I have, in the past, extolled the virtues of dehydrated food that, when rehydrated with hot water, transform into fuckin’ delish, nutrish meals. One of my all time favourites is the chicken and mushroom Pot Noodle, in my opinion, the ultimate pot-based snack. But now they are ruined. Why? Well, because of this:

Yes, Pot Noodles now contain 50% less salt than in 2005 – when coincidentally, I first wrote of my love for them. But what have manufacturers done? Have they just removed the salt to give noodle-lovers the opportunity to replace it themselves? Have they bollocks! The bastards have replaced it with potassium chloride – the stuff that gives you a metallic burning sensation in your mouth when you eat it.

BASTARDS!

Why do they have to mess about with things that you love? For fuck’s sake, it’s a Pot fucking Noodle! It’s SUPPOSED TO BE SALTY! Just leave the fuck alone.

I really hate the salt Nazis who have taken over everything. Don’t people realise that food doesn’t taste of anything if there’s no salt? There’ll be reduced salt salty snacks next. Fucking arseholes.

I’ve e-mailed them to complain, but I don’t think they’ll respond. This consumer champion has well and truly lost her mojo.

The L Word
Nice to see that Living TV have put the fourth series of The L Word in the prime spot of midnight on a Friday night. Bastards.

You get four hours of CSI in the run up, but they couldn’t bring it forward by an hour or so.

At least they didn’t put the big bill board ads up for it this year; almost make me crash my car, they do.

Monsieur Rocky’s coiffeur
Rocky had his first hair cut last week. I’m not sure what Angel did to him, but he had his lipstick out for 2 hours after and he’s been trying to shag all the ladies since.

The next cut Rocky’s getting ain’t going to be with electric clippers.

Anyway, Boy Wonder has gone from this:

To this:

He’s been to the beach too. We think he liked it, although I think he may not have noticed the sand and the freedom of being without his lead, he seemed preoccupied in chasing Lea.

I promise never to use satellite navigation AGAIN unless I’m really unsure as to where I’m going. I will, from now on, return to my reliable road atlas and A-Z to get a handle on the roads in the vicinity before relying blindly on some gadget that communicates with things thousands of miles up in the air before telling me what I’ve been able to figure out for years up to now.

Imagine the great explorers of the past, how they travelled to the ends of the world, into the great unknown and lands of dragons, relying on the stars in the night sky. Well, that’s how I feel when I rely on shat nav to get me anywhere. There’s always a feeling of Where the fuck is it taking me? This makes no sense! Sometimes, it’ll give plenty of warning of an approaching turn, other times it’ll tell you when you’re right on top of the junction, or worse, past it. It tells me to throw out my driving experience and sit in the outside lane of the motorway when I’m not overtaking anything. It makes a bad driver of a mediocre one.

Exhibit A – No escape from the back of beyond
On a day out in terribly Cheshire with my lovely Trump and our little dog, our route home was blocked by an accident on the road ahead. I followed the lead of others and turned round. Instead of saying “Have a look at the road atlas and see what alternative roads there are”, I mistakenly said “Turn the sat nav on.” After several attempts to get the thing to find us an alternative, we found ourselves further down the line of queuing traffic as the technology couldn’t comprehend that we were trying to find a different way home. A brief look at the map would’ve told me to turn round and stay on the road .

It was like something out of a 1940s horror film or the Twilight Zone, where a person is trapped in space and time for all eternity. Forced to return to the same spot again and again.

Exhibit B – Out of pocket by £110
For some god unknown reason on Saturday, I used the shat nav to get to a place about 2 miles away that I could’ve figured out easily enough from the map. In fact the map was better because el stupido device lost the signal at a vital point in the journey and I had to use those things known as my eyes and common sense to get me to my destination.

On our return home, I was irritated that I was forced to park on the other side of the road because my usual parking space had been taken by something old with blacked out windows and big alloy wheels (that were probably worth more than the car). In the ensuing rant, and Trump’s counter-rant, I forgot to unplug the sat nav power adapter from the cig lighter. No big deal, surely?

Big deal, definitely.

