I wonder what it’d be like to be regressed under hypnosis. A sceptic such as me would scoff that it was all a load of old bollocks; people revelling in the attention and putting on a performance while pretending to be a little girl who died horribly in a Victorian workhouse fire, or somebody famous from history. People who claim to regress have never had normal past lives; there’s always some tragedy or infamy associated with their former incarnations.

“Well, I could sense I was wearing a corset, so that probably means it was Edwardian times at the latest.”

“And when I came to, they said I’d been dancing around the room, pretending to bash people on the head with an imaginary bladder on a stick. Turns out I used to be a jester in the court of Queen Elizabeth!”

Anyway, I’ve been stepping back in time and looking at some documents relating to this lass:

This is a photo of my mum’s mum, Lillian White (nee Crane). It’s quite weird holding birth and death certificates relating to a grandmother who I never met. I also find it a little disturbing that she looks a bit like me, or me like her. I too enjoy nothing more than wandering the streets, dressed in a frilly confirmation dress, pushing what looks like a hand plough. Spooky!

One thing I’ve noticed about these sorts of certificates is that every single registrar in the UK has exactly the same handwriting. It all looks very neat and nice to look at, but on the whole, it’s pretty indecipherable.

Of course, the government wants a new form of “E” registration to go with barmpot plans for ID cards. Instead of getting a certificate, all new UKplc citizens will be barcoded at birth and their details will be scanned into the National Inventory for Population Evaluation (NIPplE). Kind of takes the excitement out of finding and deciphering sixty year old bits of paper.

Mary mother of God, of all things, please not my Ebay account!

You know what it’s like in those moments (minutes for me) of confusion before clarity hits you with a “Fuck off, you fucking bastards!”? Well, I experienced that feeling of “What the…?” when I picked up this e-mail earlier. The wording is quite funny though.

Best served cold
Would I miss my Ebay account if it got suspended? No! I’d do all my shopping at John Lewis instead! Those bastards deserve a good dressing down. After talking to various people about my outrage at the whole crapness surrounding this store, I was convinced that e-mailing them was the best way forward. Surprisingly, my complaint e-mail got bounced back! How shit is that?

A friend of mine once ordered some curtain poles from John Lewis online. When they arrived, the packaging had been opened and half the contents were missing. He phoned up their customer services to complain and was told “Oh, I’d never buy anything online”. I think an assistant at the Norwich branch is recovering after having one of the said poles shoved up his arse.

Fucking numpties.

I’m starting a one-woman campaign against John Lewis: I’m going to stand outside and hand people fliers with price checks of all their products compared with other retailers – I once saw a Sony camera being sold in there for £100 more than in the Sony Centre, which is hardly cheap in itself. Thieving, stuck-up cunts.

We’ll see what happens, but I’m not going to be defeated on this one. John Lewis is going down!

Some people whinge about working at the weekend. Not me. I worked today and the money I’ve earned should cover the cost of my new Doc Marten’s. Oh yes, having looked at roll-top timberlands, I figured they were a bit too feminine, so I’m regressing and going back to Docs. Can’t wait. I’ve still got my eye on some 8 hole patent black leather ones…. We’ll see.

Scan
Unfortunately, working most of today won’t also cover the cost of the new scanner that I “had” to buy. Fifty fucking quid. My scanner stopped working inexplicably a few months back. Dad’s been going on about it ever since: “Whenever I want you to do something for me on that computer…whinge, whinge, whinge…. everybody else get’s their stuff done.” I never really use a scanner, but Dad had been going on so much!

So, having discussed it, I took myself off to Aldi, bought bargain scanner, came back to find the drive was blocked with both my brother’s and sister’s cars, had to traipse through mud to get into the house, got told off by Mother for said mud, took boxed scanner into the living room, where Dad said:

“What the bloody hell’s that?”

“It’s a fucking scanner to replace the one that’s stopped working that you haven’t frigging stopped whinging about for fucking months!”

