I’ve loved the musical medium of the “mix tape” since I first got access to recording equipment in the early 1980s. In those days, it was the painful exercise of having finger poised on the pause button while record and play were waiting to kick into action to capture as much of your favourite track being played on the radio… in mono of course…. with half the track being spoken over by the egomaniac DJ. But you got some mixes of your favourite music that you could listen to on your Walkman.

Over the years, radio DJs haven’t changed that much. I suppose they’re presenters rather than DJs since they don’t need any particular talents or musical knowledge to talk shite over music that all sounds the same while having their egos massaged by a side-kick who talks in the language of in-jokes and D-list celebrity gossip. At least in this time, music media have changed quite dramatically. Mix tapes now come in the form of playlists on digital music players and the music never really comes in a real format anymore – it’s just a file on your PC that has been downloaded.

It’s rare that I buy real music these days. This is a good thing since I really haven’t got any room for any more CDs: it’s so much more convenient to just download an album onto a hard drive. But if you think about it, there’s something really nice about listening to music on vinyl, there’s a warmth there that cannot be achieved with the cleanliness of the purely digital format. Ah for the start of Blondie’s Parallel Lines, the crackle of the stylus on the record… thud, thud as it hits a minor scratch… dialling tone… I’m in the phonebooth, it’s the one across the hall. I still have an original copy of this album from when it was first released back in 1978, I shall be playing it very loud this weekend.

But back to my mix tape. I do make mixes of things for my car’s CD player and, when I started seeing Trump, she gave me some rules about making these things. Apparently, it’s a mortal sin to put more than one track from the same artiste on a mix CD. I could’ve been Trump dumped within a week if she hadn’t been so forgiving. Apart from that one rule though, anything seems to go and you can put whatever you like on a mix CD. It is without shame that I can proclaim that my latest mix CD contains the following tracks:

1. The B52’s – Lava
2. Beyonce – Ring the alarm (thanks Tazzy)
3. Banderas – This is your life
4. Gnarls Barkley – Who cares
5. Sade – Paradise
6. Rainbow – Since you’ve been gone
7. George Michael – Too funky
8. Kate Bush – James and the cold gun
9. Michael Jackson – Rock with you
10. Duran Duran – Come undone
11. Jamelia – Something about you
12. Joe Jackson – It’s different for girls
13. The Similou – All this love (thanks Tazzy)
14. Morcheeba – Let me see
15. Blondie – 11.59
16. David Holmes – Paper underwear
17. Soft Cell & Jimmy Sommerville – I feel love
18. GeekGirl – The Devil and the dolly

What an excellent mix, I think the world will agree. Who else could get away with such a mix of contemporary dance, 80s rock, and soul?

Rainbow eh? I challenge you all to hunt out an old Rainbow, REO Speedwagon or Asia song and have a good old listen with the volume turned up. Fantastic, that’s what it is.

Drag up, wear wigs, throw glitter: VERY DISCO
On the subject of mix tapes, one of my favourite mix tapes EVER was the Off your tits mix, which was made for me in my second year at university. The first track on it was Sylvester’s (You make me feel) Mighty Real. I loved it, mixed in with plenty of S’ Express and loads of other shite, I almost wore the thing out.

I asked my friend David (who made the tape for me) why we never heard much of Sylvester anymore and he told me that he’d died. When I asked what Sylvester had died of, he told me AIDS. I wondered if Sylvester might have been gay, then I saw this:

I still had my doubts, right up to his appearance in the purple sequinned turban.

Oh hell, I can’t fine Lana Pelay’s Pistol in my pocket, so a bit of Divine will have to do instead. I love gay disco!

Move away from the chick peas
Going out for a curry tomorrow night. Not just any curry, it’s an eat all you can for a tenner buffet thing. They do this lovely chick pea curry and I can’t stop eating it. I could be in casualty by this time tomorrow night, having my stomach pumped with a Dyson vacuum cleaner and some industrial hosing.

