Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men
So this is the final entry of the Sniffy Advent, thank fuck. Having spent the previous 23 days revealing my Christmas experiences, and things I love and despise about this time of year, The Twentyfourth Day of the Sniffy Advent shall reveal what Christmas means to me…

I am an atheist: I just don’t believe in a god or feel the need for the presence of a higher spiritual being. I have the utmost respect and some degree of envy for those people with faith, although I feel that organised religion the world over has a lot to answer for. But that’s people for you.

I was born and brought up in a Christian country and grew up with Western Christian traditions and I think I’m thankful about that. I celebrate Christmas mainly because it is something that I was brought up with and it’s something that I enjoy. But I also believe that birth of the man called Jesus, who the Christians believe to be their Saviour, is something of note and something worth celebrating.

All religious writings can be twisted and skewed to benefit the power-hungry or the crazed (check these misery-arses out), but the basic message of Jesus that has been passed down over these two millennia is a good one. For a man to have such an impact is pretty special, so hats off and three cheers to the Baby Jesus!

Please, Sir, can I have some more?
It seems fitting that I’ve reserved this particular Dickensianesque tale of Christmas woe for today, the day of Base 2a’s official Christmas meal.

Yes, on a day where most people go in for a couple of hours in the morning then fuck off home (or have already finished for Christmas), we’re having our Christmas lunch. I wouldn’t have bothered, but I’d have had to have taken a day’s holiday otherwise.

So what’s so bad about it? Well let’s go back in time to my first Christmas here…

It was 22nd December, 2001 and I was loving my job, which I’d only started 6 months previously. The people here were OK, if a little strange, and I was looking forward to my Christmas lunch with them before heading up north for a weekend with my friends.

As usual, I’d got here at about 8am – at least an hour before any other fucker turned up – and the morning was spent with people in high spirits, listening to Christmas music and having a laugh. All the ladies were wearing their best glittery and sequined party clobber, flashing earings, tinsley deeley boppers that played music. How charming, how retarded, I thought.

We descended to one of the seminar rooms at 12.30, where we sat down for lunch. I managed to sit next to Ian, who was a good laugh, despite being a miserable bastard. We tucked into our turkey dinner (Ian had a veggie option) and the ladies got a bit merry on half a glass of cheap plonk, the Christmas music played in the background and the odd bad joke was told as the crackers were pulled apart.

As I talked to Ian, I had a look at his plate. I wondered what the strange-looking thing in his sprouts was; he separated it from the greenery for further analysis. It was a baby snail. Fantastic. Of all the people who could’ve got that, it had to be him. Oh how I laughed. He didn’t.

So the wine flowed… well, the two bottles between the ten or so drinkers were emptied… and the ladies got silly. Linking arms, they danced around and sang along to the Christmas music. What a wonderful atmosphere. There was the not-so secret Santa gift exchange too – lots of toiletries in fake wicker baskets were passed around. Everybody was pleased. I can’t remember what shit I was given.

Fuck me, I was dying there, but as 2pm approached, I was getting exciting about finishing and going to spend time with my friends.

With the plates cleared away, we made it back to our offices. I shut down my PC while the others continued their revellry and polished off the chocolates. At 2.30pm, I’d done my work for 2001, so I said my goodbyes and headed for the motorway, leaving the rest of them to finish up whatever they were doing.

On my return here after Christmas, I was approached by Trunchbowl (sorry, Trunchbull) from the library, she was holding my timesheet: “You took some time off and you haven’t put it down on your timesheet.”

“Y’what?”

“The day we finished for Christmas, you finished early, have you got any lieu time to take?”

“So, despite the fact that I get here an hour before everyone else, and I have to travel 30 miles to get here anyway, and it was Christmas, and my real line manager had already wished me Merry Christmas and told me to go home, and the fact that nobody was actually doing anything except acting the goat and eating chocolates. Despite all this, I need to take holiday for those two hours when the rest of you were pissed and dancing around the offices?”

“Yes.”

Cunt.

So today is our Christmas do. They leave it till the very last day possible before Christmas and it’s not the done thing not to come. So here I am. On a day when the ladies are dressed in their party best, I look like I’ve just walked off a building site: jeans, Docs, jumper. I have my camera and there may be photos later.

Two hours to go, I can’t wait!

