(copyright Jamie Smart and that)

This is how I felt after an exasperating visit to Manchester’s main post office today. God I was furious.

The long protracted move to Bellend Towers is on for next week, definitely, absolutely, no doubts – we’re moving.

We’re frantically changing our addresses on things in preparation, but there’s always something that slips the net – and goodness knows how I’ll get on without my junk mail – so we want to do a redirect of our post to the new place. Makes sense, non?

You can do it online through the Post Office’s website… only you can’t, because it doesn’t work. So the alternative is to go to a post office and do it in person, armed with ID and stuff. So I grabbed my wallet (photo drivers licence, bank cards, etc) and a recent Criminal Records Bureau disclosure certificate, Trump picked up her wallet and a credit card statement and off we trotted.

I was fuzzy headed and a headache was brewing.

Town was mental and we had to negotiate the usual hordes of people who just hang around in the way; standing at the top and bottom of escalators, walking right at you, being generally smelly and retarded. We got to the post office, picked up the relevant form, and I searched my pocket for a pen. Curses! I’d forgotten it. There were no pens to use, apart from at the counters themselves. Or I could’ve bought one, but only a blue one and the form needed to be completed in black ink.

Off to W H Smiths… off to Cafe Kasbah for caffeine and somewhere to sit to fill out the form… back to the post office.

We got to the counter, the woman checked the form and asked for our ID. We passed her our drivers licences.

“Have you got the paper counterparts?”

Er, no

“It’s just that we need both parts.”

“Why?”

“Because if somebody found or stole your wallet they could use your photo licence, but it’d be unlikely that you’d be carrying the paper counterpart too.”

“Exactly”, besides, the dog ate mine. “And if they happened to find or steal my photo licence, what is the likelihood that they’d look like my photo? What is the likelihood that two identity thieves would steal two photo drivers licences and look like the people on them?”

“We need both parts. You wouldn’t like it if somebody got hold of your post and pretended to be you.”

They can have my post, they can pretend to be me, more fucking fool them!

“Have you got a bank card?”

We handed our debit cards over. She took the numbers off them.

“Have you got any other ID?”

She took my CRB disclosure and looked at it thoroughly.

“I need to check whether I can use this”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. My head was really hurting by this point.

“Sorry I can’t accept this”

No, but you had a good fucking look at it, didn’t you? Nosy bitch.

I was so annoyed. You need about four pieces of ID to get a CRB check, the document is a certificate of who you are and where you live and that you’re not a fucking criminal, but it’s not good enough to get your post redirected.

“Oh fine, just take my name off the application. I’m changing all my address details anyway and I could do without getting a load of junk mail redirected.”

She turned to Trump, “Have you got a utility bill with you, I can’t accept this either”.

Fucking retarded mongs.

It’s OK for them to lose half the post, deliver it to the wrong addresses, have postmen steal a load of it, or sign for things that only the recipient is supposed to sign for, but they won’t accept perfectly valid ID so somebody can redirect their own post. You can buy a house with less ID than they require.

Last week, I signed a petition to stop the closure of post offices around the country. Fuck that, I’m going to start a campaign to burn the whole fucking lot of them down.

Of course, this is all part of a government ploy to make ID cards seem useful. For years, certain pieces of documentation have been perfectly acceptable to demonstrate a person’s identity, but not any more… but if we had an ID Card…. Would we still need the paper counterpart, just in case somebody had stolen the photo part? No, thought not. Probably because we’d all be barcoded by then anyway.

Cunts.

I got this in the post this morning.

Hoping it was a stick of dynamite, I tore the paper open to find this!

Good eh? It’s a stick of Brighton Rock from my good friend Mr Herge.

I think I like the idea of rock more than I like eating it. Just look at it, beautiful colours, and that lettering running through it, wonderful stuff.

Unfortunately, Royal Mail couldn’t manage to get it to me without dropping it, but hey at least they managed to get it here within a day; almost unheard of around here, especially when something is addressed to “Tina, Levenshulme, M19”.

