Cakesniffers beware! Listening to readers: ignoring their suggestions
Not wanting to provide an insecure blogging experience, Cakesniffers (UK) Ltd. conducted a series of focus groups and brainstorming sessions with breakout groups in order to gauge feelings on how best to improve things.

Of course, content of Cakesniffers beware! was not up for discussion, but our stakeholders were allowed a free voice on many matters relating to it.

A consistent theme running through discussions was the problem of popup ads that readers encountered on visits to the popular blog. Another major concern (of April pissoff was spam comments and the attempt to stop them by the use of word verification.

Google Adsense has been deleted in an attempt to address the pop up problem. There will be an ongoing consultancy exercise and readers are asked to note whether they still experience problems of this nature. Cakesniffers Chief Exec, Tina, did point out that use of Google Toolbar (for Internet Explorer and also for Firefox) will cut out popups of this nature. However, it was recognised that the onus was rightfully on the publisher and so the chance of advertising revenue has been sacrificed in the interests of readers’ needs. Selfish fuckers.

Naughty, naughty, very naughty
Word verification has also been turned off after repeated requests (non-stop whinging) from the lovely April pissoff. Cakesniffers has gladly taken the opportunity to hand the spam over to April by changing the comment delivery e-mail address to hers.

No need to thank me April, you’re most welcome, it’s an absolute pleasure.

I’ll change it back on Friday if she behaves herself.

Sniffycam
Check the quality on this photo:

Yup, I done got meself a Sniffycam.

I’d like to thank Logitech for providing duff software with it. It only took me three attempts and a driver download to get the bloody thing working.

Now, if only I could figure out how to incorporate Sniffycam into my blog. Unfortunately, I’m too stupid for that sort of thing, so you’ll have to do without live images of me looking gormless and bored while I pick at imaginary spots on my neck and chin.

And no, I won’t be turning tricks in messenger either.

Back with more on-the-pulse current affairs later, but for now, I need a wee.

In this day and age – it being two thousand and five AD – why the hell is Times New Roman font still in existence? Hmmmm, hhhMMMM?????

I’ve always hated Times. This is mainly because I have difficulty reading it (I don’t know why this is, but it’s true) and it also looks completely shit.

What do I mean by “it looks completely shit”? Well, it’s too fussy.

Let’s have a look at something

Everything about Times New Roman makes it difficult to read.

Imagine my disappointment when, having reinstalled MS Office and that, all my Outlook e-mails started coming through in Times Bastard New Tossing Roman? I’ve tried eveything and it won’t change. I’m completely arsed off with it. I think it may have something to do with loading my existing Outlook data file, although Piggy would tell me not to worry my little girly head with that sort of stuff and he’d be right.

Hrrrm, wonder what would happen to my PC if I deleted Times from the font library. It’d probably trigger a chain of events that leads to a huge international conflict or something – it’s amazing how these things can sometimes start.

Bollocks, that’s all that can be said on that matter.

Aside from this, the new and improved Sniffy PC is, well, new and improved. It’s like having a new toy and everything.

Boring techno crap finished with.

Confessions of a domestic goddess
Moving on, some might write a post contemplating what it might be like to stay at home, using domestic appliances for sexual pleasure, but that would be rather crude. I can’t imagine anybody with any intelligence or sense of self-worth doing that sort of thing. Very degrading.

Confessions of an axe murderer
I’m saying absolutely nothing!

Confessions of a lawbreaker
Not me of course, but I happen to have gotten hold of some photographs that were taken on somebody’s way home from work today. They happen to travel the exact same journey as me and it also took them AN HOUR AND A FUCKING HALF to travel the 8 mile journey home.

Why is it that people drive like complete spazzes when it rains? Modern cars have good braking systems, decent fans to clear steamy windows, windscreen wipers, traction control – loads of things to make driving safer and easier. Yet people still completely lose all sense when there’s a bit of water around. Nobheads.

Confessions of a Mousesniffer
The male Mousesniffer sibling, Max, degraded himself the other night.

Happy was he,
Lay beside me
On his pillow.
Purring away as I tickled his chin, shoulder and ear,
He rolled over for more…

Tell you what, installing software (and hardware add on bits) onto a PC has got to be one of the most tedious tasks possible. If you do things properly, you have to shut down, restart, then shut down again after the installation of each new bit. It has something to do with a register apparently.