Post “do” fatigue
Well, I got out of there in one piece.

Today’s do didn’t start until 1pm – Trunchbull had agreed to put back the start time so somebody could come late (nothing to do with her wanting to ensure that we were there at least an hour later than usual).

We had the “Dancecraze” DVD to keep us occupied until then. This is a DVD that’s supposed to show people the steps to famous “formation dancing” songs, like the Macarena, YMCA and the like. Check this out:

Don’t tell her heart

Achy breaky

I’m sure those girls have made several appearances in other DVDs too, only not the sort that you’d show at a Christmas do.

The food was finished by 1.40pm, then it was time to exchange gifts. Not too bad; a hamper of Italian-style snacky things (and some booze that I can give to somebody else). And just when I thought it was time to escape… Bingo! Yep, they had us playing two rounds of bingo. Christ.

I managed to get out of there by about 3.15pm, by which time, the traffic on the motorway had started to build up. Thanksverymuch.

I have just ordered a legitimate copy of Office XP.

After years of using not-exactly-legal software, this will mean that my home PC has legitimate copies of all the software that I use.

What does this mean for me? What have I become?

Let’s face it, there’s no way on earth I’d have ordered it a its real price (something in excess of £200). However, Microsoft have this home use programme whereby certain people who use their products at work, can buy the same stuff for home use at a HUGE discount. They seem to have done a deal with the NHS and this means that I’ve just ordered it for £17.

It appears that working for the NHS does have its advantages afterall.

But there are many disadvantages, one of which that seems to have paralysed the NHS’s human resources function (and workforce) for the past 18 months is something called “Agenda for Change”. This is supposed to be a fair and transparent way of working out how much people should be paid and documenting what they need to do and what skills people need to perform their jobs. It’s a load of bollocks that is basically a cost-cutting excercise whereby anybody in a non-clinical role is downgraded.

The people here were graded a couple of weeks ago, clearly not their satisfaction, since the conversation for the first three hours of every single day revolves around agenda for change. “We do this, we do that, we’re dead busy”. Obviously very busy if you can take half a day to constantly moan on about this and then kick off again the following day, and the one after that.

Of course, it’s all a big conspiracy that’s been led by the Evil Empire at the main hospital of the Trust, Base 2b. Nothing to do with the fact that the entire system is totally shambolic and that everyone in the NHS is being shafted by the government – again.

Toga!
Those fucking bastardswho stole Toga the penguin chick from a zoo want their fucking heads ripping off, preferably by a tiger. Toga was too young to be separated from its mother and needed a special diet. Its parents have been pining for it since its theft at the weekend and now it appears its body may have turned up in a carrier bag.

Why would anybody do that?

Fucking bastards. I hope they endure very slow and painful deaths. I generally hate people, and much prefer animals and it gets me so upset and angry when I hear about this sort of thing.

When I win the lottery, I’m going to set up and run a sanctury for abused animals. I will also fund a programme of work to hire assassins to kill any fucker who is found guilty of animal cruelty. It won’t be a quick death. I will, of course, burn their houses down too.

Some good new though. I was very pleased to learn of the mugger in South Africa who hid in a zoo’s tiger compound to evade capture from police. He was mauled to death instead.

Hooray!

Merry Christmas and God bless us, everyone!

What day is it?
One of the fantastic things about Christmas time is the way that all sense of time between Christmas Eve and New Year’s Day is completely lost; you have no idea what day of the week you’re on and, more importantly, it doesn’t really matter.

In days gone by, I’d know what day it was by what page we were on in the fortnight’s TV listings magazine. “Oh look, today is French and Saunders day. Tomorrow is Sound of Music day.” Why would anything else matter? You could tell that New Year (which I hate) was approaching, and that Christmas was really over, when the telly started to get really boring again.

I’m going down to Norfolk the day after Boxing Day (26th). I’ve no idea what day of the week this is, and I don’t really care. The only day I need to worry about from Friday onwards is the 9th of January. I know that this is a Monday because this is the day that I go back to work after my break.

Ah, that loss of sense of time is so childish and so very wonderful.

How to ruin Christmas
Short of going round to somebody’s house on Christmas Day and shitting on the dinner table, one sure fire way of guaranteeing that you ruin my Christmas is to show willful neglect in the preparation of the turkey. And what I mean by this is the use of the wrong sort of bacon for coating the skin of the bird.

