Category Archives: Rocky

Poo

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Well, here’s a thing. As a person who is privileged to have a little dog as a companion animal (that’s the “political correctness gone mad” term for a pet), I try to be a responsible keeper of my little friend. He is microchipped, insured, vaccinated to the eyeballs, cuddled, fed, watered, walked and regularly checked over by the wonderful nursing and veterinary staff at White Cross in Walkden.

His behaviour is, what I call, sub-optimal, at times. People who don’t have to live with him might say he’s an out of control nuisance. I pity my neighbours because I know he barks and howls when I leave him. But saying that, it’s not my fault they’re at home too much to hear him. Spiteful!

When we’re out on our walks, he is a bit of an embarrassment: he barks at cyclists (his fear of them emanates from numerous episodes of him running into the wheels of passing bike, so, his fault); he barks at other dogs when he’s on his lead (my fault for not using positive reinforcement effectively); he’s a bit of a sex pest, and any off-leash walk is considered a major failure if he doesn’t manage to get his willy on at least one other dog’s face. I carry a look of apology with me wherever I go with him. In general though, he’s a good-natured little thing and his poor behavioural traits are a result of terrible training and his innate fear of life. Also, his worst behaviour comes out during the first ten minutes of our walks together, that is, the poo-brew time. Once he’s off-loaded, he relaxes and gets on merrily with his sniffing and weeing.

I always pick up his poos. Always. And so what I’ve come to notice recently here in sleepy Stoneclough fills me with disgust. I live in a post-industrial residential area that is sandwiched in the outskirts of Bolton, Salford and Bury. It’s not the most affluent area in the world, but nor is it blighted by poverty. I would assume that most people around here work, are fairly up to date with current affairs, they vote and there’s a good proportion of home ownership. These sorts of people should, in general, make fairly good citizens. So, why is it that there are dog owners who allow their animals to poo on the pavements and grassed areas and think it’s acceptable to leave it? On recent walks with the little feller, I’ve had to dodge dog poo every couple of hundred yards.

The local council’s threats to prosecute offenders are empty without enforcement. Similar to the situation with those who use mobile phones while driving – we all know it’s wrong and dangerous, but people do it a) because they’re cockrings, and b) because they know they’ll get away with it.

One of the things I’ve noticed about the poos I encounter is that they are often huge, i.e., coming from big dogs. Now, I have a little dog and I have little hands. The little dog’s productions are conveniently-sized so that I can bag them up in a, and I’m trying to be delicate here, “handful”. It seems to me that some dog owners who have larger pooches can’t handle the size of their dogs’ deposits. It could be that they’re repulsed by the notion of picking up, or their hands are too small to accommodate the massive piles of stinking shit that they then think it’s perfectly OK to leave on the pavement for the rest of us to dodge.

They are inconsiderate, lazy, knob-jockeys who, quite literally, need their faces rubbing in it.

IF you are going to take a dog under your responsibility, there are some things that you must accept:

1. Feed it
2. Water it
3. Exercise it
4. Keep it safe
5. Keep it healthy
6. Make sure others are safe from it
7. YOU WILL HAVE TO DEAL WITH ITS POO

If anybody considers any of the above to be beyond them, then they should not even for one second think about having a dog as a pet… or a child for that matter because, Jesus, you have to clothe and educate those buggers as well.

One thing that I will never comprehend is the situation whereby people bag up their dogs’ mess, then throw the bag and its contents into the bushes, or just leave it on the pavement, or even tie it to a tree or fence. Why? What possesses these morons? I’ve never seen anybody do this, I don’t know anybody who does this, but I’d really like to subject these people to in-depth psychological testing… or torture. I think torture would be good. Torture them by shoving filled poo bags in their mouths until they beg for forgiveness… or just die… on fire… in a wicker effigy surrounded by dog poo.

The vanishing
Of course, one of the perils of being a responsible dog owner is the poo bag itself. I don’t think I have on coat or jacket that doesn’t have at least one of these things in its pockets. I’m forever retrieving them from the washing machine too after I’ve washed trousers before forgetting to check the pockets beforehand. I am referring to unused poo bags of course. But even though just about every pocket-furnished item of clothing always has a poo bag in it, these things are prone to escaping at the most inconvenient moments. I don’t claim to have a 100% clean-up rate, let’s just leave it at that. This isn’t because I don’t carry the equipment with me when I’m out with the little feller, but because sometimes, when it comes to the vital moment and you search your pockets for the five bags that you absolutely know you put there before you left the house, sometimes, they’ve disappeared by the time you need to use one. It happens all the bloody time… your honour… and I often have to re-trace my steps to find the crumpled-up polythene sacks as they sit there, taunting me.

