I hate it when you buy the DVD for a TV programme and they change the soundtracks to take out certain songs because of copyright and royalties. You watch the programme and get used to the the background music, which often consists of famous chart songs and stuff, but you buy the DVD and all the music has been replaced by something that’s been done on a Bontempi.

They don’t even warn you on the packaging and some of the bastards have the cheek to advertise the series’ soundtracks for you to buy on CD! The worst offender was ITV’s Cold Feet, which used songs throughout the series, released two CDs of the music, yet stripped all the songs from the DVD release.

I got Tittybangbang, a comedy sketch show, on DVD and they’ve done the same with this. It’s not as noticeable because they didn’t use music as much, but it’s still annoying.

Bastards.

Turkey curry
One of the things that I look forward to more than anything at Christmas is turkey curry. The 27th of December is always turkey curry day in the Sniffy household – Connie is peeling onions as I type! Yummeee.

Running off to the circus
I got a set of juggling balls for Christmas. Let’s just say, it’s going to be an awful long time before I start throwing things about that are on fire.

Techno paradise
I also got a new PDA. I love it. It connects to the internet and everything.

Birthdays at Christmas
I despair at the number of people I know with birthdays in December and January, one in particular is the delightful Trump, who celebrates tomorrow. I don’t mind buying two sets of presents, it’s the fact it’s impossible to buy birthday cards at this time of year. I’m sure she’d appreciate me making her one instead!

Nothing much else to add except Merry Christmas to everybody. I hope that everyone is with the ones they love, or at least not too far away from them.

I am starving, I need something to eat. People go on about their hearty, oo-la-la Christmas Day breakfast, but for me, this consists of half a kilo of selection box chocolate.

Bring it on!

The festive season brings out the worst in some people – as well as the best in many others. I mean, I can’t believe the audacity of folk wanting to use cloves all of a sudden. Throughout the year, the supermakets’ Schwartz herbs and spices shelves are virtually overflowing with jars and packets of these little spice bombs, but with three days to go to Christmas, you can’t get hold of them for love nor money.

I blame Nigella Lawson. Delicious as she is, her fancy London-ways have given normal folk ideas above their status and even the most lowly of plebs is doing stuff with spices. Amongst the common person’s repertoire is mulled wine, which is supped by the mug full to sighs of pleasure and “OOooh, you can just imagine being back in them days, warming yourself next to a fire and eating roast pheasant using your fingers”. Yeah, and I bet you can’t imagine what it’s like plucking and cleaning the fucker beforehand, y’bastard!

And of course, cloves are also used to stud gammon joints before crisping up their glaze in the oven. This was the intended purpose of the cloves that I couldn’t source. Never mind, Christmas won’t be ruined without them.

Cinnamon sticks are also in short supply. I think this is because of The Guardian and The Observer readers using them in wrapping of Christmas gifts or to scatter with abandon to decorate the Christmas table. Ponces. I know of a certain couple of the Sisterhood who are preparing gifts of hampers, containing home-made fudge and organic, fair-trade goods. I’m sure gadgets are cheaper.

Rudolf with your nose so bright
Won’t you guide my plane tonight.

Yes, the south of England’s air traffic has been severely disrupted by a thick fog that has been stuck over that part of our small island for the past couple of days. Domestic flights cancelled, international flights subject to long delays – all because the air traffic controllers can’t see when the planes have cleared the runway at Heathrow.

It’s good to see that the stoicism of the British people is alive and well, with stranded, blanket-wrapped travellers accepting their lot with comments like “it’s only fog, I don’t see why they can’t fly” or “nobody will tell us what’s going on and why they’ve stopped all the flights.”

Perhaps British Airways might consider changing its recruitment policy to include extremist Islamic suicide pilots for occasions such as these, just so certain people can be assured of getting on their flights on time.

I pity the fool.

Sweet home Alabama
Somebody in the Alabama School of Maths and Science has been searching for “Cliff Richard gay” and found my blog! And the same person seems to be leaving comments on the post that they found, which was written in July, perhaps thinking I might go back and respond. No I won’t, but since Cliff has taken it upon himself to hijack Christmas, I might just remind everyone why I hate the vain little cunt.