Anyway, having a functional scanner, means that I can confirm what I’ve been gloating about for the past few weeks:

In exactly two weeks’ time, I’ll be shitting myself.

I’ll be preparing to take part in this year’s “North West Bikers Charity Toy Run“, an event whereby up to 2000 motorbike enthusiasts and Hell’s Angels, led by Coronation Street actress Bev Callard (Liz McDonald!), ride 15 miles to go and terrify a load of young offenders who will be languishing in borstal over the Christmas period.

Oh hang on, I’ve just re-read the flier:

“All toys donated will be taken to Royal Manchester Children’s Hospital. All money donated will be forwarded to Francis House Children’s Hospice.”

Yes, so there will be lots of toys taken to the little uns who are poorly sick in hospital over Christmas and all the money goes to the poor little uns who have been having it terribly rough and are extremely poorly and terminally ill in the children’s hospice. Hospices do not generally come under the umbrella of state funding for healthcare and rely wholly on charitable donations. This event raised £16,300 last year.

Anyway, I’ve never been on a motorbike before and I need to think of a fancy dress outfit to wear as I’m clinging on for dear life as pillion on my brother’s 1200cc monster. Any suggestions for a fancy dress outfit will be duly ignored, but check these guys out from last year’s do.

Not only do I have to hang on to my brother and wear fancy dress, I also have to it one-handed as I’ve said I’ll be taking photos while we’re riding. I must be fucking mad.

I’m also being sponsored – I’d initially said I’d do this for a laugh, but I found out that I’m actually on the official sponsorship list so I need to collect some cash. If anybody fancies sponsoring me or making a donation and they’ve got a Paypal account, they can do so by clicking the “make a donation” button over in the sidebar. I promise that every penny will go to the charity. Alternatively, I think you can donate to this and many other similar hospices through their own websites.

John Lewis is fucking shit.

I don’t care what people say about it being “Ever such a nice store, with some lovely things”, it is overpriced and its staff know fuck all about customer service.

Yes, I’ve been Christmas shopping. No, it wasn’t successful. And no, I didn’t even get to try on any shoes; one of my main priorities for going shopping.

My sister wanted some leather gloves, that’s all she wants for Christmas. I thought I’d give John Lewis (just to reiterate: a shit, overpriced department store) a go, what with it being recommended so many times by people who I usually trust. And there they were: a good selection of ladies’ gloves in the “Hats and gloves” section. I picked a pair, checked the specification with my sister, and took myself to the unmanned Hats and gloves till…. nobody serving. There were two lasses on perfumes, and a little man busying himself around the nearby watches till, but nobody was interested in gloves or hats.

An assistant approached me and, after asking if I’d like some help, I told him that I wanted to pay for the gloves. He told me that the man on the watches counter would be able to do that for me. I took the gloves to the watches counter and the man took the gloves from me, took them to the cash desk and proceeded to put them… in a paper bag. A paper fucking bag. He brought them over, “Thirty pounds, please”.

Deep breaths

“Do they not come in a box, wrapped? They’re a gift.. surprisingly” He looked at me blankly, then like Les from Vic Reeves big night out, acted as if he was looking for a glove box under the till at the watch counter.

“No, there’s no box”

“Well, if was to bring you an expensive hat from the Hats and gloves section, would you put that in a paper bag? Do your watches just get put into a paper bag? Perhaps there’s a box over in the Hats and gloves section?“. He wandered over and returned with a standard gift bag, placed the gloves in. No tissue paper, nothing.

I am still fucking furious.

You go to Selfridges and they go out of their way to giftwrap things and always ask if things are being bought as a gift. John Lewis? No, they’re completely shit and they’ll be getting an e-mail. For fuck’s sake, even Debenhams have gloves already boxed!

John Lewis have an interesting motto: We will never knowingly charge more. But this means they don’t actually bother doing price checks against other retailers and it’s up to the customer to haggle. What sort of way of operating is that?

It’s a completely shit way, that’s what.

