Summer is well and truly over; I am getting very down in the dumps.

Autumn is a rubbish season. For all it being Nature’s own fireworks display, what with its rustling, rusty leaves falling from the trees and swirling around in the wind, Autumn has nothing to promise but cold and darkness. The only thing Autumn signals is the start of the 6 month wait until the sun regains enough energy to warm the bones.


Soon be Christmas
Indeed, and with Hallowe’en still 6 weeks away, the supermarkets are already stocked with witchy paraphernalia and, more depressingly, Christmas cards, gift bags and the like.

I shall try to ignore this unwarranted pressure from the retail giants. I shall do Christmas at my own pace and enjoy it just the same, even more so than being prepared 3 months prematurely.

Outside, the numpties are lettting off fireworks with seven weeks to go before Bonfire Night. Not long before there’s an incessant barage of aerial explosives, attacks on animals and terrorism of the eldelrly from dusk till dawn. Of course, the Government has promised to curb sales of these things. Nice to see they’ve managed to keep that promse too. I’d love to shove them up their arses. Wankers.

Looking forward to
The winter months tend to bring out the best in the telly schedules, thank fuck. There should be something worthwhile on the cards on that front. Of course, I’d been looking forward to watching my Withnail and I DVD and, with Mum and Dad busying themselves with other things, I finally sat down to enjoy it. Then brother turned up with his girlfriend, then Mum and Dad decided sit in and huff and puff and rustle through the papers at the moment when Withnail spurts out, “Monty, you terrible cunt!”. My enjoyment was not as it might have been.

As for this week, there’s the excitement of waiting for the outcome of the grumbling abdominal pains that have befallen the Cakesniffy colon since Friday. Is it appendicitis? Is it a tummy bug? Is it trapped wind, or a touch of constipation? No idea, but it’s hurt like a bastard and I want it to stop.

Regular readers of Cakesniffers may remember a recent post in which various types of houseplant were scrutinised, criticised, pulled apart and voted out of the Big Brother Greenhouse.

Evictee Spider seemed to be exploiting his new found fame to pursue a “live it up” lifestyle of sun and fun in the Lancashire countryside. When we last saw him, he was enjoying the tranquility of running water while taunting the fish and snails in Trillion’s pond.

Crack whore lifestyle takes its toll

It seems that Spider just wasn’t capable of handling all that new-found fame and fortune. Shocked and appalled.

Unless something goes drastically wrong, there is usually an unconditional love between family members. Despite their faults, I do love my family. However, this love for those who share our genes doesn’t prevent us from wanting to kill them at times… quite frequently actually, especially where my sister is concerned.

Having spent 4 days in close proximity with her while in Rome, I really did want to give my sister Anna a good slapping at times. I shall document some of those occasions now and let Blogland judge whether should have given in to my instincts and killed her.

One: Delving into my private life
Within a couple of hours of getting to Rome, we found ourselves in Piazza Navona, sat down at a nice restaurant. Before the starters had arrived, she asked “Have you seen much of Denise recently?”
Me: “No, I’ve not had much time to see anybody recently, but we’ve sent the odd e-mail”
Anna: “So she’s not tried to turn you gay then?”
Me: “No” (which she hasn’t)

Why is it any of her business? I don’t mither her about shit, so why does she feel the need to pry into my private life and ask me questions in such an accusatory manner?

Bitch.

Two: Point and shoot
Wanting to ensure that I had some decent photos of my trip, I tried to take time to compose shots properly. At night, with long exposure times, it took a little longer to take pictures. She, brashness and intolerence fuelled by half a litre of red wine, started having a go at me and my new fancy camera (she’d taken my old one with her).

Anna: “That camera’s crap, you should’ve stuck with this one. Look, all you do is point and shoot and you’ve got your picture. Point. Shoot. Picture.”
Me: “Just shut the fuck up and let me take this photo, cunt”
Anna: “Point, shoot”
Me: “SHUTTHEFUCKUP!!! BITCHING CUNTFACE!!”
Anna: “Point, shoot. Point, shoot”

Of course, she was quite right. There was no difference in quality when the photographer took time to compose a shot and when they just pointed and shot.

Three: Caffe Americano
Something was wrong with the coffee in the hotel – very wrong. Espresso was delish, but capuccino and Americano coffees were dreadful, according to Anna at least. Don’t know what they were up to in the kitchen, but the Americano and capuccino coffees were not derived from the same stuff as the espresso.

Did she have an espresso and get on with it? Did she cut her losses and just wait to get to the local bar for a coffee instead? No, she went on and on and on and on.

