I’ve bought a number of cars over the past ten years or so; I’m currently on my FIFTH car, my fourth Nissan.

I tend to go for Nissans because

1. they’re reliable
2. they tend to come with pretty good extras as standard (CD player, central locking, air con, etc)
3. they’re pretty cheap

etsetterar, etsetterar

They’re also boring enough be be relatively undesirable to car thieves, although my first Nissan was stolen, recovered, and then stolen again from the insurance assessors before being written off.

Anyway, Nissans are OK if you can’t afford a Honda.

After my previous car was written off, I decided to get a smaller car as a replacement and I picked up a nippy, but boring Nissan Almera – one owner, low mileage, good condition.

And here’s Sniffy’s first tip when buying a car:

If at all possible, don’t buy a car in winter.

Why not? Well, you tend to wear things like coats and scarves and that in winter, and when you’re test driving a car, you don’t realise that the seat belt is slicing into your neck all the fucking time. Because of this, you don’t bother to check whether the car has height-adjustable seat belts and you buy it because, it’s a decent price, good nick, etsetterar, etsetterar.

Spring comes along, the layers – rightly or wrongly – come off and you find that you are constantly moving the seatbelt as it rubs against your neck.

I’ve adjusted my seat, bought a neck pad and now a seatbelt clip. None of these things work and I’m on the verge of selling the car because the only thing that will stop the seatbelt doing this is me growing by six inches – and that ain’t gonna happen.

So I’m annoyed.

I can’t believe they don’t have adjustable seatbelts – is it a three door thing? Who knows, it’s totally shite, that’s what it is. I might get a booster seat.

Next time I’m going buy a German car, because I think drivers of German cars have some sort of special dispensation that allows them to drive and behave like total cunts and get away with it. There must be subliminal undertones of the Nurmberg Rally coming from the engine that turn the drivers into total fucking Nazis. “YOU WILL MARCH AS ONE AND ANNEXE THE HIGHWAYS, THE OUTSIDE LANE IS YOURS; NO ROAD SPACE FOR WEAKER SPECIES! ONWARD, ONWARD, ONWARD!!! FASTER, FASTER, FASTER!!!!”

German car owners club AGM, 2007

Either that or total neanderthal lunatics just happen to be attracted to them.

I suppose it’s like most things, you don’t notice the decent drivers of German cars; it just happens that most incidents where you’re almost driven off the road involve an Audi, Volkswagen or BMW…. or of course, a Vauxhall. I think Vauxhall drivers are dyslexics who think they’ve bought a Volkswagen.

And now I’ve cricked my fucking neck.

Bollocks.

Despite us not selling Trump’s house anymore, it’s still on the market, being sold by Bellend Homes – all part of the part ex deal.

Apparently, somebody has put an offer on it without even being round to do a viewing, but he’s been pissing about, so the estate agents have started to market the house again (not that we realised they’d stopped doing).

And so it came to pass that sweet Abigail wanted to come and see the house. We did the usual thing; out of work a bit early, getting the house tidy and spick and span. Delayed tea until after the royal visit was due at 7pm. I took Rocky out for his constitutional to get His Bounciness out of the way of our viewer, while Trump stayed in and waited.

We wandered.

She waited.

We wandered a bit more, Rocky pood, he sniffed, he weed, he said hello to a few other pooches.

She waited, and waited.

We wandered… nope, the chippy’s shut… back onto the field, more sniffing.

So at 7.30, we came home and ate.

Abigail? Congratulations, you’ve made it onto my list of total cunts.

What’s really bad about selling your house is having to have idiots come round for viewings. What’s even worse, having effectively sold your house, is still having to make arrangements for people to come round (or not).

I know I shouldn’t feel sorry for estate agents, and I can’t say as I do, but imagine having to deal with house buyers for your job. Fucking nightmare. In fact, they deserve each other.

Look who landed in Scotland today…

Yes, it’s Trump’s Uncle Donald.

Their hair is remarkably similar.

ANGRY
Fucking cunting arsehole Government has backed cunting arsehole Manchester councils’ plans for a peak-time congestion charge. The tax is essentially another penalty levied on people who work, since the fucking scumbag dolescum who actually vote for Labour will be wallowing in their pits, stinking of shit during the morning congestion charge time, by the afternoon, they’ll be shitfaced down the boozer.

Of course, the politicians who want to bring this in will be able to claim it back on their expenses, if they can drag themselves into work before 11am.