See where it was made though? Yep, up in Blackpool. The cheek on it!

Legless
I’m sure everybody’s now heard the reports of disembodied feet washing up on the British Columbia coastline. The first feet (two right feet, both in trainers) rolled up in August last year. This was followed by 2 other right feet over subsequent months and the first left foot turned up on Monday.

And today THIS!

Yes, a sixth foot has washed up on Vancouver Island. I was there. My GOD, I even swallowed Vancouver Island lake water. That water may well have swirled between the toes of that foot.

Eeewww.

And all this not long after that pig farmer killed loads of women and fed their remains to his animals… that no doubt ended up as sausages and bacon sold in Vancouver…. that I MAY HAVE EATEN!!!!!!

A holiday of a lifetime may well have been a holiday from hell.

1976
It was a colleague’s birthday today. During the civilised celebrations over cake and biscuits, somebody inquired as to the birthday girl’s year of birth – 1976.

Ahhh. A number of us sighed, reminiscing back to our childhoods and that summer. I was approaching six years old during that summer; the longest, hottest summer ever – the one that we still refer to today.

I just remember the sunshine, and popping tarmac blisters on the road (and getting told off for making a mess of my clothes). The good thing about being a child is that you’re never too hot or too cold – I certainly don’t recall being uncomfortable in the sunshine (or the snow that we used to get in the winters back then). Adults are whingers.

A lot of people criticise the 1970s, and I’m sure it was rubbish if you were a grown up back then, but it was a fantastic time to be a kid. Proper summers, no responsibility, power cuts because of strikes, Father Christmas, The Banana Splits, Mohammed Ali, Elvis, Evil Knievel, snow… and then… The Sex Pistols, Blondie, The Bee Gees.

Fantastic.

Were the late seventies really that good, or is it always good for every kid at that age, no matter when? (Apart from in them days before sanitation, healthcare and education of course.)

Bloody hell, it’s a Coldplay love-in at the BBC and Guardian at the moment.

I hate Coldplay, they’re shit. You listen to their new release (and you have no choice if you listen to BBC radio) and you think, My God, please take me now, spare me the pain! Awful, awful, dirge from a boring, self-satisfied, sanctimonious, but really shit band.

G

O

D

!

!

!

!

Make them go away.

What the hell is wrong with this country that they celebrate such utter crap as Coldplay and Radiohead? Fair enough, some people like that sort of thing, they can’t help it, but why does the national broadcaster have to impose this shit on the licence-fee paying public? They appear incredulous that some people, most people, don’t like Coldplay. Shock, horror!

But what REALLY got my back up was learning that Coldplay’s front man Chris Martin, walked out of a BBC Radio 4 interview last week because he didn’t like the questions. This man gets so much free advertising from the BBC, yet the fucking shit-for-brains didn’t have the manners to sit out an interview.

Cunt.

Point made. Just gone to the BBC website and look at this:

The Guardian is the same, but let’s face it, the BBC is essentially Guardian Lite so what do you expect?

Thank goodness for Johnny Rotten, he called them “a gang of poncy little masturbators” and added: “I pity the poor bastards who have to watch them”.

Take a look at these images…

They looks like they could have been taken at three entirely different locations, in different eras perhaps.

But no, on my wander through the city on Saturday, I saw this.

How old is that building? It looks like something from them days, when Dickens was around. It looks like it’s ready for falling into the river. No idea what it is, but I liked the bricks.

Anyway, not much else to report, other than my new lens.

It’s a Sigma 10-20mm f/4-5.6 USM etc, etc, wide angle thingy. It kicks asssssss. I figured I could get some pretty decent shots with this baby and it just about completes my lens collection… I think… although, hrrrm, yes, it’ll probably do.

This is the sort of effect you get with a wide angle lens – see what it does to the clouds, how it makes it seem as though they’re rushing to/from the horizon?

