I read this news report in disbelief.

I have nothing else to add.

It didn’t surprise me that the man occupying the seat on the other side of the aisle ordered a full English breakfast when his order was taken on the London-bound train yesterday. He’d joined us at the first stop after Manchester and strolled down the carriage, bundle of newspapers under one arm, briefcase carried by the other.

He was a big bloke, 50s, greying hair, pinstriped suit. Not keen on sitting against the direction the train was travelling in, he rearranged the place setting at the table so he could occupy a forward-facing position.

He took two pieces of toast and a croissant from the basket, with butter. As I enjoyed mine, with marmalade, I couldn’t help but notice the noise he made while he ate. It made my stomach turn. My bacon toastie (it’s worth travelling first class on Virgin trains just for these) came after he’d finished bread and pastry, while he was waiting for his hot breakfast. He took the opportunity to make the first of many calls on his mobile phone, “Hello mate, yeah, just looking now… hee, hee, hee… Gary Neville eh? Yeah mate. Look. What? Sorry mate, yeah, I’m on my way down to London on the train, I’m losing… eh?… yeah, I’m losing the signal. I’ll call you back.”

He aborted the call in time for the arrival of his breakfast: a plateful of fuckin’ delishness that I’d have gone for had I not been concerned for the safety of my suit. He ate like a pig, scoffing down overloaded forkfuls of beans, egg, bacon, sausage. The noise was sickening. Once finished, he accosted one of the staff for more toast, which was slurped down with coffee.

Glad that feeding time at the trough was over, I started to read the papers for the meeting I was due to attend. It was interrupted in no time by the noise of what sounded like a siren, but turned out to be pigman’s phone revving up to the theme from the Benny Hill show. Why let it play nearly the entire tune before answering when you’ve got hold of the thing?

Most of the two hour journey was disturbed by his phonecalls to people, I assumed colleagues, complaining about tips for horses that were “dead-certs” being no good. It seems that he worked in the betting industry, or perhaps for one of the newspapers that gives betting tips to their readers. “He told me, ‘It’s a dead cert, couldn’t lose under any circumstances’ and it came in fifth from eight”.

Good. Who gives a crap?

I watched in amusement as he got up to use the lav, despite the sign to say that it was occupied being illuminated. He pushed the button to open the door. Stepped forward in anticipation of it opening. Stopped. Tried the button again. Waited. Benny Hill.

Yeah, mate.

I really don’t mind people using mobiles on trains, but I find it alarming that some folk get so irritated when the calls get cut off. The train is moving at over 100mph through the countryside, dipstick. You should forget using your phone and perhaps pick up a book on table manners instead.

New York state of mind
Some folks like to get away, take a holiday from the neighbourhood
Hop a flight to Miami Beach or to Hollywood
But I’m taking a Greyhound on the Hudson River line
I’m in a New York state of mind

Seen all the movie stars in their fancy cars and their limousines
Been high in the Rockies under the evergreens
But I know what I’m needing and I don’t want to waste more time
I’m in a New York state of mind….

Some of the greatest song lyrics have been written about New York, generally out of love for the place.

Look what happens with you get a toothless wonder of a twat moving to your city and adopting it as his home. He writes a tribute song. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, these are the lyrics to the Beautiful South’s song “Manchester”:

From Northernden to Partington it’s rain
From Altrincham to Chadderton it’s rain
From Moss Side to Swinton hardly Spain
It’s a picture postcard of ‘wish they never came’

And whilst that deckchair in the garden it makes no sense
It doesn’t spoil the view or cause offence
Those Floridas, Bavarias and Kents
Make gentlemen wear shorts but don’t make gents

So convertibles stay garage-bound
Save after-sun for later
If rain makes Britain great
Then Manchester is greater
As you dry your clothes once again
Upon the radiator
What makes Britain great
Makes Manchester yet greater

From Cheetham Hill to Wytenshawe it’s rain
Gorton, Salford, Sale pretty much the same
As I’m caught without my jacket once again
The raindrops on my face play a sweet refain

