALLY bad mood while I'm there.  I've also had the forsight to buy toilet paper and handsoap.

I don't know whether I'm looking forward to it or not.  On the whole, not, I think.  I mean, come on, getting up early on a Sunday and driving for over 2 hours so I can spend two days with people from work, in a shared house, sharing a bedroom with somebody - would you?

I've been trying to think of a happy place that I can escape to in my head for if it gets really bad.  I can't think of one off the top of my head.  Perhaps I could go for the eight hour  trip over the Cascades in Washington with April and her three year old?  "I want my daddy, I want my daddy, I want my daddy, I want my daddy.  Are we seeing daddy soon?  Can we see the boys tomorrow?  And then you saw me dead".

Or perhaps I could relive the three months after Jo split up with me?

Maybe I could take myself back to the most excrutiating pain I've ever experienced.

Of course, such pain would either come from sickening stomach ache that once rendered me doubled-up in pain in bed for eight ours once, or the alternative is the back ache that cripples me on occasion.  Like today for instance.  It always gets me at the weekend.  I don't know whether it's related to having a couple of extra hours in bed on Saturday morning, or the fact that I'm not up and at them straight away like on school days, but always at the weekend  I find myself unable to walk because of back pain.

Today's experience was made doubly worse because it coincided with a trip to the local Netto.  I'd only gone in there for a quick browse, but once inside, I realised that there was no escape without going through a till - the tills are only wide enough to get one person through at a time too.  Why do these horrible povvy shops trap their customers inside?  They have those stupid entry barriers that only open inwards into the shop and the only way out is through the till.   Fucking cunts.  Then again, my limping, groaning under my breath and grimmacing helped me fit in perfectly with the rest of the shoppers in there, all of whom were a pretty good representative cross-section of Rochdale's finest citizens.

Returning home meant me crossing over the main road.  There isn't a pedestrian crossing to use, so you just have to wait for a gap in the traffic and hope for the best.  I'd made it half way across to the safety of a hatched area of the carriageway when a kindly car driver slowed down and flashed his headlamps to indicate that I could go.  So as not to cause undue delay to him, I tried to run.  My left knee and lower back simultaneously emitted agonising thrusts of pain and I kind of ran, kind of lumbered forward a la Hunchback of Notre Dame, making it to the other side of the road, but almost unable to lift my foot onto the kerb.

I'm a wreck.

On the subject of scumbag supermarkets and scumbags in general, what about that Karen Matthews eh?  She's the woman from Dewsbury in Yorkshire who arranged for her own daughter to be kidnapped so she could get a load of media attention and sell her story for £50,000 to whoever would pay.

You can have a look at Karen in this photostream from the Times online, but this particular image speaks a thousand words:

[caption id="attachment_1876" align="aligncenter" width="350" caption="Karen Matthews shops at Asda"][/caption]

Just look at her, lugging her shopping back from Asda.  Typical of the sort of person you get at Asda.  And that's exactly why I never shop there myself.

Big Brother

Depending on how things go in Wales, I might be tempted to audition for this summer's Big Brother.  Imagine it, Sniffy trapped in a house for up to 12 weeks 10 or so other people, all of whom are utter freaks, their every moved covered on camera, broadcast to the nation on Channel 4.

Milk

I watched Milk this evening.  A very powerful film documenting the rise of San Francisco's gay rights movement, led by Harvey Milk (Sean Penn).  Two words: watch it.

Au revoir, mes amis

So this is it for now.  I'm sure the next few days will fly by.  I will return with hopefully, nothing much to report.  Stuff to report will mean that I spent the duration in my happy place, whichever one I opt for.

Hell in the Big Brother House

I have to go away to Wales on Sunday for an "away trip" with colleagues from work. The senior team members are staying in my boss's second home there, the plebs are being put up in a holiday home nearby. Here's the specification:

Situated at the top of the road that winds its way down to Nefyn's magnificent sandy beach, its close proximity to the beach will, undoubtedly, make it a popular choice. The property is well maintained, but very simply furnished. The front of the house has recently had upvc double glazed windows fitted.

