The following graphic depicts Rusty Cock in a reconstruction of my salvation from the demon drink.

Observe the dead eyes of the drunken bird as he slurps his way into oblivion. See the expression of hopelessness as Rusty is left bereft and forlorn in the absence of booze. Marvel at the return of true happiness at his discovery of highly-caffeinated fizzy drinks and osteoporosis.

If you’d like more life-like re-enactments of events from my past, you’ll have to ask Trillion – Rusty is a one-woman bird and he only performs for her.

(Yes, that is my hair)…

Here in the North West of England, we have these things called “barm cakes”. These are soft, flat, floury baps made from a light dough. They’re sometimes called “baps”, but under no circumstances should a barm cake be mistaken or confused with a roll or a cob, both of which have a crust.

Tsk.

The ideal accompaniment for crispy grilled bacon is toast and brown sauce, but there were only barms available at Trillion’s yesterday because she hasn’t done her big shop. So a barm it was, and my, what a treat!

Here we go:

1) Toast barm cake on both sides:

2) Add crispy bacon in abundance

3) Add oodles of brown sauce (this was HP, but Daddies is just as nice)

4) Enjoy!

No doubt there are other ways to enjoy bacon, but this waycan only be surpassed by the addition of a fried egg (runny yoke) that pops when you bite into your sarnie – you get yoke all over you: fuckin’ delish!

In Trillionland and I am being treated very well stop

Trillion cut my hair earlier stop Photo evidence on its way once I get back to civilisation and e-mails and shit like that stop

Picking up curry for tea shortly stop

I think I am getting ill with a bit of a cold and tickly cough stop I think it has something to do with the air up here stop

End

To Herge!

I want to take this opportunity to pay homage to our beloved Herge, the great mind behind the wonderful Angry Chimp – a blog that has brought wonder and entertainment to thousands in the short time since its introduction back in February of this year.

As a novice blogger, I used to go cruising by clicking the “next” button from my own blog. After the usual “Mortgage lenders, California”, “Rambling, ranting musings of an insignificant history student”, “Viva Belloc”, etc, I came across a post entitled Thoughts whilst queuing in McDonald’s. It was a lengthy piece, but it captured my attention and drew me in. I bloggered it from here and I’ve been going back ever since.

The Angry Chimp theme has evolved quite a bit in a relatively short space of time, but each incarnation has been innovative and funny and thought-provoking. From the reality TV series such as Death Row Big Brother and Celebrity Euthanasia Challenge, to obituaries of the rich and famous, The Guardian’s “We love each other”, and now the latest cartoon-phase that includes Dalek & Borg, Star Wars and Strangeways, Angry Chimp has continued to keep its audience engrossed.

I just want to say well done and thanks to Herge. I hope he gets the recognition that he deserves. And I hope he’s copyrighted the content of Angry Chimp!

Mobility scooters are ideal for people who have difficulty getting around because of disability or incapacity. In the past, many elderly or infirm people were forced to stay in the home because access to transport and shops was simply impossible for them. Older and disabled people were reliant on others to get ootanaboot, so these motorised mobility scooters are excellent for giving people back their independence. Hrrm, must remember to upload the photos to flickr…

They come in a variety of styles and there are 4 or 8mph models. This “luxury” model has a leather seat:

You can get all sorts of accessories for them, including cup holders, but I thought these were particularly good for the English climate:

And I thought this particular accessory was excellent:

However…

These things are taking over our shopping centres, pavements and roads. And they’re not being used by elderly, infirm or disabled people. Oh no, they’re the latest excuse for staying on their arses for fat, lazy fuckers who can’t be frigged to get on their fucking feet and walk!

You know you can get a special bariatric scooter? “Bariatric” is the new PC term for “fat lazy fucker”, and a bariatric scooter is one which is designed to take the weight of people who are seriously overweight (and to give them something to hold their chips and coke in while they eat their pizza).

Worst still, people who drive these things on the roads and pavements are so dangerous. I was pootling along the other day and there was some old guy on my side of the road, driving towards me in one. He was completely oblivious to the fact that he was going the right way for a head-on collision. Why are people allowed out in these things without any training? They fly about shopping centres and on pavements in them, completely ignorant to the fact there are pedestrians around them – these things can have a top speed of 8mph and that’d bloody hurt a lot if it hit you, especially if it had the lawn mower attachment.

And then you get whole gangs of users who congregate and take up the entire width of the shopping centre while they gawk and admire each others’ rides.

Don’t know what I’m complaining for, I’ll be using one soon the way my knee’s going.