So, if those people who are puzzled by the filled bags tied to trees and fences are even more disturbed by the empty sacks that litter the pavements and verges, please take pity on the poor bastards like me who are wandering around looking for them. You have no idea of the confusion and embarrassment we are feeling.

Anyway, I’ve been reminiscing about my little chap over the past day or so, so here’s a photo of him that was taken seven years ago after his very first hair cut.

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And here his is this evening, licking his willy.

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Perfect timing

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As I set off to take the little dog for his walk down the woods, I looked up at the sky: after a sunny afternoon, the clouds had been gathering and the sky was getting darker. We take the car to the local country park because it’s a little too far to walk. On our approach, the rain started spotting on the windscreen and within a few minutes of our walk around the lake, it was raining heavily.

I was dressed entirely inappropriately without a coat.

Some of our circuit was sheltered partially by a canopy of trees, but it was, on the whole, pretty wet. We encountered fellow sufferers on our way round. Our canine companions didn’t mind one iota as they ran through the muddy puddles that increased in capacity with each second. We humans though, gave each other that knowing look of despair at the duties we have to fulfil as dog owners.

“I thought the rain was going in the other direction”, remarked one man, a regular on our walks down there. His large, curly-haired beast bounding around with my scruffy, overgrown and now sodden mutt.

“Yes, I timed this perfectly!” I responded as he ran on ahead.

Perfect bloody timing! I was drenched. We got back to the car and I buckled him in. He wasn’t happy and I knew he hated me for taking him out in the rain.

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“Why couldn’t you bring me out an hour earlier when it was nice and dry, Mummy, you fucking bitch?”

Well, little Rocky, yes, it would’ve been nice to have a nice dry walk and for you not to have got the inside of my car soaking wet when you had a shake after jumping onto the seat, of course it would. But look at this, you didn’t notice this because you’re a pea-brained dog. If we’d come out an hour earlier, I wouldn’t have seen this. And this, dear little dog, as far as I’m concerned, was perfect timing.

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From the mouths of babes

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I don’t get children.  They’re like a completely different life-form, from another planet.  They look like little versions of us, but that’s where all notions of expecting anything like reasonable behaviour or debate end.

You can’t communicate with them properly and the slightest disagreement with whatever thought process whizz through their developing brains results in the most bizarre displays of behaviour.

Don’t like what you’re given for tea?  Well, normal people just tuck in, chew on it till it no longer resembles the thing that caused mental trauma when it was first sighted, put themselves in their happy place and swallow.  “Mmmm, that was DELISH!”, we purr politely, pour platitudes on whoever provided the meal, while grumbling to ourselves.  But we get over it, move on.

Toddlers?  They haven’t developed the social inhibitions that prevent us from throwing our cutlery around, spitting food out, launching our plates across the room and throwing ourselves to the floor, banging our fists and sobbing.  There’s no reasoning with them.  You just have to wait until the tsunami settles back into the ocean and pick up the wreckage left in its wake.  The wreckage is often still a bit wriggly, teary and snotty; still as unreasonable.

And those charged with the care of them are hit by tidal waves of tantrums at least four times a day.

Of course, when you don’t have one of these little critters  in your family, you find them utterly hateful – because they are!  But when your family is blessed (for want of a better word) by one, that particular one is so fucking funny.

Little Con, now two and a bit, is adorable.  For all her tantrums and tears (and all the snot that seems to have been part of her for about 18 months), she’s so lovely.  I like the effect she has on the little dog: one moment he’s being a total pain in the arse – not dissimilar to a tantrum-afflicted toddler himself; Little Con arrives and he’s a different dog.  He sits, calmly.  He sits, watches.  He sleeps.  He lets her flick his nose.  He lets her kiss him (he likes to lick her tongue).  She tells him off:  “Boo-HAVE ROCKY!”.  He knows his place when she is around.It’s brilliant.

Con herself called me Rocky long before she learned to say my real name and, whenever she arrives at my folks’ house and sees that my car is there, she runs into the house calling for him – not for me, for the little dog.

So Little Con may well have saved Rocky from the risk of being destroyed because of attacking a child.  Because of her, and despite his barky protestations, he’s actually quite tolerant around them.  Just as well, since he can’t leave the house or get back in through the front door without being accosted by four of five of the local kids who insist on running over to him, while screaming “It’s the little dog!” (scaring the shit out of him).  They all gather round, stroking him and cuddling him two and three at a time; the smallest of them insists on having his tongue licked by him too.

“Does he bite?”, they ask as he barks and growls at them.

“Any dog might bite”, I issue my disclaimer, “you should always be VERY careful near dogs and try not to scare them.”

