Mr Grimsdale!!!! Mr Grims…daaaaaaale!!!!!!!

The Oracle has spoken. This time, he has imparted true words in the rules of engagement for that mode of communication known as “texting” – or is it txtng?

“The texting rule is: never text more than twice beforing receiving a response. If you don’t get a response after the second text they either;

a. Hate you
b. Are dead”

Job interview
Yes, the job interview, it’s tomorrow and I’m actually looking forward to it. Well, looking forward to it being over and done with. It should be OK and if I don’t get it, it’s not as if I haven’t already got a job.

What am I being interviewed for? No, it’s not the job of the Holy See, but I’d soon put the Catholic church straight on a few things if I was made Pope! No disrespect to JPII (that’s what the Americans call him, similar to “9/11” and shit like that), but he didn’t do much to help the AIDS crisis in the 3rd world with his stance on contraception. As for his views on abortion, women and homosexuality? Well, they weren’t particularly useful, friendly or kind. But never mind, he had the courage of his convictions and you can’t knock people for their beliefs (but they feel it’s OK for them to knock you because of them).

But no, I’m not going to be the world’s first atheist, woman Pope. I couldn’t be doing with all that fuss to tell you the truth, and all that waving would play merry Hamlet with my dodgy shoulder. I won’t go into details about what the job interview is for (it’s not that interesting), but let’s all play a game of Imagine what you’d do if you were being interviewed for the job of:

1. Dr Who – I’d play Dr Who in the style of Bez out of the Happy Mondays. Then again, Christopher Eccelston’s not that far off.
2. Chief advisor to Tony Blair – “With all due respect, Prime Minister, you’re a lying wanker who’s crippled this country’s working and middle classes, you fucking tosser. You led us to an illegal war and helped to destabilise the Middle East. Your wife is a twat and everybody hates you and her. Do us all a favour and disband the Labour Party right now, then piss off back to Scotland where you came from.” I wouldn’t get the job, but I’d have fun trying.
3. A member of the Deadly Viper Assassination Squad.

I can’t think of any other jobs at the moment. I can’t think of anything because I’m too stressed about my own job interview! Deep breaths…. It’ll be fine.

Today is a very special day for me and only 2 people in the world know it (I’m one of them). I’m going to celebrate by buying some feminine items from Tesco.

“Alcoholism is a disease, but it’s the only one you can get yelled at for having. Goddamn it Otto, you are an alcoholic. Goddamn it Otto, you have Lupus… one of those two doesn’t sound right.”

BBC NEWS England Bradford Youths admit Royal balloon prank

“The court heard how the (bursting) balloons had sounded like gunshots to trained firearms officers…” Trained in what exactly?

Sad news befell this household yesterday, with the death of my Dad’s sister after a long illness. My Dad originates from Italy and all of his family remain there. When the news came that his sister had been admitted to hospital, he decided to go over to visit before it was too late. Having been too late for his mum and his late sister’s husband, he really wanted to get there in time. Unfortunately, she was ever so poorly and died yesterday and the earliest he could fly was today. A complete bummer.

I’d already decided to take today off work so I could take him to the airport. This meant that I was up late last night when my sister phoned after hearing the news; she wanted to accompany Dad on his trip and could I Expedia her there and arrange a return on Monday?

Well, what a kerfuffle.

You do a flight search and the appropriate outbound flight appears amongst the selection. So you clicky away: no, I don’t want a hotel; no, I don’t need a hire car; yes I agree to the terms and conditions; yes, I want to proceed to book. Oh, I have to add my sister as a traveller: clickity-click, tappety-tap. Clicky….. “Sorry, one of your flights is not available, please try another.” What the fuck? Which flight isn’t available? Tell me which flight isn’t available!!!

Start again, try coming back later on Monday… Clickity, tappety, clicky. No, no hotel; no, don’t need insurance; no, DON’T WANT A FUCKING CAR. JUST PROCEED TO BOOK!!!! YES, I just fucking clicked that I agree to everything you fucking want the last time!!!! Which traveller? Dr Fucking Who the fucking time-travelling Time Lord, who do you think the traveller is? The same one as before, that’s who! “Sorry, one your flights is not available, please try another.”

Eventually I had ten itineraries that wouldn’t book. The air was blue. I was very, very stressed and extremely tired. I tried a final time and managed to get her some weird trip that means she spends Sunday night in Frankfurt airport, but at least she managed to get out there with Dad today and he’s not on his own.

