I need a hero

The words “hero” and “brave” seem to be used all too often these days to describe people who are overcoming personal adversity or illness. There’s a particular habit of calling babies and children with long-term, life-threatening or debilitating diseases as brave or heroic. While these kids are undoubtedly going through a tough time and are often desperately ill, more often than not their illness or disability is something that they’ve endured since birth. Children are extremely resilient and are excellent at “getting on with it”. Having a terrible illness and “getting on with it”, or taking time to highlight a particular problem and raise charitable funds does not make a person brave or heroic – this is altruism, selflessness and is utterly admirable.

Bravery and heroism come into play when a person potentially puts the safety of others before their own. Heroism is going back into the field of battle to rescue your comrades who are coming under fire. I guess bravery is putting yourself in the position where you might come under such fire in the first place. Some might call that stupidity!

There are some things that we take for granted and one of them is the Fire and Rescue Service (incorporating Coastguards plus volunteer organisations like the Lifeboats). The Fire Service is there to cut you out of your mangled wreck of a car after an accident, they’ll clean up the chemical spillages on the carriageway too, ultimately Fire personnel can be called upon to enter burning buildings to rescue people and bring them to safety. In a desperate time of need, that’s what the Fire Service is there for.

What the fuck am I on about today?

Well, have a look at this (excerpt below):

“Stone-throwing gangs have attacked firefighters in Northumberland for the third night in a row.

The firefighters attending calls in Blyth on Tuesday night came under attack, and a missile was thrown at the fire appliance.

The previous two nights, firefighters in the Ashington and Blyth areas were targeted by gangs throwing stones.

Two firefighters were hit by the missiles on both occasions, although they were not seriously injured.”

How angry does this sort of thing make your average person feel? I must point out that this sort of event happens quite regularly in most British cities, it’s not just restricted to the area mentioned here.

What’s wrong with these fucking numpties, and what sort of initiatives might stop this sort of behaviour?

Well personally, I’d like to see these people rounded up, locked inside a derelict building and torched. Perhaps if their families were locked in a burning building while they were made to watch them scream for help at the windows? That might have an impact. Even better, how’s about locking them in a car, slamming into it with a huge wagon and seeing if they could get out without the use of cutting equipment.

Tossers.

Of course, some junior Home Office minister will come up with some fantastic plan to introduce educational programmes in these “deprived” areas, to try and teach these poor, unfortunate and hard-done-to wretches the error of their ways. They’ll probably give them an iPod if they attend the whole course. Of course, it’s all down to deprivation and you can’t blame these “kids” because it’s due to their poor start in life. It’s just a shame that it’s only the privileged and wealthy that know that you shouldn’t try to stop the Fire Service going about its duty. Of course, those living in deprived conditions in Kashmir would’ve acted the same towards their fire and rescue service as they tried to retrieve the dying and injured from the flattened houses – had they had a fire and rescue service.

Makes my blood BOIL!

Not my cup of tea

I don’t like tea, I never have.

This statement could lead to a person being cast out of some families, particularly those with Liverpudlian parentage.

Mother (awwwww, bless her) insists that I used to drink tea up to the age of about 10 – used to LOVE it, apparently. And this is where we run into a problem: Mum’s recollection of my life isn’t exactly the same as mine. She essentially makes things up about me to suit whatever story she’s telling to friends or family members.

“You did have a pin in that toe when they did that operation to straighten it”

“You always used to love wearing dresses and playing with dolls”

“You couldn’t get enough tea when you were a girl”

Y’WHAT? Bugger off, Mother. It’s my toe and I know damned well there was no pin went in there – why do you think the op was unsuccessful? Hmmm?? HMMMMMM????

Dresses and dolls? Foxtrot romeo oscar, dear heart. It’d take a pretty severe bang on the head to grow up from being that type of little girl to becoming, well… as you can see… Dolls indeed! Action Man and Lego for me. Although I could never climb trees.

