Well, my blog is still stuck somewhere between Berlin and Manhattan, so the old posts are still missing, but hey, why look to the past when the future has so much to offer??

Hrrrrm.  The fuuuuutuuuuuuuuuuuuuure.  God.

Anyway, somebody talking about the past this week was good old Sir Paul “I politicised the Beatles” McCartney.  Yes, Macca (peace signs all round) has finally put the record straight and, confirming what we all knew all along, told the world that it was he who politicised the Beatles.  Apparently, he had a cup of coffee with Bertrand Russell who told him about the war in Vietnam.  He went back to his bandmates and said something like “Hey, you know, there’s this was in Vietnam and it’s like, really bad, man (peace sign)” and so The Beatles were dragged into current affairs.

Of course, if  they had been around in present times, they’d have been appearing on an episode of the Celebrity Weakest Link Christmas Special, dressed as pantomime characters or some such.  Their collective knowledge of really bad wars and things would’ve guaranteed them scooping the grand prize for their pet charity, which would probably have been something to do with, well supplying pot and acid to struggling musos.

As it was, they had to wait until 1967 before they got to wear the pantomime outfits and it was John who took all the credit for being the political one, along with Yoko (“A Vellee Mellee Chismaaaasssss!”), while Paul was off playing bagpipes and writing themes for James Bond films.

Love and peace to you all.

Christmas triffids

Oh no, there’s a whole MASSIVE greenhouse full of poinsettias on the telly.  BURN IT TO THE GROUND!  Hideous fucking things.

Ice, ice baby

I’m going to ice my Christmas cake either tonight or tomorrow night.  I didn’t make it myself this year, couldn’t be arsed, but I bought one from Tesco and I’ve been feeding it copious quantities of brandy for a week.  Even if it tastes like shit, it’ll give me a lovely warm feeling … until it makes me be sick up my nose.

Beneath the royal icing, the cake will be encased first in a layer of marzipan.  Not that lardy dar stuff, the proper stuff that’s fluorescent yellow.

Bell ends

Jo is making look at a photo of a bell end.  When will the torture ever end?  Fucking bitch.  Should have killed her when I could’ve got away with a diminished responsibilities plea.

Saturdays… bereft

Now that the X factor has finished, what on earth am I supposed to do on Saturday evenings?  When does Britain’s got talent start?  I find myself looking forward to Celebrity Big Brother starting on 2nd January, and that’s only on for a fortnight.

Fuck.

I need some friends.

Or prescription drugs.

I wish Sundays could be consigned to hell, rather than me always finding myself in a personal hell on Sundays.

Spending the day waiting for things to happen: for it to get light outside; for the heating to come on; for the washing machine to finish; for it to give up on trying to get light outside and just go dark; for the light that’s on timer to come on; for bed time.

Dark:

Today is a bad day.  I’ve left ironing to build up to ridiculous proportions.  I’m looking at the pile now, the coat hangers waiting patiently on the table.  Just look at it.  Actually, just LOOK at it:

It’s not even therapeutic doing it because I know I have to then cram the freshly ironed garments into  my overcrowded wardrobe.  And when you get to wear them, they are worn under a jumper or cardigan, or in the case of wearing them in my office at work, under a jumper, a cardie of mirth, a scarf and a fleece because it’s so bloody cold in there.

So, having changed my bed, taken the dog for a walk along the canal, done the pots, washed the bedding, I’m having a rest before I tackle all those sleeves, cuffs, collars, and the bits between the buttons.

I’m pleading with the central heating to start warming me up.  COME ON!

Contrast Sundays in winter to those in the summer.  Those lovely warm, sunny days that start when you want them to and only start to end at 10pm.  Actually I can’t remember the last Sunday that we had like that in England, but you catch my drift.