“Is that a different dog?”, tongue-lick boy asked me tonight.

“No, he’s just had a hair cut”.

Gonna set my soul on FIRE

I can’t believe it, let’s just check the date… Yep!  I go on holiday next week.  I’m looking forward to it immensely.  The memory of last year’s trip there needs obliterating.  I’m going to have the holiday that I was supposed to have, only more fun!  I didn’t really take much in last year as I wandered around in a haze of despair.  This time will be much different and happier.

I retrieved some shorts that Bomb had “borrowed” (without asking) from the drawer where they’d been kept at my mum’s.  I wouldn’t have fit in them when I went to Vegas last year, but I do now!

Yay! For being shat on and losing loads of weight as a result!

A brush with death

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One of the reasons for taking the little dog to the behaviourist (he accompanies me while it’s actually me who gets training) is so that I can learn how to brush him and so he can get used to that sort of mithering contact so I can bribe somebody with clippers to come round and cut his wiginess without them getting their fingers bitten off.

It’s a very slow process that involves bribing him with tasty and extremely smelly treats, namely chopped up bits of braised lamb offal. FYI braised lambs hearts have the same smell as any cooked lamb, which I find bizarre. Anyway, the process of brushing His Lordship involves a handful of lamb bits, a lead, a brush (which he must not see). He gets held in place with a short lead while I shove bits of meat into his mouth and try to touch him with the brush. After an arduous and bad tempered start, and rapid stop, we’re making progress! I have so far brushed quite a bit of his back, his tail, the back of his neck, the top of his head, his beard, his back legs. His tummy is some way off yet, and first rule of doggy fight club is “DO NOT LET IT DEVELOP INTO A FIGHT!” Apparently, Cesar Millan’s way of holding down a pooch until it submits to your will just won’t work with a dog like Rocky and you have to use the softly, softly, catchy monkey method. This means that any sign of stress from the dog and we stop.

Why couldn’t I get a normal dog? I should’ve known when I saw his dad (as mental as he is) and him as a 12 week old pup – I think it was a 12 week old pup that I saw; all I witnessed was a little black blob of excitement tearing around his first mum’s kitchen. Cute though.

And now he’s doing toxic farts.

Going Dutch
I really hate the way the Dutch speak when they speak in English. I don’t care how they speak when they speak Dutch because I obviously switch off. I don’t care that they have nothing to do but learn fifteen different languages by the time they’re out of nappies, I can’t stand the way they speak English.

I pity my cousin though. She’s from Liverpool, but married a Dutch man and has lived in Holland since the late 1980s. She speaks Dutch very well, but has forgotten how to speak English, which given her unfortunate start in this aspect of her life, puts her at quite a disadvantage when she comes back to England. Her accent/language is now what can be described as Douse, or Scutch I suppose.

Even worse than the Dutch English accent is when English people copy the Dutch English accent for the sake of comedy or advertising. Why do people do it? Why do people think that the Dutch are significant enough to use as characters in films or adverts? And when they do deem it absolutely necessary to include such people, why don’t they go for an authentic Dutch person instead of some English cunt doing a Dutch accent?

Gawd. Just a thought.

Notting Hill
Notting Hill is on telly. It has Hugh Grant playing Hugh Grant in it. There’s not really much that I can add to that.

But why???

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I rarely listen to the radio: I have an intense dislike of the BBC stations presenters’ narcissistic obsession with hearing their own voice at the expense of providing entertainment, or simply playing some music; the adverts on commercial radio are generally too frequent and too irritating. But I do listen to my local commercial radio station as I travel to work each morning; the presenters are actually funny and are almost in touch with their listeners, making references to local events, places, customs, etc. My tiredness at 7am generally means that I can block out the irritating segments and, more importantly, the adverts. Except two:

Lufthansa European flight deals
Woman: “Come on, stop doing that now, we’ve got to pack.”
Child: “But why?”
Woman: “Because we’re going away on a short break.”
Child: “But why?”
Woman: “Because Lufthansa have got some good deals and we’re leaving today.”
Child: “But whyyyyyyyyy?”

After the first “But why?”, I’m ready to unclip my seatbelt and drive into the nearest brick wall at full speed, so by the third, I really want to take a whole load of innocent bystanders with me too.

<strong?Volkswagen commercial vehicles
In this advert, we have a bloke with a rough voice and ridiculously strong Cockney accent, talking about Vowkswaaagen Commerciaw Vayns. He says “vayns” about ten times. I will punch him if I ever meet him.

SHUT THE FUCK UP!