Tea my arse, Mum. As a toddler, I remember being force fed it with a tube and funnel device, but Social Services put a stop to that.

Tea? It’s horrible stuff, apart from trying some for a dare when I was pissed out of my head (I couldn’t do it), not a drop has passed my lips since I was a nipper. Even the smell of it makes me feel poorly.

So yes, Mother likes to make things up about me. She’ll be telling folk that I was left on the doorstep by a band of travelling gypsies next!

Gypsy Cakesniffer

The cheek on it.
Hot drinks hassles

coffee
Making a round of hot drinks for yourself and family members should be fairly straightforward: 3 coffees, 1 tea – easy. So you’d think.

In la casa della famiglia Cakesniffer “sorting the brews”, as some uncouth types would put it, is a logistical nightmare.
FFS MOTHER!

Mother: Tea (yeeeeeeuuuuuuuuuuuuchhhh!), white with 2 Canderel (artificial sweetener tablets) + half a spoon of “diabetic sugar” (essentially a powdered form of Canderel). All solids must be in the mug prior to addition of boiled water. Milk must be added following removal of teabag.

Cakesniffer

Tina: Coffee, strong. Two heaped teaspoons instant coffee; 3 heaped teaspoons of Coffeemate (light, not original); heaped teaspoon of Silverspoon “Half Spoon” granulated sugar. Must be in Liverpool FC mug. If this isn’t available, use Hamster mug or Tina Lego mug.

Girl

Anna: Coffee, white. Use a Kenco coffee bag for this: place bag in her china cup, add boiled water, let stand for 3 minutes (no less!), remove bag, add milk.

Dad

Dad: Coffee, white, strong. Two teaspoons coffee, 2 teaspoons sugar (normal sugar) add boiled water, stir, add milk. Tea: strong, white – as for Mother only with 2 tsp normal sugar instead of Chemical Ali combination of poisons.

Of all the preferences, some might say that mine is most particular. But mine tastes wonderful. I think there should be a UN programme to destroy all tea plantations and turn them into something useful. Will coffee grow in that climate?

After the break…

Commercial TV is rubbish. Well, I’m a bit biased because I think all telly is crap, but commercial television takes the piss. It’s a quality thing. In an age when all of society is being dumbed down, you wonder how more like the red-top tabloids TV can become. The BBC aren’t much better, but they’ve got to please Tony Blair and make programmes for the thick as pig-shit population that’s been nurtured under his government.

Anyway, TV is crap, blah blah blah. Apart from the quality of the programming, commercial TV is also cursed with interruptions from adverts. These brain-numbing snippets of entertainment even become part of the culture. The BBC used to be a sanctuary, free from these irritants, but recently they’ve caught the commercial bug; they just advertise themselves between programmes instead of stuff you can buy.

So, telly is crap. But sometimes, you happen to find a programme that you like. It’s on cable or ITV, but you can cope because it’s really good. The dialogue is a little difficult to hear, so you turn the volume up, but not to an extent where it becomes intrusive or uncomfortable. After ten minutes’ enjoyment, you hit the first commercial break. All of a sudden, out of your control, the sound level almost doubles and you’ve got adverts screaming out at you, bursting your eardrums.

Turn it fucking down!

“AAAARRRRRRRGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH, so loud!!!!”

You panic and hunt frantically for the remote control. Cups of coffee and cans of pop go flying. The air is blue, the adverts still scream at you, the cat has hidden himself under the sofa. You finally get the volume down to less than 100 decibels, your heart is thumping and you notice that you’re bleeding through your jeans where the cat gashed your knees during his flight.

FUCKING BASTARDS! Why the fuck do they ALWAYS crank up the sound levels for the adverts? Shithead wankers. It’s not as if you’re going to buy a product that has caused you to go deaf – not that you’d have caught any of the products because of being distracted by excruciating agony as your eardrums burst.

I hate telly.

