“The ever-popular sausage roll continues to be one of our best selling products”

Greggs the Bakers do a roaring trade in pastry-based, high-fat luncheon savouries. Every day, you can go for a walk into your local North West town’s shopping area and you’ll see masses of people chomping something hot and tasty from a Greggs bag.

For the past year or so, I’ve been conducting the Great North West Pasty Survey in which I measure the proportion of shopping precinct dwellers who have their faces shoved into a Greggs bag. I correlate this with the proportion of folk strolling along using walking aids, or causing mayhem on one of those trecherous motorised scooter things, i.e. incapacity benefits spongers. Let’s just say, the correlation is very high; no matter whether it’s my local shopping precinct here, or the fabulous Halton Lea Shopping City, they eat these things by the truck load. Of course, people who buy their pies and pastries from Hampson’s (“so fresh we’re famous”), Greenhalgh’s and Martin’s aren’t as common and they tend to wait to get home before stuffing their faces. And I haven’t forgotten the dodgy glazed icing coating on Greggs’ ring doughnuts!

My shopping precinct has no less than FOUR bakeries. I am truly blessed by God’s good grace.

The local Conservative Party candidate was at the precinct, pretending to canvass support while secretly counting the number of work-shy dolescum so she could report them at Shop Them. At least I hope that’s what she was doing.

I was going to walk to the shops this afternoon, but as I approached the front gate, I heard the jingle jangle of an excited Max racing through the bushes after me. Despite a number of attempts to get him in the house, so as he wouldn’t follow me onto the busy main road, he insisted on being the tit that he is so I ended up driving. That cat really does get me into trouble; it’s no wonder the gangs of local youths take the piss out of me.

It’s all Rover! Now, it’s pretty devastating for the ex-workforce of Rover, who have all lost their jobs this week. It’s bad too for the people employed by other industries that supply the car manufacturers. And it’s not much fun for the Rover dealerships around the country. I honestly sympathise with all of them. However, the most severely affected will be us poor bastard motorists! Up until now, the presence of a Rover has been a first class indicator that the driver is a complete cock, how will we recognise these people once all the Rovers are off the roads? My guess is they’ll transfer to Citroen C5s and Toyota Avensises (Avenses?), but there’s no way of knowing for sure. I’m bloody scared, I can tell you. I suppose one way is to look out for people who are driving as if they’re towing a caravan – did you know that the Rover 75 has a “caravan button” to boost power when towing?

I’m going to print off a batch of these and send them to all my neighbours…

All-seeing eye
Originally uploaded by cakesniffer.

This is my eye. I took this photo to see the detail of my eyebrow hairs before I plucked them. I didn’t pluck all the eyebrow hairs – I’d have looked like Whoopi Goldberg without eyebrows (except I’m not black and I don’t look like the Cowardly Lion from the Wizard of Oz) – I just removed the ones that were growing through.

Eyebrows are the oddest things; why do we have them?

But yes, this is the eye that sees it all in my world (the other one is made of glass). It is this eye that sends the information to my little brain, where things get jumbled up and spat out with the help of the chemicals that the grey cells are bathed in. It is this eye that was really sore yesterday when my contact lens got folded in the corner after I’d rubbed it a bit too hard. Fucking contact lenses. Bastard things.

Today, my eye sees GREYNESS.

Officially “working from home”, I’ve spent the morning pissing about on the internet, while doctoring a presentation that I’m giving next week with Conservative Party slogans. It’ll certainly provoke a discussion amongst the leftie NHS types that I’m doing the training course for and it’ll save me having to look at their blank faces. It’s more likely that I’ll be chased around the hospital site by people baying for my blood. And they let these people vote!

If I was to start a political party, readers of this blog won’t be surprised to find that I’d have a very liberal approach to running the country. In fact, this country would run be run a lot better if we had a proper housewife as Prime Minister (and I’m not talking Maggie Thatcher here because she was a bloke). I mean somebody like Dolly from Emerdale Farm or Deirdre Barlow from Corrie. The cabinet would be comprised of women from all walks of life (so long as they weren’t spongers) and we’d have men to do things like work in factories and farms, mend cars and washing machines. That’s their best place life, not at the hub of power where they get ideas above their station and start trouble all over the globe. Men’s egos are far too big, they should never be allowed anywhere near government.