Come Sunday, my car battery was as flat as a fluke, but the breakdown man came quickly and his jump leads did the trick. It was raining and dark and I didn’t see that there’d be any benefit to charging the battery by driving around with the demisters, blowers and lights on, so I revved the engine a bit and left it.

Monday morning: Battery flat again. This time I called on my sister to come and rescue me with jump leads. Car starts eventually and I decide to drive it really fast around the ring road to my sister’s new house to give the battery a proper charge. Arrived, went inside, locked pooch in the garden, returned to car to go do a bit of shopping, car battery totally flat again.

Advice from Sid in my local garage: “Sounds like it’s not holding its charge; the cells have probably collapsed. We don’t have any batteries in, we get them to order, you could try Charlie Browns.” So off I pootle to Charlie Browns and the only battery they have in for my car costs £95.

FUCK!

Back to Bomb’s where I enlist the help of Dad and his trusty toolbag of totally useless tools – i.e. one adjustable spanner, one imperial spanner and a couple of pairs of pliers. Another £15 and a socket set and a lot of grease and swearing later – accompanied by yelping from a lonely dog – the old battery is out and the new one is in – although we can’t tighten up the positive. The car starts, victory is ours.

I am totally fucked off. A hundred and ten pounds just because I left a charger for something that’s frankly quite rubbish plugged in overnight. How can these things be designed to draw current without the accessory circuit being on?

Sat Nav is RUBBISH on so many counts.

Ring the alarm
On top of this we have a dog with separation anxiety who chews through alarm wires when he gets bored. I refuse to spend £70 to have a bit of wire replaced so I’m going to do it myself.

Idiot animal.

He’s being groomed tomorrow – with clippers, not for child porn. I’ve been given some tips to help get him used to the idea. He won’t keep still though and it’ll be like trying to shave an eel. He’s going to end up looking like some sort of burns victim.

Photos to follow no doubt.

Is it wrong to watch your dog (or cat) throw up his breakfast and then let him eat it to save you having to clean up warm sick?

Hell no!

Is it wrong to put mushy peas on my chips and gravy when I didn’t ask for them?

Hell yes!

You see, mushy peas fall into the same category as mashed potatoes when it comes to things that infiltrate gravy with grainy cloudiness. I can’t be doing with stuff that sullies my gravy. Instead of having a fuckin’ delish plate of food, I ended up with something that looked like it had been fished out of the pig bin*.

WRONG, WRONG, WRONG!

And Trump wondered why I was in such a bad mood. Honestly, you’d have thought she’d know me by now.

*For those who didn’t attend school in 1970s Britain, the pig bin was the big bin in the school canteen where the dinnerladies would empty the unfinished meals from children’s plates – pudding and all. The leftovers were then collected by farms to be fed to pigs – or so we were led to believe.

A Mars a day
Once upon a time in a land not far away, there lived a scientist who went for a job at the Waltham Centre for Animal Research (or whatever it’s called). You know Pedigree Masterfoods, makers of Pedigree Chum, Whiskas and other pet foods? Well they have to research their products and product components, so they have this fantastic facility in the Midlands where they do their stuff.

There are loads of dogs and cats, rabbits and less significant pets kept there and they’re basically fed different food formulations before being tested for physiological wellbeing etc. Tested in a nice way – I think the worst that happens to them is that they have blood and wee samples taken.

All the animals are housed in fantastic accommodation and they seem to have a pretty good standard of living, all things considered. That’s unless there’s a back room where they stick electrodes in their heads to observe brain patterns when they’re given different foods.

Anyway, Pedigree Masterfoods is owned by Mars and Mars also owns a chain of three animal care centres called “My Petstop“, of which there’s one here in Manchester. We’re going to take Rocky to check out the grooming facilities later on; it’s about time he started to look like a Mini Schnauzer rather than a Scottie dog.

I wonder if these places are a front for their animal research centre. What if they carry out secret experiments on the animals in their care? I may ask the sixteen year old “I just want to work with little animals” at the reception and see what sort of response I get. “And what is it you intend to do with his hair and nail clippings, do you have a intensive cloning programme that you’re going to use it for? And don’t be getting any funny ideas about hypnotising him and making him want to start eating Pedigree Chum!”