And as winter turns reluctantly to spring
For the clouds above the city there’s one last fling
Swallows build their nests, chaffinch sing
And the sun strolls into town like long lost king

So convertibles stay garage-bound
Save after-sun for later
If rain makes Britain great
Then Manchester is greater
As you dry your clothes once again
Upon the radiator
What makes Britain great
Makes Manchester yet greater

And the mood of this whole sodden place is melancholy
Like the sun came out to play, shone through the clouds
But dropped its lolly
And everyone looks so disappointed, so, so sorry
Like the rain blew into town, kidnapped the sun
And stole it’s brolly

So convertibles stay garage-bound
Save after-sun for later
If rain makes Britain great
Then Manchester is greater
As you dry your clothes once again
Upon the radiator
What makes Britain great
Makes Manchester yet greater

Download it and have a listen if you like. You’ll be able to appreciate the musicianship and subtle tones of the singer. I hate that fucking twat Paul Heaton. The uneducated, talentless, toothless, thick, chinny cunt.

I hate drop down lists on computer databases and online forms – you know, the sorts of things where you have to enter your date of birth in dd/mm/yyyy? Why do they only drop down to 19 before you have to click on the scroll down arrow?

I’ll show you what I mean:

Oh, it appears that Flickr doesn’t want to upload that particular thing, but you get the idea? It’s really discriminatory against people who are born after the 19th of the month. If they’re going to have a drop down list, why not go all the way to 31?

I’ve just been sorting out car insurance for Connie Cakesniffer and I’ve come to the conclusion that they’re all cheating, thieving cunts. Having done a search in Money Supermarket, I decided to go for the Post Office’s policy, which was advertised as £220. So you click on “buy quote” and end up having to enter all the information again at the Post Office’s site, and then you’re told that the quote is actually £320.

Lying.

Fucking.

Bastards.

Where the devil?
For the past couple of weeks, blogging activities have been put on the back burner in favour of other things. Here is a pictorial rundown:

Manchester Pride, 26th August

It seemed that the Church had a presence, whereby it invited all of us lost children to wait in line to be saved from a life of sodomy and an eternity burning in the fiery pit:

Norfolk, 27th to 30th August

Skiathos, 1st to 8th September

Lovely.

Of course, the great thing about being abroad is the language difference. In all honesty, the Greek people are fantastic and they speak very good English, but certain things get switched around in translation.

“Wefined Vergina Sugar”, eh?

Yamas!

Another thing that wasn’t quite translated in the holiday brochure was the term “slight incline to some apartments” which came from the Greek for “your apartment will be right at the top of a big fuck-off hill – ha, ha, ha”.

Yamas, you bastards.

Unfortunatley, coming back means that you have to congregate with all the Brits that you’d spent the previous 7 days trying to avoid. The couple in front of us on the plane were particularly friendly and were reclined so far in their seats that they were almost sat in our laps. Leg room was OK, but this was my view for the entire flight home.

And now I’m back, and tomorrow’s delight for my first day back at work is a trip to that stinking cesspit that is London. What a palarver! Still, at least I get to go down there first class as compensation.

I wonder if any of my work clothes fit me? I might try them on before I bother to iron them.

To me!

Yes, it’s today. I share my birthday with Michael Jackson, Richard Attenborough and Lenny Henry. Of course only I have a cult following, so that makes me the most important.

I have been given some wonderful gifts from the lovely Trump, who is doing very well enduring our time here in Norfolk. She is very grateful to Sony for its manufacture of the PSP, while her killing lots of people in the virtual world of Grand Theft Auto seems to be preventing her from killing me.

Back soon, but not for long – I have a jet-set lifestyle to maintain, you know.

Ci vediamo!

Sniffy

Apparently.

Or at least that’s what was being said at the end of July, a month where UK temperatures had been hovering steadily around the 30°C mark.

With a week of August 2006 left, I can’t remember the temperature getting above 20°C, or the sun coming out. It’s been fucking horrible and so very depressing.