This episode happened after I’d been astounded by the Estee Lauder girl at Boots. I think she’d worn herself out putting all that fucking slap on her face.

“What other things come in the Pleasures range?”

“Well,” roll of overly made-up eyes, “there’s, errm something and something else”. She did mention a couple of things, but I wasn’t even listening because I could tell there’d be no point.

“I’ll just go and look, shall I?”

“Yeah, that’s for the best. Thanks for buying from Estee Lauder”.

No need to thank me, thank my mother for wanting this. I actually think I’ve bought the wrong shitting thing after all.

So that was essentially my Christmas shopping: Costco, plus two other shops in a 5 hour adventure.

Not-so secret Santa’s revenge
Last week, I pulled the name of my Secret Santa victim out of the hat. Our Secret Santa isn’t secret and each recipient knows who’s buying for them. Despite asking my “I’m so easy to buy for” victim to jot down some ideas so I could find something, I still hadn’t got any ideas from her. In an inspired moment of vindictiveness, I bought her something that ANYBODY would be thrilled with: Rudolph Buckaroo. How good is that? It should cheer up any dull Christmas Day, I reckon.

Can I have my codeine now?

Just having a look at the BBC news frontpage when I got in from a fucking delish curry from the Khan Saab in Whitefield….curry, mmmm, delish.. Where was I? Yes, news front page:

Yeah, so footballing genius on verge of death….Gordon Brown is a cunt… Elton John plans to wed… Eh, what’s this? Jordan what?

Jordan calls for a war on extremism?? Talk about pot calling kettle black. She’s got the most extreme falsies in the history of silicone!*

Gerra loada them!

The UN will take any old riffraff as an ambassador these days. I’d like April to be a UN special ambassador, spreading her joy, wisdom, pickles and smoked salmon across the world.

I could be a UN ambassador too. I’m sure the world would benefit greatly from me spreading it about a bit.

*For those not in the know, Jordan is a “glamour model”, famed for her huge norks and lewd behaviour.

Bike rack
I’m becoming a complete twat. I’ve bought a bike rack for my car (and bike) from an Ebay seller.

I’m not sure I’m going to use it to carry my bike, but I’m going to steal a child-sized shop dummy from Baby Gap and strap it to the cycle carrier, then drive up and down the motorway at 70mph. Ho ho ho.

Bird flu
Becoming? I AM a complete twat. Having suffered flu once in my adult life, I swore that I’d always take steps to avoid getting it ever again. For the past five years, I’ve taken the opportunity provided by working for the NHS to have an annual flu vaccination.

Because the shitting government in this country rules by panic and reaction (the electorate in a blind panic is blind to all the real shit that’s going on), people have been reacting to the possibility of deadly avian flu someday mutating with influenza and causing a super deadly strain. “It’ll kill 50,000 people in the UK”, the Chief Medical Officer tells us. The result is that young, fit folk have been demanding the flu vaccination and the stocks are running out – see Flu is coming to get you. This means that many elderly and vulnerable people are missing out on a potentially life-saving vaccination. Although the government today informs us that there’ll be plenty of the jabs to go around … but not until the end of January.

Skip to the end… I’m a selfish fucker who has the privilege of being able to have a flu jab through work so I went for mine today, accompanied by Carmelita. She informed me, “I’ve never bothered in the past, but with this worry about avian flu….” I could’ve throttled her.

I suppose there’s no difference between us though, both getting the jab unnecessarily, but at least I’m admitting that I’m a coward and I don’t want flu – I also wouldn’t want to get anything and pass anything on to my folks (they don’t half go on when they’re ill).

“Hello, I was wondering if you could help me… hello? Hello?”
If it’s information (or “orders” as they’re commonly known) you’re after, there’s no better place to look than the reception of Base 2a.