And then you saw me diet.

As I mentioned the other day, I wandered around Manchester on Saturday afternoon and enjoyed the Christmas lights as they came on and lit the streets around the city. Here are a few photos that I took there.

These displays are hanging around Albert Square, which is where the Town Hall is. Unfortunately, there’s a Starbuck’s in the way of the shot, but that’s not hard since there are about 15 of the bloody things in the city.

This looks a bit shite, but this is Deansgate – one of the main shopping/eating streets in Manchester. One of the nice themes of the lights is that most of the trees around the city centre are covered in those little lights.

Kendals, one of our original department stores, is a Manchester landmark. It’s nice to go in there and try to get across the ground floor without being accosted by sales personnel attacking you with the latest “oh no de parfum”. I remember being taken to Santa’s Grotto there as a child… well, I don’t, but there’s a photo of me struggling to escape from Father Christmas, tears streaming down my face, so I know it happened.

I “heart” the big wheel when it comes to Manchester. It’s an impressive structure that occupies an prominent place in the city’s skyline. Trump was so patient as she waited with me while I took this shot. I’d been waiting for what seemed an eternity for the thing to get spinning so I could get an action shot.

We usually keep the wheel until May, but unfortunately, we’re only having it until the beginning of January because it’s getting shipped off to the European Capital of Culture. Big wheel in Liverpool? Are they fucking mad? It’ll be missing a few pods by the beginning of February.

I love the power of Google.

People use search engines for all sorts of things and, sometimes, their searches bring them unto me. So for the person in Nottingham who was interested in “gay cruising using bluetooth”, I’m sorry Cakesniffers couldn’t offer any answers to your query, but I hope you enjoyed your visit, you filthy little cunt.

I don’t know whether they get their clients’ stuff delivered on time, but hauliers R Swain & Sons must have a job on their hands, what with their shit-for-brains workforce. I live opposite one of their transport depots and since it was taken over by Swains, I’ve had nothing but irritation from their idiot wagon drivers (and other employees).

Here’s a question for you. When you leave to go to work in the morning do you:

1. Get your shit together, get in your car and go?
2. Get in your car, realise you’ve forgotten something, go back in the house to get it, then go?
3. Get in your car, drive off your drive, half way down the street, realise you’ve forgotten something, so park across somebody’s drive, abandon the car, go home, put your feet up for half an hour, then return to your car?

Let’s just say that Swain’s drivers have the habit of doing the equivalent of option 3, only in a big, fuck-off articulated truck.

Why can’t they just get in their wagons and piss off to wherever they’re going? Why do they have to leave the depot and park on the road before setting off? And why do they have to do it with their engine running for up to half an hour from 4am?

I think they must be slightly a) thick, b) inconsiderate, or c) a combination of the two.

Not content with parking their wagons on the road near the depot, their employees have also acquired this habit, leaving their cars for up to twelve hours a day where people would normally park to use the local community centre. The consequence? People block my drive.

So, R Swain & Sons, next time you’re thinking of recruiting people, perhaps you should ask them a few questions about the best methods for avoiding pissing people off.

Twats.

Sniffy’s Catholic funeral experience
I’d never been to a Catholic funeral before Friday’s event. What a bloody palaver! Up, down, sit, stand. It was a bit like an hour long hokey cokey with snivelling. You go in, sit down. Realise everybody else is stood, so you stand. The choir is singing a hymn, a nice one. You all sit down. The priest says something, the congregation mutters something back at him, you all stand up again. And that was it for about an hour. And then you shook hands and left for the crem do.

The good turn out was an indicator of the respect that many people had for the star of the show. Plus there was fantastic grub at the “do” afterwards – including “scouse”, curry, BBQ chicken wings and chips! And, despite the sad circumstances, it was nice to meet up with my family who I don’t get to see that often.

