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.

Goulash in the Gulag

I'm having goulash for my tea. Well, it's beef casserole with lots of paprika in it, so I guess that makes it a goulash. We used to have it loads when we were kids and I doubt it'll taste the same as Connie Cakesniffer's, but I've made it in one of those traditional casseroles, so there's some semblance of authenticity there.

Look at my tea:



It's currently cooling down as I don't fancy putting something that's just come out of a 200°C oven in my mouth. Smells nice enough though.

Anyway, I could hardly describe my living arrangements as being a "Gulag", but perhaps mentally they are. I was accused of titivating my bedroom by Jo when she was having one of her rants about me living of the life of Riley here. This accusation is based on me putting up some curtains in there to keep the heat in:



Unfortunately, I bought completely the wrong size and they cover the entire tiny radiator so block the heat coming into the room. The chandelabra is nothing to do with me.


Rocky worries me sometimes; he pulls so hard on his lead that he makes himself vomit. this is nothing new, but sometimes he makes himself vomit so violently that he collapses onto the floor. He did again today when I was taking him for a walk, I thought he was having a convulsion. But he got to his feet, shook himself off, had a big poo and was OK again.

The problem was that he'd been eating cat food at my mum's and now his beard smells of rotten Felix. Makes giving him a cuddle a bit unpleasant.



Ritorn' a Fuckbook
Yes, I caved in and reactivated my Fuckbook profile. It's actually quite good fun at times, especially now that I've deleted some of my most irritating "friends"; those people who just add you so they can send you shite.

In all honesty, I only did it so I could check out the photo's of a former colleague's new baby, but you know, all babies look the bloody same anyway. Anyway, at least I know how to deactivate myself again if needs be.

Wouldn't it be fabulous if you could deactivate yourself in real life? If only.

Tippety-tap

Rocky has developed an irritating new habit: tapping at closed doors.

It started the other week, I'd go to bed at night, shut the bedroom door, then within about ten minutes of getting into bed, I'd hear the pitter-patter of furry feet coming up the stairs followed by a gentle tap on the door. I'd ignore him, he'd tap again. I'd ignore him, I'd hear him huff at the door and lie down. I'd ignore him, then he'd stand up, tap again, huff again, then give up and do back downstairs.

A couple of hours after falling asleep, I'd be woken by more tapping, huffing, tapping, followed by him returning to his bed downstairs.

Now he's started tapping on all the closed doors in the house. Why? What is wrong with my little mutt?

It's best to ignore him and not respond in any way; he'll soon stop, but it's quite annoying and I hope he gets over himself sooner rather than later.

Oh dear, he's eating Jo's slipper again. No Rocky, don't do that. See, I did try to stop him.

Diplomatic relations
A new colleague started with our team yesterday, she's come over from China. I've been spending time helping her acclimatise to being in the UK: the most important thing is making sure she can cross the road without being run over. It's second nature to us lot over here, but you know these foreign types who drive on the wrong side of the road.

She had to register her presence in the UK with the Police. We tried the local police station in Moss Side, it was shut. There were people inside, but they didn't fancy letting anybody in. "Fighting crime (the people), protecting people (ourselves), hiding from inner city scumbags." The second station was open, but we were told that we could only register at the big police station in the city centre. So off we pootled into Manchester, where the registration office was closed for lunch. The coppers were strutting about as if they were it: "Ooh, look at me in me stab proof vest, with me handcuffs hanging off me belt. Do you like my cocky swagger? You fancy me, dontcha? You'd better, or I'll taser you in the fucking face!".

Cunts.

Could it be the weather?
It's fucking freezing still. I can't get warm. My toes are icy all the time.

Jo came home after a couple of days with Pigsnout. She noticed that the thermostat was set to 22, mentioned that our gas bill will be bad (I don't disagree with her) and then said that I can't get warm because I'm wearing too many layers and I'm not allowing my body to acclimatise. No, I can't get warm because it's not been above zero for the past two weeks and it's fucking freezing cold in this godforsaken hell hole of a country.

