That’s what I’m having for my lunch this very minute. But this isn’t bog standard, out of a can, spicy lentil and tomato soup. Oh no, this is FUCKIN’ DELISH! Marks and Spencer fresh spicy lentil and tomato soup out of a carton. It’s not as spicy as I’d like. In fact, it’s not spicy at all, but I supposed Marks’s need to cater for their mainly over-fifties foodhall clientele and anything like a bit of chilli powder might cause havoc with piles, chrohn’s, IBS, ulcers, dicky gall bladders, varicose veins, swollen ankles….

F
U
C
K
I
N’

D
E
L
I
S
H
!
!
!

I think I ate that a bit too quickly. Oh god, I’ll regret that tomorrow.

A wafer-thin mint?
I suffer from addictions: things can easily become habit-forming to the point of being obsessive. This manifests itself in a number of ways, but notable ones have been alcohol, nicotine, blogging, chat rooms, stalking.

I think my latest problem is chick pea curry. Last week at the “all you can eat for a tenner” Indian buffet, I couldn’t help but go back for seconds and thirds of the chick pea curry. The problem with this is they swell up inside you and, within five minutes of finishing eating, I started to feel extremely uncomfortable with myself. It was if I’d swallowed a breeze block; I couldn’t move, couldn’t sit, couldn’t talk, could barely breathe. I had to walk the 5 minutes or so to Trump’s house and every step was a struggle. I felt like one of those 60 stone people you see who need the fire brigade to help them go to the toilet.

The evening was spent with me feeling sorry for myself, with Trump sat next to me on the sofa…. “Don’t make any sudden movements! Try not to touch me, it squashes my stomach”. Horrible.

Have I learned my lesson?

Did I learn my lesson the first time I got completely shitfaced and spent two days throwing up? Errrm, nope.

God, those lentils aren’t half filling!

Money, money, money
I picked up a bit of currency for Canada while I was in Marks’s – about $2 per pound and no commission. Knowing this, you’d have thought I’d have cottoned on the five dollar bills aren’t going to go very far. Why then did I ask for a hundred dollars’ worth of the things? Dick.

When she asked what denominations I wanted, I did ask whether they had any animal skins for bartering purposes, but I dont think she understood. Some people have no cultural awareness.

I like foreign money. It’s always interesting to see the things other countries celebrate on their cash…

$20 bills are a green colour. OMG! They’re bilingual!!! I feel violated. Eeeeuuuurrgggh. One side is Her Majesty, looking a bit old. I couldn’t tell you what the picture on the other side is, but it looks like a tubby little buddha in a dinghy with a dog-like thing, a dragon, and a something that looks like Jimmy Crankie. “Could we ever know each other in the slightest without the arts?”. Who knows! NEXT!

There’s an older version of the $20 note that has a common loon on the back. This one is from 1991, I bet it’s not even legal tender anymore. The Queen’s eyebrows need some serious attention on these ones. Then again, remembering mine in 1991, I’m in no place to comment. Eyebrow topiary never really came into fashion until later on in the decade, I’m sure.

The ten dollar note is a purple colour and it commemorates service men and women and other casualties of war. A former prime minister is on the other side.

Five dollar bills are blue. Can anybody guess what favourite Canadian pastime is depicted on these notes????

Before I start this post, I’d just like to postulate about the behaviour of cats whenever a new box appears in their home. They simply HAVE to sit in any new box, preferably curl up in it and fall asleep – no matter how small it is.

Remember this and this? Well, Sonny the ginger cat won’t let us get rid of that box and he still sleeps in it for hours on end every day. Weirdo.

Where was this going? Fuck knows. Oh yeah, and when you spend £30 on a cat bed for them, do they sleep in it? Do they buggery. Ungrateful swines.

Countdown
So now is the time when I start to get nervous… VERY nervous. I hate travelling you see, but in eight days’ time, I’ll be somewhere over the Atlantic/Arctic cruising at a few thousand feet while I’m whisked away to Canada in a tin can. Either that, or I’ll be in lots of squishy bits, mixed in with the squishy bits of other passengers’ body parts after the plane has crashed/blown up.

There’s always the potential for a crash within the Arctic Circle where I might get eaten by a polar bear. Or Bjork.

