Socks should always be worn with shoes. I was wearing some open-backed shoes today and I took my socks off because it was warmish (and because I realised I looked a complete tit with socks on). It wasn’t a wise move and I suffered – badly:

I was walking to the shops in them (for the second time) and I realised my toe was rubbing so I applied a plaster. But I made the mistake of wrapping it around the toe and this just rubbed the existing wound even more. I saw sense soon enough and put another plaster over the top of the toe and this did the trick, but the damage was done and the toe had been rubbed right down to the bone. It’ll probably have to be amputated tomorrow.


Hello! from Picasa
Stupid bastard thing won’t log me on to Blogger so I couldn’t use it to upload that photo. I can log on as one user easily enough, but not as Cakesniffer. I think it’s a conspiracy from the Finnish.


Font of all knowledge
I’m thinking of changing my font from Verdana. Any preferences anyone? I think this should default to Century Gothic. Is the small size OK?

Nah, can’t read that. What about a bit bigger?

An edit before bedtime: I’m on to “VAG rounded thin” now. I’ve no idea how this will appear on machines where this font isn’t installed (I think it’s an Adobe font). Let me know if you can’t read it. Or how about letting me know your favourite fonts of all time, live a top five fantastic fonts? How about least favourite ones two? Here goes:

Fontastic:

1. VAG rounded thin
2. Franklin gothic book
3. Trebuchet MS
4. Verdana/Tahoma
5. Century Gothic

Little Lord Fontleroy:

1. Times New Roman (I really hate this font with a passion)
2. Courier
3. Brushscript (or anything scripty)
4. Rockwell
5. Wingdings (rubbish)

Fucking cheeky Finnish CUNTS!

If you’re after some happy fucking crafts from a bunch of hurdy-gurdies, you’ve come to the wrong place. The bastards you’re looking for are in Finland and they’re happy.

I’m in England and I’m LIVID! You won’t find happiness here, you’ll find misery and reality.

I see there’s also an Angry Chimp imitator knocking about too.

I stole this name from Lemony Snicket first, how dare some twats from the North Pole do the same? And to have a nearly identical URL? WANKERS! They’ll be getting all my search traffic and everything.

If only Chernobyl had wiped the bastards out!

Six months and 8 days, or one hundred and ninety one days. That’s how long we’ve got till Christmas Day. A hundred and eighty nine sleeps until Father Christmas comes to visit excited youngsters across the globe.

If you live in a place that’s anything like where I do, this means that there are probably only 140 days until your scumbag neighbours put their Christmas decorations up. Wankers. These tossers usually have their houses emblazoned with lights and tinsel by the end of the first week of November. Common, that’s what they are. No class. And no doubt it’s us poor bastard tax payers who contribute to their huge electricity bills because they don’t lift a finger to do a job themselves.

This aside, I found myself getting excited about Christmas today, the hottest day of the year so far (all of 24°C). I love it! It’s the most mental 2 weeks of the year – just look at what people do to their houses during Advent, it’s fucking bonkers. Who’d have thought having a tree in the house was normal? And all those lights? It’s great! (But obviously for no longer than a month at the absolute max).

This just goes to show that people with great imaginations and artistic ability can also be wonderfully stinging and succinct in their attacks.

I despise people who have imaginations. They must sit around, daydreaming and pissing about with their woolly thoughts. You used to sit next to pathetic girls at school who’d be thinking up some fairystory about pretty girls who wear tap-dancing ballerina fairy princess veterinarian dresses.

I, on the other hand, take time to reflect on real things and events.

I’m insanely jealous of people who have imaginations.

Ask me to make up a story and I can’t do it. I have great difficulty describing what things look like – I just don’t know the correct adjectives and metaphors. I can’t describe what people look like, or the clothes they wear, but I can tell you what they’re like as a person (usually using the words “cock”, “twat”, “nobhead”, “wanker”, etc).

I could never be a musician because I could never make up a tune from scratch and I could never learn a piece by ear: although I had good technical skills, I could only play after I’d heard how it was meant to be played and if I also had the music to follow.

I’m excellent at drawing, but I’m useless with a blank piece of paper unless I have something to copy. I suppose that’s why I like photography so much.

It’s a shame that somebody with a decent command of English can’t do much else with the skill other than launch vicious attacks on deserving sections of society.

If a friend accidentally left a pair of their knickers on my bathroom floor, I’d simply wash them, dry them and give them back. I wouldn’t sniff the gusset or sleep with them before sticking them on the boil wash. It would never occur to me to to wash them, dry and iron them and then stick them in the post with this accompanying note:

Still, I have other strengths and, let’s face it, the world would be a boring place if we all had the imaginations of Herge Smith or Trillion.

And I make a fucking top notch lasagne.

When you get fat, you get stretch marks. They start off sort of purple, but fade over the years to this silvery mark that makes your skin look like it’s been attacked with a lattice cutter.

Now, I’m the epitome of slim, so imagine my surprise when I discovered that I was afflicted with a stretch mark on my tummy! I was even more surprised when I saw it close up:

Good job Trillion was on hand to photograph it for me or I doubt anybody would believe me. I wonder if I could find a volunteer to take a photo of my Virgin Mary-shaped haemorroid?

Further to yesterday’s colon problems, I have to admit that I’ve been feeling pretty rotten today too. I did have a massive and very dense poo earlier on, so hopefully things will start to ease up fairly soon. This evening’s effort was a NUMBER 3/4!

Edit: I’ve just had a load of beetroot. We all know what this’ll mean for the morning’s deep pan experience!