And when you’ve got a couple of firewalls on there too, each time a new component is installed, you get a friggin’ annoying pop up message that you don’t read and just click OK. It could be asking if you want to wipe your hard drive for all you know, but being close to losing the will to live, I really don’t care anymore.

Of course, I shouldn’t even be trying to think about this sort of thing, what with having my head filled with thoughts of fluffy little kittens and flowers and frilly dresses – there’s simply no room in there for all this techno mumbo jumbo. Piggy and Tazzy are right and us girls are best of leaving that sort of thing to the hairy hand brigade.

Anyway, it’s working and seems to be OK. Pain in the arse.

Fucking MSN music bastards though. Don’t know why I downloaded stuff from them, I’ve had to activate new licences for all the stuff I’ve bought from them and you’re only allowed to do this a limited number of times. Cocks.

Clad me in leather and sit me on that throbbing machine
I’m doing a charity motorbike ride for the sickly earth angels at the local Royal Manchester Earth Angel’s Hospital next month.

Don’t know how the hell I got roped into this, but I’ll be mixing with minor celebrities (Bev Callard, aka Liz MacDonald) from UK soap opera Coronation Street. It’ll also give me the opportunity to sit on a huge vibrator for about 15 miles while dressed as a, well, don’t know really, might even do fancy dress.

I’m going pillion of course, having never ridden one of these fucking death machines, but even this is very courageous of me. Motorbikes terrify the bloody life out of me.

Oh, and not forgetting that it’s all for the local earth angels who are poorly around Christmas. Still, at least in hospital, they’re not hanging round the fucking streets or in the shops, getting under proper people’s feet.

Bless them.

I can feel a Yes/No and a musical interlude coming on. Better than feeling my period coming on I suppose. But for now, I need some sleep.

At the gym, you see some horrid things. Today’s delight was a bloke wearing THIS type of thing:

You can’t see it from this picture, but his ever-so short shorts had vents in the sides so you could see hip and everything. Worse still, he was the hairiest beast on the fucking planet: there was thick, black hair crawling over the top of his vest (yes vest) and down the tops of his arms. I almost fell off the treadmill in disgust. Cover yourself up, you perve.

Why do people wear outfits like that? You look stupid enough when you’re using the machines of torture without wearing a costume that draws even more attention to you.

Shouldn’t be allowed.

Leave it in the locker
You don’t realise how much your clothes absorb cooking smells until they given the chance to fester in a confined space for an hour. Got back to my locker at the gym this afternoon and could have been mistaken for thinking that somebody was cooking a beef casserole in there. Silly me, it was my stinking manky top that had been oozing the aroma of last night’s tea.

Did I mention that I’d been the gym today?

Conical conundrums
Any ideas as to what this might belong to?

Let’s just say, I’m really very surprised to have been able to take this photo – this may or may not be a clue. Why the fuck would anybody be interested anyway, for fuck’s sake.

Fucking bastard cat

Moose Mousesniffer, sister of Max Mousesniffer had me having kittens this afternoon. She’d gone out for toilet this morning and, despite bad weather, nobody had seen sight nor sound of the little beastie since. Now, even though you generally get the most out of fireworks after dark, thicko bastard tosspots like to set them off right through the day too. It’s great to feel like you’re reliving the air raids day and night for two months of the year. Anyway, shortly after little Moose left for her comfort wander, the loudest fireworks imaginable started going off. Wankers. Worried for her nerves and safety, I tried to call her in, but there was no sign.

When she still hadn’t reappeared later on this afternoon, I had visions of her having a supersized rocket strapped to her and her being launched skywards, a ball of singed fur and flame. So I braved the elements as darkness began to fall; walking a circuit of the avenue and back alleys, round the nearby waste ground where a gang of hooded youths were gathered. I put my own hood up and scowled.

Calling her name, looking a complete dick and getting ever wetter, I walked the streets for half an hour and then returned home, Mooseless and sick to the stomach with worry. As I approached the door, I was met by a forlorn wailing and its perpetrator: Maisie Moo Mousesniffer. Little bitch was as dry as a bone; she’d been hiding under my sister’s car all the bloody time.

Fucker.

However, she’s safe and that’s the main thing. But I’m not sure she ever got her poo because she’s making some really loud “I need to go toilet” noises.