In the words of Trillion (she’s gone, don’t bother checking her blog anymore): “I have a growing list of people who I hate who I want to skewer on the world’s biggest kebab. I want to see them writhe in agony as they repent for all the things they’ve done to piss me off”. The TV companies who piss about the volume of their broadcasts are on my skewer.

Oh, has anybody seen that forms spellchecker in the Google toolbar? It is top notch!

Fat

Fat is a state of mind. People have different perceptions of how fat or thin they are. Most people are never happy with how fat they are, whether they’re fat or not.

When you’re properly fat, not just tubby, it can be quite good in that you’ve mentally reached a point of no return: this is you and you are fat. In that state of mind, you can eat what you want, smoke as much as you like, drink and drink and drink. You’re not worried about never getting any exercise because fat people don’t exercise, you’re excused all that crap because you have an Evans storecard!

Then something dreadful happens: you unintentionally lose weight. Suddenly, over the course of three or four months, you find yourself 4 stone lighter (that’s 56lb or 22Kg). What the fuck’s going on here then? None of your clothes fit you and you have to keep buying new ones. You realise that you have a body shape emerging – womanly curves and things – and that clothes fit nicely around them.

All of a sudden, you become interested in how you look and clothes are no longer objects that just cover you up. Gone are the days when the criteria for buying blouses or trousers are “can I get in them?” no longer do you grab the first size 28 you see, buy it, then escape from the shop – shoving the Evans bag inside a Tesco one.

With each passing kilo, the pressure mounts for you to take care of your appearance. You get your hair cut at a salon. You buy new glasses. Somebody pins you down and plucks your eyebrows. Over the course of six months, you transform from low/no-maintenance slob to high-maintenance, well, you’re still a slob, but not as bad.

Then you realise something awful is happening:

You’re making a conscious effort to lose weight.

Fit fit fit (mong)

Shocked and appalled!

Skip to the end…

Such a desire to get/keep in trim results in you doing active things: gardening; going for walks; joining a gym; buying a bike.

What with summer, holidays, blogging and moonlighting, I’ve not done any exercise apart from a bit of jumping in to my friends’ pool…

Jumping in

and traipsing around Rome

Traipsing

Doing evening and weekend work in addition to my normal job has also meant that I’ve missed on my usual visits the gym, but also that I’ve been eating more. Tut, tut. As a consequence this Cakesniffer is feeling slightly podgy. This Cakesniffer is going…

Back to Fat Fighters!

The gym is weird place. It’s like preparing yourself to do battle against machines of torture. The psychological build-up required is phenomenal. You fret and worry about how much you’ll be able to do, whether people will laugh at you, whether it’ll hurt, whether the equipment you want to use will be free. It’s simple enough:

A) You can never do as much as you’d like to be able to do; you’re an overweight 35 year old who was never built for exercise and who has let themselves go to such an extent that anything now is just damage-limitation.

B) Yes, of course people will laugh at you, you laugh at them, don’t you? Besides, you know your arse looks ridiculous in track pants, you know your right leg kicks out at a strange angle when you run and you know that your head wobbles and that you go really red in the face when you exercise. People will laugh, live with it.

C) No pain, no gain. You don’t pay £20 a month to be pain-free. If you’re still hurting two days after going, then you’re doing it right. If not, you needn’t have bothered and might as well have had those chips and kebab afterall.

D) No, the equipment will not be free. You’ll have to wait while some tit does their reps, stops and contemplates for 5 minutes, does some more reps, stops and contemplates for 5 minutes. Why can’t they get up and contemplate and let somebody else have a go in the interim? Because they’re thick fucking muscle-heads. Cocks.

And why is it that somebody always uses the machine next to you when there’s an entire row of equipment that’s not being used? This generally happens when I’ve got bad gas and I’m doing horrible farts and burps.

L-AR-RRR-D! An edit courtesy of Mr Coldcoldearth
This is what a pound of fat looks like. Eeeeeuuuuu….