There is something intensely irritating, to the point of driving me to the edge of murder, about the sound of children’s voices, particularly when they’re being deliberately irritating… or singing. Why do advertisers insist on using annoyance and regional accents in their adverts. Will I be tempted to use Lufthansa, or to buy a Volkswagen van because of these adverts? Hell no!

For fuck’s sake.

Come dine with me
I am currently cooking some delectable cuts of meat in the oven. Yes, I am braising some lambs’ hearts. Stuffed with breadcrumbs and fresh herbs for me? No, they’re braised as they come with all their bits for the dog. I actually had good fun washing the things before I put them in the roasting tin. They being hearts, they have chambers and tubes and things; you can fill one chamber with water and it then squirts out of one of the large blood vessels. Brilliant. But holding that cold organ in my hand, and looking at my little dog, I’m led to thinking that his little heart is probably no bigger than the very one that was not long ago beating inside the bouncy body of a New Zealand lamb. Awwww. But that’s life, and farming, and meat supply, and dog rehabilitation.

They actually look quite nice…

Braised lambs hearts - yummy!

… they’re made the house smell a bit though.

During Rocky’s remedial behavioural lessons, it’s been discovered that the best way to bribe the little shit is with bits of cooked heart – the £3 bag of training treats just don’t do the trick sometimes and we need to bring out the heavy artillery when needs be.

Anyway, it’ll all be worth it when I can take him for a walk safe in the knowledge that he’s not going to kick off at the slightest little thing, and when I can invite a groomer round to clip him without being worried that he’ll attack somebody.

Spring has sprung
My mood has lightened somewhat over the past week or so. The days are getting longer, the weather warm, even the sun has been shining. Sniffy feels good.

The love of common people

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I went to a restaurant on Friday night. I also went to a restaurant last Saturday night. I ate out for lunch yesterday too.

Fat pig.

Anyway, I love eating at restaurants; there’s something absolutely lovely about having having a choice of meals that you’d probably not cook for yourself, about having food brought to you, about being waited on, about enjoying the company and conversation of others while having a meal.

Canal Street, Manchester
Canal Street, Manchester

But a pleasant experience like having a meal out wouldn’t be the same without one of the party being slightly annoying; not even annoying, just doing something that I wouldn’t think acceptable. For instance, at the restaurant last Saturday, there’d been a mistake with the booking and we had to wait for a table to come free instead of being seated immediately. The waiter gave us each a menu and asked if we didn’t mind waiting in the bar until they could free up a table. Forty minutes later, we were seated and given another five minutes until the waiter returned to take our order. It was at this point that one of the party decided to look at the menu for the first time.

I held my breath.

More wine flowed, I enjoyed my Diet Pepsi (no ice) and the starters came. Mine was moules marinere – fuckin’ delish, if you like that sort of thing. My good friend, and she is a great friend, then said that she didn’t fancy trying mussels because she was scared, but could she dip some garlic bread into the sauce to give it a try? Of course she could, which she did, repeatedly, while I was trying to eat my food.

Don’t mind me.

And then my main course arrived. Essentially it was steak and chips, but the chips in that restaurant (Velvet, Manchester) are wonderful. My companions weren’t getting chips with their meals, so they took it upon themselves to tuck into mine.

What the fuck?

Is it just me? Would you do that? In the pavilion of etiquette, does that count as being really fucking rude?

I don’t mind toooo much because the company was exceptional apart from their unconventional dining standards, and they’d been drinking and I was stone cold sober, so I tend to notice more.

It’s like that thing, isn’t it? “Oh I don’t want any crisps, I’ll just have a couple of yours”. No you fucking won’t! You only get about ten in a packet and you’re not touching them, cheeky twat.

On Friday, me and another friend went to a very nice restaurant together (Choice in Manchester), where the ambience is perfect, but the food always gives my friend an excuse to find criticism. She’s a bit of a foodie, so she likes things to be just right. I suppose if you’re paying, then you’ve a right to expect good quality. And it’s fair enough to give feedback to the waiters when they ask if everything’s OK, but there’s a certain point where you need to stop, generally when the message has got through, and just before the waiter reached the threshold that makes them instruct the kitchen staff to spit in your pudding.

But it was nice, another lovely night out. Me and Sarah now find ourselves single. She’s a good friend and I enjoy her company and I’m looking forward to getting out and about with her as my wingman, although I am slightly scared of her when her confidence is in Rioja-fuelled hyperdrive. We’ll see.

Rocky and the Dog Whisperer
Rocky is in remedial behavioural classes. One-to-one behavioural classes at £25 a time. His trainer is quite famous apparently. I arrived at her little yard and her appearance was as I’d expected: rambler clothing; a hat (fair enough since she’s outdoors all day).