This is what Cllr Leese, leader of Manchester Council has to say: “fewer than 20% of motorists in Greater Manchester would have to pay the charge.

“The scheme would be of great benefit to more than 30% of households who relied entirely on public transport and currently struggled to get to work.”

So motorists are paying for other people to get about town, consequently contributing the profits of private bus company shareholders. How benevolent of us. It would’ve been nice to have been asked. Of course, they don’t need to ask us when they know what the answer will be:

FUCK RIGHT OFF

Please can we have a revolution? Or just a general election so we can vote these jokers out?

Dolescum
Talking of dolescum, I’m dressed like one at the moment – 3/4 sports pants, t-shirt and Crocs. Trump asked, not too subtly, “Are you going to wear that when we walk the dog?”. I think I shame her at times.

So annoyed today. And the sun is in my face and my cursor has disappeared.

Bollocks.

AND I forgot my bloody coffee and it’s gone cold!!

BASTARDS

We went to Manchester today…

At the Cooperative Bank
What with officially living in sin, we’re getting a joint account for mortgage, bills and that. Lots of people say the Cooperative Bank is good, so that’s where we’ll be taking our custom with joint money things. I had to go and show my ID to complete the process so I presented my passport and we were on our way.

Lunch at the Town Hall
We bought sandwiches from Pret a Manger – tres bon – and decided to take them to Albert Square to eat them.

It was a bit noisy (music) as we approached and it was apparent that there was a gathering in the town hall square. It was the Palestinians; they had flags, they were dancing to traditional music. I was wondering whether the demonstration of traditional Palestinian music would be followed by a demonstration of traditional Palestinian suicide bombing, it was just followed by a traditional demonstration march.

As the march proceeded past us, it was quite noticeable that 98% of the demonstrators were white, middle class British people. They trundled off towards Deansgate, led by two mounted police officers; their horses depositing a good load of poo for the following crowd to march through.

I was concerned that I’d be filmed by the anti terrorist squad, shoving a chocolate slice in my gob. Oh the indignity.

I’m sure it’s six of one half a dozen of the other when it comes to the problems between Israel and the Palestinians, but I really don’t think your average Chorlton-dwelling British leftie has any right to demonstrate one way or the other. They can happily go about their daily business, go shopping, enjoy a coffee or a drink in their oh-so-swanky bars without much fear that some twat will come and blow themselves up next to them.

Mustn’t have been much worth looking at in today’s Guardian… as if there ever is.

Waterstones
Trump wanted to buy a book so we went to Waterstones, using the back entrance to avoid the Chorlstinians on their demo.

Can we all see what’s wrong with this photo?

Yes, look who’s visiting on 17th June – Sting.

Why? To enjoy a delicious cup of coffee perhaps? I’m guessing he’s got a book out. I’ll be hurrying myself along to buy that one on my way to signing up for a lifetime’s subscription to Socialist Ecowarrior Weekly.

Why can’t they invite somebody good, for fuck’s sake?

At the Cworp (that’s Swinton for “Co-op”)
We nipped into the Coop on the way back to the car. The Co-op shop is next to the Co-op bank – they’re linked and you can walk from the bank to the shop without going outside. Good eh?

Anyway, what with their ethical nature and that, I was surprised to see them sell Nescafe. And what with their so-called eco-friendly credentials, I was shocked and appalled to find the onions we bought were from New Zealand.

What’s that about?

Footie
Euro 2008 has started. I love these big tournaments, even more so when England haven’t qualified. We don’t get any of those dickhead flying car flags or St George’s flags from their bedroom windows. Nor do we get all the ridiculous hype about a mediocre team of prima donnas. Instead, we’ll get some decent football and hopefully Italy will win!

Coldplay on iTunahs
I saw the TV commercial for the new Coldplay album download from iTunes.

Are they trying to look like U2?

I hate them, really, really hate them. Boring, awful RUBBISH music. AND it’s being played all the frigging time on all the BBC radio stations at the moment.

Somebody help me.

Me and Trump went out for tea tonight, to Croma, the pizza place near Manchester town hall. It’s nice there. We had starters, main courses, olives, puddings, Trump had wine (a bottle, to herself), I had fizzy water. We were only charged for the puddings and drinks.

Good eh?

I’m SO tired, and SO looking forward to my lie in tomorrow. It’s Trump’s turn to let His Lordship out for his wee in the morning… and then the battle on wills commences: who will break first and give in to go and make the coffees? Well, it’s always bloody me.