I can think of no greater honour than being eaten (preferable post mortem) by a magnificent polar bear. Rrrraaarrrrr!!!!!!!! Well maybe being eaten by a tiger would top it, but only just, and only if I was dead first.

So I hate travelling. I hate the uncertainty of it. It get to this stage before setting off and start to wonder whether it’s worth cutting my losses and just not going. Dont’ get me wrong, I am VERY excited about being in Canada, meeting April the donkey lover and also Connie and Jenn. It’s just the uncertainty of getting there, in other words – the flight.

I’ve come to realise that, after years of not doing it, I don’t really like flying afterall. It is unnatural and it is boring. “It’s the take off and landing that are worst”. No, it’s the crashing that’s the worst and you can do that at any point in a flight. Fucking hell, in the Manchester air disaster of 1986, nearly 60 people died and they hadn’t even got going on the tarmac! In all honesty, if a plane is going to crash, I’d rather it be nearer the runway than a few thousand feet in the air. At least there may be some recognisable bits of me remaining to shove in a coffin for my fantastic Dynasty funeral.

I don’t think I’ll be the victim of terrorism. At least I hope I’m not, I don’t think the insurance covers it. But if the plane is hijacked (a Zoom airlines holiday jet from Manchester to Vancouver????) I shall do my best to disarm the hijacking scum with my deadly farts, poo breath and maybe even a toxic shock tampon.

You see, this is where the airlines are missing a trick. They should allow passengers to arm themselves. If this was the case, any potential hijackers would know that they’d have to fight a gun-toting, knife-wielding angry mob before they got through to the cockpit. Perhaps guns wouldn’t be such a grand idea, but baseball bats and knives would be OK.

Of course, one of the worst accidents I heard about was that Greek plane that went down last summer. The cabin lost pressure and the passengers suffocated and froze to death as the temperature dropped to -70°C and all the oxygen got sucked out. In that situation, do you think the cabin crew would have been annoyed at being asked fro extra blankets?

Anyway, in preparation for my trip, I really must think about getting prepared for it. I still have no idea what I’m taking with me. All I know is that I want to travel light so I can pick up some bearskins and jars of pickles while I’m over there.

Becoming part of an “us” after spending my entire life as a “me” has been a bit of a shock to the system. It’s a wonderful and exciting shock to the system that has made me realise that I am very disorganised and I am crap at managing my time.

When I’m not spending time with the “U of the us”, I’m generally engaging in online chats with her, pulling stupid faces into a webcam, that sort of thing. As a result, I have been crap at blogging, I have a huge pile of ironing, and it’s dawned on me that I’m going to Canada next Friday and I am woefully unprepared (Connie has just phoned to remind me to check my holiday insurance!). In addition to this, I have not been able to get to the gym as much as I normally would and I’ve done no gardening this year. Admittedly, the garden has heaved a sigh of relief because all I tend to do is kill innocent plants when I’m let loose on it.

I have put on weight, but this is still a bit of a hangover from when I was unable to exercise due to a) having to eat 24 hours a day during the Christmas period and b) having sore pap after my op.

Am I going to stop blogging? Am I bollocks! I just need to learn how to manage my time better. I also need to learn how to find things to write about I guess. With the time for posting something else this week being uncertain, I shall try to make this a mega day of blogging.

I’m learning to do all sorts of things these days, Trump is too. For example, she knows to turn off the news when I’m there because I have a terrible habit of ranting on about the reports, the news readers, the sets, everything to do with it. I am learning that I am not allowed to say words like “mong” or “spaz” in front of somebody who works in local government and has a healthy interest in the equality and diversity agenda. Spaz is OK because I can change that to “spanner”, I’m having trouble with mong. I think I still get away with cunt on occasion though, so that’s not too bad.

An eye for an eye
One thing I could talk about forever is my relationship with contact lenses. After not wearing them for a couple of days, I decided to wear mine this morning. The right one wasn’t very comfortable, so I took it out, washed it, popped it back in. Still no luck, so I tried again, but then it seemed that the orientation wasn’t right because I couldn’t focus (torics, you see).

I decided to abandon them and started to poke at my eye to remove the offending bit of soggy gel. I poked and poked, but soon realised that I couldn’t feel anything to get hold of. Checking my now very red and sore eye in the bathroom mirror, I realised that it wasn’t in there (the contact lens, not my eye) and, scouting around on the bathroom floor, I saw it there, shrivelling at a dramatic rate and attracting all the bathroom fluff like a little black hole of a fluff magnet.