City of Salford IN-clusive policy for WW-Raw It’s a Knockout Smack-Down

Salford City Council are introducing a new scheme to enhance the lives of its shopping precincts’ visitors. Each day, rounds of the popular 1970s & 80s challenge show “It’s a knockout” will be played out in the shopping centres at Eccles, Swinton, Salford and Walkden. Games will include:

• Pastie payroll, where team members aim savoury pastries at electric scooter baskets and babies’ pushchairs as they weave in and out of the pink dustbins and benches. The winner being the one to collect the highest number of pasties without scoffing the lot before the end of the challenge.
• Sausage roll slaughter involves layabouts stuffing as many piping-hot sausage rolls as possible into their mouths, the pockets of their trackie bottoms, under their baseball caps and in the hoods of their hooded tops. In this challenge, the victor is the person who sustains the fewest third degree burns. Again, competitors are not allowed to eat any of these delicious savoury pastry products.
• Prescription panic is the toughest test of all and it would be impossible without the cooperation of trickster pharmacy chain, Boots. People collecting their repeat prescriptions are strapped to a heart and BP monitor, they then have to negotiate some strategically-positioned instore product stands to reach the pharmacy counter at the very back of the shop. When they get there, they’re informed that their heart pills are out of stock and wont be available for a week due to over prescribing to asylum seekers in Bolton. Ten winning points go to the team with any surviving competitors.

Council spokeswoman, Peggy Babcock said, “We recognise that the vast majority of people who have no choice but to live IN Salford have pointless existences and we want to make their daily outing to collect their prescriptions and pasties an entertaining one. By asking people to form into teams of single mothers, electric scooter users and general layabouts, we hope that people will come together to support each other, at the same time introducing character building challenges to what would otherwise be a mundane and aimless wander round the shops. Moreover, the Town Hall is just over the road from Swinton Precinct and it’ll give us all the opportunity to place bets on the locals while we have a laugh at them. Let’s face it, our only other entertainment happens when Corrie or Peter Kay film here.”

People love to solve problems; they’ve been doing this for thousands of years. There are different types of puzzles: based on numbers; based on words or letters; based on spacial awareness; in 2 dimensions or 3. Loads of them.

Never trust a person who does cryptic crosswords
The Guardian Quick Crossword is a daily must for any UK student – even me. However, I really don’t understand cryptic crosswords one bit. Check this example out:

Not a fucking clue. There must be something wrong with people who can do cryptic crosswords. They probably belong to some mysterious brotherhood, like the Illuminati or something. Being able to do these things is indicative of a warped mind, perhaps even mental illness. You can bet that most serial killers will have committed their crimes immediately after completing one of these things. I’m sure Hitler and Stalin were aficionados.

Soduko
These number puzzles have got the Guardian and Sunday Times-reading masses rushing for their pens. There are even whole puzzle books devoted to them – a bit like Take a Break only without the top tips and prize money. Apparently, it’s all about counting from 1 to 9?

These things are even worse than cryptic crosswords. Completely bloody pointless.

If people are that bored, why don’t they just go and have half an hour sorting themselves out?

I used to be really fat. Morbidly obese in fact. I used to weigh about 18st at my heaviest (just over 5 years ago). I was a size 26 on top, about a size 30 on my bottom – UK sizes. I was a big lass. Should I show you a picture? I don’t think so. I make enough of a fool of myself here, but that’s going way too far.

Anyway, for one reason or another I lost a fair bit of weight and you can see how I am now. I lost a fair bit of weight just through plucking my eyebrows actually.

I was having a conversation with a friend recently, we were talking about the Neapolitan Riviera, Sorrento, Pompeii and all that – I’d visited there in 1994. We got on the subject of Vesuvius and I said, “You can climb all the way to the top, but I couldn’t because I was too fat”. We joked how my memoires might be called “Too fat for Vesuvius”. Ho, ho, ho.

I’m still quite a porker in parts ( I won’t get my legs out and it’s rare for me to wear a short-sleeved top in public), but I’m OK.

Knee = fucked
Being a bloater leaves its mark and I’ve got crap joints in my legs. I felt my knee go when I was at the gym the other night and I think I’ve done something to a ligament. It’s not painful, it just feels weak and it’s difficult going downstairs.

I bought an “athletic knee support” today and, not knowing what size to get, I plumped for the medium. It’s too tight on my still-chunky thigh and it digs in quite a lot.

My knee will be fine, I’ll just end up dying of a fucking thrombosis.

There are some things that are frowned upon by society: kiddie fiddling; cruelty to animals; using your phone while driving; voting Conservative; eating offal. According to some, these things are crimes that should be punishable by death. A little harsh, perhaps, but some folk get very emotional about things. Not your mild-mannered, easy-going, happy-go-lucky, without a care in the world Cakesniffer though. I often turn to the scriptures for guidance and think, What would Jesus say? “Let them without guilt cast the first stone” and all that.

We’re all guilty of enjoying things that we really shouldn’t; things we’d never come out with when asked the “So, what do you like to do in your spare time?” question in a job interview.