Shall we count the number of items that we can see attached to walls and windows in this shot? I get 22, and I haven’t counted the notices on the other side of the reception window. Methinks this is a little OTT. What I like best is the way the “Reception” sign is half way up the wall. You can’t see it, but this sign has a little sticker with “Reception” written in Braille. How the fuck is a blind person supposed to be able to find the sign amongst all the other shit they’ve got there?

We’re disability awarenessed to death so we know all about induction loops for hearing aid users. Just a shame the woman on reception has the strongest Scottish accent you could imagine; this sometimes makes things difficult to understand for normal people, so God help anybody who is hard of hearing too.

An edit: Spamcunts almighty beware
I’ve been plagued today by a series of spam comments from a company called “Work from home“. Let’s hope that, if people do a Google search for them or the main business, Herbalife (UK Limited), Senator Court 4 Belmont Road Uxbridge Middlesex UB8 1HB, they’ll find this. If they find this, I can tell them that this business operates cheap and underhand direct marketing SPAM ADVERTISING, a practice usually undertaken by complete and utter cunts.

Perhaps if we e-mail Russell Gain, we’ll be able to tell him how annoyed we are that his company uses these methods to get attention. Even better, let’s hope some spambots pick up his e-mail address from this link and tell him for us.

I thank you.

I’ve been asked to do a post about the time when I was cast out into the wilderness for a year after a row with my best friend resulted in a “I never want to see you again!” ending. It was all very final and very upsetting and I literally felt as if a part of me had died.

The year that followed has gone down in history as my “stalking” year.

I’ve now tried writing this post three times and it just isn’t happening. Let’s just summarise the year by saying that, for two months I was a pain in the arse, writing e-mails every day, trying to phone several times a day and sending millions of text messages. I realised that I must’ve been quite annoying so stopped the texts and phonecalls, but the e-mails kept being sent.

One day, I got a “your message has been blocked by the recipient” sort of message and I went bezerk. Yes, I got so angry that I…. got another e-mail address and sent a “nothing to lose, you’re a complete and utter bastard” e-mail. This was followed by stuffing some sentimental things (including a very special ring) into an envelope and posting the lot to them.

I calmed down a bit after that, having burnt my bridges. But the upset, regret and remorse were still as strong as ever. I felt such a nob for sending the ring back, it had meant a lot and symbolised something very special about our friendship. So I bought another almost immediately. Didn’t like it, and so bought another to replace that one.

The months went by; the summer had rapidly passed me by as I’d been existing in a shocked and teary daze. The summer turned to winter and Christmas approached. I was dreading it, having had some wonderful Christmases in the past. But chin up, you’ve come this far without killing yourself or doing anything really stupid, you can get through Christmas by consolling yourself with salty snacks and pickles.

And I did. And I started turning things round a bit. I had to get on with my life. I started going to the gym and looking after myself a bit more, went for walks up hills, made plans to attain financial solvency (then paid over £200 for a digital camera). I was still desperately upset, but thought about things less (just the two or three times a day) and the days started growing longer as the spring approached.

Then it happened: I saw her. We shared some of the same route to and from work and I noticed her car in the traffic queue. Should you pursue them, flag them down, see if they’ll talk to you? No, don’t be daft, they’re probably over the upset and there’s no point reopening those wounds and pouring salt in them. You’ll be OK, let it go. And I did.

Not knowing whether my e-mail address was still blocked by her, I sent the odd e-mail anyway. I’d always found it therapeutic, just offloading my thoughts and it was beneficial for me even if she never got to read them.

And soon enough, a year had gone by since that awful July day the year before. I’d grown up a lot; learnt to value the (remaining two) friends I had and to hold back before mouthing off. The sense of loss was as strong as ever, but I coped with it better. And by the time her birthday approached, I figured it couldn’t do any harm to send her a simple card (to ruin her day), accompanied by an e-mail that may or may not have reached her.

Two weeks later, she replied.

Top tips for happy friendships/relationships
E-mails are great, but it’s very easy to be a bit too honest when feelings are running high. It’s also very easy for written words to be misinterpreted; a statement written with sarcasm in mind, may not be read that way by a recipient (“You’re a fucking bitch and you’ve ruined my chances of ever being happy. You lied to me!” may by interpreted as “You’re a fucking bitch and you’ve ruined my chances of ever being happy. You lied to me!”).