Today, I woke buried in my nest-like bed, surrounded by pillows, curled beneath my duvet and new, ooh-la-la quilted bedspread.  The curtains kept out what light there was of the grey day outside.  I received a text message shortly after 9am, my sister wanting to know if I’d like to go for a walk with her and Little Con.  Is she mad?  Sundays like today should be given over to trying to stay warm and moping, preferably by staying in bed all day, smacked up on codeine derivatives.

The shortest day is coming up, thankfully, I bet that’s on a fucking Sunday too.  But once I’m through that, things can start to get better.  As the end of January approaches, my mood usually starts to lift slightly – with March only four weeks away, I can start imagining lighter mornings and evenings, new buds on trees, the shoots of spring bulbs making their way to say hello to us all (unless they’ve all died in the clay-heavy soil that I have here), warmth.

Therapy

I had my final counselling session on Thursday.  I’ve been feeling OK for the past month or two and now it’s up to me to get on with my life, whatever that may turn out like.  More of the same old crap no doubt, but at least I know that the same old crap is much easier to deal with and can even actually be quite nice when you don’t hide yourself away and avoid people.  God, do I really have to bother?

One thing about the reception at the counselling service disturbed me: poinsettias.   I hate these plants.  They’re just some horticultural joke that tries to look like an imitation plant.  A fuck-ugly one at that.

It’s been so long since I’ve been able to post to my blog, because my blog has been stuck somewhere between Berlin and Manhatten, that I’m almost going mental with boredom.  This has been the longest period I’ve had without writing anything and, well, I’ve been getting itchy.

So now that I’m tippy tapping away, I’m not sure what I want to impart on the world.

Of course, today the people of Greater Manchester blew a massive hole in the government’s ridiculous plans for the introduction of road charging (in addition to Vehicle Excise Duty, fuel tax, insurance tax and council tax).  With a resounding “No” vote against the proposed Manchester Congestion Charge, we say a big fat FUCK YOU! and hopefully saved the rest of the country from other such nonsense.

Just watching Gordon Ramsay plucking turkeys straight after their death.  I’m imagining this is a much more pleasant experience than plucking dead pheasants that have been hanging for a couple of weeks.  Stinking of shit, covered in gore and feathers, the result never seems the effort and the mental scarring.  Let’s face it, you can generally buy a couple of the things ready prepared from the market for about two quid, so why bother with the caveman antics?

Expenses

Of course, it’s Christmas coming up.  This has kind of passed me by so far because, I don’t really know why – I can’t be bothered with it this year I suppose.  But I’ve done my bit and bought a load of presents online and now all I need to do is find a book that my mum wants and I’m done.  I suppose I have to wrap the things too, but I’m not bothering with the expensive giftwrap and bows like in other years.  I suppose it looks nice under the Christmas tree, but so what.

I thought I’d be saving a fair bit of cash this year because I wouldn’t have to buy anything for a certain somebody and also for a certain somebody’s birthday at the end of December, but things have conspired against me and my obsessive nature has meant that I’ve been pursuing expensive replacements for things that I’ve accidentally fucked up.

1. Timberland jacket.  I bought  a lovely Timberland jacket in Vegas: waterproof with a cableknit zip pure wool cardigan insert that could be worn as an item in its own right, a bargain at £40.  I washed the cardigan on a wool cycle at 30°C and it came out the size of something that would fit Little Con.  Annoyed?  Extremely.  So what do I do?  Go on eBay and buy a padded Timberland jacket for £55.
2. Timberland boots.  Having toiled with my Doc Marten boots for three years, without any sign of them ever becoming comfortable (or fashionable), I gave up and bought a pair of Timberlands.  £82
3. WinRAR.  This was a major techno retard fuck up.  For some reason, my avi files got associated with WinRAR to open instead of Windows Media Player.  I figured that my evaluation copy of WinRAR had finally caught me out and that I needed to by a licensed copy.  Thick fuck.  £33
4. Mini digital camera.  I was out taking the little dog for a walk on Sunday afternoon.  The sun was going down, it was a lovely crisp winter’s day, so I decided to take my little camera with me so I could take some photos along the canal bank.  We were pootling along when I spotted a robin really close by, so I whipped the camera out, turned it on, then Rocky decided to yank on his lead and I lost grip of the camera, which plummeted to the icy groung in slow motion. Fucked.  Beyond repair.  New camera £125.

