I had to go to London yesterday to attend an afternoon meeting at short notice. Travel was arranged through work and my train tickets were waiting for me when I arrived in the office in the morning. Imagine my delight when I saw this:

Yes, that’s a FIRST class ticket to London. Me! In first class, away from the plebs. Oh yes, this is more like it, things are looking up. Until I got to my seat…. it faced backwards all the fucking journey. And then if that wasn’t bad enough, I got fed all the way there: coffee; water; croissants; bacon toastie; more coffee; more croissants. By the time I reached Euston, I was covered in greasy crumbs and I felt a bit sick.

Still I suppose the first class ticket was a sort of sweetener to soften me up, since they all know that I hate: a) deputising for people in meetings; b) London; c) public transport – especially trains.

On reaching Euston, I had to negotiate the Underground. I was a bit scared of this because I didn’t really know what I was doing and there never seems to be anybody to ask; everybody always seems in such a rush in railway stations. There are never any police men because they’re generally practising shooting the faces off innocent immigrant workers. The rest of the workforce in the stations tend to be immigrants who possibly don’t speak English too well and wouldn’t have a hope of understanding a strong northern accent. Oh we provincial types must be such a hoot to watch for the natives!

Anyway, the underground is a doddle and I don’t know what I was worried about. It’s quite spooky the way the train’s arrival is announced a few seconds beforehand by a blast of warm air up the tunnel. Woosh!

So I got to my meeting and didn’t really say anything, but looked good in my suit. Got back to Euston and fished my going home ticket out and, to my horror, saw this:

Yes, that’s a standard class ticket! That’s right, they soft-soap you so you on the way down there so you don’t kick off in the meeting or just fuck about doing shopping, but they know you’ll be so desperate to get home that you’d accept a ticket in a livestock transporter just to get out of there. Cheap bastards. Saying that though, the going home ticket was well expensive compared to the going there ticket.

In all honesty, there’s not much difference between the two and it’s not really my idea of “first class” to find myself in an It’s a knockout-type challenge as I try to drink coffee or eat pastries on a tilting train that’s doing fuck knows how many miles an hour. Tilting trains eh? Whatever next?

People I saw
I was pleased to note a couple of people who were sat in the first class carriage with standard tickets.

And then the Inspector lady was nice to me as she tried four times to get me to show her the right ticket for my journey home. They all looked the same and it’s a good job I hadn’t slung the one she wanted because it was actually the underground ticket for getting to Euston from Victoria. Phew.

This chap had interesting eyebrows. I liked him.

There was a woman across the aisle from me on the way home. She appeared to be a member of the Sisterhood, but she wore her trousers with one of the legs rolled up. I found this very strange. She also used her Blackberry a lot and picked her nose and ate it. I think she worked for the TUC, so I wouldn’t put it past/passed her.

Mobiles on trains
It was weird that I had no problem with mobile phone reception on the way down, but hardly had any reception on the way home. Do first class carriages have signal boosters?

One of my favourite games on public transport is “Bluetooth stalking”. You just ask your mobile phone or other bluetooth device to search for other devices. I found three on my quick search yesterday. I quite like the names people give their devices too and was particularly fond of “Crumple”.

I wrote this post ages ago, but my PC crashed before I had chance to click “post”. The original was much better and included the story of the two people having sex near the toilet when I went for a wee. And pulling your trousers up on a tilting train is really difficult.

I admit it, I’m a bit of a potty mouth.

What started off as a bit of a joke has become a really bad habit and now I can’t put a sentence together without including expletives. I really do need my mouth washing out with soap and water.

I was in Norfolkland over the weekend and I used my toothbrush that lives with my friends. People who know me will verify this; I have toothbrushes all over the country. It just saves me worrying about packing mine the night before I’m due to set off to visit my friends. Plus, there’s nothing worse than transporting a soggy toothbrush – well there is, but you know what I mean.

While I’m not there, my toothbrush lives in a drawer in one of the spare bedrooms. This is the same drawer that Cath’s mum stores her own special brand of 20p a bottle purple shower gel (supermarket own brand purple shower gel has got to be the foulest smelling shite on the planet – apart from shite). Cath’s mum brings her own shower gel because the Calvin Klein stuff clearly wasn’t good enough. Then again, she takes her own food too. ANYWAY. Imagine my delight to find late on Friday night that my toothbrush had been sat in a puddle of foul-smelling cheapo purple shower gel! No amount of rinsing could get rid of that stuff brushing my teeth brought back memories of a childhood incident when I mistakenly used my dad’s shaving cream because it was in a tube that was the same shape as the toothpaste tube.