Mother and Father are weird creatures; they splash out on certain things and get cheapo crap for other stuff. They shop at the whole range of stores: Aldi; Lidl; Kwik Save; Netto; Morrison’s;Tesco; Costco; plus local stores and markets. This is probably quite a sensible way of doing things when you think about it.

Today, they brought home the turkey, a free range beast weighing it at nearly 5kg. At a cost of £20, this is probably quite good VFM, but it’s a fresh bird and you’d like to think it had a better life than some of the poor beasts that are being slaughtered at this time of year. “I used to weep in butcher’s shops”.

So, the turkey should be pretty decent and anyway, I don’t think Mum’s ever cooked one badly, but the flavour might be a bit better. Blah, blah, blah…

Having spent £20 on the turkey, you’d think they’d go out to Tesco and get a decent bit of bacon to cover the thing with before it gets confined to the oven. No. Not Mother and Father. No, they get the cheapest shite bacon they can get their hands on; something that costs about 20p/lb from Kwik Save. One year, and this is why you’d think they’d have learned their lesson, they got some cheapo shite that hadn’t even been sliced. It was just some water-loaded, inch-thick, crappy bit of something that was as much use as a chocolate teapot.

I am very concerned at what I’ve seen in the fridge today: “Lifestyle Value Pack unsmoked rindless back bacon”, 87% pork loin (and fat). That means that at least 12% of it is water.

Very concerned.

I might nip to Tesco and get some proper stuff.

A lesson in speaking Jamaican
It is impossible to say “beer can” without sounding like a Jamaican who is saying “bacon”. Try it.

Oh bollocks, I’ve been tagged for something by Piggy.

1. Four jobs you have had in your life:

Quality assurance chemist – in a factory that makes huge batteries for things like submarines, electric buses, aeroplanes and the like. It was a summer job that I had for two years while I was at university. The pay was really good compared to some other jobs and I actually enjoyed it.

Research technician/associate – Yes, I’m a scientist and after finishing my PhD, I worked in research for about 6 years. I worked on a number of projects that looked at how reproductive hormones change during normal physiological cycles and also in a number of conditions (women’s troubles). This was good fun for some of it (Manchester) and really quite dreary and depressing for other bits (Sheffield).

Research facilitator – After realising that I was crap at doing research, I decided that I was best suited to telling other people how to do it. Specifically, I work in the healthcare sector and deal with hospital and univerisity staff who want to do research (poor, misguided fools).

2. Four movies you could watch over and over:
Sound of music
Kill Bill (1&2)
Beaches
The Shining

3. Four places you’ve lived:
Salford (shithole)
Leeds (loved it there, even though I lived in a student shithole)
Coventry (not brilliant, but a brilliant curry house – Royal Bengal – in Earlsdon)
Sheffield (dump)

4. Four TV shows you love to watch:
Don’t really watch telly, but
Little Britain (hilarious at first, but has gone off spectacularly)
The League of Gentlemen (much better than Little Britain)
The L Word
Spaced (old now, but brilliant)

5. Four places you’ve been on vacation:
Rimini, Italy (where my dad’s sisters are)
North Wales
Cornwall (wet)
Rome (fab)

6. Four websites you visit daily:
1. Angry Chimp
2. BBC News
3. Yahoo mail
4. Blogs

7. Four places you’d rather be right now:
In bed, asleep
In a morgue, dead
In Chorley, tucked up in bed
In Norfolk, fuelling my Prader Willi syndrome

8. Four bloggers you are tagging:
Anyone who can be bothered.

You’d better watch out…
I figure it’s time I paid tribute to this feller:

This is a depiction of St Nicholas of Myra, who was born during the third century in Patara, a village in what is now Turkey. His wealthy parents, who raised him to be a devout Christian, died in an epidemic while Nicholas was still young. Obeying Jesus’ words to “sell what you own and give the money to the poor,” Nicholas used his whole inheritance to assist the needy, the sick, and the suffering. He dedicated his life to serving God and was made Bishop of Myra while still a young man. Bishop Nicholas became known throughout the land for his generosity to the those in need, his love for children, and his concern for sailors and ships.

Through the centuries many stories and legends have been told of St. Nicholas’ life and deeds. These accounts help us understand his extraordinary character and why he is so beloved and revered as protector and helper of those in need.

