Hot and steamy can describe many things at the moment: my unshowered bum; cup of coffee; and the weather being a few. However, the hot and steamy I’m referring to right now is the activity of ironing.

Off to a wedding at lunchtime so I had to iron a load of stuff. My suit falls into a crumpled mess as soon as I take it off the hanger, but I have to make some sort of effort. I also had blouses and and some new stuff of Trump’s to do. Phew, steamy!

New garments come with so much shit attached to them with those horrible little plastic tags. Each new thing has at least two labels on them, plus spare buttons, plus the price labels from the shops. It’s all too much. I know you’re supposed to be able to pull these things off with ease, but they just cut into my delicate skin like a fucking garrotte. Pisses me right off.

It’s YOUR fault
Crime figures for England and Wales are out today. The number of street robberies continues to rise and it’s not the criminals that are being blamed, oh no, it’s all OUR fault for having MP3 players and mobile phones. This is just another example of the logic that comes out of our shite government over here.

Essentially, the message is: don’t bother buying anything nice with the money that’s left over after you’ve been taxed to death because we won’t do anything about it if you’re mugged or burgled. We might as well give all our cash to charity and dress in sack cloths.

If you’re in the process of having your property broken in to, there’s no point calling the police to come and investigate because you’ll be told that there are no free units in the area. Of course there are no free units in the area: they’re all stood on the kerb, being horrible to motorists who they’ve decided to harrass for the sake of it. God forbid they’d actually do anything to live up to their mission statement: Fighting crime, protecting people. They might have to break into a sweat and go all funny if they were forced to speak to real people and help them out.

Wankers.

Fucking summer.

You wear “summer trousers” and you need “summer shoes” to go with them. Summer shoes are usually open-toed sandals. I’ve been wearing open-toed sandals today. I’ve not been wearing socks with them. They’re really comfortable sandals, made in Italy of soft leather. Really comfortable until the bare skin on your heels starts to rub against the leather.

….To form big blisters….

…. That totally incapacitate you

God, I’m in pain. I tried buying some specialist heel/blister plasters, but they just rubbed off – rubbing against the open wounds as they did so. So I had to buy some new shoes. Backless ones.

Fucking summer. Can’t wait to get my trainers back on. With socks.

Deliverance
I have been accused of not pulling my weight by a certain Canadian. I’d like to offer the case for the defence.

With the sounds of Duelling banjos in my ears, I paddled with the rest of them.

Spot the English person

I did try paddling, but my pathetic little arms were still too sore after my attempts at waterskiing. Besides, I was too busy concentrating on clenching my buttocks to prevent involuntary evacuation through my shitter to be able to even think about sticking my oar in that icy water.

Sniffy takes on the natives
This is an interesting shot. It shows me engaging in the early stages of a smackdown challenge with April’s youngest delinquent.

And then you saw me dead

There wasn’t really any contest and she had me floored within 5 seconds. They have this old aboriginal trick of running head-first at your kneecaps. It really hurts. They use it to capture elk and black bears apparently. There was evidence of such killings in April’s freezer.

When I was over there, I got a text message from Connie Cakesniffer asking whether I’d seen any natives. I pointed out that I was living with them. She responded by saying that she thought they’d live in wigwams or burnt-out tree trunks.

Oh for equality and diversity training for the over 60s.

Pyramid power
As Connie mentioned in her blog, we went visiting the Summerhill Winery, somewhere near Kelowna. This place is 100% organic and it is famed for maturing all of its wine in a big concrete pyramid. I’m not sure whether all that pyramid talk is a load of old bollocks, and since I’ll never drink any of their stuff I don’t really care, but it’s a nice gimmick and I’m sure it ensures more sales of the stuff at the end of the free tasting session.

We all had great fun there, it was in such a picturesque location overlooking Lake Okanagan:

With excellent company:

A bit of ancient mysticism/bollocks:

Free plonk:

And even I was compensated for not being able to try any:

You’d have thought that the fucking pyramid power would’ve protected the bloody stuff against the evils of airport baggage handlers, but not to worry.

Round one: Sniffy wins
I was driving through Manchester city centre on my way home last night. It was getting on for midnight, the weather was clear, the traffic was light, the streets aren’t usually filled with pissheads until Thursday night and last night was no exception. It was quiet.