Did I give up on it and put it in the bin? Hell no! I put it back in my eye… for about 2 seconds until the pain really became unbearable.

I need to get my eyes lasered. Please send your contributions to me. I accept Paypal, cash, used notes of any denomination, all major credit cards.

Failing that, a contribution to a new pair of specs would be appreciated.

In addition to visual impairment, I am being assaulted by strange odours today. My shower gel has the aroma of eau de toilet cleaner, while my perfume smells of hairspray. Excellent.

Gig of the week
It’s time for gig of the week. Regular followers of Cakesniffers – those who remain – will know that I am regular attendee at pop concerts. Sunday saw me go to my THIRD in little over a year when I saw Take That at the City of Manchester Stadium. This won’t be a review of the concert, except to say it was brilliant and I enjoyed myself.

Things of note:

1. Britain’s climate is crap for planning outdoor events
Barbecues, days out, pop festivals, sporting occasions, hanging out washing. You name it, don’t EVER try to plan it in Britain. EVER.

The City of Manchester stadium is an open-air football stadium about 2 miles from the city centre. The certainty of gridlock meant that it was best to park in the city and walk out to the stadium. It rained. A lot. I got wet. My feet hurt.

Luckily we were seated in the stands, which are covered. The poor folk in the pitch area were victims of some pretty heavy downpours.

2. No food or drinks – Stuff That!
There are signs on the entrance to the stadium warning that punters aren’t allowed to take their own refreshments inside. After paying £1.50 for three bottles of water, I wasn’t in the mood to have them confiscated so that I should have to pay £2 a botte once inside. I stuffed them about my person and marched in.

Thieving cunts.

3. Support
One of the support acts was the Sugababes, a band that I have followed for quite a while. They were ace and they sang all their top tunes, including: Overload; Red Dress; Push the button; Round Round; Stronger; Dancefloor and loads more.

They alone were worth the £35 ticket – they can push my button whenever they like.

4. Fab four
Take That are OK. I’m not a huge fan, but the concert was fantastic and they looked as if they were really enjoying themselves. Gary Barlow is still better off being the voice of the band and letting the other lads get on with the dancing. They can still dance too.

Here are some photos…

Lulu even turned up for her bit on Relight my fire (my favourite track of theirs)

They did the usual rain sequence (a la the original video) for Back for good

Grand finale of Never forget

Freak like me

Let me lay it on the line, I got a little freakiness inside…

Pop concerts are just an evolution of freak shows: people pay money to watch people do something that is extraordinary.

Of course, they could save a lot of money by getting their arses down to the shopping centre near where I work here. Jesus Christ almighty!! In fact, they could do my job and then go shopping. This way they actually get paid for enjoying some of the freakiest people on earth.

The most irritating one of recent weeks (the very loud, very aggressive, very Welsh one) is off this week. As is the completely barmy Scouse/Russian one. The world is quiet here. Uh oh, I can hear an Agenda for Change whinge. Where’s my MP3 player?

You know you shouldn’t, but there are so many people loitering around the local shopping centre that make you do a double-take, it’s really quite worrying. There is a huge chemical industry base in this area and I’m sure something has been leaking into the water that is manifesting itself in the local population.

“Oui, j’aime beaucoup le World Cup!”

Yes, I think we’re half way through the World cup now. It’s going OK, with a great atmosphere and most of the matches (apart from England’s) providing lots of skill and entertainment.

The players look fantastic in their colourful kits – the Spaniards, Argentinians and Italians look by far the best. Kit manufacturing has come a long way and even the shirt and short numbers look snazzy, emblazoned in gold or silver numbering. Snazzy unless you play for Holland. Has anybody noticed how their shirt numbers look like they’ve been made out of bits of black electrical tape?

They’re playing the Argies at 8pm BST – check them out, it’ll be a corker.

England are crap and will get knocked out by Ecuador in the next round. At least they’re not playing Angola. Getting knocked out by Angola would be terrible, but very very funny.

I do want England to do well (I have to keep telling myself this). I will certainly be laughing on the other side of my face if the Azzurri (that’s Italy for those not in the know) don’t make it through to the knockout stages.