Trump got me some bling for my birthday. You can’t really call it bling because it’s too tasteful, but it’s got sparkly bits in it. It’ s lovely and it sits beautifully on the second finger of my left hand – it’s a touch too big for the third finger of my right hand, where I’d normally wear a ring. I flashed it at Connie and she gasped “That’s not on your ring finger is it?”.

No, Mother, not yet. But think on and look sharp because one day you might have to be forking out for a wedding that you’d thought you’d got away with!

Twilight world
It’s that strange time of day when the world starts coming awake. It’s actually a bit later than that, but this being Manchester, nobody bothers getting up for work, so it stays quiet until a bit later in the morning…. or dinnertime, as it’s known around here.

Little Rocky is in his twilight zone; he has not fulfilled his holy trinity of wee, breakfast, poo, so I am waiting for a bit till I make him go outside again.

You see, parents don’t have this, so they? They just shove a nappy on a baby and let it mess itself so they can clean it up at their own convenience. Pet (dog) owners need to get their animals into a routine or the consequences can be disastrous. And smelly.

I haven’t had a wee or blown my nose yet; I feel a little other-worldly myself. Nothing beats a good productive nose-blow. You always have to manoeuvre the tissue to give it another blow to try to dislodge a sticky one; wiping bogey on your nose when you know that tissues just don’t work on those ones and a poke with a finger is the only thing that’s bringing that baby out! I don’t advocate nose-picking, but sometimes, in private, needs must.

The dog is turning into an adolescent. He met a friendly lady dog on Monday afternoon who was lovely and calm with him while he sniffed her face, then tried to hump it (her face). He is demanding more sleep; we now have to get him out of bed in the morning. He sometimes drops to the floor and refuses to move while we’re trying to walk him.: “I can’t believe you’re making me WALK. I HATE YOU!”

Yesterday, he threw up at the entrance to a place where he wasn’t allowed to go in. Good boy!

“Fed up with your dishes still being wet when you take them out of the dishwasher? Why not try Finish Powerball/Fairy Active Burst or whatever shite we’re advertising?”

Why not doing the pots by hand and leaving them to drain on the draining board like most of us have to?

Then again, it is quite annoying when you have to dry the dishes by hand when you’d have thought they’d come out dry from the machine.

Just shows you how much we rely on machines to do things for us. Why can’t somebody invent a washing machine that washes, dries, irons, and puts away? Especially one that pairs socks. If I had the money, I’d like to be able to wear clothes only once then chuck them.

37
That’s how old I am today.

Fuck.

Notorious sporan-wearing Yorkshire poof Piggy McPigster made a very good point about Pride events in a comment on my previous post. Here it is:

“I really can’t stand all this ‘Pride’ shite.

As I see it, it’s no longe about being ‘out’ and getting some kind of acknowledgement for actually existing and (hopefully) gaining some kind of acceptance.

The whole thing has been commercialised to the point of becoming vomit inducing – the bars out to fleece everyone for every penny in their pocket, the clubs doing the same thing and – and this is where it really fucking annoys me – help only to strengthen the ‘gay ghetto’.

I don’t know about the dykes, but as far as the poofs are concerned, it’s just one long jolly – everyone out to get as pissed as they can and to shag anyone they can get their hands on. Hence why you see the same old faces at every pride event around the country and beyond.

I don’t feel the need to visit or take part in Pride events. I also have no need to line the pockets of the straights who once would never touch us but have now discovered the money to be made from us. I also don’t need to visit such events to feel ‘love’ or to be part of a so-called community (biggest crock of shite I ever heard).

I’m a human being, first of all and that makes me feel proud enough. Events such as this do nothing to enhance the image we have, despite what anyone says.”

He’s right of course. The Village in Manchester is teeming with people making money out of people who they probably don’t care too much for. The takeaways and taxi firms there are run by people of a certain religion that would happily see all LGBT people hanged, stoned or burned to death. During the Big Weekend, stall holders rake it in selling tat, the main bars have floats on the parade that are manned by muscular straight boys, some of whom clearly find approaches by enthusiastic gay blokes quite distasteful. Then again, given some of the enthusiastic gay blokes, most gay blokes would probably find them distasteful.