There is a road safety campaign called Drive Safe that claims that the thousands of road accidents and a few deaths that occur on the region’s roads are all caused by motorists breaking the speed limit. What a load of bollocks. Accidents are caused by:

• Vehicles pulling out;
• Vehicles stopping suddenly;
• Pedestrians wandering into the road without looking where they’re going;
• Buses weaving in and out of bus lanes.

Speeding isn’t the cause of accidents when these things happen, but travelling at an inappropriate speed means that an accident is less likely to be avoided.

For example, the speed limit in most towns is 30mph. You travel at this speed in stop-start traffic and you’re highly likely to smack into the back of the car in front of you, but you won’t be caught by a speed camera. People travel on motorways in excess of 70mph, but there are relatively few accidents. Why? Because people are generally travelling in the same direction, you don’t get pedestrians wandering into the road while sending text messages and you don’t get cyclists or buses weaving in and out of the cars and lorries.

So now there’s a road safety campaign that claims that all accidents are caused by motorists breaking the speed limit. Worse still, The Mysterious They are using the campaign as an excuse to introduce yet more speed cameras and – even WORSE – mobile speed detection units. These fuckers drive round in a little “Drive Safe” van and park on the roadside of nice wide 30mph roads, on nice clear days when there’s no traffic about. And they wait and they rake in the cash as unwitting motorists pootle on by at 33, 34, 35 mph. Two weeks later the poor bastards get a notice to prosecute because they were driving at 33mph in 30mph zone on a clear day. KerCHING!

You don’t get the fuckers parked up and taking their pictures at 10pm when lunatics are flying about 80mph on the same roads, do you? No because they know there’s no point prosecuting people who are probably already banned from driving or whose vehicles aren’t registered, taxed or insured anyway.

Next time I see one of these sneaky little shits parked up with his camera poking out the back of his van, I’m going to pull up in front of him, and then reverse as quickly as I can to knock the little bastard out. Fuckers.

I don’t condone speeding in urban areas, I try very hard not to break speed limits myself, I’m sure most motorists are the same. If campaigns such as these were really interested in road safety, drivers would get a warning notification for each occasion when they were found to be travelling over the speed limit (within limits) within a three month time period, picking up points and a fine on the third occasion. The campaigns should also concentrate more on stupid fuckwit kids (and their parents), who run into the road without looking, and nobheads who wander about into traffic without paying attention too. Let’s face it, if pedestrians stayed on pavements and used proper crossings, they’d be much safer.

Of course, spending money on education and getting people use road safely doesn’t bring in any revenue, does it?

ANPR
While I’m the subject of cameras and shit like that, I’d like to mention Automated Number Plate Recognition. This is a system that I understand the government is trying to introduce here in the UK ANPR allows a vehicle’s number plate to be picked up and tracked by a series of cameras. Nice.

It’s getting to the stage where you can’t go anywhere in this country without being captured on CCTV, but the introduction of ANPR will mean that you’ll not only be captured on camera, but they’ll also know who you are too.

FUCKERS!

Christmas lights
Me and Trump wandered into the City yesterday afternoon. It was getting dark and it wasn’t long before the Christmas lights came on above the city’s streets. “Season’s Greetings!”, was the welcome above Cross St. It’s Merry Christmas, fuckers. CHRISTMAS! Not fucking Season’s Greetings or Winterval or whatever else these twats want to call it for fear of offending people who aren’t in the slightest bit offended by Christmas.

But the lights looked nice (we have a blue theme in Manchester this year) and the Christmas (not “Season’s”) markets were attracting a bustling crowd of people, enjoying cups of steaming gluhwein and hot sausage to keep the cold November air at bay. It could be a bit difficult for somebody who shouldn’t drink to wander around in such an intoxicating atmosphere – the aroma of the spiced wine really does fill the air – but it’s OK and the singing moose head was ever so cheery.