Braveheart
Still, it’s nice to see the Scots aren’t bitter about England playing in the World cup while they sit out the finals of a major football tournament AGAIN.

Of course, we all know that the Tartan Army are the best football fans in the world. Oh how we all love to watch them wearing their ginger wigs and kilts as the get shitfaced and dance in fountains and on table tops. Such a good advert for the game. The only reason they never riot is because they’re always too pissed to and they know they’d get twatted in a fight anyway. Braveheart my arse. For all the makeup and shouting, they still lost, didn’t they?

What gets me is you get people all over England wearing the football shirt of loads of different nationalities – including Ireland and Scotland – and people appreciate the common celebration of football. People even have those annoying “Ecosse” stickers on their cars. No trouble. But you get somebody wearing an England shirt in Scotland and they get beaten up. There are some very bitter people north of the border. And no doubt, equally if not more idiotic ones south of it.

It is, isn’ t it?

Thank fuck.

Today has started out good and bad.

Good things:

1. It is Friday.
2. I am still happy about the England result from yesterday.
3. I am going to be enjoying lots (to the point of feeling sick) of fuckin’ delish South Asian food at the Nawab International buffet later (all you can eat for a tenner).
4. I am also going to be engaging in a social even in which I will be enjoying the company of colleagues who I actually like.
5. I am thrilled at the anticipation of spending quality time with Trump*

*Not to be mistaken with spending a lot of time with trumps, which I have done all my life.

Bad things:

1. It is only Friday morning and I still have work things to do before I can relax for the weekend.
2. Another nice colleague from Base 1 leaves today – that means that, proportionally, I’ll be working with even more cunts. It also brings home the fact that I am still there while other people have been successful in moving on. Bastards.
3. I am ovulating and so everything feels swollen and achy inside and it hurts when I go to the toilet.
4. I have fucked my neck and I am in agony whenever I move in the slightest…

… I first noticed this as I tried to join one of the motorways on my journey to work this morning. As I tried to look over my right shoulder to check my blindspot, a very sharp pain hit me in the neck and then shot right up the back of my head and over the top into my right eyebrow. This meant that the rest of the journey was spent playing “Blindspot Russian Roulette” as I had to do overtaking manoeuvres using only my mirrors. The alternative was driving in the inside lane and not overtaking, but fuck that! I think I may have exploded in frustration at being stuck behind things going terribly slowly.

Why does your body let you down for no good reason at times?

Bullet
I never know whether to end bullet items with punctuation. You start off a bullet list with single word items that don’t really require any dots and that – it looks neater without. But then your mind starts get into its ranting flow and sentences appear that need a full stop, so you have to then go back and add punctuation to the rest of the list items. Most annoying.

Relight my fire
Yup, I’m off to see Take That tomorrow. Who are Take That? Get real! They were the best boy band of the 1990s. They went from being a much-maligned gay club dance act….

To the hottest thing going before ditching one band member and finally splitting a few years back. Today they wear jumpers and things…

At their height, millions of screaming teenagers (and their mums) adored the boys and their songs regularly hit the top of the charts. When they split up, many counselling phonelines were set up to provide counselling for the distraught girls (and their mums).

In 1994, I remember my housemates (all grown women) having posters of the boys all over the house, particularly Jason and Howard. Of course, I wasn’t at all interested and was always a bit confused when asked “Which one do you fancy?”. I was like “Eh? No idea what you’re talking about” – and I still didn’t get the fact that I was gay, dur. But anyway, I grew to find their music inoffensive and some of it was OK.

So… I’m going to see them tomorrow night.. or afternooon – I can’t figure out when the concert starts. It’s at a football stadium, so the doors open mid-afternoon, but I don’t anticipate the show starting until later on and I can’t be doing with being stood up for long periods of time because it causes my back to seize up. Along with my neck, the evening could end up with a long wait in casualty.

Anybody want a ticket to Take That concert tomorrow? I’m actually looking forward to it, but especially since they’re being supported by the Sugababes, who I think are the cat’s bananas!

I don’t claim to be the best person on the planet when it comes to spoken English; I have quite a strong northern English accent and I don’t always get my words out clearly. But this is OK and so long as I speak slowly enough and take care to pronounce things properly, I can make myself understood to people with varying degrees of understanding of English (except my dad). This is important when part of your job is to deliver training, give presentations, talk to people, etc. It’s just a shame the fucking BBC can’t employ some people who actually speak English as pundits for their coverage of the footie World Cup matches.