Sleeps 20 (+ cot) in 5 bedrooms

The ground floor comprises the main lounge, with French door opening onto the front garden, an electric fire & colour television; toilet; the 'French Lounge' with an assortment of games, TV and video player has French doors opening onto the drive at the side of the house, and is accessed from the dining room which has French doors onto the back patio. The kitchen, also off the dining room, is equipped with a catering size gas range, an urn and a fridge/freezer; the utility room, beyond the kitchen, has another fridge and freezer, washing machine tumble drier, 3 additional sinks and a door to the rear garden.

On the 1st floor are: 3 bedrooms (rooms 1 and 2, each sleeping 6 in purpose built bunks, room 3 with a double bed); Bathroom with shower and toilet; 2 toilets; Shower room

The 2nd floor at the top of the house contains a further 2 bedrooms (room 4 with 2 single beds and room 5 with 4 single beds), tucked under the eaves and enjoying sea views.

There is a enclosed garden at the back of the house with a patio outside the French doors from the dining room, and large & small grassed areas. Access is from the utility room, dining room or side gate opening onto the driveway.

All beds are provided with 2 pillows and a duvet. A cot may be available on request.
You must bring your own bedlinen (sheets, duvet covers, pillow cases) and towels.

Additional Information

• Pets are welcome


• Smoking is not permitted in the house.


• Wheelchair access is limited to the ground floor.


• Background heating is by night storage heaters.


• Parking for up to 6 vehicles.


• Gas and heating is included in the rental


• Other electricity by £1 coin meter

I, at the tender age of 38, will be sleeping in a bunk bed, sharing a bedroom with two others, who I've never met. It'll be freezing (storage heaters + Wales + cliff top = fucking freezing).Ten of us will be driving there, but there's only parking for six cars. We'll probably be made to eat seaweed and moss and take baths in used water in a tub in the yard.

But here's the most dreadful aspect of it all: no internet access.  I figured I could use my mobile to connect my PC to the Orange 3G network, it usually works really well, however look at this:

[caption id="attachment_1864" align="aligncenter" width="165" caption="Orange"][/caption]

What about using my 3 phone?  That could do the same thing - if it gets collected today and returned on time  (been waiting since 7am for Parceline to come and get it, it's now 3.30pm).  What's the 3 coverage like there?

[caption id="attachment_1865" align="aligncenter" width="300" caption="3"][/caption]

Ok then, so they're both non-starters? But maybe one of those mobile broadband dongles from the other networks might be useful anyway, perhaps it'd be worth investing in one of those?

[caption id="attachment_1869" align="aligncenter" width="299" caption="Vodafone"][/caption]

[caption id="attachment_1868" align="aligncenter" width="300" caption="T-mobile 2G"][/caption]

[caption id="attachment_1867" align="aligncenter" width="300" caption="T-mobile 3G"][/caption]

[caption id="attachment_1866" align="aligncenter" width="300" caption="O2"][/caption]

So there you go.  Staying with a bunch of people from work, who are actually OK, in freezing cold Wales, in a single bed, in a shared bedroom, with shared bathroom facilities, eating seaweed... and no chance whatsoever of an internet connection... for over TWO FUCKING DAYS!

Still, I get to go quad biking on Monday afternoon, so if I'm lucky, I might die or at least be hospitalised and then I won't need internet access anyway.

Wasted days

Another day of decent weather has been wasted waiting in for those tossers to come and collect my mobile for repair.  Me and Rocky could've been having loads of fun, instead, I've been doing a bit of work.  Actually  I've had five attempts at burning a DVD of a avi file of a film.  The film plays fine in media player, the video burns to DVD OK, but there's no sound.   I tried a different burning packages, and that just burns with the sound hopelessly out of sync.  I'm on my sixth try now, but I don't hold out much hope.  It's weird because I had no trouble burning the latest episode of the fabulous L Word the other night, but it's now gone tits up.

