Astounding

The shear stupidity of people never fails to amaze me. Looking at the news headlines, I came across this: "Newborn baby found in wheelie bin". That's right, some thick as pigshit teenager gets pregnant without even knowing it, has the baby at home, thinks the baby is dead and puts it in the bin. Two words:

STERILISE HER

I wonder if Bomb is thinking of using a wheelie bin to transport the Bombino around? It's much cheaper than paying several hundred pounds on a pushchair. Not long to go now and there's a mood of quiet excitement in the Sniffy household. I've been invited to the birth. I'll probably go so long as I don't have to be at the business end of things. I'm sure my sister will be grateful for my words of cheery encouragement alongside Connie's merchant of doom panic attacks.



Thursday
So today is Thursday and here at Base 2a, I am listening to the constant chatter from the adjoining office, as usual. I don't understand how some people can never shut up. Ever. From the moment people arrive, to the minute she leaves, one person here talks constantly. It's amazing. I'm sure this is a skill that can be put to some good use somewhere - perhaps the CIA could use her to torture terror suspects - but it gets a bit tiring in the workplace.

This Thursday I am very tired, extremely so. I think the excitement and exertions of yesterday are taking their toll. I can hardly keep my eyes open and I ache like a bastard. But why? Well, partly because of this:

Yes, Trump finally got her heart's desire and we spent a couple of hours playing on her Wii. I'm not one for games consoles, but I must admit that this is something special. My shoulder is a bit stiff from playing baseball; I can't believe how engaged I became in my battle of wills against the pitcher. And because the controller vibrates and makes a noise, you actually get the sensation of hitting the ball (or missing it). I was a bit concerned at Trump's enthusiasm and skill when she was boxing.

I'm waiting for controllers that you attach to your feet so you can play kick-boxing or figure skating.


Blue
For some reason, I keep getting blue dye on the skin around my fingers and I've no idea where it's coming from.

"Oh, you're here"

That was the welcome I got from Posh Scouse when I turned up in my Base 2a office after being at Base 2b for the morning.

"I was going to use your office for something, but you're here, so I can't."

Why she felt the need to tell me, I'm not sure. I'd have gladly left and gone round to Trump's at 1pm, but I don't think it was particularly justified.

The network here is rubbish. Check out the the mess it's making of loading pages:

I don't know what the problem is with it, other than it's a pile of old shite.


Sooooo, today's the day. I've reached the age of however old I am without having to think too much about Valentine's Day. I always swore that I wouldn't cave in to commercialism should I ever find myself in the position of having a special somebody, but that I'd treat them with love and respect every day. I'm sure Trump understands this and will appreciate me saving my money for important things, other than flowers, cards, chocolates. There's no WAY I'd get her champagne if I couldn't have any myself. Besides, I wouldn't want her to get too excitable or she might decide to start stripping the wallpaper in another room of her house and I don't think I could cope with that.

Joking aside, there seems to be an incredible pressure to buy stuff, when in all reality, your loved one doesn't expect anything any more than you do yourself.

Or at least that's what she says, and then she starts pointing at the boxes of chocolates, at the roses and champagne on display in Marks and Spencer. Saying things like "Are you taking note on how it should be done?". So I'm going to conduct a poll. Please will you express your preference for either of the following:

This, Nitrow heat-responsive Bearbrick

It changes colour in the heat to reveal a camouflage pattern. Cool eh?

Or these things that don't last more than a week

They die.

The flowers shown are from Tesco. Remember Tesco flowers from last year? They're dead before they even get to you! I could've been dead and those things would've been received by poor old Connie. Pile of shite. Still, it would've saved on the cost of funeral flowers.

Anyway, I'd like to know your preferences.

Broke

Just when you think you'll get the impetus to start paying off your credit card, you go and do a stupid thing like getting your car serviced and MOT'd. Three hundred and eighty five bloody quid. Bastards.

Anyhow, that's done I must move on.