Yeeeeuch.

I’ve known my friends in Norfolk for a long time and I also know parents and things. They’re just parents and families the same as anybody else’s. Except Cath’s mum is a bit odd at times. There was an incident on my birthday last year when we came to blows over a game of Trivial Pursuit that she’d insisted on us playing because she thought she could beat win against three people who have 7 degrees between them. HAH! Anyway, she got a cob on when I wouldn’t allow her to sing the theme tune to Chariot’s of Fire in lieu of answering the question “Vangelis won the oscar for the theme tune to which record-breaking oscar-winning film about running and that?” And what REALLY pissed me off was when I said “I don’t know” when I didn’t know the answer to a question, was the way in which she insisted on pressing me and trying to give me clues. “I DON’T FUCKING KNOW!!!!”

She also calls the baby “My lickle pwincess”. Pwincess. Deary me.

Mental.

Grief
I can’t believe I’m getting grief for not posting every day from some folk who don’t even bother on a weekly basis! With all due respect, arse off. I am trying my best, but the problem is that I’m quite happy at the moment and so I’m tending to see the world in a new light. This is making it difficult to find annoying things to lay into here. Parents are always fair game, but there’s only so far you go with them.

I tell you what is REALLY annoying though: traffic information on the car radio; I’m sure I’ve had a gripe about this before. Why is it that you get regular interruptions to the CD you’re listening to with travel bulletins from cities up to 40 miles away when you’re pootling about on clear roads in the evenings or weekends, but when you’re stuck in real traffic trouble, there’s no information to be found anywhere? You never EVER get warnings or information about trouble that affects your journey. Useless fucking waste of time.

Hot
It’s going to be a scorcher today – up to 25°C they reckon. I can’t wait to hear the fuss from Posh Scouse. Can’t wait to see the get-up she arrives in. She’s here: capped-sleeved white t-shirt; below the knee denim skirt; flip flops (bare feet). I hate that noise, that sort of slurp-slap of foot on plastic.

Brilliant!
Here at Base 2, we’ve now been given notices to put above electrical appliances such as toasters and microwaves. Risk assessments must also be conducted in all rooms where such appliances are situated. Is it just me, or does this seem like a total waste of somebody’s time?

I can’t believe that they’ve botched together this shite and couldn’t even be bothered to check the spelling.

Health and safety and risk management people must surely live in a state of total paranoia and near panic in their homes. Do they conduct risk assessments for the layout of their rooms, for each task they perform, or do they use common sense like the rest of us?

I decided to get a bit arty farty with my camera when I was down in Norfolk. I’m hoping this isn’t the best I can do…

*

*Yes, if you look in the reflection in the window, you’ll see a sat nav controller. Hrrrm, the best thing about it was the way it gave you the turning warning beep just as you passed the turning and the way the woman said “when it is safe to do so, do a u-turn”. It also had us going round in circles at one point and took us the longest, most convoluted route to our destination, but apart from that, I can see the appeal.

The cherry blossoms are a delight at the moment, as are the magnolias. Such beatuiful flowers. The trees work for eleven months to produce their display of blooms and when they arrive, we marvel at the perfection of the flowers. Then the wind comes and blows the fuckers to kingdom come!

The baby is now nearly a year old and she is a demon crawler – frighteningly fast at pursuing feline playmates and people with cameras. She is also a very messy eater. I don’t know how her parents cope and I think they should consider foster care at weekends, or at least mealtimes. Somebody could start a meals on wheels service for busy parents. I’d just cut out the middle man and smear chewed up bread, cheese, fruit and god knows what else all over the house before fucking off with a fat cheque in my hand. Dirty little buggers.

It was OK in Norfolk though and I managed not to get bird flu, although I do have a tickly cough, so there’s time yet. One my last views on leaving my friends’ was of a sparrowhawk devouring a pigeon (something with white/grey feathers). That scene of carnage will stick with me for some time. Those friggin’ birds ARE dangerous. Still, that’s one less thick fucker of a pigeon to worry about. Stupid bloody creatures. In fact, that particular house was witness to two horrific murders today as the entire house (except me) was woken in the early hours by the cat dragging a baby rabbit in through the cat flap and murdering it in the kitchen. Little bitch.