Pissed off.

Second coming

The installation of President Obama is certainly a historic event.  It signals wonderful progress and brings a certain degree of hope to the Western World that we might actually stop being seen as evil.  Hope is one thing, action and results are another.  It does seem that an awful lot of hope has been pinned on him and, with a whole load of work to be done, it's questionable that anything will actually be achieved.

The road to hell is paved with good intentions and that.

Obama has almost been elevated to Messiah status - certainly by Auntie Beeb.  He's just a bloke with a huge job to do, with a rather unfair weight of expectation placed on his shoulders.

And we in the UK have experienced something similar before with Tony Blair.  I never fell for the smooth talking back in 1997, I saw right through him and New Labour and knew damned well that they'd achieve absolutely fuck all while ruining the country - because that's what Labour does.  It's the lack of integrity, the lies, the erosion of values, the erosion of our civil liberties that hurt most from the past eleven... twelve years of Labour's appalling governance.  We all knew they'd fuck up the economy (but perhaps not this badly), but the snooping on its people, the gradual introduction of a police state, and the sheer hopelessness that has been heaped on us all - not even I would have expected that from them. Then again, that's what you get with a government that is out of control and afraid of its own people.

So long as Obama and his team demonstrate the utmost integrity and at least some degree of competence during their administration, then I will be satisfied.  There won't be miracles.

Rocky takes time out

Rocky has a habit of kicking off and shouting his head off at the slightest noise outside.  I've had enough.  He goes for a time out in the kitchen as soon as he starts grumbling to himself.  It won't stop him doing it, but it'll keep him quiet for a bit while I'm trying to concentrate on my work blog.

Little shit.

Mayhem

Bomb's just left.  I'd invited her and Little Con over for the afternoon so we could all go for a little walk to the canal, say hello to the ducks and geese and stay for some food.

They arrived at 3.45pm, it was going dark, the sunshine of the morning and early afternoon had been eliminated by the heavy clouds that had been blown over by the winds that were increasing in intensity.  By this time, Rocky, whose walk I'd postponed, was climbing the walls with pent up energy.

After lots of bouncing from Rocky, after the street lights had come on, we finally got our coats on and left the house.  With the temperatures plummeting, Bomb gave up before we got to the end of the street and headed back.  I continued with Rocky, but aware that Bomb would be waiting, our walk was only short and we too made our way home.

I prepared our meal while Little Con ate hers, but not before Bomb had commented with astonishment at the absence of a microwave.  At the moment our food was ready, Bomb decided it was time to go and change Little Con's nappy, thus allowing her own food to go cold while I ate mine on my own.  I'd prepared tuna with herb and olive salsa, new potatoes and curly kail.  I discovered that Bomb can't eat kail; not only might it send her stomach off, it might actually send her to hospital!

Oh the fucking drama with her.  All the time, everything is a drama.  She complains that Con won't let her do anything, but she won't leave the child alone.  Since she was born, the slightest utterance from the baby has elicited attention and coddling from her mother. And she wonders why the child won't leave her alone, always demanding attention from her.

One instruction that was absolutely critical - "Don't let her go near the telly!".  Connie ended up kissing the characters from Ice Age that was showing.

Why do people have children?  They need so much attention, cause so much hassle, ruin your lives and mess up your house.  Messy, messy little bags of snot, poo and sick.  And they make so much noise.  And they whinge and moan and misbehave.  This, in combination with a woman like my sister, is a recipe for much stress and shouting, and not a great deal of fun.  Ever.

Fuck, what a day. What a fucking day.

But now it's peaceful.... ahhhhh.  Let's have a look at some nice things, if I can find them to upload in this new-fangled file system.