L-AR-RRR-D_1
L-AR-RRR-D_2

Lamb tikka jalfrezi, pilau rice and keema naan anyone?

More news from the Village of the Spammed
I’ve noticed that most spam happens on the posts that appear at the top of the page when you navigate to a blog. So, this can be the latest post, or the post that appears at the top of the page when you click through the archives. In a Sniffy Experimentals experiment, I’ve edited all such posts so that no new comments can be added.

We’ll see.

229 Days

Two hundred and twenty nine days ago, I found myself clicking the “next blog” button. It was a cold February evening, I was bored. The usual crap was there, lots of non-English language blogs, teenage-angst blogs, best mortgage deals in California blogs.

Click

Click

Click

Hang on, go back…

But what’s this?


So I read it. It was a long post on some guy’s blog. I usually couldn’t be bothered with the really long posts, but this had me gripped. So much so that I linked to it and I kept going back to the blog to see what else was going on. That blog was Herge’s Angry Chimp and I’ve been a fan ever since, religiously visiting every day.

Over the months, Angry Chimp has evolved and Herge’s talents have diversified and he’s brought us Daleks, cyborgs, Strangeways, We love each other – not forgetting real life traumas with Dixon/Pixie. He’s built up quite a following in Blogworld and we’ve all lapped up his wonderful work.

But now the time has come for the end of Angry Chimp. Herge feels like it’s time to shut up shop, that Angry Chimp has run its course. It feels like my blog brother is leaving home. I left my first comment on his blog – his was the first one I commented on who came to check my blog out. We’ve essentially been together from the start and we sometimes played off against each other very well. I’m going to miss the Chimp loads, but I see where he’s coming from and I respect his decision. I think Angry Chimp had somewhat been taken over by the expectations of its readers (fans!) and this possibly meant that Herge lost ownership, or perhaps even felt pressured into doing stuff that he perhaps didn’t want to do.

I’m not sure whether he’ll move on to other things, but I hope that, one day soon, he gets the recognition he deserves. He’s a truly talented bloke and it’s such a shame that nobody who matters has picked up on his brilliance.

All the bloggers who jump around between the blogs have benefited greatly from Angry Chimp. Herge’s comments have added spice to the dullest of (my) posts. I don’t think we’ll be as lucky to find a talent such as his again (at least not for free), so I hope he doesn’t delete Angry Chimp and just keeps it there for us to look back on with great fondness (and bellyaching laughter).

No doubt this post will be one of many tributes to Angry Chimp, a blog that has touched many people over the course of this year; I think the fact that lots of people will make comment about the end of this great blog is testament to this.

Thank you Herge, you made it very special.

My life in Se7en

Today it rains, and rains, and rains.

Today is Se7en. You know, the film where it rained and rained and rained and there were seven killings? It rained so much that you couldn’t actually hear the dialogue.

Se7en

Well, that’s what it’s like today.

Bastard weather.

Revenge of the spammed
So, trapped in the house I am. It’s at times like these when I sit and contemplate and plot. Today, I am plotting what to do about spamcunts.

Some spam is quite funny, the messages often following the same format of, for example:

Hey, you have a great blog here! I’m definitely going to bookmark you! I have a health insurance lead californiasite/blog. It pretty much covers health insurance lead californiarelated stuff.

Eh? Utter nonsense, promoting stuff that nobody wants. I just like the way the last sentence says “It pretty much covers [enter subject here] related stuff” in all of them.

However, giving into word verification would be admitting defeat, so finding a more imaginative way of getting these bastards is called for. Of course, if I didn’t have comments e-mailed to me, I wouldn’t find out about most of the shit that gets left here. But I do, and it’s annoying and it’s a problem that is getting worse:

norbury travel
What have Norbury Travel got to offer? Let’s see shall we?