I think I’ll get a teasmaid for Bellend Towers. Can you get a teasmaid to make coffee? Probably more of a possibility than getting Trump to make coffee on a Saturday morning.

Talking of Bellend Towers – 27th June. So April? See you on 1st July?

There are a number of programmes on the telly where people are assisted in their search for a dream home by some “experts”.

I’m currently watching Escape to the country; a couple from Wythenshawe want to move to the Peak District.

It’s similar for Location, location, location, A place in the sun, etc. A bunch of people who can’t be fucked to do what everybody else does when looking for a home – looking on the internet, getting flyers from estate agents. Why bother doing that when you can get some know it all from the telly to do all the searching and negotiating for you.

So they get shown three or four properties, whinge a lot, and still don’t bother going for any of them. There was a couple on last night’s Location, location, location who had viewed 50 properties over the past year and still weren’t happy with anything they were shown. Answer? BUILD YOUR OWN!

Which brings us to Grand Designs. The people who design and make their own properties as featured in this programme are annoying to the extreme.

Justin and Cressida are leaving behind their careers as teachers in Chorlton and moving to North Wales to be self sufficient so they can bring up their two young children in an eco home made of compacted shit.

Some guy just looked in as he walked past, came to the front door, rang the bell and knocked, but didn’t bother waiting for me to get the keys to open the door before fucking off. Well, he’s not a very good salesman/religious freak is he?

Cool
Some food is just better at room temperature. I’m referring to food that’s supposed to be hot of course. I’ve just had some cold lasagne, the flavours are so much more obvious with cold food.

So, here is my list of favourite hot foods that are fuckin’ delish cool (not cold):

• Lasagne
• Curry
• Pizza
• Italian meatballs
• Baked potatoes
• Boiled new potatoes

Things that are NOT nice cold:

• Chilli con carne (unless it’s been mixed with rice, then it’s fuckin’ delish)
• Baked beans
• Pasta
• Chips

Things not nice hot or cold:

• Cottage cheese
• Cooked carrots

These aren’t exhaustive lists, but you get the picture.

The next door neighbours have got another piece of furniture in their front yard – it’s the armchair that matches the sofa that was there for over six weeks.

There’s another sofa straddling the alley gates where our bins get collected from.

There’s a bag of rubbish dumped in our newly-emptied bin.

Fucking scrubbers.

FOO!
Saw the Foo-Fah Fighters at the City of Manchester stadium last night: brilliant.

I didn’t have my big camera with me, so the zoom’s not particularly brilliant, but hey, that’s life.

Waiting 45 mins to get to the bar, finally getting served as the band started their act, then being told that there was no water and only one bottle of Diet Coke? Absolute fucking bollocks.

If these stadiums are so utterly rubbish at providing bar services. Look at them all with their Fosters packs on their backs! Where were the bastards selling soft drinks?

Why don’t they just let people bring their own soft drinks in instead of being total Nazis about it?

Arseholes

A few months ago, a Vanity Fair issue had an article on the history of the horror film genre. One “must see” film that was mentioned was Wes Craven’s very first effort The last house on the left. Described as “the film that started a genre”, I thought I’d take a look at it and bought the fucking thing without reading the IMDB reviews. Bugger me. Let’s just say: really, really, slow; truly disturbing, but mixed with the most bizarre Benny Hill sequences.

We didn’t get to the end of it. No doubt there’d have been a sing-song finale with people waving body parts.

If anybody wants my copy, let me know and you can have it.

Jeez.

The last hobbit cave on the left
Of course, we have our very own Last house on the left here chez Trumpsniffers. Ours is adorned with all sorts of horrific accoutrements of shite; an inside-out torture chamber designed to assault the last resistant fibres of good taste.

We’re racking our brains, trying to think of something that’s not illegal that we can do to it when we leave. Our first instinct was to cut down the windchimes and post them back to them, bit by bit – criminal damage/kidnap/torture; it wouldn’t look good on my next police check. Besides, I don’t think there’s ever a time when at least one of them isn’t looking out of their front window, spying on the street to see who pauses for a millisecond too long near THEIR parking space. I’m tempted to hire a company to paint their very own parking bay for them – you know how some houses have a disabled bay marked outside their homes, this special one would be identified by the word “cunt”. But the expense!

Oh, what can we do? We’re chucking out a load of pans when we go and Trump has suggested we tie strings to the handles and donate them anonymously with a note explaining that they might like some more jangly shit to hang from their house.