This’ll mean sod all to people who haven’t watched any of the BBC coverage, but can anybody actually understand what Gordon Strachan says? Martin O’Neill is the same, and mix this with the international former footballing stars they’ve dragged out, I can’t understand half of what’s being said. It’s even worse on ITV with that twat Allie McCoist.

Don’t the Scots understand that nobody can understand them unless they speak at a normal pace? Dicks.

They all talk shite anyway, so it’s no great loss. Of course the kings of talking utter crap are John Motson and Mark Lawrenson. According to this pair of idiots, nobdoy else need bother turning up because the Brazil are such masters of the game that they’ll samba their way to a sixth win, and the Italians are too negative and they complain about unfair refereeing too much. Oh and England have got the best chance of winning a major tournament since the last time there was a major tournament. Just get rid of them, for fuck’s sake.

Spthuthcrackle
That’s the noise that one of the main speakers in my car is making at the lower end of frequencies at the moment. Methinks it is fucked. How the hell are you supposed to get at them to fix or replace them. It’s this sort of thing that makes me think about getting a new car.

Shite.

Exercise
It’s really hard and it really hurts if you haven’t had any for a while.

Superhero powers
Sometimes I wish I had the powers of a superhero. It must brilliant to be able to lift off and fly about under your own power. Bloody hell, pigeons can do it, why can’t we? The skills of the stupidest creatures astound me at times.

If I was to have a super hero power, it’d be something like telekenesis. I’d love to be able to do things using only the power of my mind a la Carrie. Just to be able to stare at somebody and send them flying across a room would be great. It’d be even better to do subtle things that played with my victims’ minds, like suddenly move a piece of furniture so they bruised their shins – you know the way that really hurts?

Imagine how fantastic my car journeys would be? Ahhh, the delight at watching caravans going flying off the Thelwall Viaduct….

Ho hum.

Colour confusion
I haven’t got a clue what colour shoes you can wear with navy blue trousers. I bet there are by-laws whereby you can get arrested for wearing inappropriately-coloured footwear with navy blue trousers. Should’ve bought black.

What is it good for?
Absolutely nothing, but you do get some excellent museums as a consequence (plus lots of misery, death, displacement and long legacies of mistrust etc).

In an attempt to get me some culture – other than the stuff I get from my daily dose of yoghurt – Trump and myself took ourselves off to The Lowry and Imperial War Museum North at Salford Quays yesterday. Nothing particularly contentious happened, I didn’t get into any arguments with anybody*, the weather was baking hot (I had my legs out), and there were some OK photo opportunities, some of which are shown here…

Art
In addition to the collection of works by Salford-born painter LS Lowry, there was a pretty interesting black and white photography exhibition on in the Lowry. This is the lowry…

Here’s me in black and white, scratching my hairy chin while looking at a black and white of a woman with a hairy chin.

Oh, it’s not black and white afterall, but you get the picture.

There was this room that was filled with corrugated cardboard stuff…

This particular piece was next to an area that was being refurbished as a “Family area”, where kids would be allowed to scrawl on things with crayon. I suppose it’ll save a few pushy parents cleaning the walls and furniture at home.

And here’s a piece of photographic art that I wish to name as “Irate handbag woman”, due to the fact that handbags, satchels, whatever you want to name them, are a complete pain in the arse and you can never find what you want without getting very very annoyed.

Marching as to the war museum

So this is the route to the Imperial War Museum, an inspiring construction with a design that is supposed to depict segmentation of an earth torn apart by conflict… apparently.

To get there, you wander over a rather bouncy footbridge that crosses the Manchester Ship Canal.

On the other side of the bridge is the shiniest building on earth, no idea what it is, but it is quite imposing. This is a photo of the side of it, a solitary English flag fluttering from a closed window. I like the way the clouds are reflected from the windows. Super.

As you approach the museum, you get to see the “Shard” of the bulding. This is quite a landmark and you can climb up it – my legs still hurt today.

The clouds were ace yesterday.

*

One thing that got my back up yesterday happened during a visit to, surprise, surprise, ASDA. Sent on an errand to fetch a newspaper and a bottle of water (it was fucking hot), I despaired at fridges filled to overflowing with Coke (suprise, surprise) and yet absolutely no water available. Tossers. I spoke to the lad at the till and said that, although it was too late, they could do with putting some water in the fridges for people to buy. He pointed to a small corner and said “There was some in the corner, but it’s all sold out”.