Still, I’m sure that only amounts to about half of what I’d have spent on Jo for Christmas, so I’m still quids in.

Madness

My dad suggest that we have pork for Christmas dinner this year.  I’m looking for a home for him in the new year.

Sniffytastic has successfully been migrated to a new server.

Updates are underway and will be ready in a few hours, once the data has fully migrated.

Yes, there’s a big gap between the end of September and the present day, but I’m sure those posts will come back…. one day. They’re currently being held to ransom by international terrorists who are demanding a payment of 50 cases of Haywards Piccalilli before they’ll restore them.

See you at

www.sniffytastic.com

Fuck’s sake, what are you still coming here for? Have you still not got the hang of typing Sniffytastic in your address bar?

Go on, try it, it won’t hurt!

S… N… I…F… F… Y… T… A… S… T… I… C

Sniffy is taking her ball with her and moving the Cakesniffing experience to a new home.

Things are being tidied up at the moment, but I’ll hopefully be able to shut down Cakesniffers in a few days and reopen elsewhere.

Anybody wanting a sneak preview (don’t get excited) of my miserable take on my miserable world can drop me a line and I’ll tell them where I’m going.

Adios, amigos.

But before then, check this out

TO: MR. JAMES THATCHER

BRAND MANAGER, PROCTER & GAMBLE

Dear Mr. Thatcher

I have been a loyal user of your Always maxi pads for over 20 years, and I appreciate many of their features. Why, without the LeakGuard Core^(tm) or Dri-Weave^(tm)absorbency, I’d probably never go horse riding or salsa dancing, and I’d certainly steer clear of running up and down the beach in tight, white shorts. But my favourite feature has to be your revolutionary Flexi-Wings. Kudos on being the only company smart enough to realize how crucial it is that maxi pads be aerodynamic. I can’t tell you how safe and secure I feel each month knowing there’s a little F-16 in my pants.

Have you ever had a menstrual period, Mr. Thatcher? Ever suffered from ‘the curse’? I’m guessing you haven’t. Well, my ‘time of the month’ is starting right now. As I type, I can already feel hormonal forces violently surging through my body. Just a few minutes from now, my body will adjust and I’ll be transformed into what my husband likes to call ‘an inbred hillbilly with knife skills.’ Isn’t the human body amazing?

As brand manager in the feminine-hygiene division, you’ve no doubt seen quite a bit of research on what exactly happens during your customers’ monthly visits from Aunt Flo. Therefore, you must know about the bloating, puffiness, and cramping we endure, and about our intense mood swings, crying and out-of-control behaviour. You surely realise it’s a tough time for most women. In fact, only last week, my friend Jennifer fought the violent urge to shove her boyfriend’s testicles into a George Foreman Grill just because he told her he thought Grey’s Anatomy was written by drunken chimps.

Crazy! The point is, sir, you of all people must realize that the UK is just crawling with homicidal maniacs in Capri pants. Which brings me to the reason for my letter.

Last month, while in the throes of cramping so painful I wanted to reach inside my body and yank out my uterus, I opened an Always maxi pad, and there, printed on the adhesive backing, were these words: ‘Have a Happy Period.’

Are you *+*#*ing kidding me?

What I mean is, does any part of your tiny middle-manager brain really think happiness – actual smiling, laughing happiness – is possible during a menstrual period? Did anything mentioned above sound the least bit pleasurable?