So why support Pride? Why line the pockets of those who hate us? Why put on a freak-show display for the sake of straight people who think that being gay is all fun and games, a constant party?

Let’s have a look at some of the messages from the parade itself. First of all, the Christians and the National Front were positioned at prominent locations on the route. This is a leaflet the Christians were handing out:

Then there are the statistics in the UK:

Attitudes towards people with HIV/AIDS:

The global attitudes to homosexuality:

So I guess it’s important to show ourselves to the world every now and again to remind people that yes, we’re normal, but no we’re not the same. Some like to get the message across a little more subtly:

Not all Christians are obsessed with being shocked and appalled at who people have sex with:

Of course, some just like to make a show of themselves.

And some fuckers get to ride a tank through the streets of Manchester!

I think Pride is an important and necessary event. Gay people are still not accepted. I still have difficulty with things, still have to pretend to be “living with a friend” to my family. You still have to be careful about where you go on holiday, and worry about whether you can hold your partner’s hand in public in certain parts of town.

For an interesting angle on Manchester Pride and how people find it abhorrent that, while businesses make up to about £20m from the event, the charities that it is supposed to support get about £65,000, check out www.get-bent-manchester.com. They even invaded the main parade.

So, think on and look sharp. And if you don’t want to line the pockets of the bar owners, try to slip a bottle vodka in your man bag, or under the back of your mullet.

You know when you’re driivng along a motorway or dual carriageway and there’s somebody pootling along in the outside lane, refusing to pull in? Have a look to see if they’ve got a sat nav stuck to their windscreen. If they have, you can bet your life that, rather than thinking about how to drive properly, they’re actually obeying Jane Tom Tom, the sat nav woman as she tells them “Keep right” on the motorway.

Seriously, I used my sat nav yesterday and that’s what it says, all the time, keep right. I was concerned; there are a number of really really thick people in this country. People who can’t read maps or follow road signs. But surely nobody is stupid enough to stay in the outside lane of a motorway when they’re not overtaking, just because a computer-generated voice tells them to?

When I got back to the office after my trip, I mentioned this to my colleague. “I bet some people are thick enough to think that this means they should stay in the outside lane”, I scoffed.

“Well, funny you should say that. We were on the motorway the other day and my friend was driving. We were in the outside lane and she was going really slowly with all these cars flying past us in the inside lanes. I asked what she was doing and she said that the sat nav had said keep right, so that’s what she was doing”.

Thick cunt.

I think the fucking things should be banned. If your sat nav told you to drive on the railway, would you? Well, yes, people have done. Because they don’t bother using their brains, or following road signs. Because some people are too fucking stupid to be allowed to even breath, let alone get behind the wheel of a car.

Using a sat nav is a bit like driving blindfold; I’m not sure I’m mad keen on the whole, although I admit to acknowledging their use when trying to find back of beyond places.

Pride
It’s Manchester Pride this weekend. It’s OK. We’ve already been treated to Belinda Carlisle in Friday’s entertainment, tonight we get The Gossip. That Beth Ditto doesn’t half scream.

Out in the Village last night, I felt really old. Loads of baby dyke clones, seemingly sponsored by Henleys, G-Star Raw, Hackett, Bench and St-St-Studio Line from Loreal (they’re not even worth it!). Many modelled themselves on Shane from the L Word. Why can’t anybody model themselves on Bette or Dana? I guess because most lesbians that go out in the Village are 14 years old short-arses.

I am quite horrified that there’s a whole section given over to “Youth Pride” which excludes anybody over the age of 30. Not only is this a completely arbitrary cut off – surely a 29 year old can’t be classed as a “youth” – but I thought age discrimination was illegal. Shocked and appalled. And so depressed at being so old.

And although I find it a touch distracting at first, it’s good to see that all stage acts are accompanied by at least one person who signs for the Deaf. The PA system is so crap that even those without hearing problems need subtitles.

Today: the big parade. Photos to follow.

I’m a stickler for following rules and I can’t abide rule breaking.