People in two bedroom terraced houses should need a licence before being allowed to decorate
This is a conclusion that I've come to having experienced three of these houses in recent years; currently Trump Towers. I don't know what it is with these sorts of houses, but they clearly induce some sort of Overlook Hotel-like psychosis in their single occupants that leads the victims to do very strange things to their properties.

For a bit of background, two bed terraced houses are generally entry level homes for first-time buyers. Many were built in the late 1800s and they generally all look the same with the same layout. Way back in them days, people didn't have bathrooms, so over recent years, bathrooms have been installed either as ground floor extensions or by splitting the back bedroom in two. Although originally occupied by working class families, they now tend to be owned by single people, like I said as an entry level home for them to get on the property ladder.

I think they need to carry some sort of health warning in that, unless the occupant finds a suitable partner within about 18months of moving in, insanity soon sets in and this is manifested in displays of quirky decorative ideas. I've known these houses to be completely pink, with faux country cottage stone fireplaces (nice) and ultra modern (for the 1970s), Blake's 7-esque suspended ceilings. My sister used to live in one of these houses that could be described as "Dirty protest" with purple radiators. And now Trump's pad is revealing itself to be a migraine in anaglypta underneath the more sober tones that were put in place by Trump herself when she moved in.

A weekend of stripping back the layers has revealed: 15 layers of paint (satin and matte) on top of industrial strength anaglypta; blood red on top of bottle green paint on plaster in the dining room; orange honeycomb wallpaper in the kitchen. Of course, it being the kitchen, the previous residents had taken anti-steam precautions and used superglue to stick the fucking stuff to the walls.

Blimey.

Still, it was an interesting and rewarding exercise in teamwork, i.e. me being shouted at, and the satisfaction at revealing the clean lines of plastered walls was certainly worth it.


I need a hero
Motorists across the UK are praying for modern day Robin Hood to rescue them from the strangle-hold of a tax-obsessed government that wants to track their every move in the name of having a "fair" road-charging scheme. The government claims that we need an expensive system to track where and when we drive so we pay more for when we drive in congestion. Surely the tax we pay on petrol does exactly this without our every movement being spied on? And it's billions of pounds cheaper to implement too.

And you could try cutting congestion by giving us some road back. Noticed how much white paint is on the roads at the moment; unnecessary right filter lanes; no right filters when you need them; unused 24hr bus lanes. On top of this, how about phasing traffic lights sensibly?

Oh yeah, and affordable public transport.

Nobs.

So there you have it, road charging the Sniffy way: scrap road tax, do some sums and work out how much to increase petrol tax by to get enough income to fund your next war on Iran or North Korea, perhaps even Zimbabwe?

"Working from home"

That's what I'm doing today - officially at least. Unofficially, i.e. really, I'm sat around doing fuck all except surfing the internet and getting cold while my car is in the garage for a service and MOT. This isn't too bad, I like sitting around and doing fuck all (it's what I do at Base 2a all the time anyway) and at least this way, I'm not paying for the petrol to cover the 60mile return journey.

I don't really do working from home and I can't believe that anybody works effectively out of the office environment. There are too many distractions, such as my bed, and since I can't even work from work, I've got no chance while sat here.

I am now accompanied by a De Longhi Dragon oil-filled electric heater. I initially scoffed at Dad's suggestion, but now I'm getting nice and toasty thankyouverymuch. It's sort of crammed in the leg space under the desk, so I'll probably end up with crippling back pain and thrush, but at least my knees will be warm.


Detour through your mind
So anyway, instead of walking straight home, I took a detour onto the shopping precinct on my way to Morrison's, Aldi and B&Q. I happened to look in the window of Gregg's the bakers, mainly because it was one of the only shops open at 8.58. This is what I saw:

Oh, how I marvelled at the skill of the bakers, at their forethought in reflecting the town's demographic and morbidity indices when assembling their gingerbread men. Only in Swinton do you get gingerbread men to look like people on Incapacity Benefit. Fantastic.