Why can't my dog be normal? You see other dogs, they have their food put out for them and it's gone in thirty seconds; they growl if you go anywhere near them while they're eating. I put Rocky's food out and he ignores it for two hours, then eats it in shifts, taking a mouthful at a time, constantly returning to the living room to check that I'm still here. Or I have to stand in the kitchen with him while he eats. He won't leave me alone while I'm in the house, yet as soon as he goes outdoors, it's as if I don't exist. And now he's rubbing his face on his blanket and turning his bed upside down and dragging around the living room.

Oh dear, no Rocky, don't chew Mummy Jo's slipper again, that's so naughty of you.

Gloomy

You get days when you can't be bothered doing anything. Sometimes it's just nice to sit in the quiet and wait for it to go dark; some days it's dark all day anyway and there's no waiting necessary, you just sit in the half light, listening, snoozing off, always a little too cold for comfort.

The DVD needs changing to the next disc in the Frasier Series 5 box set. Displayed on the TV is the menu screen from the disc that's just finished, prompting me to get out of my seat, walk over there, eject it and replace it. But the quiet is nice. I have my little dog lay next to me and I can hear his deep breaths as he falls deeper into slumber. The clock on the shelf ticks quietly. Cars bring the neighbours back home from their work. The keys on my keyboard tap erratically as I compose and type the words to these sentences. And the DVD menu peeps at me over the top of my laptop screen.

Stop to think.

Become aware of myself.

I am in my living room, I can hear the sounds I described. I concentrate on my breathing, holding the out breath for a couple of seconds. I can feel my heart beating, heavy and faster than normal.

How am I feeling?

Gloomy.

Lonely.

Sad.

It's been a while since I've had a moment like this. Have I moved on any since I felt like this all the time? Times like these make me doubt it. I still have the same problems, the same situation, the same hopeless future, but at least now I'm not yearning after a love that was taken from me, I'm just in a bit of a weird uncertain limbo. And I just don't know what's going to happen or when.

It'll be OK.

Electric blanket

We've been experiencing a relatively cold winter here in the UK. I don't like it. The canal is almost completely frozen over.



This proved Rocky's saviour yesterday as I almost threw him in it when he was being a total shit on his walk. I liked the noise the sticks made when I threw them onto the ice. I wonder what noise the dog would've made.

On days like today, the crisp, blue skies are beautiful, but the sun rarely gets high enough in the sky for the shadows to disappear and for the ice on the pavements to melt.

Take today for example; we had snow flurries overnight that froze to an icy sheen on the pavements by dawn. Despite wearing sensible Timberland boots with a chunky sole, I spent the day walking like a penguin with Parkinson's disease. I have no idea why I have zero confidence when walking on slippery surfaces, but I can remember being this way for as long as I could walk - gripping onto fences, walls, my mum as I slipped and slid to school. I hate the ice. I hate things that involve me feeling unsteady on my feet such as ice skating and roller skating, and I have absolutely no desire to even attempt skiing.

Why is it then, that while I can't walk on anything remotely slippery even in the most suitable attire, some people can stride along with full confidence on a surface resembling an ice rink while wearing stiletto boots? I couldn't believe some of the shoes women were wearing today. Bitches. Perhaps the heel actually acts like a crampon and provides the best possible grip in such conditions. Maybe I should give them a go. I'd probably end up spinning around, pinned to the ground by one heel with the rest of me flying around in a circle of screams, torn ligaments and hair.

With it this cold, my peripheries are always icy and, by bedtime my toes are unbearably cold. I got a duck feather and down duvet for Christmas, it is lovely, but it doesn't warm my toes particularly well. Of course, if I had a nice warm body next to me, and if the owner of that body loved me enough, they'd let me warm my toes on them. Unfortunately, I am without woman, good or otherwise, so I need to explore alternative avenues to keep me warm. One option would be to have Rocky in bed with me, but he prefers to sleep at the top of the bed next to me and I doubt he'd stay near enough to my feet under the duvet for him to be of any use. The next best option would be to invest in an electric blanket. I had the luxury of one of these when I stayed with friends in Norfolk and it was delicious! The one I had use of had a timer function so it stayed on for 75 minutes - just enough time to settle down, do a bit of reading and drop off.