I’ve noticed that some of my neighbours have their Christmas decorations up. Fucking scumbags. When I’m Prime Minister, I’m going to introduce a law making it illegal to put up Christmas decorations in the home before the 1st of December. Any transgressions will be severely punished by the the perpetrators having their houses burnt down.

I’m off to a funeral tomorrow. I never really know what to wear at funerals. I know this may seem daft, but what can you wear with black trousers so you don’t end up looking like a waitress in a Brewer’s Fayre pub restaurant? When I die, I’m going to make it known that I want people to wear what they want. So long as they look fabulous, I don’t care what outfits they have on.

I think I’d like a photographer there too, so my remaining loved ones could look back and see how many people turned up to show their respects because I was so popular and fantastic.

As if.

But photos would be interesting. Or a video to capture people making spiteful comments about each other… or me. The cunts.

But tomorrow’s do will be a dignified affair that will reflect the dignified life of Marie Wilson, a woman who touched many people’s lives just by being normal and good and decent and fair. Even as she lived with a terminal illness, she just got on with things without complaint, and adapted as she became less able to get about on her own. She was great.

She was also a Catholic once and this means a Catholic funeral mass. Oh blimey. Me in a Catholic church without my camera! And I have to drive really slowly behind the funeral cars. This wouldn’t normally be a problem, but my sticky accelerator cable/throttle means that the car will be kangarooing in the middle of the cortège. People will think it’s a hip-hop or rap star’s funeral as they see my car bouncing along in tribute.

Keeel them!
I got to Base 2a this morning to find that my phone had been replaced by mad Cynthia’s. Whereas I look after my phone, ensuring that the cable never gets mangled and twisted, Cynth clearly ain’t that bothered about hers. I was horrified and really fucked off within 2 seconds of getting into my office. This, only a week after I’d chastised the very same Cynthia for spilling toast crumbs all over my desk and leaving coffee rings on my mouse mat (there are three coasters on my desk and plenty of plates in the kitchen). I swapped over the handsets and calmed down with a cup of coffee and a fair old amount of toxic trumping.

Cynthia came into work at 9am: “Oooooh, you’ve taken yours back!”

“Yes”

“Well, you see I had to swap them because I had to transfer a call for [big boss] and mine conked out at 4pm yesterday. I was going to replace it, but I forgot.”

“There’s a spare phone in the other office.”

“Oh, IS THERE??”

“Yes”

“Blah blah, lots of shouty stuff that I’d already turned off from, blah, blah”

If her phone had died (it probably gave up after a few months of her constant shouting and banging down of the receiver), why did she go to the trouble of plugging it in in my office if it didn’t work? What’s the point of replacing a working phone with a broken one?

NO

COMMON

SENSE!

Popups
People who visit here are plagued by popups. I get them too. They piss me off as much as they do everyone else. They’re nothing to do with me and there’s nothing I can do to stop them other than starting a new blog and changing my url.

I’d like to thank Easy Hit Counters for my popup problem. When I first started my blog, I installed their counter. For some reason they have targetted my blog address so that every time you click here, you get a pop up.

They are cunts.

They can sometimes be stopped with firewall settings, but they generally come back and the best thing to do is just try and ignore them.

Television sex

Is it just me, or is having the TV on while you’re trying to have sex really distracting? How are you supposed to get jiggy with it when you have Tony Blair for company? I might get some ear plugs.

I was going to write a post about how Britain seems to be turning into Nazi Germany and that all sorts of sections of our society are being blamed for the ills of the nation. According to the press, the following people would be heading for our equivalent of a concentration camp:

• Muslims – poor bastards are really getting picked on for just about everything at the moment
• Motorists, especially 4×4 drivers
• People who go on foreign holidays and take cheap flights
• People who don’t want ID cards
• People who don’t believe that global warming is caused by carbon
• Polish people
• Youngsters who wear hooded tops
• NHS managers
• Immigrants

Of course, the people mentioned in this list haven’t generally done anything wrong, but they’ve all been targetted by the government for particular and unfair blame. But like Ghandi (I think, definitely Madonna) said, when you point the finger, there are three fingers pointing back at you.