Anna: “All I want is a cup of coffee. It can’t be difficult, espresso plus hot water equals Americano. Espresso plus frothed milk equals capuccino. I want a cup of coffee and I can’t get started without one.”

Me: “So you keep saying. Just get ready and we’ll go and get a coffee from that nice bar”

Anna: “I can’t get do anything in the morning without my coffee”

Me: “So hurry up and we’ll go and get one”

ad infinitum


Four: Bowel habits
Changes in environments, accompanied by warm weather and a bit of dehydration can make a person a little constipated. Even I had trouble pooing while over there. She hadn’t been for a couple of days and we never heard the last of it.

Anna: “I really need a shit”

Me: “Charming. Perhaps if you weren’t so vulgar it’d happen”

Anna: “It’s that fucking coffee in the hotel. Back home, I have my cup of coffee, bowel of cereal and voila a nice big shit before my shower. I need my coffee in the morning to have a shit”

Me: “Stop being so vile. We’ll get something beany for your tea and make sure you drink plenty of water”

At the restaurant…

Anna: “Oh I hope there’s something on the menu that’ll make me shit”

Me: “Look, there’s bean soup. Just get that and stop saying that!”

Anna: “But I need to shit, look at my tummy”

Me, thinking: Shut the fuck up before I fucking stab you with a breadstick!

Five: Looking after other people’s things
My new camera cost me over £300, I love it, I want to take care of it. I’m not precious about it though, the casing can get scratched to fuck so long as everything works OK and the lens is fine. The lens is a very important part of a camera. I understandably get a little irritated when people don’t watch what they’re doing with their fingers and stub greasy paw prints all over the fucking thing. Not only did she manage to get fingerprints all over the lens every time she got hold of my camera, she also nearly scratched it with the spokes of an umbrellla. On saying “Will you be careful and watch what you’re doing?” she had a fit and had a go at ME!

Twat.

Six: Shut up, just please shut up!
Everyone we came across, she had to talk to and tell them things as if they’d be interested. I suppose we’re just different in this respect and I tend to wait to be asked rather than volunteering information – who’d be interested in somebody spouting off about stuff uninvited? I wouldn’t. Tour guides, Carabinieri, other tourists, waiters, taxi drivers, they all got it.

Seven: On being a girl
She fusses like nobody I’ve ever known – everything is such a bloody drama. She’d say: “You look bored, do you want to go out for a walk now?”

Me: “I’m OK, I’m happy sitting and thinking, but a walk would be nice, you ready?”

Anna: “Yeah, just let me go for a wee”

I get my bum belt (fanny twat pack) and shoes on, check my pockets for money, pick up my camera. During this time, she’s had her wee and is now sat on the bed putting makeup on.

Ten minutes later:

Me: “I thought you were ready to go ten minutes ago, what are you doing?”

Anna: “I’m being a GIRL, you wouldn’t know what that means.”

Me: “But you said you were ready and you looked fine.”

Anna: “I can’t go out without makeup on, you don’t have a go at Trillion for slapping it on”

Me: “She rarely wears makeup, only if she’s going out somehwhere special, and why are you brining her into this? You’re the one who wanted to go out and said they were ready and now you’re farting about with makeup when it’s dark outside anyway!”

And this is the result:

I’m going to get Rome out of my system in this one post so I can get on with proper blogging – back to being a bitch and a half.

I’ve posted a load of photos on my Webshots site for anybody who’s particulalrly interested. I hope the ones that have been selected for this post will give a suitable flavour that will convince anybody to try to get to Rome sometime in their life; it’s an unbelievable place and well worth it.

Photo diary day 1: Main touristy bits at night
After getting completely lost, we stumbled on the Piazza Navona, which is home to the fountains of del Moro and del Nettuno at either end, with La Fontana dei Fiumi (the one with the obelisk) in the middle. You never tire of seeing fountains or obelisks in Rome, good job really.

Piazza Navona is a magnet for immigrant salesmen selling fake fashion items and cheap tat. Kind of takes the gloss off things since you can’t actually see much of square once they’ve congregated.

Off to the Trevi Fountain next.

It’s always recommended to take a little map with you; we got a little tired of getting lost (and stumbling on the Pantheon) trying to find the Trevi – we’d been in Rome for 5 hours when I first had the urge to strangle my sister. By the end of the evening, I had gone over her demise in my mind at least 12 times. I had a headache and my contacts were very, very dry…

Day 2: St Peter’s Basilica & the Vatican Museum
Well, I suppose it has to be done while you’re there and this turned out to be the highlight of the trip – I always felt like going back to check a bit more of it out. It is very special.