Airport lounges from Hell
Took ’em to the airport this morning. Lufthansa are EXTREMELY efficient; excellent service. In all honesty, the Expedia thing was excellent; who’d have thought that you could be booking a plane ticket 12 hours before flying just a few years ago?

Anyway, back to the airport. £2.10 for half an hour’s parking (that’s the time it takes to park); and an exponential upwardly-sliding scale thereafter. Nice. For some reason, and bugger only knows why, I decided to join them in something to eat there and thought Burger King would be a safe option. A cheesy whopper, spicy bean burger and some chips came to £8. EIGHT POUNDS STIRLING? The burger was grey, and cold. It was covered in mayo (disgusting) and iceberg lettuce (readers of previous posts will know of my dislike of this shit). I was tempted to go and give my commendation to the chef, saying, “That was absolutely delicious! was that a ciabatta with wild venison? You know, one of Nigella’s? Or did you go for River Cafe?” Might as well have been for the bloody price, the robbing bastards.

Then when we were seeing them through to the departure lounge, after hugs and kisses, I said the strangest of things – even for me. Bearing in mind his sister died yesterday and he’s going over there to see his other rellies and hopefully be there for the funeral, it’s all going to be very distressing given some other ongoing family issues. As he turned away, I said to him, “Have fun!”

Answers on a postcard please.

What a lot of stuff and nonsense!

What is? Nothing actually. It’s just that Blogger is having a crisis so I’m e-mailing a post in anticipation of it reaching my blog sometime around mid-June.

Dairy Milk Chocolate Buttons Easter eggs
Surely it can’t be safe for these things to be targeted at anybody under the age of 21? I’ve just eaten the packet of buttons from mine, and Mother had some too, and there were so many that I now feel quite sick. How am I expected to eat my Aero egg now?

Ridiculous.

Terrible misfortune befell this cakesniffer today: I had an impromptu meeting with my potential new boss – today! With my face in this state! They’ll be checking the job advert to see that it doesn’t mention the ideal candidate being a glue-sniffing, teenage fast food service operative.

I’ve caught bubonic plague: my face is covered with pustulant sores. I suppose I’m my own worst enemy in that I can’t resist squeezing anything that I think has potential to squirt out all over the bathroom mirror. My eyebrows need plucking too; I’m beginning to resemble wolf girl again. I’m sure these contributions to my overall appearance will stand me in good stead at my forthcoming job interview.

JOB INTERVIEW????
Blimey, yes, that’s something I ought to be preparing for. The whole interview process is a pain in the arse. Arriving, then waiting for an age while they call you in. Invariably there’s a presentation in which you try very hard to prevent your top lip sticking to your top gum. This is often done by taking a drink of refreshing water, holding the glass with an extremely shaky hand. The last thing you need when you’re in an interview is to feel overly self conscious, but there’s absolutely no way of avoiding it with 4 people staring at you and interrogating you.

It’s freezing here today.

A comment to my post yesterday was from some joker called “Hiddenfish”. This twat spammed my blog with his/her ridiculous crap that I didn’t even bother reading. Arsehole. I really hate it when people write in language that they think makes them look clever. They don’t realise that it’s only clever if it conveys a clear message that can be understood by the general readership. Using big words and philosophical arguments may impress a college tutor, but it just makes you look a complete wanker.

I don’t really care though because I’ve just had hot cross buns again and they were delish. Today is Easter Day and what an uninspiring day it is here in a dull Northern English town – and I don’t just mean the weather. There’s not even a biblical epic on the telly. How slack is that? I could just go a Greatest story ever told or Ben Hur.

Update: “The Ten Commandments” is on Sky Cinema at 2.30pm

I think I might go and find some baby sheeps and cows to see if they can make me feel a bit more springy. It’d be great if you looked out of your window onto your suburban surroundings to find that some weird mix of enviornments had occurred while the curtains were shut. Imagine a tower block in the middle of the rain forest (won’t be long the way things are going). Or how about opening the blinds to see lambs bouncing across the street and calfs grazing on your lawn?

The fox hunts could be brought into the cities: instead of hunting foxes, they could set the hounds onto local ne’er-do-wells (and gangs of teenagers). Everybody would be happy – except the local scrotes and shitbag up-their-own-arse kids, but who gives a shit about them?

My right ankle doesn’t half crack and creak.

Some people have allergies to the oddest things. I think severe allergies are nature’s way of introducing population control, you know, survival of the fittest and all that?