We’re having lasagne for tea on Christmas Eve. This can only mean one thing:

Yes folks, threatened with mass protests, Connie has put them back on the menu!

She has seen sense and has decided to provide the family with a fucking delish Christmas Eve meal of lasagne, leaving us to have our proper Christmas dinner on Christmas Day. Thank fuck for that. I was on the verge of calling Social Services to get her put away, thinking she’d finally lost all remnants of sanity.

Finished
Finally finished for Christmas today, it’s been such a struggle getting through these past few weeks.

I am now looking forward to a good break in which I will be spending lots of quality time with people I care about instead of wasting lots of my time with total arseholes.

Tonight, I ice my cake! Oh the joys of all that sticky white powder getting everywhere. What fun I shall have, trying to be creative while Mother hovers around me, criticising.

I shall be meeting up with Trump tomorrow morning and we will start the day with a leisurely stroll around the supermarket, amongst people who will be filling trolleys with bread because 5 loaves and 16 packets of barmcakes aren’t quite enough to last the WHOLE DAY that the shops are shut on Monday. It’s not as if there’s nothing open on Boxing Day, stupid selfish cunts.

We will spend the next few days relaxing and getting increasingly excited at the prospect of being together on Christmas morning as we open out presents to each other. I may have to sedate her in the meantime as her request for clues reaches an unbearable climax.

On Sunday, we’re here a la casa Cakesniffer for dinner. Mother asked if I’d be returning home after dropping Trump back at hers. “I hadn’t planned on coming back until early Christmas morning”, I replied pleadingly.

“But who’s going to help me get ready for Christmas Day?”

“In all honesty, Mother, all I do on Christmas Eve is eat Twiglets and pretzels while getting under your feet. It’s Dad that does all the helping.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s true. Well, make sure you’re back early on Christmas morning!”

Nice one!

I don’t want a lot for Christmas, there is just one thing I need. I won’t think about the presents underneath the Christmas tree. I just want you here tonight, holding on to me so tight. What else can I do? Baby, all I want for Christmas, is YOU!

Dirty little bugger
I can’t believe some of the things people video… and then upload on to You Tube. Check this filthy little beast out.

I’ve read a report on the BBC News website about some Russian black squirrels that attacked a stray dog and mauled it to death. They ran off when they saw humans approaching, but they each took a bit of the pooch with them. Vicious little bastards.

In the words of Boney M’s (Ra Ra) Rasputin:

Ahh, those Russians!

Meanwhile, be warned when trying on cheap imported jeans from China. One Japanese woman ended up in hospital for five days after being stung by a scorpion that had been transported in the legs of the pair of jeans she was trying on. Wondering why she’d got a sharp pain in her knee after an initial sting, she got caught out again when she patted her knee with her hand.

Ouch!

Breaking up is hard to do
Bollocks it is. Breaking up from work for Christmas that is. I finish tomorrow and I’m counting the hours to 4pm when I can turn off my PC and say goodbye to my untidy desk for nearly a fortnight.

I’m not really feeling Christmassy yet, but no doubt a couple of days roadraging for parking spaces at the supermarket and tripping over spasmo shoppers will get me feeling all festive and warm inside.

I’ll have Trump with me to calm me, so all will be fine. Actually, she winds me up even more by not agreeing with me when I complain about the tossers who see their sole purpose in life as being irritants to the rest of us.

Bombshell
Nope, nothing to do with my increasingly insane sister, this is related to Mother.

I noticed a bag of sprouts in the kitchen on Sunday and asked if they were the Christmas ones. “No, we’re not having sprouts with Christmas dinner this year. I’m doing a lasagne and we’re having the turkey with salad and pickles and things afterwards.”

I almost fainted. Christmas dinner, the BEST meal of the year, without sprouts, roasties, parsnips and gravies? She must be fucking mad.

This is like the 2004 tsunami, Farepack and the Grinch stealing Christmas all rolled into one.