I proceded through the successive sets of lights as they changed from red to green, changing lanes here and there so as not be hindered by cars that had been waiting there while the signals were on red.

As the bright lights faded and one city melted into the next, I noticed a police car had appeared behind me out of nowhere. Its siren sounded once, I looked in my mirror again. It sounded again, I looked again. The lights then started flashing and I realised that they wanted me to pull over. EH? What’s to do here then?

Stopping my car, I opened my door and looked behind me: the police woman who had been driving was already out of the car “Get out of the car!”.

Fuck, it’s one of the guards from Prisoner Cell Block H. How rude!

“Have you been drinking?”

“No, I don’t drink.”

“Why were you driving like that?”

“Like what? I’m just going home.”

“Just going home eh? Let me smell your breath!”

Jesus, if only you knew where my mouth had been half an hour ago.

“Have you got your documents with you?”

“Just my licence.”

“Now, will you tell me why you were driving so erratically at such speed? We clocked you at 55mph”

“I’m sorry, but there’s absolutely NO WAY I was doing that speed, no way whatsoever. I never speed. I’d like to see some evidence because I know damn well that I wasn’t going over 30.”

You mean that you flew up the road to get behind me from a fair distance away and that you got up to 55? Why’s it OK for you to drive that fast?

“You can either take the points or take it to court.”

“I’ll take it to court, I wasn’t speeding and I wasn’t doing anything wrong.”

“You were swerving through the traffic and driving erratically.”

“There wasn’t any traffic. All I was doing changing lanes so I didn’t have to stop behind traffic that was setting off from lights when they changed to green, that’s what the lanes are for. I wasn’t driving erratically, just using the road layout the way it is supposed to be used.”

“I would’ve have thought somebody in your profession would be more careful”

Ahhhh, so you’ve seen “Dr” on my driving licence, have you?

“I was being careful, I drive along this road every day and I know the layout very well. I wasn’t doing anything wrong and I’d like to see some evidence that I was doing 55mph when I know that I wasn’t and never would.”

“Don’t worry, you’re not going to get any points, you’ll just have to produce your documents at your nearest police station.”

You’ve changed your tune. What happened to being threatened with a court appearance?

“Oh right, fair enough.”

“You’ve got seven days to produce your documents.”

I was so fucking annoyed. The fucking Nazis! I got home and read the ticket. She’d put the wrong time and spelt my name wrong, so not only could she not read, but she couldn’t tell the time either. DUR!

I just find it so bizarre that she thought that acting so aggressively and in such a threatening manner was going to be useful in a situation where she suspected that she was dealing with a drunk driver. Surely such behaviour is likely to elicit an equally, if not worse response from somebody who has been drinking? And they wonder why they have to wear stab-proof vests.

Why do certain police officers feel the need to act in such a way? It’s clearly a power thing, but they need to remember that they’re public servants and that they also rely on the trust of the public to enable them to do their jobs.

Tossers.

Now, should I submit a complaint about her? I think she needs to be told, doesn’t she? Or perhaps I should mention her badge number and name here for when she Googles herself?

What does everyone reckon? Should the nasty bitch copper get her comeuppance, or should I be grateful that I didn’t get seven bullets in my face?

Let’s have an open debate about why we all hate the police.

So Francesco and Chadwick realised that their love for each other would never be accepted in the small town where it had flourished. Danger lay ahead and they feared that they would be forced to live their lives apart. They needed to move on, so they embarked on an epic adventure in British Columbia and Washington.

Would they be safe?

Would they fall victim to a lynch mob?

Read on…

It was a lonely life for Francesco. Things had been bad for a while and he found himself on the streets, pimping his little plastic arse to get enough cash to fuel his booze and kebab habit.

Things changed overnight when he was whisked away by a young Canadian called Chadwick. They’d met on the lonely and dangerous streets of Manchester when Chadwick had been looking for company while on a business trip. Love blossomed instantly and Francesco was wooed with flowers and the kindness of his new companion.

With nothing to lose, Francesco decided to take up Chadwick’s offer of a new life in Canada. They stowed away in the baggage of an unsuspecting traveller and found themselves in the wonderful city of Vancouver.

Oh how they loved it there, partying with the people and enjoying the sunshine.