Of course, being super fit, with an excellent genetic make-up, I have no allergies. Or should I say almost no allergies? I do suffer a strange reaction around vacuum cleaners: my blood pressure rises; I go red in the face; all my muscles tense up; and I find it difficult to stop myself running around the house, screaming. As soon as the noise stops, I’m OK. I hate the fucking things when other people are operating them, but I’m OK using one myself. It all stems from Sunday afternoons in my childhood when I’d be trying to watch Mr Magoo and Betty Boop with Mother torturing me with the Hoover; making me lift my feet up and wandering backwards and forwards in front of the telly.

It’s no coincidence that the expression of my growing unease at the state of today’s youth appears on the interweb the same day that the Angry Chimp publishes his very revealing interview with 14-year-old Bliss editor and notorious crack whore, Helen Jenkins.

Many happy return of the said Chimp, I’ve missed him lots and I’ve been finding it most difficult to keep up with current affairs in his absence.

Crap hair
I’m not really in the position to be making comments about other people’s hair dos, but there are so many hair DON’TS out there at the moment, something has to be said. What is it with these shocking half-mullets where theres a whole chunk of head that’s been shaved? Fucking tossers, don’t they realise they look utterly stupid? I suppose they’re not harming anybody, but I bet their mothers are ashamed of them.

Pimp my ride
This is a superb TV programme on MTV. I’m not sure West Coast Customs of California would be able to do much with my 2002 Nissan to make it look like a pimp’s car, but I’m sure “Kroozin” of Swinton might have some “cool” accessories to make it look like a something driven by a load of Asian youths. Who am I kidding? It already does! All I need is a Bangra CD and a tin can tail-pipe extension and I’m there.

Magic Roundabout Easter Bucket Massacre
I couldn’t hold out until Sunday for my Easter choclit so I demolished the contents of my Magic Roundabout Easter egg bucket this afternoon. Never mind. I’m not even bothered.

Angry Chimp says: “For an alternative perspective on modern youth, be sure and read the well researched and balanced article at Cakesniffers entitled ‘Lock ‘em all up!’“

Fucking kids are all a bunch of complete shits and they all need locking up from the age of about 3 to 20 – along with their useless shitbag parents!

There’s a blank post from yesterday evening (below). I was going to post some amusing anecdote about something or other, but I was so incensed by something that had happened that I just shut down and went to bed.

As I’d gone to close the gate over our drive, I noticed that some little darlings had left a huge trolley from the local DIY centre parked across it, so I dutifully took it back to where it belonged, seething as I went.

On walking back to the house, I noticed three charmingly-attired young girls walking up the road, sniggering to themselves, whispering loudly enough so I could hear “That’s her that walks the cat, here pussy, pussy”. You see, Max often follows folk around and likes go for a wander with his people; it’s a little odd, but nobody’s hurt by this, nobody’s affected by it, it’s nobody’s fucking business to tell you the truth – if he was a dog, would it be an issue? No. But one of these little bitches decided to make some comment about it one evening last summer and I lost my rag. For some reason, she’s so upset by my cat following me around, that she’s still going on about it in front of her friends now – I wonder what she’d say if she was on her own??? So, as they walked up the street last night, all wearing yeti boots and mini skirts – 13 year olds, dressed as whores, she decided to make comment AGAIN. I told her to fuck off. She said something else, I turned back to say “What?” and they ran off, scared of me. Scared of me? Tempting as it was to get in my car, pursue them and mow them down, I resisted and came inside to seeth for a while before going to bed.

The next time I see her, I shall ask if she’d like to discuss what she finds so upsetting about Max following me around, whether she’d be worried about this so much if she didn’t have her clones with her, why it’s any concern of hers, and why I should give a flying fuck what some 13 year old braindead prostitute thinks of me anyway.

But why can’t these unruly little shits leave people alone? What would happen if a bunch of 25-to-30 somethings hung around the streets and started making comments about them and laughing at their ridiculous outfits? I’d like to see that. Unfortunately, most of the 25-to-30 somethings are the parents of these little bastards and they’re probably far too busy down the boozer or shagging their latest boyfriends to care what their little angels are up to.

One solution that I’m particularly keen on is for local councils to employ a team of childcatchers who can lock these little fuckers up until they learn some fucking respect!

I ain’t even bothered. Face. Bothered? Ask me if I’m bothered. Yeah, I well and truly bothered.

On a lighter note, today is hot cross bun day and I haven’t been disappointed with the fayre offered by Hampsons (“So fresh we’re famous”). Never heard of Hampsons? You will do, they’re very fresh. They’re so fresh and famous that they even had to change their name over in Merseyside, where they’re known as Sayers.