Sonny
Unfortunately, this poor little feller had to be put down yesterday.  Wasn't he handsome?  Such a big, strong, healthy animal, suddenly killed off by a cancer that we couldn't do anything about.



Hrrm, I think the other image is on the backup disk from before I wiped my machine and I can't frigged to find it.


Threeeeeee
I have a pay as you go 3 Skypephone. I think it might be a bit dodgy because it just turns itself off and won't power up again unless I take out the battery and put it back in again. Anyway, I went onto the 3 website and they have this really useful troubleshooter that takes you to a returns page if they can't help you online. When it came to the pick up date option, I decided to change it from Monday to Wednesday, but you don't get any information about the confirmed pick up date once you've booked the thing in. So bugger only knows when they're coming for it. I'll work from home on Wednesday, but if they come on Monday, they can go ninnies.

Nobheads.


Miss Congeniality
I took a personality tests, here is the overview of my character:

You are a leader - an independent thinker who approaches problems with a rigorous, rational and systematic mind. And with your curiosity, persistence, irreverence and logic, you tend to find innovative solutions to complex problems.

You tend to be bold, assertive and hard working. You are good with details, particularly technical details, and you enjoy talking about your work with others.

You are highly loyal to friends and family. You like nothing more than to share life's little comforts you've earned, with those close to you.

Although you are good with people and enjoy being part of a stable and secure social network, you easily spend time alone, pursuing your own projects and goals.

You tend to be protective and pragmatic. And your friends and family find you innovative and interesting to be with.

So there you go. I'm going to hunt round for more online personality tests to see if they all give the same answer.

Oh look, another one!















Pudding
I want some pudding, but there isn't anything sweet in the house... other than fruit. For fuck's sake. I want something like hot apple pie with warm custard. I'll just have to have a fucking orange. I haven't even got any bloody chocolate. Bollocks. Or biscuits. Tits.

Talking of tits, I taught Little Con to say "norks", "knockers" and "bugger" today. It's great, she just repeats everything you say. Oh, those sponge-like minds.

Pigswill

I'm watching Hugh Fearnley-Pigswill on the telly.  He's one of these organic foodie campaigner types who evangelises about stuff that grows in shit.  I can't stand him.  Everything about him is nauseating: the way he looks; the way he talks; what he cooks.  But what I find most objectionable about him is the way he eats really noisily and talks to camera while doing so.

Pig of a man.

There is nothing more disgusting than the sound of people eating, smacking their lips noisily as they find it impossible to keep their mouths closed until they've finishing munching like normal people can.

When I was at university, me and my friends needed to find a housemate and we ended up with a bit of a headcase who watched the TV with the sound turned up to full blast.  She ate with her mouth open, smacking away and slurping till the end of the very last mouthful.  Every evening when she came back from college, she'd go straight to her room.  We'd time her, one, two, three, four, then it'd start, the thumping base of Alannah Myles' Black Velvet.  But she was a right loon: occupying the attic bedroom, me and my fellow housemates could hear her talking to herself in different voices whenever we went to the bathroom, which was also located on the top floor of the house.  On the day of my last ever university exam, I'd gone upstairs for a shower at something ridiculous like 5am and, even at that time of day, I heard a sinister laugh coming from within her room.  Freaked out?  Most certainly.

Mississippi, the middle of a heatwave...

Wardrobe fun

I was at Mum and Dad's earlier.  And I decided to go and have a look in my old wardrobe for a laugh.  There are still some clothes in there from my skinny days.  I can get into some of my old jeans and things, but let's just say that I'm in between sizes, with my current clothes slightly too big and the next size down being slightly too small for me.  Irritating?  You betchya!  Why are there no odd sizes?  Why do they have to go from 14 to 16 to 18?  What's wrong with a 15 or 17?

So what do I do, starve a bit to go to the next size down, or eat a few kebabs and get tubby?