But they were soon to be on the move again after things went wrong in Ye Olde Kabob Shoppe on Davie St – Francesco had foolishly opened his mouth and asked for “doner with the lot”, instantly giving his accent away and making his little arse very attractive to the hoards of big beastly bears who were after a little European. They hitched a ride to Vancouver Island on a passing donkey.

While there, they enjoyed the good life and the sex was fantastic! Unable to keep their paws off each other, they tried everything imaginable, doing things that would make a whore blush – some of it barely legal.

On a boat:

Camping:

Cottaging:

Alas, all good things must come to an end and our boys were rumbled after Francesco’s over-exuberent celebrations at Italy’s world cup win.

And now they’re back here in Blighty, trying to cause mischief wherever they go. You see, Sniffy would never have been able to get away with any misbehaving on her hols…

And now the little bastards are trying to get April and Connie to come and rescue them!

I’ve been awake for 24 hours, I’m starting to feel a bit sick. Long distance flying is shite: it’s impossible to sleep because the seats are so uncomfortable; there’s always a bloody film playing; it’s always too light. I tried covering my eyes with my hood, but this made my hair a mess and the stewardesses ignored me because they were scared!

Jesus, I’m tired now.

Anyway, I have some observations from my trip to Canada that I think should be shared with Blogworld.

For a Briton, being in Canada is a little like being in a strange parallel universe. You find yourself in a place that seems very familiar, the climate is very similar to that at home (at least on coastal British Columbia it is), they speak English, shops are the same, as is much of the food. But it’s just not the same as England… thank fuck, I suppose.

I was most impressed with the way the toilets flush – they sort of suck everthing out in a vacuum, then fill the pot with water. My only bugbare was the the way they never had a complete toilet seat – they seem to favour the type with the gap at the front for some reason. Never really worked what that’s all about. Of course, one thing that I WASN’T impressed with was the “portapotty” chemical toilets that took you by surprise when you’d expect something to have a proper plumbed flush from its exterior.

Come again?
The pronunciations are different and they use completely different words and phrases when meaning the same things as we do. For example, I was often greeted with “You’re such a fucking cunt” by people meaning “Hey, how you doing? Hope you have a great day!”, subtle differences, you see.

Things get worse in the States. Whereas the Canadians have the nouse to understand that people across the world say the same words differently, or mean the same as they do by using slightly different terms, the Americans cannot compute. For example, when asking for a “blended iced mocha”, I was met with a blank stare from the coffee shop in Brewster, WA, until April stepped to translate: “That’s a mow-ka frappe”. There’s no such thing as “cafe au lait”, but there’s latte a-plenty in the coffee shops. You can really throw them by talking about a fortnight.

Anyway, vive la difference and all that. It’s nice that things aren’t all the same wherever you go – there’d be no point in going anywhere, would there?

Oh-kanagan
This is weird, still on the subject of pronunciation… I went through the “Okanagan” in Canada and “Okanogan County” in America. There’s a lake Okanagan too – it is very big. But when I spoke to people about visiting “The Okanagan”, I was met with many blank looks. They don’t pronounce Okanagan the way you’d expect, instead, it’s like Oh-kan-argan.

At least I know now! It’s nice to know how to pronounce the name of such a beautiful part of the world. Here is Mother, demonstrating what the Okanagan looks like by means of her obligatory tea towel that I bought there:

I’ve warned her that she has to be very careful because this is a special mystical, voodoo teatowel. The consequences of accidentally burning it when she’s removing something from under the grill are raging forest fires that destroy the area surrounding Kelowna! She won’t pay any attention to my pleas, so think on and look sharp!

You’re very welcome
The Canadians are trained to respond to thanks with “You’re welcome”. I think it’s genetic. It is also very endearing and I like it. Of course I engaged in such exchanges of pleasantries with my very own “It’s a fucking pleasure”. I think it’ll catch on.

I may come back with photos and stuff from my trip, but you can get the gist of what happened from those terrible girls, Connie and April. The bitches may have been trying to kill me, but they did it in such a lovely way. April, Connie and Jenn are absolute darlings; I’m so glad that I had the opportunity to meet them and I really hope that I get the chance to meet up with them all very soon.

A quick PS
Baggage handlers at Manchester Airport are a bunch of clumsy fucking idiots. Be warned if you’re too lazy to transfer $35 bottles of RED wine from your case to your carry-on baggage.

Soooooooooooooo good!

Finally got those pesky queer bears off this computer and I can bring y’all a quick update from British Columbia.