It’s an incredible place, even for a completely soulless athiest like me – this was helped by the excellent guide that we stumbled on completely by accident; without his knowledge, I wouldn’t have had a clue about any of the stuff in there.

After the Vatican Museum, a trip to the top of the dome of the Basilica was called for. It was like a scene from The Omen: the nearer I got to the top, the closer the storm clouds got, culminating in a massive fucking storm as we were at the top of the bloody place. Still, if you’re going to get struck by lightning, that’s the place for it to happen. Was thrilled to find that the souvenir shop was staffed by nuns, how top notch is that?

Got absolutely piss-wet through in the torrential rain on the way back to the hotel. Not happy.

Number of occasions on which I wanted to throttle Anna = 7

Day 3: Pantheon, Palazzo Venezia, Ancient Rome, Trastevere, then back to Ancient Rome, followed by a week in a wheelchair
The pictures say it all. We didn’t even bother going into the Colloseum because the queues were too long. That’s right, visited Rome and couldn’t be fucked to go into the Colloseum – it’s just a load of old ruins. Walked fucking miles and almost died.

Number of occasions on which I wanted to throttle Anna = 3

Half way through this post and it’s a complete cunting pain making all these bastard photo montages in Photoshop. I don’t know how people can be bothered!

Day 4: More traipsing and getting lost
Went back over most of the bits already seen at night time, plus the Villa Borghese, Piazza del Popolo, Piazza del Spagna and all that shit (it was here that Anna had the MacFight).

Number of occasions I wanted to kill Anna = 23

Some general night time photos
Fucking Flickr is arsing me off big time. Slow pile of crap. Doesn’t it realise that some of us are up for work early in the morning and it’s way past our bedtimes?

Not being a frequent traveller, certain things struck me as being different, while travelling, and during my visit to the Eternal City.

Flying
Fucking horrible. The only nice thing about flying was the free chocolate that you get on Swiss Air – and these were too small to compensate for the dread and fear experienced throughout taxiing, take-off, flying and landing. It’s just not right to be cruising above the clouds, but imagine my delight on getting on plane that had these:

And there’s the bit where they bank round and descend really quickly as they come into land; it really hurts your ears and makes you feel sick. Fuckers. I’m sure they just do it to scare you.

City of Love-train
The Leonardo da Vinci express carries passengers between Fiumicino Airport and Rome Termini railway station. It’s a non-stop service that takes half an hour. Tickets cost E9.50 per person. But here’s where the fun starts: when you buy a train or bus ticket in Italy, you need to validate it before getting on the train or as you enter a bus. The automated announcer tells you that “your ticket must be validated using the obliterators on the platform and failure to do so will result in a fine” they tell you this after boarding the train. They then have ticket inspectors on the train to validate your validated ticket. Me thinks they’re taking the piss.

The train itself is ideal for carrying luggage-laden passengers: simply traverse the foot-wide gap between platform and train then climb the stairs to the carriage where you’ll find nowhere to store your luggage during your journey – a journey which is spent sat opposite a miserable-looking Italian. At your destination, you have to fight through crowds of luggage-laden people on a very narrow and very long platform, through a shopping area (all other exits being closed and forcing you in this direction), until you finally get out of the fucking station. Wankers.

You’re very hot, very tired. You find a taxi and beg them to take you to your hotel.

I alberghi Italiani (Italian hotels)
I’ve stayed in a few 3 star Italian hotels and, at worst, they’re clean and functional, at best, they’re luxurious – quite a range in standards for the same category, but there you go. Our hotel (room) was clean and functional, but I think I shared the smallest room in the entire hotel with my premenstrual, mental sister.

The main thing of wonder about Italian hotel rooms is the bathroom system: they never have shower trays. You have a shower and the entire bathroom gets soaked, so you have to use all the towels to dry the room down as well as yourself. Not too bad in the mornings because they get changed for nice clean ones when the maid does the room, but it means you can’t really have a shower in the afternoon or evening because all the towels will still be wet in the morning.

Why? Why do they do it?

Street artists
All over Italy, you’ll see these nobs, covered in shimmering fabric and metalic face-paint. They stand on portable podia and they stand… all day. They expect people to give them money just for standing about. Why don’t they just get a fucking job? Tits.

Of course at least this lot made an effort, not like the cheeky twat beggars who walked funny or pushed themselves along on skateboards while holding their legs and feet in a funny way. One lass was just a skinny bird who you could tell was begging to fund her highlights that were in bad need of being re-done.

Siete di toilette
Most restaurants and bars have toilets; they’re a godsend for when you’re ootenaboot and need to stop off for some refreshment and a wee. But it’s extremely rare to find a toilet with a toilet seat in these places. I don’t understand it. It’s just not right.