Anyway, we hope to be saying a fond farewell to that field in the coming weeks. It’s nice for walking Rocky, but it’s a total pain in the arse when you get the local numpties riding motorbikes on there like total lunatics; plus the fools who set fire to anything that moves on bonfire night.

There’s a “residents association” that was formed when the field came under threat of somebody who wanted to build a couple of football fields and changing facilities on one half of it. I thought this would’ve been a decent use of the space and would still have left plenty of room for the dog walkers, etc, etc. But their protests were successful and the field remains as it was. They now do things like make suggestions for the best use of the field; like planting trees, although I don’t know what powers or permissions they have to do this, if any.

So they’re really handy when the local youths are tearing around like chimps on their motorbikes and quad bikes; they always come out to challenge them and see them off… by planting a shrub or something.

But hey at least they try. Whereas I stand back and do something useless like phoning the Police, who came in time to see the little shits off yesterday.

So HURRAH! for Greater Manchester Police… until they piss me off again.

I’ve bought a number of cars over the past ten years or so; I’m currently on my FIFTH car, my fourth Nissan.

I tend to go for Nissans because

1. they’re reliable
2. they tend to come with pretty good extras as standard (CD player, central locking, air con, etc)
3. they’re pretty cheap

etsetterar, etsetterar

They’re also boring enough be be relatively undesirable to car thieves, although my first Nissan was stolen, recovered, and then stolen again from the insurance assessors before being written off.

Anyway, Nissans are OK if you can’t afford a Honda.

After my previous car was written off, I decided to get a smaller car as a replacement and I picked up a nippy, but boring Nissan Almera – one owner, low mileage, good condition.

And here’s Sniffy’s first tip when buying a car:

If at all possible, don’t buy a car in winter.

Why not? Well, you tend to wear things like coats and scarves and that in winter, and when you’re test driving a car, you don’t realise that the seat belt is slicing into your neck all the fucking time. Because of this, you don’t bother to check whether the car has height-adjustable seat belts and you buy it because, it’s a decent price, good nick, etsetterar, etsetterar.

Spring comes along, the layers – rightly or wrongly – come off and you find that you are constantly moving the seatbelt as it rubs against your neck.

I’ve adjusted my seat, bought a neck pad and now a seatbelt clip. None of these things work and I’m on the verge of selling the car because the only thing that will stop the seatbelt doing this is me growing by six inches – and that ain’t gonna happen.

So I’m annoyed.

I can’t believe they don’t have adjustable seatbelts – is it a three door thing? Who knows, it’s totally shite, that’s what it is. I might get a booster seat.

Next time I’m going buy a German car, because I think drivers of German cars have some sort of special dispensation that allows them to drive and behave like total cunts and get away with it. There must be subliminal undertones of the Nurmberg Rally coming from the engine that turn the drivers into total fucking Nazis. “YOU WILL MARCH AS ONE AND ANNEXE THE HIGHWAYS, THE OUTSIDE LANE IS YOURS; NO ROAD SPACE FOR WEAKER SPECIES! ONWARD, ONWARD, ONWARD!!! FASTER, FASTER, FASTER!!!!”

German car owners club AGM, 2007

Either that or total neanderthal lunatics just happen to be attracted to them.

I suppose it’s like most things, you don’t notice the decent drivers of German cars; it just happens that most incidents where you’re almost driven off the road involve an Audi, Volkswagen or BMW…. or of course, a Vauxhall. I think Vauxhall drivers are dyslexics who think they’ve bought a Volkswagen.

And now I’ve cricked my fucking neck.

Bollocks.

Despite us not selling Trump’s house anymore, it’s still on the market, being sold by Bellend Homes – all part of the part ex deal.

Apparently, somebody has put an offer on it without even being round to do a viewing, but he’s been pissing about, so the estate agents have started to market the house again (not that we realised they’d stopped doing).

And so it came to pass that sweet Abigail wanted to come and see the house. We did the usual thing; out of work a bit early, getting the house tidy and spick and span. Delayed tea until after the royal visit was due at 7pm. I took Rocky out for his constitutional to get His Bounciness out of the way of our viewer, while Trump stayed in and waited.