People always go on to me about how wonderful it is that I am half Italian. No it’s fucking NOT wonderful, not when it ruins my Christmas it isn’t. I bet none of you bastards are having some weird foreign stuff on Christmas Day (unless you’re weird and foreign).

I can’t believe it. There is some very strong lobbying to be done in the coming days. I may have to go in the local newspaper, photographed looking forlornly and pointing at a bag of raw sprouts. “Salford woman seeks adoption from proper English family”.

Shocked and appalled.

With more drama and bloodshed than a thousand episodes of Deal or no deal, I took on the gruesome twosome in the shed. Accompanied by the radio and a stray cat, and decked out in the clothes of a North Sea fisherman, I put my squeamishness to one side and began plucking the beasties that had been hidden away from sight and mind since the middle of the week.

Fuck, what a nightmare. With their limp little bodies flopping about, it was so difficult to figure out what was what in the sea of feathers that ensued. And they smelled horrible, and then I had to get their insides out.

And then you saw me dead.

They’re in the oven now. Pheasants aren’t even that easy to cook; they can be tough; they can taste strong (i.e. bad). But I suppose if the poor little bastards have gone through death-by-angry-boss, the least I can do is honour them by cooking them and eating them. And at least they didn’t disgrace themselves by getting run over like most of their brethren do. Stupid fucking animals.

Push the button
I’ve ordered tickets for the Sugababes’ concert in Manchester in the spring. I saw them when they supported Take That in the summer and they were top notch, so I figured they’d be worth a go.

My desire to experience or live music was fuelled after seeing The Roots (yes, hip hop/funk/soul) on Friday. They were fucking top notchamundo.

Christmas wrapped up
I’ve got loads of Christmas presents to wrap up. I don’t know how I manage it, but every year, I manage to get something that’s impossible to wrap. This year’s “what the fuck have you got one of those for, you know you can’t wrap them!” item is a football.

Tit.

There are some things that make you despair. As we’re bedding down into the 21st century, it amazes me how savage some people are – people in so-called civilised nations, nations with aspirations to join the EU. That nation is Turkey:

“A job well done is worth celebrating, but Turkish Airlines say staff went too far when they sacrificed a camel.

To mark the last delivery of 100 aircraft, maintenance workers clubbed together to buy the beast – and then consume it.

The sacrifice took place at Istanbul international airport… read on…“

Shocked and appalled. Fucking pigs.

A pheasant plucker
Then again, I accepted a gift of a brace of pheasants from my boss at work today. I think he’d gone out on a killing spree with his shot gun after we got some bad news at the end of last week. Of course, the birds in question are in need of plucking, gutting and the rest – after a week or so being hung. They’ll be pretty ripe and it won’t be a pretty sight. What was fun to watch was Mother’s reaction when I asked her to look in the bag that they were in – I never knew people could jump that high at her age.

I also like it when Otto gets hold of the tail and runs through our scumbag neighbour’s garden with it in his mouth. I’m also tempted to nail the heads to the top of the fence as an act of revenge against them and the way they constantly look over into our garden in the summer.

Cunts.

Moonlighting
After a break of about 8 months, I’ve been asked to do a bit more moonlighting work at a place that funded: a snazzy digital camera; a pushbike; holiday to Rome; holiday in Canada. Did I say yes? Too fucking right, I’m skint! The last two nights have gone some way into funding half of Trump’s Christmas presents. She should be paid off by next Tuesday with any luck.

Secret Satan
I have to buy a Secret Santa present for the maddest person in the world. Yes, I picked Cynthia out of the hat in our not-so secret Santa draw. I’ve no idea why they have it so we all know who’s buying for whom. It’s just another mechanism of inflicting torture on us all. But what do you buy somebody who is eccentric to the point of being insane? Somebody with the oddest sense of humour on the planet? As far as I’m aware, she only eats herrings, yoghurt and dried crackers, so a box of Thornton’s chocs would probably be lost on her. She’s really into history and travel and gardening, but there’s no point in buying her books because she knows it all already, or talks like she does.

