I’ve set up a blogroll, which I’ve maturely called a “bogroll” (that’s toilet paper to you Johnny or Jenny foreigners). I’ve no idea how these things work, but they’re clever enough to know when a particular blog has been updated and it automatically sorts the roll so that the most recently updated blog floats to the top of the list.

I wasn’t sure that it’d work, but it does. So, well done Blog Rolling.

You can become a member of an expanding, yet still exclusive club, by adding this fantastic blog to your own blog roll with a click of the “bogroll me” link that’s floating around somewhere over in the side bar.


Bog roll
I’d die without this stuff. Readers who’ve been with Cakesniffers from the early days will know that I’m obsessed with my bowel movements (see Things you shouldn’t like, but just can’t help yourself. One of my not so much favourite as satisfying activities is doing big massive poos, but where would I be without something to wipe my substantial arse on? Up shit creek without my Andrex, that’s where. I get really panicky when I’m down to the last roll in the house.

Not that I’m anally retentive or anything (hardly possible with my colon).


Bank holiday
The workers of the UK, and probably across a lot of the world, get a bank holiday tomorrow for May Day. What do people who don’t work do? Do they just stay in bed all day, rather than getting up at dinnertime? [“dinnertime” = northern for “lunchtime”]

Of course May Day is some sort of weird Pagan festival too. Isn’t it that one that’s going on in the Wicker Man? I wonder what’d happen if I claimed to be a Pagan and burnt down my neighbours’ house in the hope that it’d make my garden blossom… Probably wouldn’t get away with it.

Here is some fine art from the mouse of Raymi the Minx. I thought they were funny and that she deserved her reputation damaging by having her stuff associated with this site. Remember to clicky to enlarge the piccie.

There’s a woman at work, she’s American and she talks this weird American “English” that includes words like:

• “cellphone” = mobile
• “parking lot” = car park
• “licence plate” = car registration
• “cookie” = biscuit
• “candy” = sweets, chocolates, toffees (and biscuits)
• “potato chips” = crisps, for fuck’s sake it’s fucking crisps!!
• “powder room” = toilet
• “bathroom” = toilet (there’s no bath in there, fucktard!)
• “May one” = 1st of May

If you ever come to Manchester in the UK, do you think you could take the weather with you when you leave? The British climate is something like an alcoholic friend: you’d love to be able to rely on the weather, but you know in your heart of hearts that you can’t.

At a time of year where most folk in the northern hemisphere are looking forward to hot, sunny days where you can plan for a day out or a barbecue a week or so in advance, we in the UK (well, the North West of England) have got this to look forward to until October (when it gets freezing and dark again):

“The weather forecast for Summer 2005 in Manchester will be overcast with a chance of showers and a high of 20°C” – click image to enlarge

So, on a day where I’d planned to go and do a hill because, up until 1am the weather forecast was for a bright and sunny day, we’ve got the heaviest sky imaginable and it’s been pissing it down all morning. It’s nice and warm though.

And the bastard line spacing has gone tits up again. Bollocks.

Yo, cakesniffers. I’ve just been blog cruising and I came across this interesting link (clicky the piggy when the page opens):

http://members.cox.net/ladysarakat/piggy.swf

Fook, some people have far too much time on their hands.

Fook? Now there’s a little something that’s crept into the vocabulary recently. I think it’s from the Bo Selecta! Scary Spice thing (“Smell your fingers, Pat – that’s not fish paste!”).

The Daleks, well Dalek, came back to UK telly tonight in the 6th episode of Dr Who. Top notch too.

What’s a Dalek? Where the devil have you been? For goodness sake! The Daleks were a race of extraterrestrials with one purpose: to kill anything in their path. The Doctor saw them off years ago, but one remained, and a sorry example he was too….

Pimp my Dalek
I was particularly impressed when this little feller was “pimped” by sticking his plunger into a telly. He went from this:

To THIS fuck-off killing machine!!!

I bet it’d be quite good fun to be a Dalek. It’d be even better to OWN a Dalek.

Edit at much later in the evening (bedtime in fact):
At 10:50 PM, Connie said…
You know, Tina and Herge, You truly are brilliant together…I suggest you cut your losses, and collaborate for a all new hilarious blog that cuts down all the most popular blog-people and call it “Beware! Angry Cakeniffing Chimp” and all the bloggy friendless-wonders from around the globe will check in everyday to see who may be on the chopping block. Then feeling terribly silly that they are linking to the “shite blog” in question, will remove it from their links list, until all thats left is the Bully Alpha Blog – “BEWARE! ANGRY CAKESNIFFING CHIMP”Brilliant!

At 11:14 PM, Tina said…
I like what you’re saying, Connie: a kind of Blog Dalek! Ex-fucking-terminatamundo!!!!