This country needs a good civil war in which anybody who is proved to be worthless (whether they be filthy rich or dolescum underclass) should be cast out! I’d like Bono to be tried for crimes against humanity too. Tosser.

Does anybody actually really enjoy Radio 4, or are those who proclaim to merely showing off? The only stuff worth listening to is the comedy on a Saturday lunchtime. The rest of it is just pretentious shit that you can get in condensed format on the BBC website. It’s a bit like The Times/Sunday Times newspapers; I’m sure people only buy these to make themselves look good.

The BBC should do away with Radio 4 and bring us more digital radio that covers the interests of “urban youth”. It could have documentaries on gang warfare, drinking in large groups, being a constant pain in the arse, the best body language for optimum threatening behaviour.

Radio 4 is a high-brow radio station brought to us from the BBC. It has no music and generally covers news and current affairs, with the odd documentary, play and comedy show thrown in. It’s shit.

Oh bollocks to it, bloody e-mail server won’t let me send a 10MB message – tried it twice now.

That’s me and the Chimp. We’re not worthy of a mention on some insignificant BBC blog page thing, yet good old “Half an identity” is. Well done Sam. And well done the BBC for publicising somebody who claims to be on the run from the witness protection programme. Two words: David, Kelly.

I don’t think my blog fits in with the BBC’s policy for not publishing anything that goes against the doctrine of St Tony of Sedgefield. Or it could be something to do with my frequent use of the words: fuck; fuckers; cocksuckers; piss; arse; twat; BASTARDS. But, come on, it’s the 21st century.

Obviously the BBC feels threatened by Angry Chimp’s reporting of current affairs. They’re only jealous because they’re shackled by the censor in Number 10 and the Chimp is free to report the truth.

Perhaps I should start a blog whereby I pretend to be a hopeless alcoholic with a questionable sexuality, striving to come to terms with life, heartbreak, depression, poverty… Perhaps I should get thinking and produce something mildly entertaining or amusing to post instead of the usual pile of crap that I come out with.

Coming up on Cakesniffers Beware…
Don’t miss a thing as Tina documents her plan to infiltrate the Vatican and take over as Pope. In nomini patri e spirito sancti or something like that.

The Conservatives have been criticised for being racist over their desire to impose immigration limits. However, the full truth of their policy is actually quite appealing. A leaked document from Central Office reveals that the Tories will introduce a “one in, one out” immigration policy. This means that, for every new immigrant or asylum seaker the UK gains, we actually lose a member of our malingering underclass of long-term sick benefits claimants and parasitic serial single mothers. The only condition being that the incoming “New Briton” has to find paid work and contribute something to the economy.

A vote winner in anyone’s book!

This is one of those photos that does the rounds in joke e-mails, but it’s pretty funny.

Yes, ebay. I’m bidding on an Italian language CD course thing. The price has been 50p for two days, but some bitch has now entered a maximum bid of £5 with 4 hours to go. Stupid twat. In these situations, I like to engage in a game of Ebay Poker with my adversary. I enter a series of incremental maximum bids of my own, but just enough to force the price up so the eventual winner has to pay their maximum bid price. It’s a bit of a risk because you could end up paying for something yourself, but it’s a lesson to those who bid on things that I want. You do NOT fuck with me!

Of course, if you really want an item, the idea is to wait until an auction is in it’s final minute before you enter your maximum bid. Or you could just buy it from Amazon or Amazon Marketplace because the price will probably less than at the end of a bidding war.

It’d be quite good if you could find out who you were bidding against you could threaten them when they were pissing you off. Or even better, find out where they lived so you could go round and steal off them if they outbid you.


Shafted
I’ve been pissed off because I was shafted over that job I had the interview for. After being asked to apply after the closing date, then being given lots of hints and basically being told that the job was mine, after going through all the stress of preparing for and then the interview itself, they decided to give the job to somebody else. I’ve no idea what went on, but something must’ve happened to make them change their mind and it wasn’t the interview. So I’m pissed off and very depressed. If I can’t even get a job in those circumstances, what are my chances elsewhere?