I might just get her a t-shirt emblazoned with: “You don’t have to be mad to work here… I’m bonkers enough for everyone!”

At least I’m getting out of the Christmas “party” this year. Thank fuck for that.

I would like to start a bed protest to highlight the government-sponsored torture of its subjects by its insistence on making the majority of us go to work so they can bleed us dry by taxing our earnings, savings, purchases, inheritance, homes, utilities – anything. Otto is protesting about lack of support for partially-sighted 5 year old cats (called Otto). He wants a “Guide cat” to a) be his right eye, and b) play with, since all the other cats just beat him up all the time.

Who am I kidding? I’m not one for political protest or mass demonstration, I’m just knackered and I want a couple of weeks off to sit around and do sod all. Instead, it seems the run up to the Christmas break is going to be hectic: Christmas wrapping today; Christmas decorations to put up; London with work tomorrow; taking on evening work as a favour to an old colleague; Christmas shopping yet to do; Christmas cake to ice! Plus other shite at work where people decide to have a deadline of “We must get this out before Christmas!” – I don’t understand why, most people are just watching the calendar, waiting for breaking up day; they don’t generally give a crap about work at the moment.

Anyhow, my bed protest will probably end when I need my third cup of coffee.

I’m actually in my own bed this morning, having been dumped by Trump so she can spend the day gallivanting around Manchester with her mother. It’s the first time I’ve slept in my own bed on a Saturday night since March. It feels a bit weird, not having to get up and rush around to go to work, the relative quietness outside.

I say “quietness”, this is of course disturbed by the constant jingle-jangle from a ridiculous number of wind chimes that my idiot neighbours have strung up about their gardens. It’d be so much nicer to hear the sound of their strung up bodies as they knock against a tree trunk. Cunts.

Please, somebody please explain wind chimes to me?? Surely they just cause a disturbance to everybody, including the fucking idiots who put them up. I’ve been to cemeteries where families of the deceased have attached these things to grave stones; this is so inconsiderate and extreme bad taste. They’re just tacky and nasty and very common. But I guess that sums up lots of people.

Harebrained
I love the BBC News website’s Have Your Say. They suggest a topic for discussion from one of the latest news items, and they let people discuss it in an online forum. There are general rules about submissions and some discussions are moderated so that comments can’t appear until they’ve been passed by a moderator. You can guarantee that some outraged contributors will complain about the “Government’s latest hairbrained scheme”, and this always gets my goat – I always thought it was “harebrained”, as in like a nutcase hare. I’ve just had a look at one online dictionary and it says that the “hairbrained” spelling is a Scottish variant that means “a brain the size of a hair” – well, that makes complete sense! Why not just have “pissed out of head-brained”, that’d probably be more fitting to the Scots.

Bunny abuse
Apparently, rabbits are the most abused pets in the UK, with many tending to be neglected or even just let go once the novelty of having them has worn off. This is a real shame, but having seen a few pet rabbits, I can understand how easy it is to forget about them. I don’t understand the concept of pets that you keep in a hutch. If you’re going to have a pet, get one that roams about the house and does things other than looking at you sideways while twitching all the time.

Come forward, mystery Manc reader
I tend to have a look a my site stats quite regularly and, for the past few weeks, I’ve noticed that I’ve been visited a LOT by a reader who I think is in Manchester. I wish they’d leave me a comment or drop me an e-mail, I’m intrigued to know who they are.

There were two women at the entrance to Tesco just now. Both were wearing bright yellow bibs, one carried a charity collection can, the other held the lead of a black labrador dog. “Please help Guide dogs for the blind”, their bibs (and the dog) said it all really.

Having done some shopping (more later), I acquired some change so that I would have an excuse to get closer to the dog. Having made my donation, I felt justified in molesting Gypsy – she was so soft! I really want a labrador so badly, being near them is almost like torture. I said to the charity worker “You should charge people £2 a stroke”.

“Well, I do,” she replied, “and when they’ve finished, I let them pat the dog”.