Seventh heaven

I've downloaded and installed Windows 7 beta; it's very nice, a bit like Vista was supposed to be. Very fast, with some great innovations going on in the technical bowels of it... well, it's got this good power management thing that turns things off when they're not in use then zips them back into operation as soon as you use them again.

And the new Windows Media Player is nifty to the extreme, allowing previews of tracks and that. Lovely.  Are you watching, Apple?

But anyway, techno-schmeckno. Although pissing about with your PC can be quite exciting, it's always with more than a touch of apprehension that I embark on such adventures. The idea of wiping everything off your machine - EVERYTHING - so you can install a new operating system and start again is pretty alien, given all the shite you have to put back on when you're done, and the prospect of it all going horribly wrong. Nonetheless, I managed it without any problem and it's like having a new machine.

It'll be like having an old machine again when the beta version expires on 1st August and we all have to rush to buy a licensed copy for about £200 (v clever, Mr Microsoft)... or go back to Vista.

God, this is a bit techy.

Anyway, if you're feeling a bit nostalgic having just updated to Windows 7, perhaps you'd like to take a walk down memory lane and have a look at these screenshots from previous incarnations of our beloved operating system; took me right back, so they did.  My personal favourite was Windows 95, no it wasn't, it was totally shit - especially with that fucking bouncy paperclip thing.  Windows didn't get anything like half decent until XP.

DHL
Yes, I'm working from home today (I've checked my e-mails periodically); this means that I was here to accept a parcel for Jo. We have a front door, with a bell, that is easily accessible. Mr DHL decided to try to come in through the back gate (locked), thus alarming Little Rocky and setting him off on one of his frantic barking tantrums. When Mr DHL realised that perhaps it's not that common to break down somebody's gate to deliver a parcel through the patio doors at the back of their house, he decided to come round to the front door and bang on it as loudly as possible, sending Rocky's tantrum into megadrive.

Total nob.

Fuckbook is brilliant!
Well, that's how I feel today at least, and my opinion is subject to change on a whim, or as the result of being "poked" by some cunt from years ago who I only added as a friend out of politeness. Be warned.

I found myself in hysterics the other night after I decided, goodness only knows why, to post some images of me that had been taken for official documents, ID cards, passports, that type of affair. Now, if I hadn't just wiped everything off my PC, I'd be able to upload those images to Flickr and show them here. Here's the link instead. Actually, forget that, I don't want this page to link to anything that has identifiable information about me. Not that I'm paranoid or a shrinking violet or anything.

Anyway, here it is, my own personal gallery of shame:

[gallery columns="4"]

Hrrm, can't explain the big gap between the rows, but fuck it, you get the picture. I'm essentially a big fat bloater screaming to get out of my otherwise silf-like frame and, in general, I succeed in expressing the inner me very well.  I particularly like the photo from my driving licence and UK passport: see how I've skilfully plucked one eyebrow, but not the other?  And people wonder why I always travel on my Italian passport.

E-mail scam
"Hello, I am Prince Ngoloki Hokey Cokey from Western Nigernya and I would like to share e-mailing with you"

I am becoming more paranoid by the day and it won't be long before I'm wearing a tin foil helmet to try to keep the thought police out. From March, all our e-mails are going to be stored on huge snooperbase for the purposes of criminal investigations and antiterrorism efforts. Well, that's the government's excuse at least. Great, isn't it? I'm just going to have "Hydrogen peroxide source" as the default subject for all my messages and I'm going to change my name to Wahida Al Jalabi (apologies to anybody who happens to have that name!). I'd like to think everybody will do the same so the whole thing comes crashing down around Home Secretary Jacqui Smith's stupid deaf ears.

I'm Spartacus!

Surely saving all our e-mails for snooping purposes is no different to having all our post opened and checked before we send or receive any?

I guess it's quite comforting to know know that the government is so scared of its own people that it has to erode our civil liberties on a daily basis, but watch out for legislation preventing people from voting if they speak too loudly against them.

Cunts.