If you’ve got one of these outside your house …

There’s a certain etiquette associated with using a cash machine (that’s an ATM if you’re stupid and can’t work it out). You’re supposed to stand a certain distance away from whoever is using it, give them time to conduct their transaction and pocket the cash without them feeling hassled by having somebody breathe down their neck. Fair enough. However, there should be similar good manners on the part of the cash machine user so as not to completely piss off the people behind them who are waiting to use it after them.

I got to a cash machine just after another woman today. I thought, Oh it’s not too bad, she won’t take long and it’s better than waiting behind all those people that were at the other machine. She took ages. She took ages to key in her PIN, took ages to decide what she wanted. More button pressing and the chug, chug of cards being returned and cash being dispensed. Then something like a receipt or a statement came out of the machine and she took ages reading it before reinserting her card and doing the same again. And when she’d finally finished, she stood in front of the machine for another ages while she decided what she was going to do next. One more second and I’d have twatted her, fucking retarded bitch.

I shouldn’t let these things get to me.

I wish I was a Dalek, then I could zap people with my protrusions. I might go and see if Amazon are selling any tasers.


Wet toilet seats
Toilet seats are nasty things. I guess toilets are pretty nasty, but you don’t have to have much real one-on-one contact with them. The toilet seat is the user interface as far as bowel and bladder relief is concerned.

Before I continue, what about those weird toilet seats with the cut-out bit at the front – does anybody know what that’s all about? Is it something to do with making it more comfortable for men to have a sit down or something? Answers on a postcard please.

Anyway, wet toilet seats. There’s nothing worse than getting up off the lav and realising that you’ve been sat in something damp. More often than not, it’s just a splash from the previous flush, but sometimes it’s wee. It’s bad enough if you get a dribble of your own wee on you, but somebody elses? Eeewwwww! And it’s always just beneath your buttock, where you wouldn’t normally wipe.

After spending most of the day doing blog comments and not blogging, I thought I’d answer the following comment in a new post.

Herge Smith said…
Getting right arsed off with this visiting other blogs bollocks,Jesus, you leave a few sarcastic comments and the bastards never get back to you.I thought there was some sort of code?Have you been here? http://www.myboyfriendisatwat.com – sorry can’t get the link to work.I’d be interested to know what you think – make sure you check out the number of comments she gets for the blog subjects she covers. Hmm

Yeah, she does get a lot of comments. I think she must’ve built up a fan-base over a period of time. She’s probably also done that thing of registering for every blog directory. And the blog title is actually quite attractive if you’re cruising around; it’d catch your eye, wouldn’t it? Anything with a swear word in the title would. How about a blog called “Big fat cocks”?

The content of the My boyfriend is a twat blog isn’t that remarkable though. It’s just some bint going on about her life and her useless boyfriend. At least I assume it is, I haven’t really read it because it doesn’t look particularly interesting. Pot, kettle…

Half the poor cows in this country could whinge about boyfriends or husbands. About 35-40% could go on about the pros and cons of being single. And this would leave an interesting minority of women who could talk about being gay or bisexual or transgender. It’s this 10% we want to hear from!!! Come on girls, we need more librarian gossip. Perhaps then we might get blogs called “My boyfriend has a twat”- that’d definitely be worth a look.

Hope that doesn’t cause any offence to the librarians again. Or gay or bisexual women. Or boyfriends with twats.

Ah fuck it, what do I care? I’m not offended by it so it must be OK. I bet the librarians kick off though. I’ll be blacklisted all over the country now. Do all libraries smell the same?


Talking of libraries…
When I was a university student – back in the days when education was free (there were even grants), but entry into university was based on ability and courses actually meant something – there was a weirdo stalker who frequented the main science library (that’d be the Edward Boyle Library at the University of Leeds). Nobody knows who it was because they were never identified or apprehended, but this person (who we believe was a bloke) used to watch women who were studying in the library and leave those marshmallow flump sweets by his victims to indicate that he’d been watching them. They wouldn’t realise a thing until they picked up their stuff to go and there’d be a nice sweetie waiting there for them. How fucking freaky is that? Of course, they all needed counselling by the Women’s mini bus volunteers who were WIMMIN!!.

Oh yeah, you may think the flump stalker was weird and scary, but not half as freaky and disturbing as living less than a mile from where one of the Yorkshire Ripper’s victims was found (near Lupton Flats in Headingly). Hence the Women’s mini bus – which no sane woman used because the women who ran the service were actually a lot scarier than the prospect of stumbling across the very dark Woodhouse Moor on your own in the middle of the night.

James Henry

This is quite imaginative and funny.

Jeeeeez, is it not hometime yet?

Tum-te-tum…. Can’t believe the price of petrol at the moment; it’s gone up by nearly 10p a litre since January… Wonder what’s for tea tonight, something pork-based I think.

My (not-so) white-board here is surrounded by printouts from my walks up local hills. They’re featured in my Flickr and Webshots directories (the links are over there somewhere >>>>).

It’s OK in this office because I can do trumps and nobody knows (unless they foolishly drop in for a chat and get hit full in the face by something that grabs them by the throat and throws them to ground before kicking them repeatedly in the chest).