Piggy and Tazzy had a trip to Blackpool the other day. A journey from hell, culminating in a day from hell, that would have taken them past this on the motorway.

That’s right, this is the motorway that runs near to my house that I walk under to go playing out in the local woods.

Anyway, it’s not that interesting, but anything to induce flashbacks to ‘Pool in the Boys from Barnsley is a good thing.

Otto update
He’s no longer cursed by the sprites that dogged him yesterday, but he’s not quite right. You know how those people who claim that vaccinations gave their kids autistism? Well, it’s like that with the cat. He’s not right at all. If he doesn’t get back to normal I’ll have to get rid of him; he’s really boring at the moment. Just like me.

Going out with a bang
Need to think of something to post, must think of something to post! Fuck it. I’ll go the gym.

The English language is a wonderful thing to be proficient in. English is recognised the world over and it unites many different people.

However, take a look at the different types of English and you’ll soon come to realise that things aren’t as simple as they appear.

The differences between British and American English are well noted: the Americans generally being too stupid or lazy to be bothered to spell things properly, with an obsession for omitting Us and replacing Ss with Zs. It’s not just spelling though and we have different words for the same things: car parks; mobile phones; lifts; shopping centres; bonnets and boots, to name just a few.

It’s easy to seemingly pick on the Americans, simply because the most notable differences exist between British and American English. However, even within the UK, there are regional dialects that mean it’s often difficult to know what people are saying in certain parts of the country. Then again, you probably wouldn’t want to bother visiting such areas or conversing with the inhabitants anyway, so it doesn’t really matter.

Interlude: Norton is doing its weekly hard drive scan and it’s slowing things up to such an extent that as I’m typing, I’m seeing one character every 5 seconds. Time for a brew…

Anyway, one of the North Americans who endure this blog was interested in knowing more about the colloquialisms that I use. In other words, “Tina, your English is terrible, you use too much slang, please can you translate?”

Of course I can, although it’s difficult to recognise what’s slang from proper. If there’s any I miss out, let me know.

• Numpty (sl) n: I think it comes from “empty headed” and that’s exactly what it means, somebody who’s completely dim.
• Minger (sl) n: The g is hard in the pronunciation of this one. A person, usually a woman, who is very unattractive, not only in terms of looks, but in terms of dress, the way they act, everything.
• Mingin’ (sl) adj: When something is horrible, it is “minging”. This can be a food, or it can be used to describe how you feel about yourself or somebody who is “mingin'”, for example, if you feel manky after the gym or getting dirty somehow.
• Manky (sl) adj: Something a bit nasty in the sense of it being a bit grubby or grimy. Dirty, but not quite disgusting.
• Mither (sl) v, n: Fuss. Also: faff and fart.
• Librarian (sl) n: Gay woman.
• Slapper (sl) n: A promiscuous woman, often a minger.
• Fandabidozy (sl) adj: Excellent, fantastic!
• Fuckin’ delish (sl) adj: Fuckin’ delish!

Enough of that, I can’t think of any others.

Cryptic fare-thee-wells: Cakesniffer in offline horror?
My PC is getting a new hard drive and operating system installed over the weekend so there’s a possibility that it’ll be out of action for a bit. I’m not sure how easy it is to pick up the internet again when you upgrade your PC or whether I’ll have configuration problems and that.

And that
I ADORE the way Herge uses “and that” when compiling a list, constructing an argument and that. Makes me laugh every time I see it.

Messages from beyond the grave
Anybody got any messages for dearly departed Trillion? I’m seeing her on Sunday. Should I try to persuade her to start blogging again?

Current sounds
Una paloma bianca sung by Beniamino Gigli, lovely.

The Mystical Celtic Cross Stone (courtesy of Coldcoldearth
Ok Happy Bidding Bloggers. Auction starts at midnight. Good luck

eBay.co.uk: The Mystical Celtic Cross Stone (item 6223682975 end time 15-Nov-05 00:00:00 GMT)

And may it bring you all good luck

Otto…

…is on his way back from having his teeth sorted. Dirty little bastard has got the mankiest teeth on the planet and he won’t let us brush them, so an operation and £200 later, he should be OK for another few years till they go rotten again.