Sunday 2nd July:
Met up with April and her tribe and was whisked away to Vancouver Island.

Monday 3rd July:
Had a scout around the local town and did the tourist thing of taking a horse and buggy ride around the murals. This was fun, with Jeeeennneeee the horse dragging us around.

She let me drive her car. Har har har. Daft woman.

In the afternoon, April had her first attempt at trying to kill me by taking me out with her sister and brother in law on their boat. I didn’t do swimming, but was thrown out to sea in a dinghy, being rowed by number one son.

My arse got soaked.

Tuesday 4th July:
Little Qualicum falls.

Cathedral Grove.

Sproat Lake. It was here that April tried to kill me again: they made m try waterskiing. This is great fun if you enjoy being dragged face first through freezing cold water while your wrists are pulled off. Let’s just say that I wasn’t successful, but I had great fun trying. I still can’t form a grip that’s strong enough to squeeze toothpaste today.

Did some kayaking. It was fun.

I slept in a tent that night. Me! In a tent!!!

Wednesday 5th July:
Pacific Rim National Park and the great black bear/cougar/wolf hunt. There were bears about.. apparently. We had all the info on what to do if we encountered one. You’re not supposed to run and scream or play dead or stare at them. It doesn’t matter if you don’t see any. We didn’t see any. We didn’t see any birds either. Except crows.

Also went up to Tofino, which is a nice fishing/tourist town somewhere on the left hand side of Vancouver Island. This is a nice little place, but there weren’t any bears there either.

Thursday 6th – Sunday 9th July:
America! April drove us over to Washington State over the Cascade Mountain Range. The Americans let me in, the Canadians were probably relieved to be rid of me for a couple of days.

1. Went up in a helicopter.
2. Did waterslides.
3. Did white water rafting.
4. Visited the Grand Coulee Dam

See how three of these were potentially life-threatening? Oh, and there were rattlesnakes there too. And it was very hot and sunny and I’ve probably got skin cancer.

April gets rid of me tomorrow.

Oh yeah, almost forgot…

COME ON!!!!!

Sniffy has let us free to roam the streets of Vancouver (in Canada). We’ve been having lots of fun on Davie St (where all the queers are).

Sniffy has gone off somewhere, we’re not sure where, but she left us with her camera…

We’ll be back when we can with more tales of our forbidden love.

Bags packed. Nervous tension at an all time high.

I’m outta here…

There may be updates from Canada.

Who in their right mind has butter beans and corn on the cob the night before a 10 hour flight?

It’s vehicle road fund licence or “road tax” time for Sniffer. This amounts to £104 for 6 months, or £190 for a year – thieving twats; how do they come up with £28 administration costs for buying tax in 6 rather than 12 month blocks? This is on top of the £1700 tax I pay on the petrol I use each year. Robbing bastards.

Anyway, I have to pay up by 1st of July or I get a big fine from the Nazis in Swansea known as the DVLA (Driver and Vehicle Licencing Authority/Agency/Allstars). “We’re all computerised, you cannot hide from us, we know everybody who should have a valid tax disc, we will find you!”.

What with the DVLA being based in Wales, I always imagine the people who work there to be dressed as miners with dirty faces and the like. There’s lovely, innit!

Things have apparently improved within the DVLA over the last year though. No longer should you have to trek to the Post Office, armed with V11 (road tax application form), insurance certificate and MOT certificate. Oh no, the advent of a super duper database to keep track of whether people have got a valid MOT for their cars, the whole system was dragged into the 21st Century and drivers are now able to apply over the internet or over the phone.

With two days left before I jet off and three days left before my current road tax expires, I thought it timely to get mine and decided to use the super online feature, bearing in mind that I have absolutely no chance of getting near a post office in time.

This is what I got when I went online:

Tossers!

But not to worry, I could still do it over the phone. So I dialled the number and navigated my way through the automated menus while listening to some bloke drone on and on and on about the whole fucking system, terms and conditions, terms of agreement, blah, blah, fucking blah. He was interrupted half way through by some feller with a really strong Welsh accent and very deep voice (probably Tom Jones or a Richard Burton soundalike) who went on about some other shite.

After ten minutes of them going on, it finally got to the bit where I had to input my sixteen digit reference number.

“Please wait while we check against the database”….