Lesson 1: The the gentle leader; the dummy and the heart of an ox
We discussed his diet. “Why do you give him dry food? He’s a dog! Dogs are carnivores. I recommend this. It stinks, but it’s really good. You need to get him motivated by food. One great way of controlling your dog is to control his food and you can’t do that if he doesn’t like what you give him. He needs to be almost begging for his meal and then you can control him with it”.

Fair point.

I wondered how much the smelly meaty food would cost. Jesus, this is going to rack up.

“Let me see him on his lead”

By this point, the little dog had reached ten thousand feet mentally and was bouncing like something on a bouncy castle. She got the message about his woeful lead skills (my woeful lead skills) pretty quickly and went into her little wooden cabin to retrieve a Gentle Leader head harness and double-ended training lead. To entice him to walk on his lead, he was fed bits of boiled ox heart every couple of paces. I had a pocket full of cheese and ox heart bits, my hands were covered in it. Fuck.

After getting him used to walking with the new lead, she had me lead him round a little activity course while she brought out a life-sized dummy dog and stood with it at the other end of the yard. Rocky had already gone mental at a dog silhouette, so he went berserk when he saw what he thought was a dopey looking black labrador staring at him from the distance. I calmed him down by the power of cheese and he was a little better when she brought the next dummy dog out. She moved the head and tail of this one and, while Rocky had a look at it, he didn’t jump out of his skin. And when she brought out a real dog, while he was far from perfect, he managed to walk around it without an unmanageable degree of distress.

So, that was lesson one: change his diet (kerching!), get him a double-ender (kerching!!) and a gentle leader (kerching!!!); that’s £25 thanks and I’ll see you in a fortnight (KERCHING!!!!).

Anyway, I’ve changed his diet, bought his new equipment and I’ve been trying to install the new world order on our cheesy walks – he must get through half a pound each time I take him out. Of course, my back is wrecked from all that bending over to give him a treat every four paces, but it’ll be worth it, I hope. Today wasn’t too good unfortunately – we encountered a jogger being followed by his dog (who then turned round and ran passed us from behind within a minute of passing us in the forward direction); this was followed immediately by two cyclists; a walker; and another dog walker – all in the space of about 2 minutes. Rocky couldn’t cope – knowing that pulling would hurt his nose, he defaulted to barking his head off for the remainder of our ten minute walk home.

We’ll get there. He’s got two years of bad behaviour to unlearn and I’ve got to train myself to be more disciplined with him.

Yawn.

One interesting thing about Rocky’s new therapist is that she trains Police dogs for GMP. I must ask Jo if it was her who house-trained Pigsnout.

Local news

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I’m watching the evening local news bulletin, Northwest Tonight.  The stories swing from relatively interesting to totally dull.  The sports reporter looks like a badly turned-out chimp; the weather reporter is nice, but  is a bit too thin.  But the main presenters, Jesus, a robotic TV presenter with no charisma who shares the sofa – and each storyline – with the youthful female presenter of Asian origin, who eclipses him in talent, looks, charm.

Why do they have to share each report though?  One of them says the opening line, the other says the next, and they alternate the lines through to the report’s conclusion.  I say “report” in the loosest sense of the word, some story about a school play or Google Maps putting Lytham in the wrong place hardly classes as hard-hitting journalism.

OMG, that man from Queen looks like Mick Hucknall.  Not the one with all the hair who’s married to Angie from Eastenders, who also has all the hair – the other one.

Oh, it’s finished.

Pootling

I took the day off work and did a bit of pootling today.  Pootled with the dog on his new favourite walk; I’ve found that the rough ground beyond the playing field isn’t guarded by dragons and spectres, it’s just some rough boggy ground that leads to a big drop… with dragons… down to a river.  Rocky is getting braver and has started trying to clamber down the steep bank towards the river tens of feet below.  But here he is enjoying himself.

Rocky's realm

Rocky's realm

Rocky hunts for dragons

Rocky hunts for dragons

Rocky river

Rocky river

Rocky river racer

Rocky river racer


eHarmony – anti queer?

No I’m not dating, but I did check out an online dating agency this evening after hearing their cheesy adverts on the radio.  EHarmony promises something different, things like shared values, aspirations, love of chick peas.  Anyway, I had a look and went to the search page.  Can we all see what’s wrong with this picture?

Oh dear, someone's gonna get in trouble!

Oh dear, someone's gonna get in trouble!

Yep, that’s right, us queers can’t use eHarmony because you can only be a man seeking a woman or a woman seeking a man.  Now, while it’s no great loss to me that I may never find a fellow lover of chick peas by using eHarmony, it might be a great loss to eHarmony themselves as this is illegal under the Provision of goods and services Act.