One story tells of a poor man with three daughters. In those days a young woman’s father had to offer prospective husbands something of value—a dowry. The larger the dowry, the better the chance that a young woman would find a good husband. Without a dowry, a woman was unlikely to marry. This poor man’s daughters, without dowries, were therefore destined to be sold into slavery. Mysteriously, on three different occasions, a bag of gold appeared in their home-providing the needed dowries. The bags of gold, tossed through an open window, are said to have landed in stockings or shoes left before the fire to dry. This led to the custom of children hanging stockings or putting out shoes, eagerly awaiting gifts from Saint Nicholas. Sometimes the story is told with gold balls instead of bags of gold. That is why three gold balls, sometimes represented as oranges, are one of the symbols for St. Nicholas. And so St. Nicholas is a gift-giver.

You’d better not cry…
So it’s time we started to behave ourselves in the run up to the big day.

Of course, I’ve been an angel all year. I’ve not had a bad, bitter, vindictive, nasty, or hateful thought about anybody for the entire year, not even my fucking shitting bastard sponging neighbours. It’s obvious that I deserve literally millions of presents from loved ones, and any acquaintances who happen to want to join my circle of friends. Of course, supplying me with lavish gifts carries no guarantee of entry into my exclusive circle, but all applications will be considered with due care.

You’d better not shout…
In all honesty, I find more fun and satisfaction in buying gifts for others, although I clearly won’t be refusing any offerings that come my way. But saying that, my imagination (what there was of it) for interesting and novel gifts is now officially drained and I’m resorting to that good old standby: alcohol.

I went to Sainsbury’s earlier and I stood in wine aisles, perplexed by the varieties that were on offer. Having not drunk alcohol in nearly six years, I really can’t remember what is nice and what isn’t. As I stood there, my head was swimming and the taste of zinfandel started to rise in my throat. Either it was a flashback, or I drank so much that there’s still some in my system.

I’m telling you why…
Anyway, not really knowing what I was doing, and overcome with a compelling desire to get the fuck out of there as quickly as possible, I reckoned that those bottles hovering between £8 and £13 would be pretty OK. Even I can remember that Chardonnay and Barolo are pretty decent, so I went for three: a Penfold’s Chardonnay; Sainsbury’s special selection Barolo and a Cecchi something from Montepulciano.

Santa Claus is coming to town!
So, I took three bottles of wine to the till, which should’ve totalled about £30, but was only charged for two. Kerchingtastic! That never fucking happened when I was knocking back a bottle a night. Fuckers.

This time next week…
It’ll all be over. In a week’s time, yet another Christmas will have passed. Another will be confined to memory, along with all the others.

Up until then, though, there’s still stuff to do.

1. Ice cake – check!
2. Lose 2st in weight – some fucking chance.
3. Write Christmas cards – I can’t be arsed, do I have to?
4. Buy some crappy presents for people I forgot about – bollocks.
5. Take Mother to Trafford fucking Centre because she hasn’t bought her presents yet – for fuck’s sake!
6. Buy stuff for Boxing Day running buffet – it’s a fine line this one, what with the expected panic buying for sausage rolls, cocktail sausages, bread rolls, pork pies and vol au vents that will no doubt occur one day this week. But without adequate freezer space for storage of all the perishables, when should this be done? Bugger!

So yes, the cake has been iced and a suitably festive snow-scene is now dancing on its surface. The icing did not go without argument with Connie: “You only need marzipan on the top.”

“But I put it round the sides last year.”

“Oh well, I don’t know.”

“But I’m telling you, I put it on the sides as well.”

“Well, I never did when I was allowed to make the cake, in my own home!”

“You ALWAYS put marzipan round the sides as well.”

“Oh well, I don’t know.”

“For fuck’s sake!”

“What did you say?”

“Nothing, Mother, do what you like. Yes, Mrs Levinson...”

So the cake only had marzipan on its top. I knew this would spell disaster. Well it wasn’t a disaster, but the icing was soooo thick that it kind of started to pull bits of the cake away and crumbs were getting mixed in with my lovely white royal icing. Of course, being a sensible grown up, I let Mum take over: “Oh you’ve fucking RUINED it! You and your Marzipan only on top stupid ideas. It looks like there’s reindeer droppings there now.” Stomp, stomp, stomp.