I've just had a great deal of fun getting that photo onto the internet. I've no bluetooth on my laptop so I bluetoothed it from my phone to my Palm and e-mailed from there to flickr. Technology eh? All because I couldn't be arsed to set up an e-mail account on my phone, I mean for fuck's sake, how many e-mail accounts does a person need? TWO, that's how many, and I've got about 8 that I can't keep track of, so I'm not having any more.

Right, back to my adventures in Swinton. After dropping in to Morrison's and Aldi - you see, we have all the big name shops here - I went to B&Q to look at wallpaper strippers, those big kettles with a pipe attached. I looked at one, which was in a nice small and easy to manage box, and ended up taking the one in the bigger, bulkier box to the till. Before buying it, I checked to see that they had a bag I could carry it - black bin liners - and made my purchase. I then walked the mile or so home getting my shins bashed in by the fucking thing. I was so fed up by the time I got in. And my knickers were right up my arse crack, it was so uncomfortable.

Fuck, this is like a proper blog post where people talk about their daily routines and discuss thrush. The way this heater is warming my gusset up, I'll be getting onto thrush discussions within half an hour.


Valentine, be mine
The next week could be tricky for me since Wednesday is Valentine's Day. I haven't got a clue what to do about it. I suppose the wall paper stripper is fairly romantic, but I guess I'll need to think of something in the rockets, bells and poetry category. I wonder if she'd like a rocket launcher, I know I certainly would.

It's all a bloody rip-off, but it'll be worth it just so I can buy a "for my wonderful girlfriend" card in Clinton's. One of those huge padded things with teddy bears and ribbons. She'll love that.

I always thought the idea of Valentine's Day was so mystery admirers could alert the objects of their desire to their otherwise unsuspected feelings. It turns out that it's for people in stable relationships to spend loads of cash without justification when what they should really be doing is showing respect and love for their partners every moment they're with them.

Oh well.

Fuck! Another one!

There's no escaping my past it seems. I've been found here by my one and only boyfriend from way back. I mean WAY back. It's a bit odd really, because he could've just looked in the phone book and the number is still there. I suppose the phone book doesn't contain entertaining musings, nice photographs and the word cunt, unless it's the Scunthorpe phonebook, but that doesn't really count.

But for fuck's sake, these people! I don't go looking for them, yet here I am, pursued like a wild animal being hunted down by a pack of dogs.

I studied melodrama at the RADA, don't you know.

Anyway.... Poor Glenn, who was very sweet and who I did spend a lot of nice times with (but it really wasn't for me, obviously), found this post and posted this comment:

Glenn said...
raises eyes......the things you find when you:
a) are working from home and no-one's watching what website you're looking at,
b) bored with writing yet another design document which no-one else will ever read,
c) decide to go back on Friends Reunited and see who's on there
d) think to yourself: "didn't Tina used to have an entry on here"
e) type Tina's name into google
f) find Tina's flickr page (How? for fuck's sake - should've image-googled "normal tits" instead)
g) find Tina's blog (v. funny, BTW)
h) randomly browse some blog entries
i) find out that you only went out with me 'cos Mark asked you to as a favour...

That gentle hissing sound you can hear is my ego deflating!

Hey ho. I've no idea why his ego is deflated all these years on, it was for the best. And it may have been a favour for Mark, but it was still OK... ish... till I realised it really wasn't for me, which I sort of knew all along, but had to give it a go.


The Bears' bear
Bad news on the Bear front for Tazzy and Piggy. What follows is a real text message exchange between me and Connie:

Me: "The bear is very popular. I posted a photo of him on the internet and all sorts of people (homos) now want one!"

Mother: "Got your message in Costco. No more bears, they would become common. I think it will be a golliwog next, then you can put him on the internet and see what comments you get. x"

It's an age thing.