At least they seem to have come a long way since I was last over in Italy 11 years ago. Back then it was a bonus to find any porcelain at all and you just have to hover over a hole and hope for the best. Of course, I’d rather have pissed myself than than suffer that indignity. Dirty bastards.

MacShite and a MacFight
So we found ourselves going in McDonald’s for a wee. There was a queue for the ladies’ – as per. As a cubicle became free and I sat down (on a toilet with a seat), I heard a commotion outside – my sister’s voice and that of an angry-sounding Italian woman. Not being big on queuing, the Italians will just just go for it if a cubicle comes free and of course my sister objected to this and physically dragged the woman out of the toilet that was rightfully hers. I’ve never heard such a thing. On a Sunday too.

Crossing the road
They’re all fucking mental – you just have to go for it because the green man means sod-all over there.

Diagon Alley
Many of the streets leading to piazze were warrens that a traveller could find confusing and get lost in. They’d look completely different depending on the time of day, as one set of shops closed while another opened. Having found a grocers that sold salamis, breads and – most importantly – chilled cans of pop for 75c, we thought we’d gone mad as we kept trying to find it again, to no avail. Instead, we had to resort to buying cold drinks at E3-4 a go from the robbing bastard street vendors.

Coke habit
You can’t get Pepsi over there: it’s Coke all the way. I fucking hate Coke, it’s disgusting. The only time I saw Pepsi was in a little grocery store, but it was the full fat version that I don’t like.

This monopoly must STOP! I feel an e-mail to Pepsi customer services coming on. They simply must break into the Italian market or I feel I may never be able to return there.

Needless to say, Mother was instructed to be waiting with a can of my beloved Pepsi Max when I got off the plane. I love my mum.

Fast food
They have this stupid system in some cafes (particularly at airports) where you have to pay for your stuff before you order it, you then take the receipt to the order point where they dish up your coffee, or whatever. But what if you don’t know what you want until you get to see what’s on offer? What if you change your mind after paying for it?

It’s like going to Tesco, paying for your shopping, then taking your receipt round the shop to pick up your stuff.

Arseholes.

Romans
A race who look good and know it.

Rome
Go.

Yep, like it or not (and I’m definitely edging towards NOT), I’m flying off to Rome for a few days tomorrow. I can’t believe how apprehensive I am, but I’m sure I’ll get over it once I arrive in my hotel room. Unless of course I die in a plane/train/taxi crash.

Travelling is RUBBISH and I can’t believe people make such a big deal about jetting off on their summer hols. Some folk really can’t survive without going away at least once a year. They must be fucking mental.

Once you’ve got over the terrifyng journey (if you make it safely), you’ve got to contend with unfamiliar surroundings, different languages and cultures, the dangers of being mugged or murdered…

And then you’ve got to fly back!

What on earth made me think this was a good idea?

Anyway, Trillion’s in charge of making sure my folks know about my funeral wishes.

Ci vediamo!

Or should that be, arrivaderci?

This is a very short tribute to a very good blogger. His insightful nature, intelligence and command of English ooze from every post. More importantly, he’s very witty and has me “lol”ing an awful lot.

I am referring to Garfer, creator general of Tunnock’s Teacakes Forever. Now, I don’t want Herge to get jealous here, he knows he’s top dog (or should do by now), but I just want to highlight Garfer’s stuff in case people who come here have happened to miss it.

In a recent post, Garfer attacked racial stereotypes, particularly the way in which the Irish are portrayed by the British. He used good arguments and excellent examples for emphasis. It, justfiably, provoked a number of comments. These two made me howl:

pissoff said…
You know, my grandfather’s great greandfather was Irish. What does that make me? LMAO.

2:48 PM

garfer said…
About 0.0025% Mick. Add in a smidgeon of Canadian squaw and you have the perfect recipe for a pycho nutbag.
You seem to have escaped quite lightly. Probably all that spotted dick has kept you sane.

3:18 PM

“Psycho nutbag”: told you he was insightful.

That’ll be me soon. Having enjoyed a month of excesses of food and almost zero exercise, I’ll be trying to shed the few extra pounds that I’ve gained by chomping on salady things and getting some regular sessions back in down at the gym.

But here’s what gets my goat.

Salad.

To me, a salad is a mixture of specific types of raw vegetables (lettuce, fennel, chicory, tomatoes (yes, I know), etc, that can be accompanied with a dressing of some sort and perhaps something meaty, cheesy or fishy on the side. Apart from the accompanying meaty, fishy or cheesiness, and Ok, perhaps a hard-boiled egg, nothing that’s been cooked qualifies as a salad ingredient.

