I don’t really know what a Bios is – something to do with a bit of software that controls key settings on your PC when it starts up… you know, the black DOS bit before Windows starts. I made myself look a right tit (as opposed to a left one) when I thought I’d be clever and disable the Bios password on my work’s PC. Didn’t realise there was an additional administrator password and I ended up locked out of my machine for hours this morning while I waited to be rescued by my Shite in Whining Armour from IT Helpdesk.

Dur.

Why are IT Helpdesk personnel so password obsessed? Probably because of idiots like me who think they know what they’re doing, but who always fuck it up.

Christmas
There’s no hiding from it now: the festive season is just about on us. Well it’s not, but the time has come to start preparing for it in terms of thinking about presents to buy loved ones – preferably ones that you can keep secret despite the almost constant questioning, “Sniiifffff? Can I have a clue please?”

Yes, so I’ve been organising some gifts for dearest Trump because I like to be organised. Most people like to be organised and it surprises me that the main retailers feel the need to remind us to get organised for Christmas. Why do they think they need to do this? Surely most people who celebrate Christmas generally know that it falls on 25th of December and that shops and things get crowded from mid-November, so it’s usual for people to start asking what loved ones would like for gifts and to start sorting things out. We don’t need the fucking shops to tell us that Christmas is coming!

We CERTAINLY don’t need fucking horrible Asda telling us that Christmas is coming with their fucking horrible adverts that feature fucking horrible children singing I wish it could be Christmas every day! FUCKERS! Of course they wish could be Christmas every day! The fucking parasitic bastards don’t have to pay for any of it and they get to have a really good time while everybody else is stressing about everything. Selfish little shits.

I hate the sound of children singing, absolutely fucking hate it. For Asda, which I hate with such a passion I cannot describe it, to use singing children to advertise their god-awful fucking shops is the absolute perfect example of how utterly fucking shite they are!

My jaw is aching because of intensive teeth-clenching.

In as much as Trump gifts go, she thinks I’m really splashing out, but I’m actually using my creativity to keep the costs of Christmas down. It’s amazing what you can do with bits of old toilet roll insides and crepe paper. Next week I’ll be making a Blue Peter advent candle.

That’s just a bit of a joke to throw her off the scent. If anybody has any tips as to how to prevent her from finding out what I’ve got her, I’d be very grateful. I find it impossible to lie to her, so keeping her pressies secret until Christmas Day is going to be very difficult – she’s already figured three out.

HA, HA, HA!
Don’t you love it when people get their comeuppance? I really cannot believe the stupidity of some people, but I’m so glad that this idiot got what he deserved rather than hurting somebody else.

Ah the passion of new love. You are irresistible to each other. You can’t look at the object of your desire without finding them desirable, without wanting to jump on them and get downright dirty with them. WOOF! They’re gorgeous, and you’re the luckiest person alive.

Seven months into a relationship and it’s still the same as day one, moreso in fact as each time you’re with them, you notice something else about them that you find absolutely adorable.

It’s great.

What’s even better is that you can get away with anything and still be attractive. It’s been a bit chilly since we entered November and on Friday night, I couldn’t cope with bedtime in the buff. I started off with pyjamas, but my feet were freezing and my dear Trump donated some bedsocks. Still no joy – or warmth – and as I shivered me timbers right to my core, I took her dressing gown and draped it on top of the duvet. Our hands were too cold for consolatory cuddles – the shock would’ve killed us – and the shivering continued. As a last resort, I took my hooded top from the chair, put it on and zipped it up. Warmth finally enveloped me, I fell into a deep slumber.

You wake at 6am to kisses and cuddles. You are boiling hot.

It’s amazing that, even at your least attractive, somebody can still love you.

Anyway, that was Friday night; it’s been a lot warmer since. So much so that, back at Casa Sniffy, it was so fucking hot when had to shut our windows to block out the noise and smoke that resulted from a six hour barrage of fireworks during last night’s Guy Fawkes Night celebrations. It was nice to see that the fuckwits next door had left a load of whites washing pegged out for the duration. Thick cunts.

Remember, remember, the 3rd, 4th, 5th, 6th and 7th of November… oh, and don’t forget Diwali, Eid and New Year too.

Fucking fireworks. They are wonderful spectacular things. Bonfire Night (Guy Fawkes Night) used to be really special when it was just one night: we’d get some crappy Standard fireworks and stand with a sparkler while Dad tried to get a Catherine Wheel to work. They fizzed and putted and crackled; they weren’t the best, but they were fun. These days, the fucking things are so loud that it sounds like you’re under mortar attack in Basra. And, because of our multicultural society, or so we’re told, they’re available from September onwards and not just the week up to 5th of November.