Imagine the other functions that could be integrated into an electric blanket: iPod dock; massage function; alarm clock.... cattle prod! Your alarm would go off, gently at first, perhaps playing a gentle tune or waking you with a soothing massage. But if you snoozed off: DZZZZZZTZZZIPPP!!!!

I'm going to write to JML to see if they want to develop my idea along with all the other wonderful things they sell, things that look so fucking brilliant on their TV ads, but turn out to be disappointing bits of utterly useless junk when you come to have them. A bit like women, but with a battery or a plug.

Another lightbulb moment

There are some things, the simplest things, that cause a great deal of torment every time I encounter them.  One such thing is changing the headlamp bulb in my car; I've never been able to do this without it being the cause of a minor disaster.  The trouble with my back is due to an incident trying to change a headlamp bulb back in 2003: bending over the engine compartment for forty minutes while attempting to get the bulb out was enough to render me crippled for a fortnight and unable to walk without being in pain for months afterwards. I actually went to the doctor at the time and, during the consultation in which he made no eye contact, he told me "Well, that's you with a bad back for the rest of your life". He wasn't wrong, I can't stand or walk for more than 20 minutes without it seizing up.

My previous car still had a snapped-off bulb floating around inside the headlamp housing when it was written off in an accident.

And yesterday, while trying to pull the connector off the back of a spent bulb, a portion of the bulb housing itself snapped off.  The new bulb is now held precariously in place with some rather  ineffective glue and a foam sticky pad to stop it wobbling about.  I also bashed the back of my hand on something very hard and sharp.  My efforts were accompanied with lots of swearing as my dad stood by, ready to help if I decided to climb onto the engine and start pulling the HT leads off and sticking them on my tongue with the engine running.

What is it with these things?  I think the latter two episodes are symptomatic of my apprehensions in dealing with car light bulbs because the first incident.  Wary of my weak back, I feel I need to rush to get the job done in case stooping over the car for a millisecond too long will lead to my back going again.

Or it could be rubbish design on the part of Nissan.  Trying to negotiate things like electrical connectors and bulb clips among the intricacies of the cooling and air conditioning pipes, while also trying to avoid getting covered in shite from a car that hasn't been washed in seven months, it doesn't make it easy finding the right position for successful bulb extraction and back injury avoidance.

Anyway, that was my excitement for New Year's Day.

New Year celebration

I actually commemorated New Year's Eve this time, I usually hate it.  This year, it was spent with a bunch of, mainly, queers round at the house of some friends.  It was actually OK, with great food, decent company and a  rather disturbing discussion about penises.  I was shocked to find that one ultra lesbian friend has what I would say is an unhealthy obsession with cocks - she likes cocks but not men, whereas my position is that men would be much more attractive without cocks.

Despite the freezing temperatures, we managed to enjoy the spectacle of a setting off a Chinese lantern to celebrate the New Year.  Look at all those people, freezing their tits off, going "Ooooh!" at the pretty fiery lantern as it floated off into the night sky... and see if you can spot the Straight.






Norfolk

I spent a few days with friends in Norfolk after Christmas.  It was nice to finally get away to see them, after trying to arrange a visit for a long time.  The journey is a pig and I hate the distance between us as it would be so nice to be able to see them a lot more often than the once or twice a year.  The little dog would like to get to see them more often too, well, he'd like to get to see their dog Peggy more often as he likes the challenge of trying to touch her with his willy as many times as possible during our stay with them.

We went to the seaside on Monday. It was freezing, so I didn't bother taking my costume, but the dogs had a good time tormenting other animals.









It was quite cold down there and I was privileged to witness a beautiful starry sky one night. We don't get to see this too much up here because of the light pollution from the big city, so it's quite spectacular to see when it does happen. I tried to take a photo, but the long exposure (and it being too cold for me to have the patience to attempt more shots with a tripod) made the image a bit wobbly. You get the idea though.



So that's me for you. Struggling with the tail end of my winter depression and the start of my new year blues. Just January to get through and I might just make it.