Blaming sections of the population for the failings of a society simply because they’re easy targets or more visible is a sure fire symptom that the fault lies elsewhere. In our case, it’s with our wholly inept government.

Google me
Anyway, off that crap now. I have decided to start a new feature on Cakesniffers. Yes, Google me, will give me the opportunity to play mind games with people from my past, who I probably never really cared that much about, or perhaps cared lots about and perhaps those I’m just a bit curious about. What I’m going to do is simply type somebody’s name and see if anybody finds my blog by searching for that name.

Who shall be my first victim?

Today I choose Jo Montgomery.

I used to work with Jo a few years ago. She’s nice, but she’s one of those people who only has people in their address book to use them as recipients of multiple-forward joke e-mails. So Jo, if you find me, hello. Hope you’re doing well. Drop me an e-mail if you get chance.

I’ve used HP inkjet printers for years. They’re usually pretty good until they die. They’re not too expensive, it’s the consumables that tend to cost a lot of money. You’re talking about £20 for a black cartridge and about £25 for a colour one. But this isn’t too bad because you don’t have to replace them all that often and the supermarkets tend to do their own that are just as good for a lot less money.

Embarking on an art project that would require printing out lots of 6×4 prints, I decided that I might as well replace my nearly empty Tesco black cartridge. So off I pootled and was disappointed that they only had HP brand cartridges for my printer in stock – at about twice the price of their own. But I wasn’t too bothered since I don’t have to replace them that often. I just wanted the thing tonight so I could get on with stuff.

First problem: getting into the cartridge.
Why is this so bloody difficult? First off you have to cut through that super sharp, super tough plastic security packaging while trying not to impale your hands on the razor-like corners and edges. Following this, with aching hands and bleeding fingers, you must negotiate two layers of cardboard packaging before finally getting to the cartridge. Before installing it, you recall the last time you used an HP brand black cartridge in the very same printer: somehow on that occasion the metallic communication strip on the cartridge had become mangled as you tried to install it. You remind yourself to be extra careful on this occasion!

You try to put the cartridge in the designated slot. Despite being as careful as possible, it doesn’t seem to go in as easily as the colour cartridge and your worst fears are realised when the orange light flashes to tell you that there’s an incompatible cartridge in the machine. Yep, the fucking thing has got mangled and has been rendered totally useless. That’s £20 down the pan again, thanks to shitty HP cartridges.

Bastards.

I’m so pissed off. Next time I buy a printer, I must remember to get one that is compatible with the cartridges that we have at work.

I don’t really know what a Bios is – something to do with a bit of software that controls key settings on your PC when it starts up… you know, the black DOS bit before Windows starts. I made myself look a right tit (as opposed to a left one) when I thought I’d be clever and disable the Bios password on my work’s PC. Didn’t realise there was an additional administrator password and I ended up locked out of my machine for hours this morning while I waited to be rescued by my Shite in Whining Armour from IT Helpdesk.

Dur.

Why are IT Helpdesk personnel so password obsessed? Probably because of idiots like me who think they know what they’re doing, but who always fuck it up.

Christmas
There’s no hiding from it now: the festive season is just about on us. Well it’s not, but the time has come to start preparing for it in terms of thinking about presents to buy loved ones – preferably ones that you can keep secret despite the almost constant questioning, “Sniiifffff? Can I have a clue please?”

Yes, so I’ve been organising some gifts for dearest Trump because I like to be organised. Most people like to be organised and it surprises me that the main retailers feel the need to remind us to get organised for Christmas. Why do they think they need to do this? Surely most people who celebrate Christmas generally know that it falls on 25th of December and that shops and things get crowded from mid-November, so it’s usual for people to start asking what loved ones would like for gifts and to start sorting things out. We don’t need the fucking shops to tell us that Christmas is coming!