…

…

…

(2 minutes later)

“I am sorry, we are experiencing technical difficulties and we cannot proceed”.

Well, you can’t have your fucking money then, tossers.

Honestly, technical difficulties my arse. They’re probably on their teabreak and there’s nobody around to make computer-like noises while they’re actually flicking through an over-stuffed and fit for bursting lever arch file full of shite.

Dickheads.

Of course, the UK Government is well known for overseeing the introduction of successful public-sector computer systems (Child Support Agency, Tax Credits, Passports, Criminal Records Bureau). Can’t wait till all our medical records are on a national database… somewhere in Bombay.

Am I scared of their computer finding me if I don’t pay? Two things: piss-up; brewery.

Press red
In this age of digital everything, service providers are constantly trying to remind us why digital is so much better than anything else ever. Personally, I think the picture quality on digital TV is crap compared to analogue, but there you go. That’s progress for you.

Anyway, TV stations are forever trying to get viewers to buy in to their digital services by remind us to “press red” in order access extra information about whatever it is we’re watching. For fuck’s sake, the shite they’re bothering to show is bad enough without seeing what they’ve hidden behind the red button!

We’re getting it all the time during the coverage of the World Cup footie matches: “Press red for the latest statistics”, the commentators order us every five fucking minutes. In between telling us to press red for the latest statistics, they’re talking about the latest statistics, mixed in with a load of utter bollocks that anybody would be slapped for if they wittered on that way in public.

Numpties.

Has anybody ever pressed red and found anything of any interest whatsoever? No, it’s a load of old crap, so shut the fuck up about pressing red and get on with patronising comments about African nations football and the female Brazilian fans’ tits.

That’s right, seat 11H is where I’ll be crapping myself for both the outbound and homeward journeys. You’ll see from the diagram that this means I’ll be in charge of opening the door in an emergency landing. I think you’ll find I’ll be opening the door while the plane is about 50m above the ground and jumping for it. Then again, I’ll probably get sucked into any engines that are still operating at that time (should the wings still be attached).

Tesco redemption
I love Tesco! I was just in there, doing a final bit of shopping for bits for the hols, when I came across a battery-powered item for women at half price at £12. It was a bargain not to be missed, so I picked one up, did a bit more shopping and then paid for my stuff. I was a little shocked when the total bill came to £50, so checked my receipt and noticed that I’d been charged full price, £25, for my “ladies’ item”. On questioning this at customer services, the woman trundled off to check what was what and came back to tell me that I was right and that she’d sort out a refund… of the the full £25.

You see Tesco have this fantastic policy whereby if they cock up and overcharge you, they refund you the total amount, not just the difference.

I love you tesco!

Anyway, this is it. No comments about it buzzing around my bikini line please!

Bereavement
I can’t handle other peoples’ bereavement. Not sure where that apostrophe is supposed to go.

But anyway, I can’t handle it. How are you supposed to know what to say or how to act when somebody is feeling horrible because they’ve lost a loved one? And I hate writing in sympathy cards because it’s just awkward and everybody who sends one ends up put the same as everybody else: “Thinking of you at this sad/difficult time”, perhaps with the addition of something pertaining to faith or whatever. I once did a really good one and I wish I’d have kept it because I’ve never come up with anything like it again. Luckily, I don’t have to send that many.

Ninety
Perhaps not appropriate after a bit on bereavement, but on 2nd July somebody very dear to me is celebrating her 90th birthday. Growing up without a grandmother, our neighbour Minnie Souch was absolutely lovely to us all. She moved away from here to be nearer her family in the midlands about ten years ago when her eyesight failed. But now she’s ninety and I’m really happy for her.

I like old people. I love talking to them and learning about their experiences, particularly if they have tales to tell about my locality, gossip about neighbours and the parents of my former schoolfriends. The older people I have had the pleasure of knowing have been industrious, entertaining, humorous and generally stoical. They also used to get me totally shitfaced on either rum or sherry in the days when I used to drink and spend hours in their company.

Buying birthday cards for people celebrating anything upwards of a 65th birthday is quite an arduous and expensive task. Four pounds fucking fifty for something that has sparklers on it. I’m sorry, but do you really think a couple of pathetic sparklers will impress somebody in their 90s who’s lived through fucking air raids?? You want the full van-load of fertiliser explosive, that’s what you want!

Anyway, happy birthday to Minnie for Sunday!