I suppose it’s about time this got dragged out and dusted off:

• Squeezing blackheads and spots, particularly other people’s, ESPECIALLY greasy men’s, is one of those divine things that never ceases to bring great pleasure. They come in all sorts of shapes and sizes; you can measure the satisfaction against many criteria (wiggliness of the blackhead goo, splatter pattern of spot goo, whether the “seed” of the spot is released on the first attempt, number of refills); and it’s an activity that can be done alone or shared with friends, lovers, family members. Fantastic! Of course, related to this is “draining the cat’s abscess”: cats get into fights, they get bitten, bites get infected without you noticiing, big abscess bursts while you’re stroking kitty. And my God, do abscesses go on!!! Unfortunately, they also stink to high heaven, so you need a pretty strong stomach for that particular activity. They also have the associated costs of vets’ bills for proper cleaning and medication, so the pleasure is lost somewhat by the financial implications.
• Smelly farts. Now, this is a weird one. Why do we like to smell our own farts, yet are sickened by those of others? Odd, isn’t it?
• Gooey, post-cold snot. It’s great at the end of a bad cold when your sinuses finally start to clear and you get productive snot: that really gooey, yellow/green/bloody stuff that leaves your head clear as it makes its exit. You know it’s disgusting, but you just can’t resist having a look. Another great nasal pleasure is the post-nosebleed blood clot. If you have a bad nosebleed and have to hold a pack under your nose to absorb the blood, when you remove the pack, there’s often a huge blood clot that pulls away with it. You can feel it coming out from your nasal passage and it feels GREAT! After a few minutes, there should be the confidence for a good nose-blow and this often results in excellent bloody goo release too. It’s that instant of sudden freedom from the suffocation that had been caused by the clot (or snot): in that second, you sudden come alive again and it’s as if your brain can breathe too.
• Gooey, post-chest infection phlegm. Again, you shouldn’t look, but you do, don’t you? There are different stages of this stuff. When you’ve been really poorly and it’s just coming up, it’s sort of dark green, olive-coloured and it really, really hurts. It also smells bloody terrible and you can sort of taste it as you breathe, but you can’t do anything about it. Yak.
• Last, but not least: big, massive poos. They’re just the best thing in the world and I can’t imagine what it must be like to only go every now and again. I love the Bristol Stool Score, and there’s a pic of this posted somewhere on the b-log (log!) . Filth, pure filth.

I’d put wanking in here, but it’s one of those things that I’m absolutely sure everybody does – nobody feels guilty about it, but nobody really talks about it. Since the title of the post is “Things you shouldn’t like, but just can’t help yourself”, wanking’s not really appropriate, but everybody should like it. It is embarrassing when you injure yourself though and you have to explain why you’re limping or hold your head in a strange way. I even use the excuse of excessive use of a scroll mouse for stiffness in my index finger.

Going the gym provides a great excuse for all over body stiffness and strange gaits. Strangely enough, I have injured my knee and if feels a bit weak so I’m limping on it. I did it on the treadmill, Your Honour!

PS What’s the approval rating on the new pic?

I’ve never looked at porn – never watched a bluey, never sought it out on the internet, never in a mag. It might be better to save up some money and pay for sex. I wouldn’t know about that sort of thing.

Prawns, on the other hand, I pay for prawns – love ’em!

Pawns. Those weird little things in a chess set. I used to like getting my pawns killed. Well, I didn’t, I was just crap at chess and I didn’t know what I was doing.

Tits amazing

I had an epiphany at work this afternoon and started a seemingly unprovoked attack against the Guardian and its readership.

What makes me just as sick as sponging dole-scum are the fucking Guardian-reading, middle-class, socialist, plastic working-class, up-their own arse bastard cunts!

I’ll tell you my story: I was born the third child to my parents. My dad was an Italian imigrant with not very good English skills, he worked in a poorly-paid job in a factory. Mum was a housewife, but was a nurse by training and she sometimes had a part time job as an occupational health nurse (at the factory where dad worked). They were poor. At times, my mum used to have to look for money down the side of the sofa to afford a loaf of bread or some milk. We lived in rented house until I was about 3, then moved into a Council house. We moved to another Council house in 1977 and we still live here today.

I went to the local state schools where I did OK. The schools were OK, the pupils were a fair mix of pretty poor to not too badly off kids – nobody led a particularly privileged existence. They were the sorts of schools where, if you got your head down, you could do quite well. Most schools around here are like that. I did well, went onto 6th form, where I did very well. I ended up at University where I was fucking ace and came top of my class. Did a PhD. Somehow or other, I ended up back with my folks. I now work in the NHS where I guess I’m a middle manager sort of grade.

So, I get so fucking annoyed with these privilged wankers telling me that I’ve done exceptionally well for myself considering my background. That it must’ve been an enormous struggle against hardship. A fight against class attitudes, to break away from the cycle of hopelessness that’s experienced by everybody else with my sort of upbringing.

In reality, with certain exceptions, anybody with half a brain who knuckled down could’ve made the most of the opportunities presented to them at the time that I was groing up. Generally, the only things that prevent people getting on were laziness and stupidity – not what they’re parents did for a living or what sort of house they lived in.

Fucking stuck up, ignorant, patronising cunts. They’re so blinkered and so far removed from the real world that they live with these assumptions. They pretend to empathise with the working classes, yet they wouldn’t be seen dead around here. They claim it’s only right and socially fair to have a welfare system, but they never see that the system provides an option of a way of life for some while failing those who really need it. They make assumptions about people’s political leanings based on background and upbringing.

They are complete tossers. They read the Guardian, they listen to Radio 4, they listen to Coldplay, Travis and Did, and they sneer at people who don’t vote the way they do. They are same sort of people that turn into Bono and Geldof. They need destroying.