I e-mailed them to tell them so.

Naughty, naughty, naugty.

I’m not particularly interested in campaigning  on behalf of people who should be able to look after themselves.  They’ll probably get back in touch with me and tell me that they don’t provide services for queers because trying to match  a bunch of self-obsessed, lentil-eating, cat-loving, boiler suit-wearing, hairy munter lesbos would crash their database and ruin it for normal people who are trying to find real love and not somebody to go walking with while wear matching fleeces.

You can’t blame them really.  Perhaps they know that most lesbians aren’t interested in proper relationships, that two years is the limit  before they get bored and move on to  growth hormone-enhanced members of the constabulary.

Oh no, that’s not ALL lesbians, it’s just Jo.

Cunt

On the pull

I’m going on the pull at the weekend.  Not really, but I’m going out in The Village, on a Saturday night, for the first time since becoming single (actually, that’s a lie, but I had responsibility for somebody last time).  I’m just going out for a meal with friends, but I’m going to keep my eyes peeled for talent and go in for the kill if somebody catches my eye.

Yeah right.

Mess

A friend of mine came round on Sunday afternoon and she kindly cooked tea for us.  But my, what a mess she made of my sparkling kitchen.  I don’t understand how some people can be so messy when they cook, but when somebody has been so kind as to do that, there’s no way I can hover in the kitchen, meeping in anally-retentive anguish with each microscopic bit of stuff that hits the worktop or hob.

Still, five minutes’ clearing up is small price to pay to have decent company and a nice meal cooked for me.

Cash machine

I went to a cash machine today; had to wait while the woman in front of me finished, but she soon walked away and I approached the ATM.  And there, in the machine, waking to be plucked out, was about £60-80 that the previous customer had neglected to take with her.  I disappointed myself, it didn’t even cross my mind to do anything other than take the cash and call after her to tell her she’d forgotten it.  Honesty, decency, morals, bollocks.

Finger licking goooood

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I’ve just had to curtail Rocky’s blast on the field because he PISSED ME OFF!  We’d been having a lovely time, hiding from each other in the undergrowth, chasing after crows, sniffing (him, not me).  After covering the perimeter of the playing field just the once, I took him back over to the wooded area that leads to the canal to have another sniff and a game of sniff and seek in the undergrowth.  Ready to start my second circuit, I set off walking away from him and, as the distance between us increased, I realised that he was paying even less attention to me than usual – he was concentrating very closely on something, picking it up, throwing it about, catching it again, chewing it.  Had he finally, at long last, caught a mouse?  Had he done what he was bred for?

I started towards him to see what he was up to, but he was having none of it and decided to play the “act like cheeky robin” game, whereby I’d get within a couple of metres of him, he’d pick up whatever it was that he was tormenting, then bounce off.

Then he spotted the dog on the other side of the field.  I’ve given up trying to run after him, especially while wearing wellies, and I just hope that the object of his attention (and its owner) is friendly enough not to chew his face off. He never comes when called, ever.  He’s a total shit and I could kill him.  Anyway, trudging through the mud, I finally got near him to find that he was still chomping away on whatever it was that’d he’d picked up on the other side of the field.  He made the mistake of a dropping some of it.

What could have been so fascinating?  What could’ve been so very good that he played with it for finve minutes and carried it from side of the field to the other?  Was it a small furry animal?  No, it was a bit of chicken carcass.  No meat or anything, just the bone.  I pulled the remainder of it from his mouth and, my fingers covered in dog spit, I dragged him home.  Finger licking good.

He came so close to being left there, the little fucker.  He’s so disobedient, annoying, embarrassing.  I have a friend coming over on Sunday and we’re supposed to be taking him on a nice walk.  Nice doesn’t come into it, it’s always such a fucking toil.

All I ever wanted was a dog that I could take on a nice walk, that’d bring things that I threw for it, that wouldn’t hassle other animals, and that would come back to me when called.

And I get him.

He’s funny as fuck when he runs at full pelt though.

Le Weekend

Yay, it’s the weekend.  At last!  I’m going to be creative in the kitchen tomorrow (after tidying up in there), make a lasagne for me and a special one for the freezer… just in case unexpected visitors drop by.

As I said, I have a friend coming over on Sunday and she’ll be staying over too.  A sleep over, at my age!

And I think I’m taking Monday off because I can’t be fucked going in to work

But the weekend starts properly at 8pm this evening when Taz Radio goes live.  An evening of all my favourite music.  Fabulous!