If you’re feeling frustrated or upset with somebody, try to get to a point of compromise by talking to them face to face.

If you do fuck up and make somebody hate you. Apologise immediately, but give them the time and space to consider that apology, do not piss them off even more by constantly harrassing them. And don’t make things worse by sending vicious e-mails, it’s easy to use hurtful words when you’re upset, but not so easy if they’re in front of you, so try to see them in person if you can. If they slam the door in your face, or object to being tied up in the boot of your car, perhaps give it a little more time before trying again, but don’t as far as getting a restraining order put on you.

A regg:

A rapple:

Connie’s meatballs for spaghetti(polpette alla napolitana/Manchesterford)

You will need:

• 1lb beef steak mince
• Half a medium-sized onion (grated)
• 1 large clove of garlic (crushed)
• 4tbsp homemade breadcrumbs
• A regg (medium)
• 1tsp (heaped) Italian seasoning
• 1tsp freshly grated nutmeg
• 1/2 tsp ground cumin (I think she’s having a laugh with this)
• Salt & pepper to taste
• Plain flour (for coating meaty balls)

You will have to:
Place beef into a large bowl, add the onions, garlic, herbs, nutmeg, cumin, seasoning, breadcrumbs and the egg (i.e. put everything – except the flour – into a bowl and mix it up with your hands!). If it looks and feels a bit too soggy, add some more breadcrumbs until the mixture is moist enough to bind, but not snotty.

Roll the gooeyness into balls of about 3cm diameter (1.5″), dip in flour to coat evenly and place on a temperature-resistant plate (we use a large metal dish). Once all the balls have been prepared, allow them to cool in the freezer for at least half an hour. They can be frozen and also cooked from frozen. Once they’ve frozen, they can be transferred to a freezer bag, fastened tightly and stored for a couple or so months in a 3 star freezer.

For a delish red sauce for pasta
Once firmed up by cooling, the meatballs can be cooked either in the oven (180°C) or in a pasta sauce on the stove top. Either way the sauce to cook them in consists of:

• 1 medium onion, chopped very finely
• 0,1 or 2 (or more, depending on preference) cloves of garlic, crushed

Oh for fuck’s sake, every fucker knows how to make a red fucking sauce for pasta, you don’t need me to tell you.

You don’t? Jesus, bunch of uncivilised wankers!

• Onion, garlic (or not)
• Olive oil (enough to coat the bottom of a medium sized saucepan)
• Bit of chopped chilli (if you like it spicy)
• Dried mixed herbs (if you like)
• And/or fresh basil if you prefer
• 1 bottle passata rustica (that’s the thick sieved tomatoes, rather than the stuff that looks like tomato juice) or a can of good quality chopped tomatoes (Napolina ones are great)
• Squirt/splodge tomato puree
• Salt and pepper

You do it this way:

1. Heat oil over a medium heat
2. Add onions and fry over a lowish heat until soft (don’t be a wanker, don’t burn them) if you’re going to use a bit of chilli, add it at this point too
3. If you’re using garlic, add it once the onions are soft and cook it for a couple or three minutes (don’t burn this either or it’ll taste shit)
4. If you’re using dried herbs, add them now – chopped celery leaves are nice, add them now or with the chilli (or whenever the hell you like), but never use the stalks in a sauce because they never soften
5. Add the tomatoes
6. Add the tomato puree
7. Add the salt and pepper
8. Get it simmering, leave it until it’s reduced to about 3/4 or a half the original volume, i.e, get rid of a load of the water out of it
9. Once it’s ready add the basil – lots of it, torn

Decisions, decisions – stove top or oven?
The meatballs will cook perfectly happily if dumped into the saucepan with the simmering tomato sauce and left for a good 45 minutes. However, if they’re not quite firm enough, they can be a bit fragile and they’ll sometimes fall apart when you stir the pan – if you don’t stir the pan, then can stick to the bottom.