You see, the end of August marks the end of summer. Once my birthday is out of the way, it seems that autumn is well and truly round the corner and another summer has gone. We have the next nine months of darkness and cold and misery to get through before there’s any hope of feeling the warm sun on our bones again. By that time, we’ll be just that little bit older.

So there you have it. Summer is over and it feels like it’s not even started.

Good job I’m off to Greece at the end of next week. There’s nothing like all over third degree burns to remind you that hot sun and white people don’t really go together and that’s why pasty white people are indigenous to parts of the world where the summers are crap.

Shattered dreams
And then they go and do this to me! After years of trying to learn the planets of our solar system – and failing – I came to the conclusion that I’ll ever know about half of them. Let’s see:

Earth
Uranus
Mars
Jupiter
Saturn
Pluto
Neptune
Errrm, Mercury

Pluto was always one of the easiest ones because of Mickey Mouse’s mate. But now, members of that strange sect, “The Mysterious They”, have decided that Pluto isn’t a planet afterall.

Cunts.

I’ve been screaming blue murder a lot today; absolutely screaming my head off from within the confines of my car. But for most drivers, Manchester’s streets have been safe from my tirades of anger, this is because I have been made rigid in body and red in the face by the City’s traffic lights.

Yes, all of a sudden, after years of them working in a sensible sequence, staying on green for sensible lengths of time, the traffic lights of Manchester City Centre have gone off their tits. You know how it is when you know their habits, you know how many cars get through, and you calmly wait your turn while they’re on red, knowing full well that only a minute will pass before they turn to green and you and your queuing companions make it through safely to the other side of the junction, usually finding the next set are just turning green for you. And then all of a sudden, somebody flicks a switch and it all goes very wrong.

Makes my blood boil.

Even worse is what has happened to my route home. This is a google map onto which I have indicated where there are sets of lights and pedestrian crossings on the short stretch of road known as Quay Street:

This is a relatively short, but fairly busy stretch of road, which is a major exit from the City Centre. Lots of other roads intersect it and that and it can get clogged up, but during the summer, it’s a breeze and you simply fly through it on your way home.

Or you did, until the fucking wankers decided to do THIS:

Yes, marked with one big red arrow is yet another set of traffic lights, which are less than about 50m from the set before them and the set after them. This set of lights, which have appeared from nowhere and which serve very little purpose, are causing the traffic to back up way up the road to the other big red arrow. This is the middle of the shool holidays, there is very little traffic around and yet the traffic was backed up as if there had been a major incident somewhere on a rainy night in November.

Just look at the map. That’s four sets of lights within about 250m, only two of which are necessary. I am so pissed off.

What is it with fucking idiot councils that makes them meddle so much with the road systems? Why do they have to take a perfectly workable system and completely fuck it up? Is it because they’re following some pathetic, lefty, political agenda against people who simply want get around without any hassle?

Why do they do things that actually cause congestion and how on earth do they get away with it? Is it to justify them introducing congestion charging do we think? Yes, I believe this is the case. It’d be so refreshing if they were innovative and inventive and actually introduced schemes that kept the traffic moving, instead of clogging it up. And anybody who’s ever driven could offer them some suggestions: right turn filters; peak time traffic lights; intelligent traffic lights that keep the sequence going; no stopping zones. It’s not rocket science, it’s transport planning and any fucking numpty could do it – as is evident from the fools they seem to get to do the jobs.

Simply put, they’re a bunch of fucking wankers who want stripping naked and whipping in front of all the traffic that has been generated by their own so-called strategies. How dare they take it upon themselves to impose their pointless ideologies on the rest of us. They should be made to realise that they, as public servants, are there to work for the people who live, work and use the cities. Deliberately creating congestion is nothing more than environmental vandalism and the fucking idiots should be shot.