It’s always a concern when you can’t just pick your animal up from the vet and when vitnree insists on seeing the patient’s family. All sorts of things go through a worried owner’s mind: Did they do the wrong op and amputate a leg by mistake? Did they kill him? Have they found something (else) wrong with him?

I’ve just learnt that they gave poor little Otto a ketamine overdose and that he’s completely off his tits. His (remaining) pupil is totally dilated and so he’s suffering total sensory overload (on his left hand side anyway). Worse still, he’s got to stay indoors for at least two days. That’ll be fun, whingy little bugger that he is.

Stupid wankers.

Back later with stuff that’s not about cats or other stuff that sad wankers usually blog about.

OK, a quick edit so you can have a laugh at a trippy cat…

I’ve no idea what he thinks he can see, but he’s convinced there’s something running around in front of him

After wanting to start a vicious rumour* about my sister and her gay pal having a baby together when they buy their house together, things went slightly tits up. The sale of Anna’s house fell through (and hence everything else) because a delay in the eviction of a troublesome neighbour meant that the Anna’s buyer obviously didn’t want to complete if there was no firm date for getting rid of this neighbourhood nuisance (the neighbour, not Anna).

This is the culmination in a long series of unfortunate events suffered at the hands of the City Council and Anna and Gary lost their patience and decided to seek legal advice with a view to sewing suing the useless lefty cunts.

Cut to a swish set of offices on St John’s Street the other afternoon: Anna and Gary are met by a chap who says that he’d like to see them separately at first. Confused, they insist on going in to the solicitor’s together and with a bit of argument, the chap says that it goes against what they usually do, but since they were so insistent, it was OK. They enter his office to be faced with a comfortable leather sofa and an examination couch, complete with stirrups….

“Woah, woah, WOAH, my friend!”, exclaimed the older Sniffer sister, “what’s all this about?? I know it’s not cheap, employing the services of a solicitor, but this is a bit over the top isn’t it?”

“Solicitor?” he asked, shocked, “you’re not here for an assisted conception consultation? Oh my, I’ll go and get Mr Soandso from upstairs.”

You see, it’s fated to be. I’m going to push things along I think and, who knows, I may be Auntie Sniffer within the year!

*Vicious rumour or premonition? It seems that I may have hidden powers that need cultivating.

Having argued the case against going out, it seems fitting that the case for (and against) staying in is examined.

The case for
Having just got back from the shops near where I work, I am quite wet, having been caught in a bit of a nasty downpour. All I wanted was a Poppy; in the end, I found that the hospital volunteers on the front desk had some. Tsk.

Therefore, the first piece of evidence to support staying in is: the weather. The weather is something that should just be something that goes unnoticed around you, but in the UK, it interferes too much with just about everything and can never be relied on for anything. Staying in protects us from the elements and this is a good thing.

Familiarity is a wonderful thing; being comfortable in your surroundings is essential for relaxing. If the telly is your bag, you can watch what you want, when you want to. You choose the music that you listen to, the food that you eat. You don’t sit in fear and discomfort as your guts play russian roulette with you when you trump: you need a poo, you go for a poo and hang the consequences, but there’s no danger or embarrassment from the smell or noise should your arse explode.

Coffee, homeground. You like your coffee the way you like it and you can have it exactly that way at home. You’re in charge of refreshments and snacks and you know that you won’t have to suffer crap pop and rubbish crisps that other cheapskates buy in and leave to go flat or stale. Such people only generally put beer and white wine in the fridge, pop is relegated to the back of a dusty cupboard.

Temperature tantrums. Some people don’t like having their central heating on and their houses are freezing. It’s not quite the done thing to take several layers of clothing with you when you go to visit somebody for an evening. Staying in, you can crank the heating up to above 8°C, or put on as many jumpers as you need to.

The case against
Shutting yourself away from the world and limiting all interaction with peers to workplace conversations can result in a person going mental. Isolation from society warps a person’s mind as the people “outside” become a single, faceless, parasitic entity: “That lot of lazy bastard dolescum”. Populations in entire towns and cities become dehumanised and people become a worthless enemy.

Or that’s what I’ve heard at least.