Therefore, you can cook them with some of the sauce in the oven. You know how they were put in the freezer on a temperature resistant plate/dish? Well, if you cover them with a good amount of the tomato sauce and cover the dish with foil, you can cook them in a preheated oven at 180°C for about 45min. You might need to check that they don’t stick to the dish, but this is a really good way of cooking them and the flavour is a little more intense than cooking them in the sauce on the stove. Once they’re done, dump them and the sauce in with the rest of the sauce in the saucepan.

You have to eat meatballs with spaghetti – no other pasta is compatible. And make sure you salt the water or else the pasta will taste completely crap.

You won’t enjoy this if you have to sit at the same table as my dad while he’s eating it.

Marinara? Bollocks!
According to Italians (well, my dad), a marinara sauce is one that contains seafood, a pescatore sauce contains fish. A sauce that contains neither of these, but consists of tomatoes and other shit is a neapolitan sauce, or just a pasta sauce. Meatballs marinara my arse, just sounds wrong to me and I’d expect there to be mussels, prawns and squid in a sauce with that name . You ask for a marinara pizza, what you expect? Seafood. If you got a frigging margherita, you’d be right arsed off.

Then again, I’d be really fucked off if there were pieces of coal in a carbonara sauce… but I wouldn’t order a carbonara, so it’s irrelevant.

There’s a subtle click and the blue light illuminates the pre-dawn, winter darkness. The final twenty seconds of a song play out and fade to near silence, Hrrrm, your waking mind stirs into action, that song was quite good, I wonder… then “It’s FIVE THIRTY and you’re listening to 105.4 Century FM”. Jesus no, anything but that fucking awful montage of “morning songs…”

Wake up, wake up…(King in a Catholic style)… Every morning…(there’s a halo hanging from the corner of my girlfriend’s four-post bed)… Wake up, it’s a beautiful morning…(the sun’s shining for your eyes)… Here comes the sun…(little darling)… plus that other indecipherable one – what the fuck is that?

Why do they do that? As if waking up at 5.30am isn’t punishment enough without inflicting that on us poor bastards.

“Hello and good morning, this is Darren Proctor on 105.4 Century FM and I can tell you we’ve got a chilly one this morning – you’re going to have to defrost your car…” IT’S DE-ICE, YOU THICK BASTARD! “…Coming up in the next half hour, we’ve got Salty with the sport and traffic and music from Madonna, Inner City, Robbie and Ronan. But first, here’s the news headlines with Vicky.”

“Good morning, the headlines today. A gang in Manchester are being questioned after nintey grammes’ worth of heroin was seized….”

Ninety grammes’ worth? Grammes’ WORTH??? Surely you mean ninety grammes???

“Family and friends of George Best are still at his bedside….”

Ah fuck off!

You get up to have a wee and make your coffee in order to escape the insanity. And now you know what puts me in such a pleasant mood each day.

So why do I listen? Well, it’s a case of better the devil you know. You get used the extent to which a particular breakfast show gets right on your tits, so you can be prepared – God forbid, you’ll switch one day and come across a station that does wind-ups (“You’re dead right, love!”). So you stick to the same thing because the one Robbie Williams track each hour is quite enough for anyone. Plus they’re a North West-based station that covers local things that might help you on your journey to work (or give you enough evidence to persuade you to go back to bed). In all fairness, that show is actually OK and the presenters are quite good, if a little thick at times.

A winning formula
I’m sure breakfast shows on the radio have the same formula the world over: a front man and a couple of his mates (man and woman) banter through the latest “issues”, TV and celebrity gossip and throw in a bit of news, sport and weather – oh and some music if you’re lucky. They generally talk about inane crap that you’d want to throttle a colleague for engaging you about.