Well, did it, James? FYI, unless you’re some kind of sick S&M freak girl, there will never be anything ‘happy’ about a day in which you have to jack yourself up on Nurofen and Kahlúa and lock yourself in your house just so you don’t march down to the local Tesco’s armed with a hunting rifle and a sketchy plan to end your life in a blaze of glory. For the love of God, pull your head out, man. If you just have to slap a moronic message on a maxi pad, wouldn’t it make more sense to say something that’s actually pertinent, like ‘Put Down the Hammer’ or ‘Vehicular Manslaughter Is Wrong’?- Or are you just picking on us?

Sir, please inform your accounting department that, effective immediately, there will be an £8 drop in monthly profits, for I have chosen to take my maxi-pad business elsewhere. And though I will certainly miss your Flexi-Wings, I will not for one minute miss your brand of condescending bullshit. And that’s a promise I will keep. Always.

Best,

Wendi Aarons

I’m a twat. I’m a twat. I’m a twat.

A couple of swigs of cheap plonk on an empty stomach and I go completely off my tits.

Arsehole.

Anyway, to save me getting into further trouble, I thought it best to post some photos. Aaaahhh, I feel myself stepping back into the light.

The Grand Canyon
It’s a deep long hole with a river running through it. One… two… three…. JUMP!

Wonder Woman’s Helicopter
Yes, the delish superheroine is alive and living at the Grand Canyon shuttle site. She was off doing dirty bitch things with her truth lasso, so I didn’t actually see her unfortunately, but she’d left her helicopter parked there.

Yeeeeeeeee-Haaaaaaaaaaw Cowgirl
I had a strange experience with a card trickster at this ranch, but this cowgirl made me go a bit whatsit when she beckoned me over as I took this photo. She thought I was taking a picture of the horse, for fuck’s sake. The horse is called Jackson, and he smells a bit like a horse. I’m sure the cowgirl did too, but you’d let her off for that.

Actually, she looks a bit rough on this photo, but it wasn’t her teeth I was looking at.

Fremont Street Experience
Look at these nasty pieces of work!

Imagine coming across any of these on a dark night. What a thought, or several…

Las Vagas is an amazing place. Sat in the middle of vast desert, it is an oasis of madness, fun and light.

A fantastic venue for a holiday, but not when your life has fallen apart. Things should have been so much different there, it would’ve been brilliant in different circumstances, but I’ve just had the most miserable holiday of my entire life; I’m having the most miserable time of my entire life.

The sun shone, it was lovely and warm, I spent lots of money, lost about $120 in the slot machines, chain-smoked cheap fags. For these reasons alone, the holiday was worth it, but trying to act “normal” and pretend that I was OK with everything was just too much for me. I guess things were compounded by Jo acting as if nothing was wrong, as she has done and continues to do.

So now I’m back and life goes on, even though I wish it wouldn’t. Too cowardly to put an end to things, you just wait for a 70mph coming together with a brick wall or truck. Or you smoke yourself to death.

Bring it on.

Is that what they call Las Vegas?

They won’t do after I’ve had my miserable face there next week.

We’re off to Vegas! Yes, Tina, Jo and the outlaws are going away on Saturday on our trip that we planned a long time ago, when Tina wasn’t as apparently unbearable and depressing to live with. Like I wasn’t a few weeks ago when we bought a house together. Fucking tool.

I think I’m doing the right thing by still going… just. I need a holiday and some sunshine (not had any in over 2 years) and Jo’s family are really nice (I wonder if she’s adopted). There’ll be plenty of things to take photos of, and if I’m any good at the Black Jack table, I might win enough money to buy her out of the house and tell her to sling her hook (which would make a difference from what’s been proposed so far).

Do I want her to sling her hook? Nope, absolutely not, but that’s what that crazy little thing called love does to you. Fries your brain and makes you lose all sense.

Failing winning a stack of cash in the casino, a fatal “accident” at the Grand Canyon might result in a positive outcome.

“It was a mercy killing!” You’ll see me being led away by the FBI, or state police, or by a band of cheering admirers.

These things I mention in jest, so I really do hope that nothing happens to anybody in the party.