Receptions
The weekend was not conducive to text message exchanges or snatched conversations with distant loved ones. The mobile phone reception there is appalling and, despite loving my new phone, it is the worst one I’ve had for coping with a poor signal. I’m sure my friends do it on purpose: every single house they buy has the shittest mobile phone reception. Or perhaps I’m just with the shittest mobile phone network. Hrrrrm.

Redemptions
I am now being given strong hints to wrap this up by Bomb. She has somehow managed to tear her cornea and so cannot see very well and is unable to drive. I have agreed to give her a lift to her house. She’s been sleeping in my bed. She hasn’t made my bed to my standards. This really pisses me off and she knows it, but instead of saying “Oh, ever so sorry, I was in a rush before but I’ll got and do it properly now”, I just get a load of fucking abuse.

The clouds are rolling in and we’re heading for a grey and wet (not in a nice way) bank holiday. Bah. Despite the temperature struggling to get into the mid-teens, there are some truly horrendous sites on the streets and concrete shopping precincts of northern England. People in vests and with their legs and toes showing. Jesus.

I have been deserted! So, in spite of the weather, I’m taking advantage of the long weekend and I’m off to Norfolkland later to see if I can contract bird flu from that chicken farm. I’ll let you know how I get on.

Do wood pigeons get bird flu? I fucking hope so. Stupid bloody creatures. They can’t even walk without having to move their heads.

Oh, the sun’s come out again, I must undress to a indecent state and prop my sunglasses on top of my head! QUICK!!! Open all the windows, it’s too hot!

Aresholes. Should move them to somewhere properly hot (like Delhi).

Torture
I might see if I can make a recording of a particular person to post on here. How do I make this thing work? Hrrm, it’s a pity she’s concentrating and is engaged in conversation with only herself, rather than the rest of the people in the 1km radius of the building. She’s “tiddly-pomping” though – perhaps she’s been to choir practice recently and is having flashbacks. Plaid A-line skirt (above the knee!), short-sleeved white blouse, pink tank top, glasses (those ones that make your eyes look HUGE) on a string around her neck.

Their PC died last week. It’s not a great problem because everything is stored on the server and you just get a replacement PC, log on, and all is fine with the world. Theirs was replaced with an exact same model, but she is constantly telling people who phone up that “I’ll get it off his ‘electronic’, but we’re using a spare computer and it’s very slow”. G-O-D!!!!! By “his electronic” she’s referring to her boss’s Outlook diary, as opposed to the paper diary, which she also insists on keeping just so as she can confuse people. “Hello, yes! Hiya – heh heh heh – yessssssss… I was just wondering whether, you see this is where it all gets rather confusing, whether you could check Mr Whatsisname’s electronic over at your end to see if it’s the same as the electronic at our end because it’s different in the paper diary. OOOOOOOOOOOOHHHH!! So his electronic is the same wherever you look at it??? Well, yes, yes, that’s right, that’s what I thought, well you see – PARADOXICALLY, it’s all rather worked out for the better then”.

I’ve just enlightened her with “ctrl c” and “ctrl v” because she “can’t find the copy and paste buttons on this stupid computer”. And now somebody else has made her day with the concept of right clicking. Jesus, I can’t believe that people are allowed anywhere near computers without basic training.

Fuck me.

Blog award
You know, some woman has won some blog award for being homeless and writing from inside her car. Well, perhaps if we all had that amount of free time and peace and quiet, we too might be able to write something worthy of a fucking award!


Subway
Does anybody know what shite goes into a Subway sandwich? I can’t believe they have the cheek to advertise themselves as fresh: shoving a load of highly processed shite into bread in front of a customer does not constitute fresh. And that stench that they pump on onto the streets should have them being taking to task by the environmental health. Dis-fuckin-gusting!

Hometime
Is it hometime yet?

Stereo vision is really good. You kind of get used to having two eyes from quite an early age. As a child, you do that thing where you open each of your eyes individually so as you can see the difference between the two fields of vision. You remark at the “Oooooh, intit weird, that?” feeling.

Anyway, I can’t see properly out of my right eye this morning. This is because a) I need new glasses, b) I’m too tired and it doesn’t want to focus yet , or c) a combination of the two.

New specs next month methinks. Watch this space.

Out
I was out with some lesbians last night. They were all telling me how it’s so obvious that I’m gay. That’s nice of them, it’s a bit like saying that it’s really obvious that I have curly hair, small feet and blue (red) eyes. There are plenty of things that I could point out to people, but I don’t because it would be impolite. I mean, I could quite easily say things like: “I knew within ten seconds of meeting you that you’re a total cunt”, but it’s not the done thing.