Norbury Travel cunts

Now normally, I’d ignore this shit and delete the e-mails – it doesn’t cause that much trouble, but since I got about five or six messages in a short space of time, I decided to take action. I followed their link, went to their site and sent an e-mail via their “contact us” page – they’re stupid enough to have a contact us page! I told them that using spam to inundate people’s blogs was an unacceptable method of advertising and that their systems might not cope if they were suddenly victim of a load of spam e-mails.

They sent a reply!
Hello Tina, thank you for the feedback on your blog.
As you might have realised the post is automated and the only way to stop receiving those would be for you to switch on the request that any posting should enter the generated letters that is built as a filter on your blog.
We also have a few blogs of ours that are open but our own very important blogs request members to enter the letters generated, that way the software can’t post to those blogs.
With regards to email spam, you know if you receive a spam and place it in your spam box then any other email with that address goes directly into your spam box, blogs have not caught up to that yet.
Tina, there are hundreds of people with the new software and the only way to stop it at this time is to switch on the filter.
I hope you understand, if you have any other concerns we would like to hear them.
Airport Essentials.

Oh dear, they’re for it now. Here’s how I’ve just responded to them:

Thanks for getting back in touch.

You are wrong and you are out of order. I’m sorry, but I shouldn’t have to turn on word verification to stop spammers posting crap on my blog. You should stop using it as a form of free advertising for your pathetic operation.

You have no right to intrude on people this way and I’m sure the law will soon prevent this.

Already, people are being taken to court and receiving custodial or financial sentences for sending spam e-mails and I hope you and others like you start to have similar action taken against you.

Oh and most idiots who spam people’s blogs aren’t stupid enough to leave contact information for us to get back to them.

Perhaps people might like to contact Airport Essentials or Norbury Travel, or whatever other name they go by, to tell them what we think of spamcunts here in Blogworld. I’m going to report them to Blogger.

Black people love us

ireallydontknow

Johnny and Sally’s Black people love us site was mentioned briefly at the end of another post, but I think it’s deserving of a bit more recognition and perhaps debate.

It’s clear to me that this site is taking the piss out of people who associate with certain groups as a tokenistic demonstration of being seen to be doing what is right. Essentially, it’s having a laugh at the expense of the “Racist? But some of my best mates are black/gay/Asian” brigade.

So why don’t people get it? Why are people so consumed with their own prejudices that they can’t see when others are trying to use humour to break down stereotypes?

Take this letter that was posted on the site:

That websites a joke right? If not I have to say I’m sort of appalled and EMBARRASSED by what I’m reading here. You make a WEBSITE dedicated to the fact that you happen to have black friends? Let me ask you this, if you think that having black friends is novelty enough that you’d make a corny poorly designed website dedicated to it…. you’re singling out black people as somehow being different enough that it’s strange for whites to befriend them. That as far as I’m concerned is a form of racism. By the way, the pictures that you’ve plastered all over your site are ridiculous. Unless this is in fact a joke site, I feel that you’ve basically eliminated all your credibility.

–Arkera

~ Being a good writer is 3% talent, 97% not being distracted by the internet ~

What is wrong with people?

Surely tackling prejudices must start with getting rid of stereotypes and one of the best ways of doing this is through humour. Take the UK TV sitcom “Till death us do part” and its sequel “In sickness and in health”. These comedies’ main character was the racist bigot, Alf Garnett, who spouted out all the worst racist insults you can imagine. It could’ve been misconstrued as being offensive, but it actually took the piss out of the racists and showed them for the fools that they are.

I give up with some people. But then again, having had it implied that I’m a racist simply because I take the piss out of Asian and black colleagues as well as white ones (you’re not supposed to take the piss out of black or Asian people) I see that the world has a long way to go.

A year’s worth of blogging

Well, that’s it I guess, a whole year’s worth of blogging from your friendly neighbourhood Cakesniffer.

It’s not actually a calendar year, but this is the 369th post since starting back in January, so on a post-per-day basis, I reckon I can get away with it.