Locum locusts
I'm doing a spot of evening work at the moment and here I am, waiting for something to cook in the lab. There was a huge tin of what promised to be Cadbury's Heroes (chocolates, to you foreigners) in the office. I was so looking forward to a miniature Twirl or Time Out, imagine my disappointment (but not surprise) to find that only "Dreams" were left. Cadbury Dreams are white chocolate. Need I say more?

White fucking chocolate, I ask you! Who invented this shite? And why did Cadbury think it was a good idea to mix them in with their otherwise delicious chocs?

Bastards.


Quiz answer
Piggy and IDV were indeed correct, the answer to the "fill in the blank" question was indeed:

"Macs are glorified Fisher Price activity centres for adults"

I don't think I need to add anything else to this statement.

Beautiful

It's a lovely day today, hang on, I'll get a photo...

It's not brilliant, but you get the idea. Today is the coldest day in the history of mankind - it's official. Well, according to the people here at Base 2a it is. "It was minus five point five according to my car", Posh Scouse informed me.

"Yeah, it's a bit nippy."

"Strange though, because it doesn't feel that cold."

Well no, that's because your internal thermometer is permanently set to "It's too hot, we need to open the windows, I CAN'T COPE WITH THIS HEAT!", that's why.

When I logged on to my PC here, I noticed that Cynthia had been using my office. I didn't really need to log on to know this since my office furniture had been rearranged with chairs in the middle of the floor. Plus, the sub-zero temperatures outside had made their way into my office because the bloody lunatic had turned off my radiator, as per.

So February is here and winter has arrived at last. We'll be getting snow tomorrow and, despite this being forecast, the country will grind to a halt because we just don't cope with weather here. I'm preparing for this by taking a load of stuff home with me in case I have to "work from home" tomorrow.


Fill in the blank
"**** are glorified Fisher Price activity centres for adults"

Can anybody guess what the missing word is?


Hair bear
Following requests for adoption of Bear by the Bears, I don't know whether to ask Connie to make a bear for them. Should I do it? If she agrees, what colour should I ask her to use? Should I ask her to do one with tattoos and piercings, as would be fitting for its new life with the South Yorkshire homos.


Wellbeing
I'm starving hungry, knackered and I've got a bit of a cough with accompanying faint headache. Can I go home? I think I'll be doing well to make it past about 2pm.


A campaign of terror
There have been three letter bombs on consecutive days, with one going off at the DVLA (the agency that issues driving licences and administers road taxes and things) today. The first one went off on Monday at the company that collects London's congestion charge. I'm not sure about yesterday's, it was some finance company I think.

I think the blasts have done nothing more than singe a few eyebrows and fingers, but it seems that somebody is holding a grudge. I think it's Convict or Garfer.

I've no idea how to make a letter bomb, and it's not something that I'd ever want to do, but I'd love to find some way of enacting my revenge on those who I feel persecute the law-abiding majority through harsh taxation and draconian legislation (i.e. HM Government). Voting doesn't work and direct action would be great. But who would I target, and what would I do to them?

Suggestions on a neurotoxin-impregnated postcard please.

Florence Nightingale at your service

More of that in a bit...

But first this:

Well, I would be blogging if my internet connection was stable, but it seems to be having a bit of a time out, it being Sunday and all that.

There are a few things that I’ve noticed of late that have made my usually mild-mannered self turn into a foaming-mouthed maniac. I don’t know what it is with some people, but they are criminally thick and should be locked up for their own safety, or preferably executed to prevent them causing damage to people’s cars.

There’s a current trend for people to cross the road with their backs to the traffic, either talking on their mobiles, or listening to the latest toonahs on their iPods. They don’t even cross straight, following the shortest route to safety. No, instead they choose to cross along the diagonal to make their journey to the kerb as long as possible. Stupid cunts.

Do you think we’re allowed to kill them? Probably not, but in my defence I’d say it was obviously a mercy killing and that I was doing themselves and society a huge favour by extinguishing whatever lights were burning inside their thick skulls.