Under any circumstances.

Ever.

Examples of qualifying salady candidates
Lettuce (NEVER iceberg!)
Carrot (grated)
Tomato
Cucumber
Radish
Chicory
Chinese leaves
Onion (sometimes)
Olives
etc
etc
etc

All connected by the fact that you don’t cook ’em.

Examples of things often classfied as salady, but should not be allowed anywhere near a salad
Potatoes
Rice
Cous cous
Pasta

No No NO! What these dreadful things are – usually accompanied by that greasy partner in crime, mayonnaise – are cold platter components. This is fine, but do NOT give me any of these things and dare to call it a salad.

I think I’m feeling a bit luteal.

Photographic interlude
Time for some calming pictures….

As Britain enjoyed the final days of summer, as the leaves began their fall from the trees that had been aged by yet another season, as the days grew noticably shorter, a strange and truly terrifying creature showed itself to an unsuspecting and woefully unprepared world…

Jumping-in
Being sensible and not at all open to peer pressure, I didn’t really want to take part in “jumping-in”, mainly because of fear of drowning in the icy water, but also because getting water up your nose doesn’t half hurt. However, with a little persuading, and after being called a wet pussy, I decided to take the plunge. Now, a little explanation is required here. When I bought by first swimming costume in nearly 20 years, I did so while remembering that thorny problem of strap-slippage. With this in mind, I got a one-piece that was perhaps a little too small. The terrible results can be seen below.

Almost cut me in two.

Relaxing holidays spell disaster for creativity
So a week in Norfolkland did confirm a few things. Firstly, I miss my friends a lot. Secondly, Norfolk is a nice part of the world, although it’s a shit to get to. Thirdly, there does indeed seem to be a fair deal of inbreeding amongst certain sections of the population – this was confirmed by a trip to B&Q where I witnessed a man (husband-dad-brother-cousin) pushing a woman (his wife-sister-cousin-daughter-mother) in a wheelchair, accompanied by their offspring (who resembled scrawny hobbits).

With my vitriolic creativity being ebbed away by a week of relaxation, jumping-in and eating too much, this demob-happy Cakesniffer hasn’t really got anything to go on the attack about just at the moment. Except of course… SPIDERS!

It’s now officially spider season and I cannot stand the bastards. I can just about cope with garden spiders that have a useful purpose, but I have absolutely no time whatsoever for those big fuckers that scuttle about the house at five hundred miles an hour. They don’t even make webs to catch flies. They just lurk and then jump out and then run REALLY fast across the floor. BASTARDS!

It’s now dark in the morning when I get up (bah!) and as I stumbled from my bedroom to the bathroom, I saw a huge black spider jump from the bannister on the stair below, where it waited and plotted to trip me up. Fucking twat of a creature.

Rome if you want to…
Of course, this week sees me jet off to my doom on my Roman Holiday. Fuck, I’m scared shitless and absolutely dreading it. I keep telling myself that I’ll be OK once I’ve got to my hotel, dumped my case in my room and collapsed on the bed.

There are so many things that can go wrong (not including catastrophic air disasters). What if they’ve given us a double bed and not two singles? I can’t sleep with my sister for FOUR nights. Fuck’s sake.

What if the hotel is completely shite? What if we get robbed? What if it’s just too bloody hot to do anything?

I’ve long held the view that holidays are a waste of money. It’s just too much stress, too much expense and hassle for something where you have to come back down to earth (and back to a completely shit job that you hate) with huge bump.

Unless you can afford to do it properly, by staying in really good 5 star hotels, flying direct with good airlines, then it all becomes a cause for anxiety and panic. And there’s the cost. Not only is there the price of the flight and accommodation (£350), there’s spending money, money for taxis, money for pressies, money for getting stranded in Zurich or Basel on the way there/back. And you just exchange £150 into funny money as if it doesn’t mean anything – just for starters. That’s a month’s worth of petrol, or the cost of a PC upgrade, a nice suit, a really good meal out, a car service.

Material things hit my buttons, not travelling and experiencing culture, history, different people. Once you reach your mid-thirties, you come to realise that people are generally complete cocks no matter where you go, experiences fade into memories as soon as you’ve lived them. I guess the secret is making sure that you have fabulously large sunglasses and a means of capturing events.

Burnt to a fucking crisp

Almost drowned in the pool (they’ve got a pool!) – disturbing photos to follow (probs Saturday)

Having lots of fun

Nice part of the world, but strange accent and no mains gas or water drains