Since there was only space for about 20 bottles of water, it was little surprise that it had all gone on the hottest day of the fucking year. Perhaps they should put less Coke out (since none of the 500 hundred bottles of the shite had shifted) and more of the stuff that people clearly want to buy? Or even restock the shelves when they’re empty instead of larking about the aisles with England flags stuck to their hats.

Idiots.

I got told off for having a go at him. “Why should he care, when he’s only on £6 an hour?” I don’t give a shit whether he cares or not, he and the rest of the numpties in there are still getting paid – they’re not volunteers for fuck’s sake.

Shitting dump.

Well, after not hearing anything about the job on the day of the interview, I sort of knew it was a case of black smoke at the Vatican. The letter arrived today, it said something like “Thanks for attending the interview, but you were unsuccessful. Best wishes for the future”.

Now, it’s customary to invite unsuccessful applicants to ring up for feedback to see how they can improve on things for future occasions. In fact, it’s generally polite – particularly with only a small number of interviewees – to phone the unsuccessful candidates and tell that they’ve not got the job and why, etc. But clearly this isn’t the case for this particular employer – one of “The” largest universities in Europe.

I’ve a mind to e-mail them with the following:

“Dear …..

Thanks for eventually informing me that I was unsuccessful in my application for the job of “…”. I’d like to thank you for the in-depth feedback you gave me in your rejection letter and also the courtesy you showed in leaving me hanging on for three days. Your approach has made the entire interview process and associated stress most worthwhile.

I hope that you discover that the successful candidate is a complete cunt within a month of them taking up their position, that they then go on long term sick leave with “stress”, while completely destroying morale in the department and ruining the reputation of the faculty. Let’s face it, in all previous occasions that I’ve been unsuccessful for positions with you lot, the successful candidate has invariably turned out to be a socially inept numpty.

I wish you every success in your bid to become one of the top 25 research organisations in the world… you’re going to need it.”

Am I bitter? A little. These bastards know how stressful this sort of process is and to dismiss the unsuccessful candidates with a two sentence rejection letter and no offer of feedback is fucking insulting. Wankers.

So now I need to dust myself off and do something to get me out the job that I’m in, ideally by taking out my colleagues with an automatic weapon.

Today is a big day for England’s football fans. Injured striker Wayne Rooney is having a BIG scan on his foot to assess whether the break to his fourth metatarsal has healed sufficiently to allow him to be part of the World Cup squad.

A big scan, you note. Not just a scan, but a BIG, MASSIVE, HUGE, FUCK-OFF, ENORMOUS scan!

This is headline news from the BBC today. They have reporters stationed outside the hospital where the scan will be conducted this morning. It’s not a very big hospital; it’s a small private hospital in South Manchester.

It seems that the BBC is now employing reporters to deliver primary school news to us. What sort of reporting is that? “Wayne Rooney is having a big scan on his poorly lickle tootsy to see if he can play with his friends in the massive game of footie on Saturday”. For fuck’s sake.

It’s nice to note that Wayne, a clever lad, is “300% sure” of playing in the tournament. Three hundred percent eh? Brilliant. That means that we’ll have three Waynes playing will we? Three players sent off for petulance? Fucking hell.

Come on ENGERLAND!
England seems to be going football mad at the moment. There are flags of St George hanging from just about every window on council estates across the land. One innovation that crept in with the last world cup (sorry, this is “soccer” I’m talking about) was the appearance of England “car flags”. These annoying things attach to the car via a hook which holds the flag in place in the car’s closed window, thusly:

Every Tit in the country seems to be displaying these things. I feel that my annual war on caravaners may have to be postponed until after England get knocked out of the World Cup and people stop adorning their cars with this shite. I’m very tempted to buy a load of German flags and replace all the English equivalents on parked cars in the dead of night.

The thing is, I love the footie, I love the World Cup and I would love England to do well, but all this rubbish just makes me hate my national team and I end up rooting for Italy instead. Let’s face it though, the Italians are better looking and their kit is nicer.