But these dogs, guide dogs, not only provide companionship, they also work for their Pedigree Chum and go through rigorous training to get them to the stage where they can provide invaluable assistance. They are amazing, and a lifeline for those who might otherwise be unable to live independently. Knowing this, as everybody does, what would possess somebody to kick a guide dog in the street while it was with its elderly blind owner?

I hate people, really, really hate them. The little shit who did that should be kicked about himself.

Sad
I’m a bit down in the dumps at the moment. I attended another funeral yesterday, this was of Minnie Souch an old lady who lived as our neighbour when we were growing up. We never had grandparents and she was sort of a surrogate, she was utterly lovely and I never heard her say a bit thing about anybody. Some old people get cantankerous and bad tempered, Minnie just smiled through things. Despite losing her sight over the last 15 years of her life, she just tried to adjust and adapt and get on with things, making the most of everything she did have.

Multicultural Britain
People (mushy-brained lefty politicians) say we should celebrate Britain’s multiculturalism. Unfortunately, we’re not a multicultural nation; we have pockets of high populations of particular ethnicities that never mix with the others.

Today, I am in an almost totally white part of the country and the thing that indicates that we’re not a true multicultural nation is the fact that, apart from there only being white faces on show (dirty ones at that), you can’t get chapatis in the Tesco here. How rubbish is that?

And THIS report isn’t going to do much for calming tensions that exist between India and Pakistan. Apparently, on average, Indian blokes have smaller (shorter) willies than other men. This is REALLY bad when it comes to trying to persuade Indian blokes to wear condoms for preventing the spread of HIV/AIDS and other STIs (and babies of course) because they don’t fit properly. Although I’m sure a survey of the partners of Indian men would reveal complete satisfaction in the whatsit department.

Different sized condoms are now being manufactured for the Indian market.

Can you imagine the damage this research can do to an entire nation’s pride? Especially when you consider the fierce rivalry between India and Pakistan.

Orange nets
I hate those net bags that oranges and other citrus fruits come in. People tell me they’re supposed to just tear open, but every time I try this, I almost get my fingers severed by the industrial strength plastic threads.

And I’ve just discovered that mandarin oranges are only nice in jelly.

I love satellite navigation systems. I think it’s great the way drivers have these little things stuck to their dashboards so they have something to look at, rather than the road and the vehicles, pedestrians and other road users around them. I really can’t understand why people need these things for going to and from work, or to go down the shops, or at all. We have maps, routefinders, common sense, road signs.

The emergency services are using them these days. Imagine my surprise to hear of this incident on Friday. Yes, an ambulance transferring a patient somewhere in London, ended up 200 miles out of their way in Manchester because they relied solely on their sat nav, rather than bothering to look at the road, road signs, a map, or use their common sense.

I don’t think the blame lies with the technology, the blame lies squarely with the idiot ambulance crew. If I was their boss, I’d sack them for being so supremely thick that they’re a danger to themselves, their patients and other members of the public.

And then I’d have their houses burnt down.

Thick twats.

The dried fruit is soaking…
And this can only mean one thing. Tomorrow, I make my Christmas cake… under close, and somewhat irritating, supervision from Connie. She won’t let me just get on with it. It’s not as if I didn’t spend over half of my life working in a lab and following recipes. Oh no, Connie has to interfere.

She’s already told me that I’ve used too much brandy to soak the fruit in “It’s going to be far too heavy”. I don’t give a shit. I’m not allowed to drink and the only way I can legitimately have any booze is by spiking my Christmas cake with as much of the stuff as is humanly possible.

I will, as ever, post a diary of my Christmas cake here on this very blog. How very exciting for everybody.

Mother ruins
Mum always looks on the negative side of things. I tend not to notice too much anymore, but it is an odd trait of hers. I love her dearly, but she doesn’t have piss me off at times. I thought she would be pleased at the £7 Christmas pud that I just bought from Tesco, but no, “Let’s have a look. Oh, it’s that one that looks like it’s got really big pieces of fruit in it. Aldi’s is best”.

Grrr.