We wandered.

She waited.

We wandered a bit more, Rocky pood, he sniffed, he weed, he said hello to a few other pooches.

She waited, and waited.

We wandered… nope, the chippy’s shut… back onto the field, more sniffing.

So at 7.30, we came home and ate.

Abigail? Congratulations, you’ve made it onto my list of total cunts.

What’s really bad about selling your house is having to have idiots come round for viewings. What’s even worse, having effectively sold your house, is still having to make arrangements for people to come round (or not).

I know I shouldn’t feel sorry for estate agents, and I can’t say as I do, but imagine having to deal with house buyers for your job. Fucking nightmare. In fact, they deserve each other.

Look who landed in Scotland today…

Yes, it’s Trump’s Uncle Donald.

Their hair is remarkably similar.

ANGRY
Fucking cunting arsehole Government has backed cunting arsehole Manchester councils’ plans for a peak-time congestion charge. The tax is essentially another penalty levied on people who work, since the fucking scumbag dolescum who actually vote for Labour will be wallowing in their pits, stinking of shit during the morning congestion charge time, by the afternoon, they’ll be shitfaced down the boozer.

Of course, the politicians who want to bring this in will be able to claim it back on their expenses, if they can drag themselves into work before 11am.

This is what Cllr Leese, leader of Manchester Council has to say: “fewer than 20% of motorists in Greater Manchester would have to pay the charge.

“The scheme would be of great benefit to more than 30% of households who relied entirely on public transport and currently struggled to get to work.”

So motorists are paying for other people to get about town, consequently contributing the profits of private bus company shareholders. How benevolent of us. It would’ve been nice to have been asked. Of course, they don’t need to ask us when they know what the answer will be:

FUCK RIGHT OFF

Please can we have a revolution? Or just a general election so we can vote these jokers out?

Dolescum
Talking of dolescum, I’m dressed like one at the moment – 3/4 sports pants, t-shirt and Crocs. Trump asked, not too subtly, “Are you going to wear that when we walk the dog?”. I think I shame her at times.

So annoyed today. And the sun is in my face and my cursor has disappeared.

Bollocks.

AND I forgot my bloody coffee and it’s gone cold!!

BASTARDS

We went to Manchester today…

At the Cooperative Bank
What with officially living in sin, we’re getting a joint account for mortgage, bills and that. Lots of people say the Cooperative Bank is good, so that’s where we’ll be taking our custom with joint money things. I had to go and show my ID to complete the process so I presented my passport and we were on our way.

Lunch at the Town Hall
We bought sandwiches from Pret a Manger – tres bon – and decided to take them to Albert Square to eat them.

It was a bit noisy (music) as we approached and it was apparent that there was a gathering in the town hall square. It was the Palestinians; they had flags, they were dancing to traditional music. I was wondering whether the demonstration of traditional Palestinian music would be followed by a demonstration of traditional Palestinian suicide bombing, it was just followed by a traditional demonstration march.

As the march proceeded past us, it was quite noticeable that 98% of the demonstrators were white, middle class British people. They trundled off towards Deansgate, led by two mounted police officers; their horses depositing a good load of poo for the following crowd to march through.

I was concerned that I’d be filmed by the anti terrorist squad, shoving a chocolate slice in my gob. Oh the indignity.

I’m sure it’s six of one half a dozen of the other when it comes to the problems between Israel and the Palestinians, but I really don’t think your average Chorlton-dwelling British leftie has any right to demonstrate one way or the other. They can happily go about their daily business, go shopping, enjoy a coffee or a drink in their oh-so-swanky bars without much fear that some twat will come and blow themselves up next to them.

Mustn’t have been much worth looking at in today’s Guardian… as if there ever is.

Waterstones
Trump wanted to buy a book so we went to Waterstones, using the back entrance to avoid the Chorlstinians on their demo.

