I've not written a post about Stornoway for ages. *Giggles and searches Google*
I'm going to have to leave this until later... I'm laughing too much at the search results already "Feature page on Undiscovered Scotland". "Undiscovered" - there's probably a reason for that.
Thursday, 28 January 2010
Wednesday, 27 January 2010
Sniffy is back
Sniffy never really went away, but Sniffytastic took a break for a while until life started to sort itself out.
Things are OK: I moved out of the (if I had a) Hammer House of Horror; found myself in love with the most fantastic woman I've ever met; kept the little dog all to myself.
So now that's been established, I can get back to what I like doing - playing with gadgets, spending time with my lady, chilling out with my little dog.... oh, and writing the odd bit of bile here back in good old blog world.
The appearance of "New!" Sniffytastic will change first, then I'll dredge my memory banks and start spilling out verbal garbage here.
Ci vediamo!
Things are OK: I moved out of the (if I had a) Hammer House of Horror; found myself in love with the most fantastic woman I've ever met; kept the little dog all to myself.
So now that's been established, I can get back to what I like doing - playing with gadgets, spending time with my lady, chilling out with my little dog.... oh, and writing the odd bit of bile here back in good old blog world.
The appearance of "New!" Sniffytastic will change first, then I'll dredge my memory banks and start spilling out verbal garbage here.
Ci vediamo!
Monday, 25 May 2009
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!
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!
Sunday, 24 May 2009
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?
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.
Sunday, 19 April 2009
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.
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.
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.
Saturday, 21 March 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, 18 March 2009
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.
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.
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