Should the sale of fireworks be banned? I don’t think so, but it should be restricted to people who have to work, who appreciate that having the frigging things going off at 3am isn’t much fun when you have to be up in the morning.

What a life
I’m sure it’s time for one of Connie’s What a life gems. I imagine. She’s currently acting as mediator for her two nieces whose mum is very seriously ill. I wouldn’t mind her telling us about these family traumas, but it’s the fact that she always draws comparison between me and Bomb that really pisses me off. Bomb is mental and under the influence of hormones, so anything I say to her is justified.

Bomb has decided to go down the washable nappy route for her little one. Mental. Get yourself some fucking pampers, nutcase; your life is going to be difficult enough as it is without washing baby poo down the lav and soaking shitty nappies for hours.

She had her 20wk scan last week and I can confirm that she is definitely carrying a belly full of arms and legs. The misery guts didn’t want to find out its sex though, so I’ll have to wait till it’s out before I can start calling it Cosmo or Allegra (my names, not hers). Why not find out if you can?

Peppery

Now that it’s officially winter, I am officially enjoying official wintery foods. Tonight’s tea will be copious amounts of black peas, a Lancashire delicacy that I was introduced to for the first time only last week. Trump is such a dear, she’s had the things soaking in water overnight so all we have to do is boil them up once she gets in from work.

They’re just about the weirdest peas I’ve ever had though; you cook them with bicarb so they go all mushy – a bit like mushy peas, only they taste a little like refried beans. Anyway, they have to be enjoyed with lashings of vinegar and lots of white pepper (and salt if you’re me, or not if you have any of your taste buds left).

I’ve just had a cup of hot Bovril with lots of pepper. Yes Bovril, the beef extract. I was stunned when I heard that the manufacturers were going to stop using beef products altogether. That’s just not right, what would they call it then, Vovril? Anyway, it seems that good sense has prevailed and the proper stuff is available again. My nose is dripping from the pepper, but the hot Bovril drink is something that is slightly addictive. I’d get another cup if it was a bigger jar. I think Trump only bought the smaller size to test it out.

I’m at her house now, eagerly awaiting her return from work. She knows I’m here, I’m not like a weird stalker or anything.

Car share

We’re being encouraged to car share at work. Apparently, if you car share, you get preferential parking spaces on the level of the multi-storey car park that’s immediately below that which the rest of us environmental vandals have to use. A whole level lower! It doesn’t really make that much difference when the car park is on the corner of the site that’s the furthest possible from where most people work. So you still have a ten minute walk to your office, you just have to go down fewer stairs.

Dicks.

The scheme is being advertised with colourful posters that say things like “be kind to hedgehogs, car share!” I still don’t follow the logic behind that link, especially since we’re in the centre of a big fuck off city and the nearest hedgehogs are about eight miles away.

Dicks.

I tried car sharing for a while and it’s a complete pain in the arse.

• You agree a time that you’re going to pick somebody up.
• You rush around your house like a mad thing to ensure that you don’t leave late.
• Half way to picking up your passenger, you realise you’ve forgotten something important (like tampons), but you can’t be late, so you keep going.
• You need a poo, but didn’t have time to have one so you have to trump in the car. You have to open the windows despite the gale force winds and torrential rain.
• You arrive at your passenger’s house on time.
• You expect them to be waiting on the doorstep for you. They’re not, so you have to get out of the car and knock on the door.
• They let you in the house where you wait while they finish doing their hair, packing their bag, smoking their cigarette.
• You leave ten minutes later, but not before they’ve gone back into the house to check that they shut the bathroom window.
• You hit bad traffic – traffic that wouldn’t have been there had you not made the diversion to pick up a passenger twenty minutes earlier.
• They make conversation about the bad traffic and how much better it would be if more people shared their journeys to work.
• You bite your tongue.

I don’t really like having passengers in my car, not strangers at least. I like to be able to listen to my music, sing along if I like. How can I shout and swear at other drivers if I’m trying to be polite? I need my fart space.

So, be kind to hedgehogs, stay off work with a bad back!

Talking of which…. An edit and dedication to Her Majesty the Queen

Her Majesty has had to cancel a number of public engagements over the past week due to a bad back. She has my sympathy. But I can’t believe it’s taken her so many decades to discover that you can get out of your job by claiming to have a bad back.

Well done, Ma’am.