Today’s heated subject was “What’s the difference between cottage pie and shepherd’s pie? One’s lamb, one’s beef, but which way is it? Drop us a text or give us a bell if you know.” – you’d think one of the dishes’ names might be a clue. But no, people texted in to tell them “I don’t know”. Some bint even phoned in to say “Hiya, the difference between shepherd’s and cottage pie? I don’t know! Hee hee hee”. Now, I’m ashamed to admit it, but I couldn’t take any more. I hadn’t had any caffeine, I was very tired, very grumpy and my blood pressure was rising. I sent a text message to the station: “Shepherd’s pie is lamb, hence the name. It’s not really that difficult.”

Please forgive me.

But of course, the fucking radio station has won. The reason they do this is to wind people up so that they feel forced to send text messages at the super premium rate. It’s a revenue-generating exercise and they excel at it.

“Hiya, can you say hello…”
People who phone in to radio stations are complete fucktards. They have no social skills and are incapable of stringing words together to form coherent sentences. They are generally quite autistic too.

DP “So, Derek, what are you doing up at this time?”

Derek “Oh, you know”

DP “No, I don’t know. You up for work? Getting the kids ready for school?”

Derek: “Work, yeah”

DP: “And so, what do you do?”

Derek: “Taxi – you know, airport run and that”

Fuck’s sake. Why do these people phone in when they’ve got no intention of communicating in a meaningful manner? Is a Six O’Clock Club certificate and some free teabags really worth it?

Going national
I can’t stomach the national radio stations; the presenters are incredibly big-headed, believing they’re the most important thing in broadcasting history. They are just very boring nobodies who enjoy the sound of their own voices, who think their opinions matter. On top of the usual formula for breakfast show radio, the result is unbearable.

“You should try Radio Four”
You should try stopping being such a pretentious wanker. Radio Four is the UK’s high-brow radio station, presented by stuck up nobs. Radio Four’s idea of a fun breakfast is news, news and more news, in voices that sound like the school teacher from Charlie Brown. Radio Four does news, documentaries, the odd decent comedy, drama, shipping forecast. Radio Four does not do music, it does “Look at me, aren’t I clever, using big words that you don’t understand?” radio and it makes me sick.

Worse than Radio Four though are its listeners, who only listen so that they can come to work and say “Did you hear on Radio Four this morning,… blah, blah, blah?”. These people read The Guardian.

Perhaps my problem with Radio Four and The Guardian isn’t their respective contents, but rather the utterly unbearable people who listen and read?

Of course, some people will defend this shit with their lives.

Here at work, I’m slowly losing the will to live.

I get to Base 2a after a couple of hours at Base 2b and I can’t log on to my profile on the PC: my e-mails have finally appeared but I can’t access any of my files. Added to this, one of the lights in my office is flickering – it’s one of those fluorescent things that flashes to the point of inducing a migraine when the starter unit is playing up.

Over the top of this, Carmelita – a VERY enthusiastic member of the church choir – has obviously been to a practice last night and is today “pom, pom pomming” through the day, while arranging booking for the coach to the carol service at the cathedral. She’s now going through the Margaret Rutherford Miss Marples and comparing her more comic style to the dramatic protrayal given by Joan Hickson. We’re currently on “Murder at the Gallop”, but did you know there was also a “Murder Ahoy!”? Well, you do now. And David Suchet really is excellent at Poirot.

In the half hour that I’ve been here, all the ladies have been weighed; “I was really good all last week up to the weekend and yesterday…”. We’ve covered how our pensions are panning out (if we’re approaching retirement age) and also mortgaging property to see us through retirement. A very important message has come through to tell us to put our used crockery and cutlery into the dishwasher and NOT to leave it in the sink or on the side. That’ll be another laminated sign going up – they LOVE their laminated notices here, there are twenty covering the reception window and each toilet cubicle has a “Please flush the toilet after use” sign.

Oh, and the book man has brought our books.

Let us all rejoice.

La-la, lah lah, pom, pom pom pom POOOOOOMMMMMMM!!!!