I really do need to brush up on my martial arts and swordplay; the list of people who have pissed me off is growing and I need to start some killings.

eBay update

I’m having so much excitement, watching the last quarter hour of my eBay auction. I wonder if somebody will pip me at the post. This could end up being spookily like the situation with that job… Could I take two major disappointments in the same week?

Why is it that when you edit a post, the line spacing goes weird?

11 minutes, 50 seconds…. I’m not mad keen on the woman, but I thought Camilla looked really nice at her wedding yesterday… 9 minutes, 37 seconds…. This suspense is killing me! I can’t believe I’m getting so excited over something that is probably shit… 8 minutes, 1 second… We’re having roast chicken tonight, not had that for a while… 7 minutes, 15 seconds – still winning! Eeek, I can hardly bear to look… 5 minutes, 44 seconds and all is well… 3 minutes, 49 seconds… trying to take my mind off it by looking at compact flash on Dabs and Amazon, it’s all getting a bit too much for me… 2 minutes, 55 seconds… I’m going to burst! The thing is, I can always get it new from Amazon if I don’t win this auction, but this has turned into a battle of wills that i need to emerge victorious from… 1 minute, 36 seconds… FIFTYNINE seconds… TWENTYSEVEN seconds… Congratulations! You won, you are THE BEST ebay bidder EVER!

Buona sera, mi chiama Tina!

Fuck, if that’s the extent of my Italian, I’d better do some brushing up pretty sharpish for when I visit the Eternal City in September. Yes, I’m off to Rome for my first holiday in about 7 years.

Of course, I’ll be taking questions to pass on to the new Pope while I’m there, so get your thinking hats on. I’m sure he’ll be pleased to hear from everyone. I might even go to St Peter’s on the Sunday to see if I can get a blessing. Imagine that, me of all people!

Vorrei un scoiatolo, per favore. For some reason, whenever I try to speak Italian, the only word I can think of is scoiatolo, which means squirrel. Bugger only knows why. When I was a kid, I could say quite a few things, but it’s all gone. Una bottiglia d’acqua minerale frizzante, per favore e un litro di vino rosso per mia sorella. Oh, anche una borsa di malato.

Still, give me 6 months and I might be able to get by. Even if I don’t, I doubt I’ll starve if I don’t manage to eat anything in the four days that I’m there.

I’m pissed off and deflated and let down and depressed and angry. But I’ll live. Unless I take an overdose and do myself in.

At least you can rely on the BBC
The BBC have done me proud today, I’m watching the live streaming of the Pope’s funeral on their website. Haven’t got a bloody clue what’s going on because it’s all in foreign with Huw Edwards commentating in his weird Welsh/English. In addition to this, this video is very mosaic(ked?) so you can’t see much apart from the red of the cardinals’ robes. But I feel like I’m there!

I’m only really interested in case there’s an attempted terrorist attack on all those world leaders. Unfortunately, I think the security is far too good.

See Rome and die… if only.

Sausage barm
In a world of let-downs, one thing you can rely on to you pick you up – even if only for a minute or so – is the good old sausage barm with brown sauce.

What’s a barm(cake)? It’s North West term for a soft, flat bread roll. But it’s not a roll because bread rolls have a crust and barmcakes are soft. They’re sometimes called baps (but “baps” are titties or norks in my book), batches (in the Coventry area) and even “teacakes” in Barnsley (now that IS bizarre). Anyway, barmcakes are the ideal mode of delivery for two pork sausages and brown sauce, whereas toast provides the perfect accompaniment for rashers of crispy bacon (with brown sauce).


Winter again
Just when you thought you could put your heavy coat away, it starts snowing again. It’s April, for fuck’s sake! Bloody freezing.


Soooooooooooooooooo fed up.

This photo is direct evidence that Tony Blair is in cahoots with Islamic terrorist Osama Bin Lid-on. The picture clearly shows wife Cherie in muslim head-scalf while Tony listens to the skies for the planned air attack on GLC HQ, 2 miles away.

Seriously though, what the fuck does she look like? I bet she wanted to arrive at Westminster Cathedral in one of those horse-drawn herses where the gee-gees have those black feathered head-dresses. You know, with a floral tribute to “John Paul” being carried in the back. Stupid bitch wants a good fucking slap.