Today I felt pain like I have not felt for some time. I had…

It all started with feeling very hungry at around 10am, then this air pocket sort of descending from my stomach into my duodenum and it got trapped there. I had to go for a wander to see if it’d work its way down into a fart, but to no avail.

I thought I was going to faint at one point, it was so bad. I had cold sweats and everything.

I kept trying to go to the toilet, but everytime there was somebody in one of the other cubicles. Not knowing how many decibels would result from the gaseous release from my arse, I daren’t risk it. As a result, the pain got worse and worse. I eventually managed to have a poo in peace and the relief was instant. The poo itself was so big, dense and air-tight that it effectively caused an air lock in my colon and this built up the pressure that caused all the discomfort. There wasn’t much gas after all that, all that came out was a bit of a damp hiss.

I feel quite swollen now; like somebody has inflated my bowel to the dimensions of a party balloon.

On the Bristol Stool Score, I’d rate today’s effort as a NUMBER 3:

It’s great to see that the National Digestive Diseases Information Clearing House (NDDIC), which is a division of the National Institute for Diabetes and Digestive and Kidney Diseases (NIDDK), has produced a whole interweb factsheet to put us colic-inflicted cakesniffers at ease.

Oh, the pain!

The moment you’ve all been waiting for…

Yep, I put it back in my eye for all of 10 seconds this evening. It was very uncomfortable and stung – a bit like putting battery acid into your eye – but I could see through it!

I didn’t exactly feel like Steve Austin, The Bionic Man. And, rather than the bionic vision close-up focus sound effect, the only noise I made was saying “Fuck, fuck, fuck” while I was trying to hurry up and take the photo.

Connie has tagged me (whatever that means) to make me do this. Apparently, I need to tell Blogland about FIVE things that I miss from my childhood… just check I’ve got this right… yep, five. I’ve got to do some linky tab things too. Fuck, when can I get back to bitching about life?

1. My mum’s sister, my Auntie Lil. She died when I was 12, but I have fond memories of my childhood growing up around her and my cousins, particularly Christmas and the summertime. It was the ideal family life of the mid- to late 1970s, with family parties and special meals. She was obsessed with Wimbledon and would barely leave the TV during the whole competition. She was a lovely, caring person and I can still remember being cheeky to her and upsetting her once, I can’t remember apologising properly for it. When she died, my mum kind of fell apart a bit and the family was never really the same again.
2. Seaside holidays in Rimini. My dad’s from Italy and his sisters all lived in the Rimini/Riccione area on the Adriatic Riviera. We had holidays there when I was a kid. It was ace: 3 weeks with my cousins; down the beach every day; barbecues all the time; food that had never been heard of in the UK. Dad used to get me up at the crack of dawn and take me to the beach to see the sand getting raked and cleaned up, ready for the day. We’d stop off at the bakery on the way back to his sister’s and buy fresh focaccia and other bread for the day, plus fresh prosciutto and stuff. We always wanted to go to the Fiabilandia funfair thing. All I can remember are the go-karts that were there, and giant King-Kong that was on display at the time of that crap film that was out in the 70s.
3. The dressing up box. We had a box of clothes that we got dressed up in. There was a nurse, a fairtstory prince and a something else. There were lots of things and I think there was even a sequinned tu-tu. It was great fun and I’m sure my mum loved that fact that it kept us all relatively quiet for a while.
4. Shaker-Maker and the Snow White jigsaw. Shaker Makers were ace. These things consisted of a variety of plastic molds, which formed the shape for a sort of plaster of paris mix that you shook up to mix. Once set, you hardened them in the airing cupboard and painted them with the stuff that was supplied. Messy excellence. The Snow White jigsaw was one of the worst episodes of my childhood. It was my favourtite puzzle, but it had to be given away to appease the local aggressive mongoloid who’d burst into the house and was threatening me by standing over me and shouting, “‘Av y’go’ any digdawdth? Wanna digdaw!!” It was very scary for a 4 year old.
5. Summer. We had summers when I was a child, and summers lasted from the end of May till the end of September. You’d break up from school in July, disappear down the local woods for a couple of months, and go back in early September. It would have been baking hot and sunny constantly for the entire holiday. I can’t remember much summer rain when I was a child.

Now, apparently, I’ve got to do some sort of tag thing? No idea what this means.

Lewies Blogs

An Online Diary Of Thoughts

Slightly Inperfect

connielingus

Cakesniffers beware!

And people who won’t participate will probably include:

Herge@Angry Chimp

Andy@Walls Come Tumbling

Ed@The Fridge Meg.net

Rowan@How can it seem so right…

In readiness for Connie’s knockerific cleavage competition…

I had a nice night out with the librarians last night. We went to the heart of Manchester’s gay village; Canal Street. It was pretty good, but my oh my, were there some freaky people there! I was particularly taken with a delightful young lady in some lesbian bar – she was about 5’9″, overweight, shiny-shaved head, covered in piercings and tattoos, wearing a very tight vest and very tight black jeans (and docs). We were accompanied by couple of gay chaps, one of whoms is a vicar, I said to him “I’m sure Jesus loves her”, to which he replied, “Well, I’m sure it’s a trial, even for Him”.

There was even an ongoing carnival and lots of gangs of women on hen dos, wearing rubbish outfits (and stupid deeley-bopper things on their heads), with even more rubbish shoes. It’s great to see that even librarians are bitches when it comes to other women’s outfits – under the guise of shocked disapproval of course.

I was constantly being asked what my “type” was and whether anybody had caught my eye. Well, as if I was going to admit anything to the lasses I was with! Besides, most of the people out there were gay blokes, women on hen-dos, or young lasses who were trying out with their mates, or really, REALLY scary women.

Everywhere was very, very loud.