As should taxi and bus drivers. Idiots, the lot of them. As I approached the back of the queuing traffic this afternoon, I happened to be behind a taxi cab. The traffic was stationary, but I was a bit bewildered when I saw the driver’s door of the cab open and the driver get out. He was waving at me and pointing at the taxi rank that he’d decided to abandon his cab in without warning. As I pulled out around him, I shouted “You could try using your fucking indicators and give me some warning instead of just waving at me!”, but I don’t think he spoke English, or understood the conventions and rules of driving. Imbecile.

I may start a “Manchester City Council is Completely Shite” website. This is the same council whose neighbour nuisance team sent my sister’s complaint statement to the violent and dangerous neighbour she was complaining about. Apparently, this is common practice as it gives the “accused” the opportunity to know that a complaint has been made against them and information about the nature of the complaints. What is not common practice is leaving the name, address and telephone number of the plaintiff on the documents that are sent to the nuisance neighbour. Not common practice unless you work for Manchester City Council of course.

My throat is sore this evening.

And I can’t stop trumping.

And I have PMT.

Why is it that every single leisuretime activity in this country has to be disturbed by noisy, unruly scumbag children and their accompanying “parents” – or whoever the people on the other side of the room are, who keep looking over and giving the occasional shout of “Are you OK there mate?”?

Why can’t there be one single thing that normal people can do without their time and space being invaded by these fucking parasites?

Cunts.

Today was Blue Planet Aquarium day. Firstly, it was strange to notice how all the millions of families queued for one entry point while there were loads of others free with no queue – but you had to open a door to get these. We walked to the front and got in. Having had nothing to eat, we risked the “restaurant”, which was set up a bit like a burger bar thing: choose a queue in front of a till point, wait to be served. Again, loads of people chose the first queue that they got to, and queued to the back of the restaurant, while we walked to the front of a free till. This didn’t make the food any better/edible, but we avoided going hypo.

Are people really stupid or something? I mean, really, criminally stupid?

Unfortunately, there’s a definite inverse correlation between fertility and IQ: stupid people really can’t help but breed, and breed, and breed some more. The country has a worryingly extremely high proportion of the thickest low-life on the planet. Most of fish had nervous systems that were far more advanced than the vast majority of the fools who were gauping through the glass at them, holding their camera phones at arms length to take photos that they probably don’t know how to retrieve.

In the enclosed spaces , there was a pervading smell of biscuits and stale cigarattes emanating from the least savoury amongst us. This is a common phenomenon amongst the great unwashed. It’s as if they mash up biscuits with something and dip their tracksuits and hair in it. When I was young, our neighbours had the smell of eau de tomato ketchup and sour butter, this sometimes alternated with meat and potato pie; neither were pleasant, although the people weren’t that bad. Is it that difficult to have a bath and get a washing machine on all your benefits? Even budgeting for fags, Diamond White and bingo, there must be something you can apply for that allows you to wash your clothes once in while.

Stinking bastards.

True Grit
Had some spinach tonight – from Sainsbury’s – it was full of grit. They never show Jamie Oliver tipping a load of the stuff from a bag, “pan-frying” it and then having to bin it because it’s inedible, do they? Fuckers.

Fruit
Why can’t you buy fruit that you can eat from supermarkets without paying a premium rate for it? You buy either plums or nectarines that are rock hard and edible in 3 days – then they go off immediately, so you have to eat the entire punnet within the critical 3 hour window and then you get guts ache and shit yourself. Or you can pay twice the price for stuff that you can eat now. The choice is yours.

Or you could just have an ice cream or a Twix.

My hatred of Walmart-owned supermarket chain Asda is well-documented. When Asda superstores first appeared in the late 1970s, they were actually OK. I remember them having amazing variety at really reasonable prices, with a great deli counter and superb instore bakery. Well, my mum and her sister always said it was good value for money, I wouldn’t know because I was only a nipper.

Asda never had a café back then so I still preferred Tesco (which also sold clothes), but in general it was OK. Even up to about twelve or thirteen years ago, I didn’t mind shopping there.