We CERTAINLY don’t need fucking horrible Asda telling us that Christmas is coming with their fucking horrible adverts that feature fucking horrible children singing I wish it could be Christmas every day! FUCKERS! Of course they wish could be Christmas every day! The fucking parasitic bastards don’t have to pay for any of it and they get to have a really good time while everybody else is stressing about everything. Selfish little shits.

I hate the sound of children singing, absolutely fucking hate it. For Asda, which I hate with such a passion I cannot describe it, to use singing children to advertise their god-awful fucking shops is the absolute perfect example of how utterly fucking shite they are!

My jaw is aching because of intensive teeth-clenching.

In as much as Trump gifts go, she thinks I’m really splashing out, but I’m actually using my creativity to keep the costs of Christmas down. It’s amazing what you can do with bits of old toilet roll insides and crepe paper. Next week I’ll be making a Blue Peter advent candle.

That’s just a bit of a joke to throw her off the scent. If anybody has any tips as to how to prevent her from finding out what I’ve got her, I’d be very grateful. I find it impossible to lie to her, so keeping her pressies secret until Christmas Day is going to be very difficult – she’s already figured three out.

HA, HA, HA!
Don’t you love it when people get their comeuppance? I really cannot believe the stupidity of some people, but I’m so glad that this idiot got what he deserved rather than hurting somebody else.

Ah the passion of new love. You are irresistible to each other. You can’t look at the object of your desire without finding them desirable, without wanting to jump on them and get downright dirty with them. WOOF! They’re gorgeous, and you’re the luckiest person alive.

Seven months into a relationship and it’s still the same as day one, moreso in fact as each time you’re with them, you notice something else about them that you find absolutely adorable.

It’s great.

What’s even better is that you can get away with anything and still be attractive. It’s been a bit chilly since we entered November and on Friday night, I couldn’t cope with bedtime in the buff. I started off with pyjamas, but my feet were freezing and my dear Trump donated some bedsocks. Still no joy – or warmth – and as I shivered me timbers right to my core, I took her dressing gown and draped it on top of the duvet. Our hands were too cold for consolatory cuddles – the shock would’ve killed us – and the shivering continued. As a last resort, I took my hooded top from the chair, put it on and zipped it up. Warmth finally enveloped me, I fell into a deep slumber.

You wake at 6am to kisses and cuddles. You are boiling hot.

It’s amazing that, even at your least attractive, somebody can still love you.

Anyway, that was Friday night; it’s been a lot warmer since. So much so that, back at Casa Sniffy, it was so fucking hot when had to shut our windows to block out the noise and smoke that resulted from a six hour barrage of fireworks during last night’s Guy Fawkes Night celebrations. It was nice to see that the fuckwits next door had left a load of whites washing pegged out for the duration. Thick cunts.

Remember, remember, the 3rd, 4th, 5th, 6th and 7th of November… oh, and don’t forget Diwali, Eid and New Year too.

Fucking fireworks. They are wonderful spectacular things. Bonfire Night (Guy Fawkes Night) used to be really special when it was just one night: we’d get some crappy Standard fireworks and stand with a sparkler while Dad tried to get a Catherine Wheel to work. They fizzed and putted and crackled; they weren’t the best, but they were fun. These days, the fucking things are so loud that it sounds like you’re under mortar attack in Basra. And, because of our multicultural society, or so we’re told, they’re available from September onwards and not just the week up to 5th of November.

Should the sale of fireworks be banned? I don’t think so, but it should be restricted to people who have to work, who appreciate that having the frigging things going off at 3am isn’t much fun when you have to be up in the morning.

What a life
I’m sure it’s time for one of Connie’s What a life gems. I imagine. She’s currently acting as mediator for her two nieces whose mum is very seriously ill. I wouldn’t mind her telling us about these family traumas, but it’s the fact that she always draws comparison between me and Bomb that really pisses me off. Bomb is mental and under the influence of hormones, so anything I say to her is justified.