Another current favourite pastime is for cyclists to ride in the cycle lane, but on the wrong side of the road, at night, with no lights on, dressed in black, and being of black ethnicity. In the Hulme area of Manchester (real bandit country that is home to the dregs of many societies from around the world), these guys also probably carry guns, so you just let them get on with it, while fighting the urge to swerve into them and wipe their sorry arses from the face of the planet.

Tossers.

He's a bear, he's a bear! He's made of human hair!!
Well that's not strictly true, he's made of wool and proper flame-retardant stuffing, but he's got a lot of Connie Cakesniffer in him, so that makes him almost human. To whom am I referring? Why it's none other than Bear:

Bear has been created as the arch-nemesis of his very own evil twin, known as BEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRR!! (or Bad Bear), who was also created by the fair hand of Connie. Bad Bear has been made for the much anticipated Bombino, who is due to be endearing itself to us with much screaming and uncontrolled bodily functions in March. Having seen what my elderly mother could do with some knitting needles and a bit of wool, I must admit that I got a bit jealous and, realising that I never had a bear when I was a baby, I asked Mum to make me one. I thought this was particularly fair since I won't be having any children of my own. So Bear is the result.


Oooh, Matron!
I'm rubbish around sick people, having no patience or stomach for vomiting, groaning, moaning, sniffling, coughing, and all the other things that happen to people when they're ill. My mother is really good with me and puts me to shame, often killing me with kindness. Last week, I had yet another one of my "heads" - I woke up in agony on Thursday morning, couldn't move my head, then started being sick. I was laid up in bed all day and Mum was really good. I think. Actually, I think she just left me alone to get on with it, but was pleasantly fussy once I finally emerged from my pit of doom in the evening.

Of course, when I got to work the following day, I was talking to a colleague about my previous day's brain tumour, I think I called it a migraine so as not to alarm her, and she said "Well, there's a lot of that going around at the moment."

What? Contagious migraines?

Apparently, hers were cured by having a hysterectomy when she was 31. I think I'll stick to ibuprofen and bed rest in a dark room.

Weird.

And when another colleague phoned in sick today (on National Sick Day, would you believe?), she again said "Well, there's a lot of that going around at the moment."

Back back? "Loads of those at the moment, you wouldn't believe it!"

And how about Semlicki Forest Virus? "Tonnes, Tina. There were four people in Tesco with it last night!"

Amazing.

But what IS going around at the moment is a bit of a cold thing that has laid dearest Trump low for the past few days. She's not been too bad with it, but got terribly depressed when it went on her chest. Any chesty cough means Ordeal by Covonia, which I don't mind, but it makes her sick (I think this is the idea of expectorants).

Anyway, poorly Trump was indeed pretty sick today and had to take National Sick Day off with a genuine illness. But this gave me the opportunity to go and see her, via the fucking horrible Asda in shithole Hulme, where I bought her some food, and a variety of chesty cough medicine.

Poorly Trump is off work tomorrow too, but she's already taken the day off as leave because she's getting cable telly. That means that, when I finally move in there in the hopefully not-too-distant future, WE'LL have cable telly. And this means Series 4 of the L Word when it comes out over here in the summer. Bring it on!!!!

Despite getting carried away with myself at the thought of the impending arrival of Living TV, I did the dutiful thing and tried to be Florence Nightingale to Trump of the Crimea. I was very attentive (once I'd calmed down about the spastic parking habits of one of the residents on her street) and even let her kiss me - germs and all. She then shoved my face in her slippers and rubbed her sock in my face.


Question of the day
Four months' suspended sentence for killing a cat by putting it through a washing machine cycle - appropriate?

Certainly not. How about ripping the fucking bitch's head off with something like a, oh I don't what, something like a pride of hungry lions?

According to the RSPCA inspector, the suspended sentence sends out a strong signal that animal cruelty will not be tolerated. How exactly? I think my alternative certainly would.

TOSSERS!