I was in Morisson’s supermarket earlier, getting some stuff for tea while trying to grab as many grocery and carrier bags for picking up poo (supplies are running low). Steak pie, oven chips, baking spuds and mushrooms in my basket, I headed for the “Hand baskets, cash only” till. The bloke being served paid by debit card. I could the hear woman behind him suck her teeth and I noticed her look up animatedly at the “hand baskets, cash only” sign.

They paid by cash. Gold star.

The young bloke in front of me paid by card too. BLACK MARK!

I pickced up the next cutomer bar, which clearly stated “Hand baskets, cash only”, and placed it bheind my shopping on the conveyor as the woman behind me unloaded the contents of her TROLLEY…. yes, a TROLLEY!… onto the conveyor. I was shocked and appalled.

If people can’t comply with simple rules of shopping, is there any hope that they’ll comply with the law of the land? I don’t think so.

Heading home, I was confronted by a psychotic bus driver as he swerved out of the bus depot, forcing me to swerve around him. He then drove up my arse until he could overtake; flying past at about 50mph – in a 30 zone! Where the fuck had the Drive Safe spying twat gone who’d been photographing motorists at that very spot just earlier on?

Bus drivers are all mental. And they’re all total bastards too.

We’re heading for total anarchy in the UK.

Salt of the earth
The working classes of Britain are the salt of the earth.

The woman from next door came out to meet us as we got back from walkies this afternoon. “He’s a total pain in the arse” she said, referring to Rocky. I scuttled inside and let Trump deal with her.

According to her – whose husband often wakes us up hoiking up greenies through the night; who has visitors coming and going at all ours of night, slamming the front door; who has the telly on so loud that I can hear it from the bedroom – according to her, Little Rocky howls all day and into the early hours of the morning.

LIES! Yes, he’s a little bastard who hates being left on his own, locked in the kitchen, but I know that he stops his yelps within about an hour or so of us leaving him – I’ve returned within this time to find him quiet. As for yelping into the early hours? LIES! He hasn’t made a peep since he started sleeping in the living room over a week ago.

We live in terraced houses, you hear noises from your neighbours. We’re often woken by our other neighbour phoning Karachi or Lahore or wherever and shouting for hours on end from 4am. We’re often woken by numpties having arguments on the street.

I just loved the way she didn’t come round and tell us, but instead waited until she collared us (Trump) in the street. Yes it’s annoying, yes I hate upsetting the neighbours, but it’s not as if it’s something that we’re doing deliberately. And it’s not as if it’s not getting better. I’m going to record him tomorrow and see how long he goes on for. If it’s more than half an hour, we’ll have a look at what can be done to stop him.

I might just suggest that she turns the telly up even louder than it already is. I’m surprised she can hear anything over that anyway.

Salt of the pie
I’m not liking the way that supermarkets are reducing the salt content of food these days. You buy a Tesco Indian meal and it’s delish, but contains no salt. How can this be authentic? My pie was woefully lacking in salt. I’m sure you end up taking in more salt by adding it than you would’ve done if they’d just have kept the recipe as it was.

Fucking food Nazis.

We took the dog out for his first walk yesterday evening.

I’d waited for this moment for such a long time. The anticipation that builds up while waiting to walk your very first OWN dog almost rivals that of losing your virginity. Well not quite, most people would think that they’d eventually get a shag (even me), but not everybody gets to walk their very own pooch. Would it ever happen?

For years, I’d watched longingly at people taking their trusty pals on walks with them in the countryside…. and I’m referring to people walking dogs, not people going dogging… and watch from afar, hoping that a little pooch would find me exciting enough to come running to for some attention. Oh, how I loved the attention too; it was magical. A little doggy, with owners who loved it and whom it loved, finding time to come to lonely old me.

So the time was right at last! Little Rocky was finally ready to face the big world. Still too little to wear his new Foul Weather Coat that had dropped through the letterbox yesterday and not in the right part of town to wear his red paisley neckerchief, we thought that wearing his car harness was a good idea to enable us to pull him back without snapping his delicate little neck, should he want to get into mischief. He wasn’t mad keen, but he got on with it.

Would Rocky be the sort of dog that walks calmly at your side? Would he become the sort of dog that can be walked off a lead? From last night’s showing, no.