But something went very wrong with Asda, they introduced “Rollback” and it’s been downhill since. I’ve no idea why, but “Rollback” (a con to make people think that some of their prices are the same as they were about ten years ago) has attracted all sorts of ner do wells to Asda stores around the land. I liked their special offer on papardelle last night: £1 a packet or two packets for £5 – Bargain! Idiots.

And just look at the role models who they get to advertise for them: Sharon Osbourne; Wayne Rooney; Colleen McLoughlin. That’s right, a reality TV millionaire producer with a brummie accent, a thug footballer with the face of a fuck knows what and his WAG Colleen who has achieved nothing more than meeting Wayne when he was 15 and deciding it was shrewd business sense to stay with him despite him being exposed for shagging grandmother prostitutes (oh and did I mention that despite him being as ugly as fuck, thick as pigshit and Scouse, he’s also really rather rich… and so is Colleen now).

So, Asda clearly thinks its clientele look up to these sorts of people and accordingly shows the respect they think their customers deserve. They do this by making their stores simply unbearable to be in, while stocking them with mediocre produce. Well, not really stocking them, because if you go at the wrong time of day, there’s no fresh stock left on the shelves. I wanted some fresh crusty bread to accompany the soup that I was having for tea last night. The shelves were almost cleared of instore-baked bread and the stuff that was there was soft. It looked crusty and fresh, but was soft. It’s not just because I was there in the evening either, you can go to Asda bakery at any time of day or night and the bread crust is always soft.

Diz-fucking-gusting.

I hate that fucking shop. For all of you wondering, I’m referring to the one at Eastlands, Manchester (opposite Manchester City’s stadium). This store is only surpassed in fucking horribleness by the Asda store at Hulme. What makes the experience even worse is the way that other shoppers insist on taking their entire families with them at all times of night. It can be gone 10.30 at night (and on a school night!) and there’ll be loads of families with young kids screaming and running around under your feet. Why? Why are these monsters not locked up at this time? Shocked and very appalled.

Why do I go there? Well, I only go there with Trump and she’s now so fed up of my moaning that she’s finally agreed to let me go to Tesco next time we have to go to the supermarket. Thank fuck for that!

Notice how I mentioned that Asda was owned by Walmart? Well, I went to a Walmart when I was in America and, despite feeling sick at seeing the selection of “George” clothing, I was pleased to see that Walmart doesn’t sell fresh produce. Well, nor does Asda I suppose, but I wish they wouldn’t pretend that they did. Fuckers.

A petition
I’ve been handed a request to ask people to sign a petition to prevent the government from introducing black boxes in cars and on motorbikes to limit speed by reducing the throttle or applying the brakes. That sounds safe. Have those wankers in the government never seen Christine?

Check it out

I wonder who they expect to bear the cost of this innovation…

Black pepper
I had a bit of black pepper stuck in between my teeth all afternoon and nobody told me. You don’t get that with white pepper. Then again, you probably don’t get that if your teeth aren’t crooked.

Ah, honey honey! You are my candy bears…

Having posted this photo last night, something dawned on me. Any connoisseur of the espresso will be able to point out a couple of minor faults with the coffee here. Firstly, it has been delivered to the table with brown sugar and not white and secondly, the volume of coffee is a tad too much.

Why white sugar? Well it’s simple really, it dissolves quicker. Brown sugar takes too long to go into solution and your coffee is cold by the time it has dissolved. The beauty of an espresso is that it is quick – gone in a mouthful. Get your coffee, couple of sugars, couple of stirs and down it goes.

You have to be wary of those places that offer you a double espresso (two shots of espresso, one cup) because they often give you a long espresso instead (this is one shot’s worth of espresso with more water gone through it). Cheats! In fact, I often ask for two espressos to save them making a mistake. I get looked at funny, but that’s nothing new. When you’re in a place like Caffè Nero, they describe a “large espresso”, I have no idea what this means so I steer well clear.