But it looks OK, I suppose, or it will once we get a ribbon round the sides to hide the huge gaps in the icing.

Making icing is a doddle and it leaves you with a broken whisk and a reggyoke. What to do with a spare egg yoke? Make zabaglione of course! This is like an Italian custard that contains lashings of Marsala wine. Of course, I couldn’t have any, but Dad really appreciated my slaving with a whisk over a steaming bain marie for half an hour:

“It’s too sweet”.

“Oh fuck you then, you miserable bastard!”

The Sniffy Christmas – Keeping it real.

Happy birthday to you!
The religious festival of Christmas celebrates the birth of Jesus Christ our saviour a little over 2000 years ago. It coincides with the old Pagan mid-winter festival of Yule and I think this has something to do with the Romans keeping people happy. Something like that anyway.

So the Pagans are celebrating Yule and the Christians are celebrating the birth of our saviour the Lord Jesus Christ.

How selfish is it for people get pregnant at the end of March and hijack Little Baby Jesus’s birthday celebrations with those of their own offspring?

I know people with birthdays on: 17th, 18th, 26th and 27th December. This means that I have to buy both birthday and Christmas presents for them and it’s almost impossible to buy birthday cards from October onwards, what with the shops being 100% devoted to Christmas from August onwards.

People whose birthdays fall within a week or so either side of the 25th of December should be given the option to change their birthday to a more sensible date; it doesn’t do them any favours having their birthdays diluted by other celebrations either.

Of course, the fault lies solely with the selfish parents (as fucking usual): if people had a little more control over their sex drives, they’d be able to hold off and not create this dilemma in the first place. Something is sadly lacking in sex education and life skills classes in our schools.

“Merry birthday! I only got you the one present, I hope you don’t mind.”

I don’t often get the opportunity to say thanks to those readers who don’t comment here, but who send complimentary e-mails. So a big thank you to everyone who has done so and all who have taken the time to comment here too.

I’m not going to mention any names, but these e-mails came through over the past couple of days and they really made me laugh so I thought they deserved a mention. Hope the senders don’t mind.

Thank you!

1. I’d prefer to be milder mannered but people are such utter fuckwits who get right on my tits that I can’t help myself. So no, being irascible is no effort at all.
2. Thirty five with a very good bra.
3. I’m really rather queer, yes. Although I do prefer saying that I’m gay or queer rather than I’m a lesbian or dyke. I’m just me and I happen to be gay; it’s probably the least important thing about me.

And another one:

Heya!

I just thought I’d drop an e-mail and stop lurking – this is genuinely one of the best blogs around! And now I’m part of a horde… chuffing ace. I think.

Keep it up! And yes, why the hell should we put ourselves out for someone who *willingly* creates their own germ factories, snot-ridden vermin that they are…. erm, end of rant!

I actually thought this one was spam till I read it a few times and then when I realised it was for real, it really warmed me.

Brrrrrrrr
Talking of warming me, I took myself up my favourite hill this afternoon – accompanied by my darling sister because I love nothing more than incessant whinging while I’m trying to be at peace. Jesus, she doesn’t half go on. I’d told her not to bother if she wasn’t particularly keen on the idea, but she came and went strolling off ahead of me, then just sat around while I wandered off looking for a moon that didn’t arrive. I suppose I can give her the concession that she was in pain due to a recently dislocated shoulder (shame it wasn’t her fucking neck!) and that she’s generally a miserable and ratty cunt.

But anyway, it was fucking freezing up there and I could’ve done with a flask of coffee to keep me warm. And why does your nose drip when you’re cold? I don’t get that.

Here are some photos:

Manchester skyline

Anna at the Peel Monument

Gee-gees

Icy bog water

North Wales hills

Cardboard cutout gee-gees

Whatever I said, whatever I did, I didn’t mean it…
I don’t know why, but I fancied the idea of going to see Take That on their reunion tour next summer. I was never a huge fan of theirs when they were at their peak ten or so years ago, but their music was OK. I obviously wasn’t that bothered because I forgot to phone the ticket hotline when the tickets for an extra date went on sale yesterday morning. I thought I’d missed my chance, but it transpires that my sister, who I love dearly, is going with some friends and they have an extra ticket, which now has my name on it.