Bomb has decided to go down the washable nappy route for her little one. Mental. Get yourself some fucking pampers, nutcase; your life is going to be difficult enough as it is without washing baby poo down the lav and soaking shitty nappies for hours.

She had her 20wk scan last week and I can confirm that she is definitely carrying a belly full of arms and legs. The misery guts didn’t want to find out its sex though, so I’ll have to wait till it’s out before I can start calling it Cosmo or Allegra (my names, not hers). Why not find out if you can?

Peppery

Now that it’s officially winter, I am officially enjoying official wintery foods. Tonight’s tea will be copious amounts of black peas, a Lancashire delicacy that I was introduced to for the first time only last week. Trump is such a dear, she’s had the things soaking in water overnight so all we have to do is boil them up once she gets in from work.

They’re just about the weirdest peas I’ve ever had though; you cook them with bicarb so they go all mushy – a bit like mushy peas, only they taste a little like refried beans. Anyway, they have to be enjoyed with lashings of vinegar and lots of white pepper (and salt if you’re me, or not if you have any of your taste buds left).

I’ve just had a cup of hot Bovril with lots of pepper. Yes Bovril, the beef extract. I was stunned when I heard that the manufacturers were going to stop using beef products altogether. That’s just not right, what would they call it then, Vovril? Anyway, it seems that good sense has prevailed and the proper stuff is available again. My nose is dripping from the pepper, but the hot Bovril drink is something that is slightly addictive. I’d get another cup if it was a bigger jar. I think Trump only bought the smaller size to test it out.

I’m at her house now, eagerly awaiting her return from work. She knows I’m here, I’m not like a weird stalker or anything.

Car share

We’re being encouraged to car share at work. Apparently, if you car share, you get preferential parking spaces on the level of the multi-storey car park that’s immediately below that which the rest of us environmental vandals have to use. A whole level lower! It doesn’t really make that much difference when the car park is on the corner of the site that’s the furthest possible from where most people work. So you still have a ten minute walk to your office, you just have to go down fewer stairs.

Dicks.

The scheme is being advertised with colourful posters that say things like “be kind to hedgehogs, car share!” I still don’t follow the logic behind that link, especially since we’re in the centre of a big fuck off city and the nearest hedgehogs are about eight miles away.

Dicks.

I tried car sharing for a while and it’s a complete pain in the arse.

• You agree a time that you’re going to pick somebody up.
• You rush around your house like a mad thing to ensure that you don’t leave late.
• Half way to picking up your passenger, you realise you’ve forgotten something important (like tampons), but you can’t be late, so you keep going.
• You need a poo, but didn’t have time to have one so you have to trump in the car. You have to open the windows despite the gale force winds and torrential rain.
• You arrive at your passenger’s house on time.
• You expect them to be waiting on the doorstep for you. They’re not, so you have to get out of the car and knock on the door.
• They let you in the house where you wait while they finish doing their hair, packing their bag, smoking their cigarette.
• You leave ten minutes later, but not before they’ve gone back into the house to check that they shut the bathroom window.
• You hit bad traffic – traffic that wouldn’t have been there had you not made the diversion to pick up a passenger twenty minutes earlier.
• They make conversation about the bad traffic and how much better it would be if more people shared their journeys to work.
• You bite your tongue.

I don’t really like having passengers in my car, not strangers at least. I like to be able to listen to my music, sing along if I like. How can I shout and swear at other drivers if I’m trying to be polite? I need my fart space.

So, be kind to hedgehogs, stay off work with a bad back!

Talking of which…. An edit and dedication to Her Majesty the Queen

Her Majesty has had to cancel a number of public engagements over the past week due to a bad back. She has my sympathy. But I can’t believe it’s taken her so many decades to discover that you can get out of your job by claiming to have a bad back.

Well done, Ma’am.