Can we all see what’s wrong with this photo?

Yes, look who’s visiting on 17th June – Sting.

Why? To enjoy a delicious cup of coffee perhaps? I’m guessing he’s got a book out. I’ll be hurrying myself along to buy that one on my way to signing up for a lifetime’s subscription to Socialist Ecowarrior Weekly.

Why can’t they invite somebody good, for fuck’s sake?

At the Cworp (that’s Swinton for “Co-op”)
We nipped into the Coop on the way back to the car. The Co-op shop is next to the Co-op bank – they’re linked and you can walk from the bank to the shop without going outside. Good eh?

Anyway, what with their ethical nature and that, I was surprised to see them sell Nescafe. And what with their so-called eco-friendly credentials, I was shocked and appalled to find the onions we bought were from New Zealand.

What’s that about?

Footie
Euro 2008 has started. I love these big tournaments, even more so when England haven’t qualified. We don’t get any of those dickhead flying car flags or St George’s flags from their bedroom windows. Nor do we get all the ridiculous hype about a mediocre team of prima donnas. Instead, we’ll get some decent football and hopefully Italy will win!

Coldplay on iTunahs
I saw the TV commercial for the new Coldplay album download from iTunes.

Are they trying to look like U2?

I hate them, really, really hate them. Boring, awful RUBBISH music. AND it’s being played all the frigging time on all the BBC radio stations at the moment.

Somebody help me.

Me and Trump went out for tea tonight, to Croma, the pizza place near Manchester town hall. It’s nice there. We had starters, main courses, olives, puddings, Trump had wine (a bottle, to herself), I had fizzy water. We were only charged for the puddings and drinks.

Good eh?

I’m SO tired, and SO looking forward to my lie in tomorrow. It’s Trump’s turn to let His Lordship out for his wee in the morning… and then the battle on wills commences: who will break first and give in to go and make the coffees? Well, it’s always bloody me.

I think I’ll get a teasmaid for Bellend Towers. Can you get a teasmaid to make coffee? Probably more of a possibility than getting Trump to make coffee on a Saturday morning.

Talking of Bellend Towers – 27th June. So April? See you on 1st July?

There are a number of programmes on the telly where people are assisted in their search for a dream home by some “experts”.

I’m currently watching Escape to the country; a couple from Wythenshawe want to move to the Peak District.

It’s similar for Location, location, location, A place in the sun, etc. A bunch of people who can’t be fucked to do what everybody else does when looking for a home – looking on the internet, getting flyers from estate agents. Why bother doing that when you can get some know it all from the telly to do all the searching and negotiating for you.

So they get shown three or four properties, whinge a lot, and still don’t bother going for any of them. There was a couple on last night’s Location, location, location who had viewed 50 properties over the past year and still weren’t happy with anything they were shown. Answer? BUILD YOUR OWN!

Which brings us to Grand Designs. The people who design and make their own properties as featured in this programme are annoying to the extreme.

Justin and Cressida are leaving behind their careers as teachers in Chorlton and moving to North Wales to be self sufficient so they can bring up their two young children in an eco home made of compacted shit.

Some guy just looked in as he walked past, came to the front door, rang the bell and knocked, but didn’t bother waiting for me to get the keys to open the door before fucking off. Well, he’s not a very good salesman/religious freak is he?

Cool
Some food is just better at room temperature. I’m referring to food that’s supposed to be hot of course. I’ve just had some cold lasagne, the flavours are so much more obvious with cold food.

So, here is my list of favourite hot foods that are fuckin’ delish cool (not cold):

• Lasagne
• Curry
• Pizza
• Italian meatballs
• Baked potatoes
• Boiled new potatoes

Things that are NOT nice cold:

• Chilli con carne (unless it’s been mixed with rice, then it’s fuckin’ delish)
• Baked beans
• Pasta
• Chips

Things not nice hot or cold:

• Cottage cheese
• Cooked carrots

These aren’t exhaustive lists, but you get the picture.