You stay in, but you withdraw from your family: you’re not interested in what they watch on the TV and everything else is a mither. Shut away in your study, you surf the internet and think of things to make your life better. You simply cannot survive without the very latest PDA or iRiver. You become an Amazon whore. So what if you spend hundreds of pounds each month, buying junk off the internet? Some people spend that much on a night out and at least you’re not rotting your liver!

How are you ever going to meet that special someone if you never leave the house? They’re not going to e-mail themselves to you! Staying in is fine if you’re happy staying single.

Finally, you have no chance avoiding the begging telephone calls from your old universities’ alumni fund volunteers. Staying in last night cost me £20 for the University of Warwick and no doubt I’ll be getting hassled from Leeds soon too. Grrrrr, I never got any scholarships.

Summing up
Despite certain negatives, the advantages of staying in far outweigh the disadvantages. Just think, if I was at home at this very moment, I’d be able to go to the toilet to relieve the terrible discomfort I’m currently experiencing as my colon conducts itself in a symphony of dirty protest. I fear I may be pissing through my arse come my next toilet visit.

Staying in comes out on top every time.

Coming up
Yes or no… Slanging match… The hunt for Red Panda… Cakesniffer in offline horror!

“Some call it theatre and education, I call it, AIDS in a van”

It’s weird being a social cripple. You spend your life convincing yourself that going out is a BAD thing; getting quite worked up about things as the event approaches, wondering whether a convenient bolt of lightning might strike you down to give you an excuse not to go.

The problem with going out is that you leave your familiar surroundings behind you. Apart from your own home, there are very few places where you’d feel able to have a poo – I only have two “safe houses” for this activity and this is quite a problem with my toilet obsession.

When out with people, you feel forced to converse with them. What about, for fuck’s sake? There are certain no-go subjects: religion; politics; other people’s kids; holidays; home improvements.

So the conversation drifts into the latest goings on on the TV:

Them “What programmes do you like watching, Tina?”

Me “I don’t really watch the telly, I don’t like it much.”

Them “So what do you do during the evening?”

Me “Piss about on the internet, go to the gym when I’m not too knackered…”

Them “Really, what do you do on the internet for an entire evening?”

Me “I have this weblog where I write about hating going out with colleagues because I don’t have anything much to say to them and I don’t want them to know anything about me….”

Them “Really???? Is that really true?”

Me “No, I’m kidding! I just download porn.”

Them “Hah-hah-hah – you had us going there for a minute! I thought you were one of those weirdos with an online journal. What sad fucks they all are, writing about work, their families and CATS! They always write about cats, the sad cunts.”

Me “Yeah, cats. As if!!”

Fuckers.

So I tend to direct any conversation towards the safe (food) or the surreal (my food preferences), or better still, just get on with my food and speak only when spoken to avoiding certain topics of conversation completely (relationships).

Going out and not drinking is not much fun, especially when the conversation turns to why I don’t drink. Are people thick? Here’s a tip: if somebody tells you they don’t drink, you don’t need to ask “What, ever?” and you should NEVER follow this up with “Why’s that then?”. The reasons for this are:

a) People sometimes don’t drink for religious reasons and first rule of going out is: Never talk about religion.

b) Other people who don’t drink may well be reformed alcoholics and it’s really not fair to pry into that sort of thing. It makes things very uncomfortable since the reformed alcoholic knows that they can’t fall back on “Because I’m a methodist” because that would be in breach of Rule 1. They then have to make up some shit story about, “Oh I just got out of the habit of it and now I don’t bother at all. No I CAN’T HAVE TIRAMISU FOR PUDDING!!!”.

Chain reaction
A-KICK-two, three, four-STEP-two, three, four

Ever seen how women at weddings (and similar dire, torturous functions) dance to Chain Reaction, Uptown Girl and Simply the Best? Don’t you ever wish you had an AK-47?

Of course, here in the UK, weddings are usually finished off with the bride and groom being surrounded by a crowd drunken, vol-au-vent-overdosed wedding guests who encircle them while singing along to the Tina Turner classic. With hands held and arms raised, the swaying crowd descends into the Hokey Cokey. The result is literally “Murder on the dancefloor, but you’d better not kill the groom“, the happy couple are left on the verge of death under a pile of middle-aged, sequin-clad women and drunken uncles with ties wrapped around their heads.

Thank you Coldearth for reminding how much I detest these happy occasions, although the sausages on sticks and chicken drumsticks are usually pretty good.