Or should I just post their address and postcode here so all the good people in Blogworld can donate any old shit that they want to get rid of? I know a film they might like…

New toy
Soon enough, I’ll be able to post a Youtube clip of Trump playing with her new ukulele, but not yet; she’s not quite got the hang of Toxic and she wants to be able to put in a virtuoso performance for her fans.

I’m not referring to the new vaccum cleaner we bought last week either. I mean, what can you say about a bloody vacuum cleaner? NOISY!

No, the new toy to which I refer is this:

This is a rather nifty iPod dock that incorporates a DAB/FM radio and auxiliary input. 30 watts output with a subwoofer, plus a fully-functional remote control. Cool eh?

It’s all part of our efforts to be tidier once we get into Bellend Towers. So the big component stereo system is going into Trump’s play room, along with the gazillion CDs that she owns. Although we’ll never be the sorts of people to buy an expensive shelving unit and not put anything on it a la Grand Designs (what’s the fucking point in doing that?), minimising the items stored to just books will be OK.

We’d been impressed with a Bose system that our friends had, but not so impressed with its £300 price tag (or the fact that it was just an iPod dock), so when an Amazon search came up with this for £100, it seemed like a relative bargain.

Now all I need to do is get some music on Trump’s iPod that I like.

We have a digital kitchen timer that beeps for every corresponding minute of the time that you set.

Fuck me. Setting it for a baked potato is REALLY annoying.

Other annoying things that beep include alarm clocks. What joyous things they are. You’re at your most comfortable in the land of nod, heavy with sleep, deep in dreamland. And it all gets shattered by a single, quiet beep. A beep that replicates and amplifies the longer you leave it. Which utter bastard invented the alarm clock? It must’ve been much better in them days when people got knocked up by somebody banging on the window with a stick. Perhaps. Who knows? Perhaps somebody got fed up with being knocked up and invented the alarm clock as an alternative.

Inventive people should be shot.

Some people wrap their potatoes in foil before baking them. I scoff at those people.

Cocks and Gussets have sent out our revised mortgage offer letters. Wankers.

Vid du freaks
We’ve just been watching the video to Pat Benatar’s Love is a battlefield on Virgin’s music on demand service.

It’s got it all, but mainly it’s got freaks in abundance. Check it out:

We had a mortgage offer from a well known lender, I’ll call them Cocks and Gussets, about three weeks ago. It had the wrong address on it. We told them straight away, in fact our financial adviser told them before they even sent the letter out, and we were told that a modified letter would be sent to us.

In the meantime, our financial adviser also had told them to rectify a £50 difference in price of the property, and our solicitor had asked them for confirmation that they were OK with the incentives offered by the developers (they have to do this, apparently).

Here’s an e-mail I’ve just received from Ken, our solicitor (Keith is our financial adviser):

I have called C&G today to ask what progress had been made in dealing with our letter of 13 May 2008. The operative I spoke to said that when they received the letter, they wrote to Keith asking him to either confirm a reduction in borrowing or change to a new product. They went on to state that they only received Keith’s response on 27 May 2008.

This is not correct. I spoke to Keith on 22 May 2008 and he had already replied to the letter by fax that day.

Further, C&G had no record of my phone calls of 22 and 23 May 2008, and no record of the ‘urgent’ status that I had been assured had been given to the file.

I have now been assured that the matter has been marked urgent and that the relevant team will be made aware that we need a response.

For good measure, I have called Keith this afternoon and asked him if he had any further information. He reiterated that he replied to the letter on 22 May 2008 and agreed to go and call them straight away. He has since called me back to confirm that the matter was given ‘urgent’ status at 3pm today (the time of my call !!) and should be dealt with within 6 hours.

JOY!

I’m just leaving it to them, then Keith is going to put in a formal complaint, for what it’s worth.

Sex and the city
The film that millions of people (women) have been waiting for came out yesterday. It’s not really of interest to me since I’ve never watched the show apart from the penultimate episode, however I know that LOADS of people are really into it. So much so that I heard today that lots of women went to see the film dressed as their favourite characters from the show.

Blimey.

How fucking pathetic, I thought when I heard it, I bet you wouldn’t get a load of lesbians dressing up as their favourite L Word characters if a film was made based on the show.

Of course you bloody would, only they’d all dress as Shane and Alice (and perhaps Max) because we know damned well that Bettes, Tinas and Helenas are a total myth. Oh, I forgot Jenny. Jenny’s a cunt.

I’d post some pictures, but I can’t be arsed. Click here or here if you want.