Animals in the road
On the journey here this morning, the motorway warning signs were telling us to slow down to 40mph because of animals in the road. All the motorists did too. I didn’t get to see which animals were in the road, or whether there were any that were soaking into the tarmac because I left the motorway before reaching the hazard, however, it occurred to me how compliant the motorists were. I’m not sure whether this was through shared concern about the welfare of the animals in question, or through fear of vehicle damaging through collision with a sheep, but I wondered whether the motorists’ willingness to slow down was dependent on the hazard? For example:

• “Slow down, FOG” – nobody slows down because fog doesn’t hurt if you hit it
• “Slow down, SPRAY” – go faster so you can get through the poor visibility and maybe even get your car washed
• “Slow down, ACCIDENT” – go faster to get to the scene and have a nosy before they clear up the carnage
• “Slow down, QUEUE” – go faster because you’re going to get held up when you reach the queue anyway

Fucking hell, it’s started
Just heard Posh Scouse having a chat with Mental Scouse about something that always rears its ugly head at this time of year – the ambient temperature reaching levels above 10°C. Posh Scouse has traumas about it being way too hot as soon as we approach May every bloody year. It starts as soon as she gets into the office in the morning and she lets her colleagues know about the which windows have been opened and other measures that have been taken in order to keep the air circulating in the stifling heat.

It’s freezing, for fuck’s sake!

She’s wearing flip-flops. FLIP-FLOPS! Jesus fucking Christ all fucking MIGHTY, get a grip!!!!

Another colleague has just rolled up with her sunglasses propped on top of her head. They’ll stay there all day while she’s sat at her desk. Why don’t they wear their sunglasses in winter when the sun is low in the sky? Is it part of the summer uniform, or a simply a fashion faux pas for the winter months?

Tossers.

I can’t do that with my sunglasses. My head is too big for a start, but they also get caught up in my hair. I think I’m still hosting the remnants of a pair that got lost in there a couple of years ago.

My guts have been rotten today. I’m having flashbacks to my Muller Vitality probiotic yoghurt addiction; a time when I felt constantly bloated, with my colon on the verge of exploding. My, those are tasty yoghurts and I love ’em…. but they don’t like me!

In fact, with the adverse effect those probiotic things had on me, it makes you wonder how the lying bastard advertising agencies have the gall to claim that they “make you feel healthy inside”. I’m sorry, but if you put a load of live bugs into your digestive system – one that’s already populated with plenty of its own – you’re bound to get some sort of fermentation thing going on. We all know that fermentation produced lots of gas and heat and when that’s mixed with the contents of your bowels, you get: EGGY PLAPPERS.

…and horrendous guts ache

…and bloatedness

Lying bastards. “Oh dear, Marjorie, you’re looking a little out of sorts today, whatever is wrong?”

“Well, Jean, I’m suffering from abdominal bloating – look!”

“Oh dear, yes you are. And here’s me thinking you were just a fat fucking crank! But have you tried these bug drinks and yoghurts?”

“No. Do they work?”

“Yes, they work wonders if you want to constantly feel like you’re about to shit your pants and you can’t move for fear of doing huge farts!”

When I’m being pursued downstairs at high speed by eager NHS employees, the employees in question are often nurses who are dashing to get to their shift with 30 seconds to spare. I, on the other hand, get to my desk 45 minutes early and so can pootle (daudle/dawdle) merrily along.

Nurses, they’re so hard done to. I’ve noticed that all the nurses in Base 1 are now wearing brand new fleece jackets, emblazoned with the organisation’s logo. I’m not sure, but I’m betting they get these free as part of their uniform (I could be wrong). Wouldn’t it be nice if the rest of the workforce got their clothes paid for as well? We essentially wear a “uniform” – clothes that are for work and no other purpose – yet we don’t get any allowance for this and we’re probably on comparable salaries to the nursing staff.

But anyway, the nurses do work hard – most of them: some of them are lazy twats who are always on sick or maternity leave and who just add to the stress of their colleagues. You get people like that across the professions, but the impact can be worse on nurses.

I love the workplace; it provides a means of social interaction, gossip, stimulation, productivity. Of course, the main stimulation comes from too much caffeine and the productivity is purely related to how much of your Christmas shopping you can do while using the free internet access. The past two days have been VERY boring because, had I wanted to do some work, I wouldn’t have been able to because the main server died and nobody could access any of their data. Two whole days lost. So much for storing all your data on the server.