Make them shut up
Please make the people here shut up! They had the cheek to force the move of one staff member to another office because “He causes a disturbance and is always on the computer”, but since they all got here this morning, I’ve head nothing but one VERY loud voice going on, and on, and on. Today’s outrages are:

• Being done for speeding by a mobile camera unit: “So I took photos of the area and I told the police ‘It doesn’t say that it’s a 30mph area ANYWHERE!'” Well, I’m sorry, but everyone knows that when it doesn’t specify a speed limit, the limit is 30mph, so shut the fuck up and pay the fine.
• Agenda for change – yet again! This has been an ongoing issue for at least the past 12 months.
• Woman in charge of the same department at the other base – AGAIN.

Shut the fuck up, just shut the fuck up!

Bigger
The cumulative cost of tyre replacements now runs at £170 this month (actually, it’s £170 in 8 days). Another one got fucked after I drove over a nail. Pissed off.

Smaller
I went to the theatre last night. Me! At the theatre!!!! It was a play called Smaller and it was excellent. Only three characters so I didn’t get confused, lots of comedy and not too much acting, just good performances.

Trump took me as a “You’ve been through a horrible, stressful experience and you deserve a treat” thing after I had a job interview yesterday. That might not be the reason why she bought the tickets, but she’s ever so nice to me.

And yes, job interview – I was doing preparation for it and so was too busy to blog. I’m not going away, just not able to vent my spleen as often as I had done in the past.

So there you go.

Of course, the good thing about soya milk is that you don’t tend to get herds of soya beans breaking through a fence and grazing on the hard shoulder of the motorway in morning rush hour, thus forcing the closure of the road while police ensure the safe return of the wayward legumes to their rightful place in the field.

Given the choice between grazing in a nice safe BIG field of grass or a narrow and very scary motorway hard shoulder (with huge trucks and cars flying past in excess of 70mph), what thought processes might be involved in three cows and a bull who take the latter option? Perhaps it was a publicity stunt, a cry for help to highlight the plight of those dairy beasts who are being shunned in favour of soya alternatives. Next thing we’ll be having is a real-life Cow Parade in our major cities: Heifers for justice, conducting a series of high profile stunts to raise dairy awareness. I can’t wait to see one climb the Houses of Parliament.

They’ll be in a city near you. Think on and look sharp!

Papering the cracks
Cosmetics can only cover up the bits where a person starts to fall apart. With sufficient resources, I’d be down to my local cosmetic surgery clinic for all over body sculpture and my eye bags reducing. The excess bits could make a whole other person – probably one who is more than capable of keeping her blog up to date.

Unfortunately I don’t have the cash to go under the knife, so I’m resorting to stuff you can buy in Tesco (no, they haven’t started a cosmetic surgery service yet, but after the flower fiasco, I don’t think I’d bother if they did thankyouverymuch). I am currently trying “Dove Summer Glow” body moisturiser to make me look like an Umpa Lumpa in time for my trip to Canada, and also something from L’Oreal to fill in my frown lines. I don’t know what it’s called, but you can feel little microbeads popping on your face as you apply it… and then your skin really starts to burn. I think the idea is that people will be more worried about the appearance of blisters than fine lines.

It’s great to know I’m worth it.

Wheelchair It’s a Knockout Dodgem Smackdown
I went to the shopping centre over lunchtime. While I was there, I was amused to see a rather interesting stand-off between three motorised invalid scooters and a wheelchair. They’d somehow come together and got themeselves entangled. None of them were backing down though; there was NO WAY any of them was going to engage reverse: “I’m disabled you know!” were their cries of protest. “I’m older and I’m not motorised!”, “Mine’s a bariatric scooter – I’ll kick your arse with this baby!”

A congestion charge for wheeled-users of public areas? Bring it on!

Eating
Cynthia was eating her lunch when I went into the kitchen to reconstitute my Cup-a-Soup. She was loitering near the sink so I couldn’t avoid her as she ate what smelled like fish paste from a little glass jar by maniacally scraping a spoon – even after she had finished. I was also given the pleasure of her talking while she was eating; she was interrogating me about Canada and smacking her lips. I hate hearing the sound of people eating, it really does drive me mad.

Ozzy Osbourne
I used to really be in to Ozzy Osbourne and Black Sabbath when I was a youngster. I enjoyed being in a very black mood – or at least looking like I was. Diary of a Madman was one of Ozzy’s finest albums; I played it to death.