Phantasmagorical

Fantastic imagery and incongruous juxtapositions.

Any word with juxtaposition as part of its definition is top notch in my book.

Of course, another sort of meaning of phantasmagorical is surreal, and I suppose you'd describe Salford City Council's raison d'etre as being to make all those who encounter them shake their heads in wonder while muttering, "phantastmagorical!", or "that's totally fucked up".

This not-so-great metropolis's latest totally and utterly unbelievable fucked up plan is to take the A6, a major three-lane road that runs into and out of Manchester City Centre, reduce the capacity to one lane plus a bus lane and, along with this, reduce the speed limit from 40mph to 20mph.  That's nice of them, vastly increasing journey times, pollution and tempers.

Why do they have to do this?  What good could possibly come of this?  Why can't they just do something to make peoples' lives a little bit easier instead of totally fucking miserable?

Because they're a bunch of left winged, money-wasting morons is what I'm guessing.

Useless, waste of space cunts.


The power of Google
Anyway (:@,), hopefully they'll Google themselves when they're not too busy sat around on their fat arses, thinking of other phantasmagorical schemes for making people who visit the city, or even worse live there, think they were on mind-bending drugs.

And back to Google - they've decided at last that the Taz and Pig hosted version of Sniffytastic wasn't a danger to peoples' PCs afterall.  Idiots.  Anyway, I've farted around enough now, so I'm sticking with Blogger.


Will I am
I need to write a will sometime quite soon.  How exciting is that?  Essentially, my other half would get the house (she'll be thrilled at being saddled with £95,000 debt) and everything in it (she'll be even more thrilled at getting my collection of "I'm sure this is useful for something" things and, of course, the little dog).

I'm tempted to insist on something wonderful in my will, since I'm paying for it and all, but I can't think of what.  Strange funeral requests are no good because the whole concept goes against my beliefs, although it would be grand if everybody arrived on a penny farthing at my behest.


Fanta-smagorical
My sister, Bomb, took part in the filming of a TV quiz show in September.  I had to go with her and I will also appear on the telly when the episode is screened.  How did I get dragged into an overnight stay in the grottiest hotel in Glasgow, losing my identity to become known as "Bomb's sister" and being filmed for national TV without any chance of a share in a potential cash prize of £100,000?  What's more, I didn't even get to meet Dale Winton!


Waxy