Cakesniffers 368 posts

Is this the blogging equivalent of finishing before the end of the exam, or paying your mortgage off early? Do I get to take time off until the new year? Then again, I suppose if you added up the number of posts that were any good, we’d be somewhere in late January 2005 by now.

It’s just amazing how a somebody can almost religiously ensure that they post something to their blog each day, yet they don’t have the focus or drive to do anything remotely useful like housework or getting a new job. Or having a social life for that matter, but since I’m a misanthrope, that sort of thing doesn’t really float my boat.

You wonder how far you can take these things: is there a natural point where you’d stop; or should you change focus, perhaps going for political commentary (yawns), a proper diary (oh please!), clever reviews of films and the arts (me?)? So in the absence of any imagination or novel ideas, it looks like Cakesniffers will continue to follow the same formula ad infinitum.

Fuck.

Hearing voices

Words of wisdom from the most powerful man on the planet:

“I’m driven with a mission from God. God would tell me: George, go and fight those terrorists in Afghanistan.

“And I did, and then God would tell me, George, go and end the tyranny in Iraq…and I did.

“And now, again, I feel God’s words coming to me – go get the Palestinians their state and get the Israelis their security, and get peace in the Middle East. And by God I’m gonna do it.”

George & God

I’m sure we’ll all be sleeping soundly in our beds tonight.

Deary, deary me.

You’ve got to pick a pocket or two

It’s sometimes rubbish being female.

Unless you’re lucky and have a job where you can wear what you like, or if a uniform is provided, women have to wear “smart casual” or even suits to work. This isn’t always a bad thing; it’s nice to come home and change from school clothes to playing out clothes, it sort of draws a line of closure to the end of the working day and let’s you know you’re in “you” time.

However, proper girl clothes rarely have pockets, or they’re cut so that you can’t really carry things on your person because of the fit of the garment and the pathetic size of any token pockets.

On leaving the house, the minimum I tend to have to carry: car keys; house keys; cash; cards; mobile phone. Such items wouldn’t even warrant a second thought from your average bloke, they being blessed with an abundance of pockets in just about every item of clothing they own. For a girl on her way to work however, such items can be the cause of much strategic planning:

What can I do without? Nothing, I need it all
What will go in my jacket pocket? None of it, except mabybe the phone and a bit of cash
Where do I put my car keys while I’m ootenaboot? No idea, and just what are all those keys on that fucking keyring anyway?
Can I leave my housekeys in the car? Bit risky that, you sure you want to do that?

So, you give in and acquire a handbag. Fucking things. Once you’ve got one, you’re well and truly lumbered. Worse still, these bloody things mean that you end up carrying far too much shit around with you and also the shit of other cunts who haven’t lowered themselves by joining the handbag-wielding sorority. But you still carry your phone and some cash in your jacket pockets for convenience*.

Anyway (Piggy’s fave word), you’ve been out, you’ve parked up and retrieved all the crap from your car (shopping and shit that you’ve bought during lunchtime, stolen stationery, spiderplants that you’ve kidnapped). Your arms are full of crap, your carkeys are in one hand, your handbag is over your shoulder, but can you get to the bloody pocket that contains your house key? No. So you knock on the door by using all your strength to lift one of the shopping bag-carrying hands. No answer from your parents (their hearing isn’t what it was, but they don’t admit it). You knock again. And again. And again. You admit defeat, put the bags down and fanny around in the fucking handbag, find the house keys just at the point that the door is finally opened for you. An argument ensues, the accusations fly, the cats add to the tension by getting under everyone’s feet. The tension remains in the house for the entire evening.

And all because crappy girly clothes don’t have proper pockets.

*My denim jacket only has breast pockets: they aren’t particularly big or useful, but at least it gives me the excuse to secretly fiddle with my bosoms while I’m fishing for cash.

An edit: Popbtich brings us “Black people love us”
Yes, this particular couple are so pleased that some black people like them that they’ve declared it on the interweb. Good for them!

I’ll be able to post a similar “The kids love me” thing after my new found membership of the Red Hand Gang.