But the time was filled with the usual office banter related to:

• My new relationship
• Colleagues who we dislike
• People leaving
• People on maternity leave
• People (women, never men) being off because their children are sick or are having a special assembly
• Shopping
• Fashion/handbags/shoes
• The next social event (and who to exclude from it)
• The order for the water fountain being delayed

The last point is one that gets right on my tits. There’s a bottled water dispenser in the kitchen and people don’t half go on when it runs out and the next delivery is delayed. I point out that there’s plenty of perfectly good water in the tap. I also point out that it’s a privilege and not a right and that coffee, tea, milk and MY POP isn’t provided free, so why should bottled water be?

Fucking whinging bastards.

And in this post I have, on Convict’s request, pointed out some of the reasons why the National Health Service is in a right old mess. Namely:

1. Wasting money on unnecessary workwear – fleece jackets for nurses? I can understand this sort of provision for people who need to work outdoors, but why provide coats for people who work indoors?
2. Workforce costs. Most of the expenditure in the NHS goes on the workforce. A lot of this is wasted on sick leave and recruitment costs after people leave because they’ve had enough. People are generally demotivated because they’ve been continually shafted by the system. Other are fed up of carrying their colleagues who are always fucking off to have babies, or taking time off to look after sick kids.
3. Lack of productivity due to lack of motivation – most of the people who work in the NHS have recently gone through a pay review (“Agenda for Change”) and a high proportion of those people have been well and truly shafted, right up to the fur. Why should they be productive when their salaries have been frozen? Why should people be productive when they find themselves shuffling meaningless bits of paperwork and jumping through hoops for politicians instead of doing the job that they want to do? How can you expect people to be productive when the infrastructure is vulnerable hardware failure? One bit of hardware dies and two servers are out of action for two days, but there’s no backup, so people can’t do their work. TSK!

So, next time you go to your hospital and get the treatment that you need (if you get it), just remember that the people involved in that are probably really, incredibly and completely fucked off.

And this has done nothing to alleviate my guilt for doing fuck all at work these past two days.

I park in a multistorey car park at Base 1. It’s a lovely car park – almost a joy to park there. Staff members have to park on the upper levels so this means that I either have to take the lift or the stairs to get out in the morning (and to return to my car in the afternoon). Only lazy cunts use the lift (esp to go down) so I always take the stairs.

How fucking annoying is it when you’re essentially being chased down the stairs by somebody going way too fast for 7.15am? It gets right on my tits. Stop fucking harrassing people who need to go at a particular and unwavering pace in order that they don’t get vertigo from the stripiness of the steps! It’s not as if I daudle, for goodness sake; I just descend the stairs at a normal pace that wouldn’t induce a nosebleed in your average curly-haired NHS employee.

Tossers.

And then you get harrassed as you drive out of the car park at the end of the day. Is it really necessary (or indeed wise) to drive over 40mph in a multistorey car park? Clearly if you drive a Jaguar and look like one of the extras from Prisoner Cell Block H. Stupid twat.

Some people are just maniacs.

Chester Zoo in pet blow-up dolls scandal!
Just look at the filth they’re peddling in the corner of the gift shop at “Zoological Gardens, Chester”. Dirty, dirty bastards.

Otto was shocked and appalled.

Ahhh, spring is well and truly sprung and all is good in Sniffyland. Well, nearly all is good, but it’s not worth bothering about the crap.

At the zoo
The problem with public places is that they attract members of the public, most of whom are utter shitforbrains, inbred, scumbags. There could’ve been no animals worth mention at the zoo yesterday, but I’d have still be fully entertained by the selection of lowlife that could somehow read a map and operate a car sufficiently to get themselves there.

As usual, the footpaths were overrun with chav mums and dads, pushing the hugest pushchairs, occupied by the ugliest, noisiest screaming little fucking whingebags on the planet. They walk three and four-abreast in order to ensure that they take up the entire width of the footpath; they look surpised and shocked when normal, proper people try to pass them without being forced onto the muddy grass verges. Fucking twats.

I was particularly thrilled when a group of teenagers and their pierced and scriking offspring stopped next to where we having our sarnies in order to smoke loads of fags and be really common.

There were some additional delightful examples of scumbag parenting in the beer garden of the pub where we’d hoped to find sanctuary from the whinging little bastards and their horrible parents (perhaps “breeders” is a more appropriate word).

Never mind, it was a lovely day out with Bomb and my girl-friend (makes me smile and go a bit funny to think about it).