A fan in Iran!
I was checking my site stats earlier and I noticed that I had a visitor from the Islamic Republic of Iran! How very forward thinking of them, I thought. People in fascist Iran being able to look at blogs; the blogs of infidels in the West. Even worse, gay women infidels!!!! Whatever next? The Iranian president will be getting himself a blog to spout his bile, while pretending to be a man of the people and a good muslim who has struggled to get to the top, where he aims to guide his beloved people in their fight against the satanic west and Israel! Fuck.

Of course, the thing about Iran and other such places is that nobody else is allowed to have blogs, or they’re very much the victims of censorship. I bet you have to be pretty high up in the Iranian food chain to be allowed to access blogs of gay women infidels. In fact, I’d like to bet that only the top man himself can access them.

That being the case, Mr Ahmadinejad, you’ll never be popular in Blogworld unless you get some plastic bears on your site!

Of course, I shouldn’t really complain about such Islamic regimes. They never do you any harm unless you’re a westerner, a woman, gay or Jewish, or any other religion for that matter. They’re really very tolerant and fine so long as you don’t dare open your mouth.

I’m not saying that our societies are much cop, but at least we’re allowed to voice our opinions and vote for change (not that it makes any difference) and live in a fairly equitable society – one that still has much to achieve, but at least it’s one where we all recognise the need for fairness and equality and we’re all pretty much bought into those ideals.

Four eyes
After threatening the purchase of new specs ages ago, I finally did the deed. Here they are:

I apologise for the pose. I have no idea what I was doing at the time.

We were wandering around Manchester city centre yesterday afternoon. It wasn’t quite hometime and so we decided to nip into Manchester Art Gallery to have a scout round. As usual, I had my camera with me and I thought it’d be nice to take a picture when I saw this:

As soon as I’d taken a couple of snaps, I was pounced upon by a youthful information assistant – decked out with wireless radio earpeace thing and over-officious nature: “Have you got a photgraphy pass? You need a photography pass to be able to take photos in the gallery”. Okay, okay, I’ll get one. After waiting half an hour at the information desk while the young bloke there gave directions to Urbis to some woman, then phoned their gift shop to see if they did posters of Manchester, I was finally attended to and given my sticker and an agreement which I had to sign and return after my viewing of the exhibitions. Looking more closely at the badly-photocopied agreement, it turned out that I wasn’t allowed to take any photos of anything I wanted to photograph and that I had to list all the exhibits that I had photographed.

Well, the whole purpose of the visit was to go and see the “Happy Birthday Miffy” 50th birthday exhibition, and since this was a special collection, I wasn’t even allowed to photograph any of it. However, it turned out that I could take photos of people in the galleries, but not the exhibition pieces themselves, so this was ok:

By the same ruling, you’d have thought that this was OK too:

And also this:

However, while I was taking the photo of lovely Trump, I was approached by a black-clad jobsworth who said, in a none-too-friendly manner: “You can’t take photographs of these exhibits, photography pass or not”, to which I replied, “I wasn’t, I was photographing her”.

“There’s no photography in this gallery”

Trump told him, “You want to tell him behind us then”, pointing out the bloke who we’d overheard being told that it was OK to take pictures of the galleries, but not the exhibitions.

Needless to say, I didn’t bother filling in the form about which exhibits I’d photographed since I hadn’t really photographed any. The other stuff in the gallery wasn’t worth photographing so they could go ninnies with their stupid forms.

Wankers. What difference does it make if you take a photo of some exhibitions so long as it’s for personal use.

What I’d wanted to do was to post a picture of that “The Sea” exhibition and sing its praises. Tell folk to go and be part of these interesting, vibrant, colourful, and very intricate pieces of work. They’re not really the sorts of things that can be appreciated by photographs alone, that’s why I took pictures with people alongside them so there could be an appreciation of scale and light. Unfortunately, since anybody visiting the gallery gets scowled at by the surly members of staff, who essentialy stroll around, acting as if they’re it, I’m inclined to tell folk not to bother visiting there at all.

One place to visit is Podz coffee shop on Portland Street in Manchester. I took the boys and they had a whale of a time.