Peanuts

I see that the end of peanut allergies might be in sight.  A small trial in 4 children showed that they could be desensitised to peanut allergens by gradual exposure to increasing amounts of peanut flower.  After suffering severe allergies to peanuts all their lives, the children can now eat up to ten peanuts.

But where’s the fun in that?  The good thing about having friends with peanut allergies is the tricks you can play on them.

“I’ve cooked you a meal.”

“Ooh, thanks, I’m STARVING; been saving myself for this all day!”

“Great, I bought some really special ingredients.  Now… what did it say about being packaged in a nut-free environment?  It either was, or wasn’t, but I can’t remember which.  Have you got your epi-pen handy?”

Fag patchwork

I’m running out of places to stick my fag patches to.  Every bit of skin that has previously had one attached to it is now very red, quite sore and rather itchy.  The things are a nightmare.  I’ve taken to cutting them up so they’ll fit into what remains of my unaffected skin.  I’ll be moving on to my shins next.

Still, I’ve not had a cigarette in about ten days and not really thought of having one.  More than anything, it’s just breaking the habit, but wearing a patch kind of adds a psychological boost to my efforts.  “It’s called a PLACEEEEEEEEEEBO”.

Waiting for Aslan

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I know it shouldn’t be surprising that it’s still wintery in February, but I was kind of hoping that the new month would bring some sign that spring was coming. Certainly, it’s getting lighter earlier in the mornings and taking longer before darkness descends in the evening.  In addition, the green shoots of the bulbs I planted in the autumn are showing through; the shrubs that I thought had died over winter are also sprouting new buds of leaves.  Where there is broken bark, there is hope.

And then the snow came again.  The east and south of England were worst hit, but here in Rochdale, we got a nice covering… along with gale force winds and freezing temperatures that made the -1°C temperature feel more like -5°C.

Here are some photos:

February snowfall

February snowfall 2

Rocky really loves the snow.  I really love the way the snow sticks to him and then leaves little puddles of water all over the house as it melts.

Rocky snowdog

Rocky snowball toes

But as usual, it seems to have been winter forever, and there’s still at least two months of it to go.  And summer never, ever, follows.  It’s like living in Narnia under the spell of the White Witch.  Always winter and never Christmas.  And even though we do have Christmas, that was crap this time.

At least the sun is shining.  We certainly won’t see that between June and September, so I should be thankful for it now, even with the freezing temperatures.

Blind in one eye

Anyway, things aren’t that bad and the prospect of spring and sunshine has prompted me to start wearing my contact lenses again.  Why, when I can’t see out of my right eye with them, I don’t know, but being able to see is a small price to pay to be able to wear sunglasses.  Sunglasses are the most fantastic addition to any outfit (apart from a beige jumper of course).  Unfortunately, I always look a total twat when I’m wearing them, but I look a twat whether I’m wearing sunglasses or not.  The best thing about them is the way they hide the dark circles and bags under my eyes…. oh and the way they protect my eyesight from harmful UV rays of course.

Working from home

I’ve been working from home these past couple of days. Aware that the weather might turn and delay my journey home from work and being worried about getting home for the dog, I thought it sensible to stay here and be very productive indeed.  It’s OK working from home, coffee on tap, warmth (compared to my office at work), saving on petrol… Rocky.

Rocky is a lovely little beast, but he won’t leave me alone while I’m trying to work.  Always insisting on sitting on me, jealous that my fingers are tapping the keyboard and not tickling his ears, he has a habit of nudging my hand away from the keys.  It’s quite irritating, but kind of lovely.

Here he is on my knee:

Rocky suspects

Awwww.

Better get back to work and send some very stern e-mails to people who don’t know what they’re talking about.

Hell in the Big Brother House

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I have to go away to Wales on Sunday for an “away trip” with colleagues from work. The senior team members are staying in my boss’s second home there, the plebs are being put up in a holiday home nearby. Here’s the specification:

Situated at the top of the road that winds its way down to Nefyn’s magnificent sandy beach, its close proximity to the beach will, undoubtedly, make it a popular choice. The property is well maintained, but very simply furnished. The front of the house has recently had upvc double glazed windows fitted.

Sleeps 20 (+ cot) in 5 bedrooms

The ground floor comprises the main lounge, with French door opening onto the front garden, an electric fire & colour television; toilet; the ‘French Lounge’ with an assortment of games, TV and video player has French doors opening onto the drive at the side of the house, and is accessed from the dining room which has French doors onto the back patio. The kitchen, also off the dining room, is equipped with a catering size gas range, an urn and a fridge/freezer; the utility room, beyond the kitchen, has another fridge and freezer, washing machine tumble drier, 3 additional sinks and a door to the rear garden.