I’m a celebrity, get me out of here!
Yes, so you book a trip to Vegas with the intention of taking in one of shows from a superstar. Who’s in residence there at the moment? We have the wonderful Bette Midler, Cher and Mr David Furnish’s partner Elton (accompanied by his amazing performing eyebrow [check out Princess Di’s funeral]). Unfortunately, they’re all on holiday for the week while we’re there, so a celebrity hunt would be rather fruitless unless I mozy on down to the courthouse to catch a look at OJ Simpson, who’s on trial AGAIN.

Smoking
I’d forgotten how quickly I get addicted to things. Aren’t Marlboro Lights divine? I don’t think most people who read this blog would ever have smoked Marlboro Lights because they’re all quite common and prefer things like Regal, or Royals, or dimps that they pick up from the ashtrays of outside cafe tables. It was people like these who complained about the smoking ban, but they’re really benefiting from recycling used cigs from ashtrays.

Anyway, I haven’t bought any more fags since I finished the last of a packet yesterday, so I hope I can get it out of my system and ignore the constant nagging in my head long enough to get back on the straight and narrow.

And then I don’t know what I’ll do. Keep chewing my fingers I guess.

What a mess they are: a sad reflection of my chewed up and spat out life.

Jesus, you’re going through emotional turmoil, spending too much time on your own and what is there to distract you? Telly is crap, time differences mean that I have to be awake in the early hours to have online chats about baby oil fights with delicious Canadians, and the blogworld is crap at the moment too. I mean, I’ve even resorted to posting messages in Facebook of late, that’s how bad things are.

So, to save plummeting further into the abyss of despair, I need to post something.

Things are rubbish, let’s just leave it at that. I don’t really know where I am or what the future will hold. My emotions are running high, or should I say, to the extreme. I have had shameful lapses with nicotine and booze, neither of which I’m intending to repeat ever again.

Anyway, washing machines. What is it with these things? I’m staying at my folks’ this week as they’re in Italy again. Their washing machine is really confusing, it’s not one that you turn the dial to the “dye everything pink and shrink” setting, it has buttons and flashing lights and different options. I got a bit muddy earlier (nothing to do with lesbian wrestling) and so I’m having to wash my otherwise clean jeans and some socks, knickers and stuff. I put the washing on about 2 hours ago and it’s still going! What the fuck is going on?? I could’ve taken it down to the Irwell and bashed it against some rocks on the riverbank.

I hate Fax machines too. Stupid bloody things.

The liver of a Chinaman
I don’t know why I did it, other than stupidity I suppose and possibly because, well if I can’t have a drink now, when the hell can I have one, but I had two moderate glasses of whisky last night. I was tired, I hadn’t eaten. On top of this, I haven’t touched a drop in over eight years. What this means is that my liver has no alcohol dehydrogenase. Whot, whot, whot? It’s an enzyme that breaks down alcohol at the start of the metabolic process. Of course, my liver doesn’t have any of the enzymes further down the metabolic pathway that help to clear the circulation of aldehydes – the things that make you feel shite when you’re hungover – you only synthesise these enzymes if your liver is exposed to the stimulus (alcohol in this case).

Anyway, I got absolutely shitfaced within about 2 minutes and spent all day today feeling utterly wretched, moreso than I had been doing.

So there’s a lesson there. You think you want something so much, crave for it, think about it so much that it becomes all consuming, you think Yes, this is what I need, I can’t be happy without it. So you cross the line, taste the forbidden fruit, but when you finally get it, it’s really disappointing and you wish that you’d have stayed the way you were before. Worst still, you know you’ve actually cheated yourself and let yourself down, people who know you will be let down and betrayed too and you can never go back to that time just a short while ago; it’s been tainted. The fact that you can’t go back, that you’ve blotted your copy book, is much worse than the disappointment of realising that smoking is pretty disgusting and that being drunk just makes you feel crap.

If where you’re at is OK, just stick at it.

And if you decide to do some washing, see if there’s a “quick wash” setting.