What is there not to smile about?

Things I learned there:

• Bat poo is green and it gets everwhere
• You can get married at the zoo
• Termites are brilliant!

• Chimps are great

• Penguins are impossible to photograph underwater

• Lions are very lazy, as are jaguars

• Elephants seem quite happy

• Tigers get really annoyed with little kids who stand and growl at them

• Red pandas are smaller than I expected them to be and they never stop washing themselves

• There shouldn’t really be any zoos, animals should be left to live in their own natural environments. Unfortunately, if we did that, there’d be none of them left.

All in all, I had a lovely day out.

St George’s Day
It’s St George’s Day today – he’s the patron saint of England. Legend has it that George slayed a dragon or something. Anyway, to all you lot flying flags of St George and wearing roses, English flag deeley-boppers, England tops and shit? You look fucking ridiculous!

The English aren’t like the Scots, Irish and the Welsh, we don’t need to be all nationalistic like them, but this St George’s Day business is creeping in because of a perceived favouritism towards the smaller nations of the UK by the Scottish-dominated government.

Anyway, they were out in droves in Manchester as me and Jo had a wander about this afternoon. Nobheads.

It was sunny in town today. The sun makes you feel funny and you do stuff that perhaps you wouldn’t do normally. You end up finding yourself taking photos of the city…

I’ve decided that I love Base 2a again! After the despair of the firewall being reset and losing both Firefox AND Blogger access on the same day, today I find that they have come back to me. So here I am with a big fat YAY!

Things are looking up for Sniffy: I got my new phone yesterday and it looks OK – quite dinky, lots of features. Fair enough, it’s a bit toy-like and not as sturdy as some Nokias I’ve had, but IT’S A NOKIA and it means that I can finally get rid of the shiting awful Samsung.

Of course, when you get a new phone, you have to do all sorts of things like transfer your contacts from your old phone, change the settings so that it doesn’t default to Nokia Tune for the ringtone, that sort of thing. But this is usually a nice activity; it is essentially playtime with your new toy and you spend a bit of time messing about and having a few “Oooooh, look at that!” moments.

Of course my enjoyment was stopped dead in its tracks because I was dealing with the Samsung. But why? Well, there’s a slight problem in that you can’t copy the contacts from the phone to the SIM memory – an activity that would allow the transfer of contacts to the new phone by copying the SIM contacts to the new phone’s memory.

It just doesn’t allow it…

…..at all….

……under any circumstances.

I even tried screaming at it and it still wouldn’t do it. So what do you do instead?
You have to bluetooth each individual contact. I’ve just spent the last hour doing this. I am now well fucked off.

Fucking

Pile

of

SHITE

Lesson learnt: stick to Nokia. No doubt the new one will piss me off too, and ergonomically, the Samsung is nicer, but it is a shite to use and I can’t wait to be exorcised of it.

One good thing about the Samsung was the way the predictive text always gave you “bomb” when you keyed in “anna”.

Other stuff: going to the zoo
This time of year marks the start of Sniffy’s days out and I’m kicking off with the Zoo on Saturday. CAN’T WAIT!!!! Bomb is coming with me and my lovely love interest. They’ll be meeting for the first time. Love interest has already said how much she likes Bomb. Bomb may get left in the tiger enclosure if there’s any trouble.

Traffic
Even I am alarmed by my use of foul language when when people piss me off while I’m stuck in traffic. But not many of my outbursts actually make sense. It’d be quite good fun to ask foreign students of English to translate what I say. It’d be quite good fun to ask English-speaking people* to translate what I say because I haven’t got a friggin’ clue! All I know is that my mind goes sort of blank and I reach the end of my journey with a sore throat.

*I wonder if Vauxhall drivers know what is meant by: “USE YOUR FUCKING INDICATORS!” They’re all tossers**.

**There are some exceptions, but not many.

Typing
I don’t like listening to other people as they type, it irritates me. The worst type of typist is the type who really hammers the keys. Does my bloody head in, so it does. But what makes things even worse is when people wear bangles that bang on the desk as the hammer away at the keyboard. There is simply no need for this.

I’m loving my new phone. I will never forsake Nokia for another ever again!

Congratulations!
Many congratulations to Tom Cruise for his blatant abuse of his wife-to-be by his insistence on a crackpot Scientology birth for her (I doubt it’s his) child. Stupid fucker needs his head testing and she’s just as bad for having anything to do with the talentless, rat-faced dwarf.