On the 1st floor are: 3 bedrooms (rooms 1 and 2, each sleeping 6 in purpose built bunks, room 3 with a double bed); Bathroom with shower and toilet; 2 toilets; Shower room

The 2nd floor at the top of the house contains a further 2 bedrooms (room 4 with 2 single beds and room 5 with 4 single beds), tucked under the eaves and enjoying sea views.

There is a enclosed garden at the back of the house with a patio outside the French doors from the dining room, and large & small grassed areas. Access is from the utility room, dining room or side gate opening onto the driveway.

All beds are provided with 2 pillows and a duvet. A cot may be available on request.
You must bring your own bedlinen (sheets, duvet covers, pillow cases) and towels.

Additional Information

  • Pets are welcome

  • Smoking is not permitted in the house.

  • Wheelchair access is limited to the ground floor.

  • Background heating is by night storage heaters.

  • Parking for up to 6 vehicles.

  • Gas and heating is included in the rental

  • Other electricity by £1 coin meter

I, at the tender age of 38, will be sleeping in a bunk bed, sharing a bedroom with two others, who I’ve never met. It’ll be freezing (storage heaters + Wales + cliff top = fucking freezing).Ten of us will be driving there, but there’s only parking for six cars. We’ll probably be made to eat seaweed and moss and take baths in used water in a tub in the yard.

But here’s the most dreadful aspect of it all: no internet access.  I figured I could use my mobile to connect my PC to the Orange 3G network, it usually works really well, however look at this:

Orange

Orange

What about using my 3 phone?  That could do the same thing – if it gets collected today and returned on time  (been waiting since 7am for Parceline to come and get it, it’s now 3.30pm).  What’s the 3 coverage like there?

3

3

Ok then, so they’re both non-starters? But maybe one of those mobile broadband dongles from the other networks might be useful anyway, perhaps it’d be worth investing in one of those?

Vodafone

Vodafone

T-mobile 2G

T-mobile 2G

T-mobile 3G

T-mobile 3G

O2

O2

So there you go.  Staying with a bunch of people from work, who are actually OK, in freezing cold Wales, in a single bed, in a shared bedroom, with shared bathroom facilities, eating seaweed… and no chance whatsoever of an internet connection… for over TWO FUCKING DAYS!

Still, I get to go quad biking on Monday afternoon, so if I’m lucky, I might die or at least be hospitalised and then I won’t need internet access anyway.

Wasted days

Another day of decent weather has been wasted waiting in for those tossers to come and collect my mobile for repair.  Me and Rocky could’ve been having loads of fun, instead, I’ve been doing a bit of work.  Actually  I’ve had five attempts at burning a DVD of a avi file of a film.  The film plays fine in media player, the video burns to DVD OK, but there’s no sound.   I tried a different burning packages, and that just burns with the sound hopelessly out of sync.  I’m on my sixth try now, but I don’t hold out much hope.  It’s weird because I had no trouble burning the latest episode of the fabulous L Word the other night, but it’s now gone tits up.

Pissed off.

Second coming

The installation of President Obama is certainly a historic event.  It signals wonderful progress and brings a certain degree of hope to the Western World that we might actually stop being seen as evil.  Hope is one thing, action and results are another.  It does seem that an awful lot of hope has been pinned on him and, with a whole load of work to be done, it’s questionable that anything will actually be achieved.

The road to hell is paved with good intentions and that.

Obama has almost been elevated to Messiah status – certainly by Auntie Beeb.  He’s just a bloke with a huge job to do, with a rather unfair weight of expectation placed on his shoulders.

And we in the UK have experienced something similar before with Tony Blair.  I never fell for the smooth talking back in 1997, I saw right through him and New Labour and knew damned well that they’d achieve absolutely fuck all while ruining the country – because that’s what Labour does.  It’s the lack of integrity, the lies, the erosion of values, the erosion of our civil liberties that hurt most from the past eleven… twelve years of Labour’s appalling governance.  We all knew they’d fuck up the economy (but perhaps not this badly), but the snooping on its people, the gradual introduction of a police state, and the sheer hopelessness that has been heaped on us all – not even I would have expected that from them. Then again, that’s what you get with a government that is out of control and afraid of its own people.

So long as Obama and his team demonstrate the utmost integrity and at least some degree of competence during their administration, then I will be satisfied.  There won’t be miracles.

Rocky takes time out

Rocky has a habit of kicking off and shouting his head off at the slightest noise outside.  I’ve had enough.  He goes for a time out in the kitchen as soon as he starts grumbling to himself.  It won’t stop him doing it, but it’ll keep him quiet for a bit while I’m trying to concentrate on my work blog.

Little shit.