Rocky’s first walk consisted of:

• Sniffing
• Pulling
• Running
• Jumping like a spring lamb
• Cowering from the attention of other dogs
• Barking at joggers
• Rolling in stuff

Most of these things I had kind of anticipated and didn’t mind too much. What really got on my tits was the dog that insisted on following him around, nose firmly entrenched my poor puppy’s backside. It’s owner was somewhere on the other side of the field, oblivious to the nuisance he had unleashed. Fucking idiot. I asked Trump if I was allowed to kick it. She said no.

It wasn’t the most successful trip out – it probably didn’t help that I was distracting him while Trump was trying to walk him – but it could’ve been much worse. We decided that it might be best to take him out when it’s quieter, both making a mental note of when the Yorkshire Terrorist was allowed to run feral.

Waking early Sunday morning
Half past five, Sunday 19th August: Sniffy is woken by the alarm. I argued with myself about just slinging him out into the back yard, but decided against it and got up to take him out while it was quiet. Aware of the risk of horrific murder in a frenzied attack, I wore my hi-visibility cagoul over my fleece – potential witnesses to the crime would remember seeing that particular ensemble.

Off we went. He was great. This has potential to be what walkies is supposed to be like. The only thing he growled at was an odd-looking Irish woman pushing a child’s push chair that was laden with all sorts of things (I’m guessing her possessions), including a laundry basket.

And then it happened: his first wee. I was very proud of him. This was followed by even more frenzied sniffing and…. a poo! He’d done his first walkies poo! I was so proud of him, but then I had to get down to the task of picking it up using the inverted carrier bag technique (note: Tesco carriers have holes in them). From that distance, and what with me being totally conspicuous, it was obvious to the witnesses to my murder that the dog had pood. I could feel them saying “I bet she leaves that, dirty bitch”. But would they be able to tell the difference between me messing about on the ground, carrier bag in hand, pretending to pick up a poo and messing about with a carrier bag and actually picking up a poo? Well, yes, if they had a look at the dog’s reaction to being walked with a bag of poo hovering over his head. He didn’t like that.

You know what this is like? This is the queer equivalent to straight people talking about changing their babies’ nappies, but they don’t get to wear hi-vis clothing.

Seeing that the house next door but one had gone on the market, I had a look at the estate agent’s website to see how much it was on for. Silly money, in all honesty, but there you go.

Of course, this got me looking at property websites to see what me and Trump could get for our money (well, hers, since I haven’t got a house to sell). Looking at the descriptions of the houses and locations, and knowing the reality of a lot of the areas being described, it made me wonder whether estate agents are actually on drugs?

You look at the photos they take that are supposed to impress potential purchasers. One had taken a photo of wardrobe doors. For fuck’s sake.

Let’s have a look at some examples of things that estate agents think are huge selling points for properties:

To the exterior, there is some well-appointed and very stylish grass:

On the ground floor, the kitchen-diner has a bin and space on the worktop for a nearly-used kitchen roll:

In the main bedroom, the lingering funk of TCP takes us back in time and into a parallel universe:

Also on the first floor is a retro bathroom suite that is especially designed to hide blood splatters:

I also like having a nosey inside people’s houses – some are fucking horrible and you can tell that a lot of those at the lower end of the price range are a bit scummy. You get the idea that there are lots of people with their own distinctive decorative tastes, or lack of it.

Imagine if you could smell the places too.

Blimey.

Rotten
I’ve spent most of today feeling fucking dreadful with one of my heads. It started yesterday afternoon and stayed with me through the night and into the morning, making me feel sickly and shaky, light-headed and all that. I’ve had these before quite a lot, on and off, for about a year now.

I think it’s my hormones.

Anyway, once I started to feel better, I put the telly on. Punctuated by the usual insurance and easier-living products to make old age better, the programmes on offer are pretty good. One of my current favourites on Living TV is “Cheaters”, whereby a so-called detective agency pursues and films adulterous partners after being prompted by their suspicious other halves. True car-crash TV.

I can’t believe Great Ormond Street Hospital have a charity that advertises on national telly. Not that the Peter Pan money is enough or anything.