Well, the Angry Chimp has been quietly seething since the emergence of the BBC’s blatant plagiarism of his imaginitive reality TV programming. So much so, that this cakesniffer is getting a little concerned.

Go on, ask me if I’m bothered. Look at my face – does it look bothered, though? Does any part of it look bothered? Face. Bothered. Look. Face. Bothered?

I ain’t even bothered, though.

The more you eat, the hungrier you are the following day. No idea why that is. But, after a huge amount of delish Indian takeaway food last night, I had to have a sausage barm and two rounds of toast this morning.

Are you calling me a pikey?

Easter Bunny
It’s hot cross bun day tomorrow, which also means “no meat BAD Friday”. Bah! We can have seafood though. Then it’s Easter Egg day on Sunday. Followed by stick your fingers down your throat Bulimia Day on Monday.

I’m sure my pancreas is swollen. Am I bothered, though?

With there being a strong likelihood of a job interview on the horizon, I bought myself a new suit from Mexx the other day. It’s a trouser suit and, although Mexx don’t offer a range of lengths, they do offer free alterations on trousers when you buy the suit. Great! The chap pinned them up for me while I was there and I noticed that about a foot of fabric would be taken off them for the alteration. Now, I know I’m not the tallest person in the world, but I’m sure that there aren’t that many 6’4″ women out there. Why on earth do they make standard length trousers so bloody long?

They’re a wide leg, so I bet I look a complete tit in them anyway. Saying that though, I always look a tit in interviews, so it makes no difference to me. In fact, it’s tempting to take a leaf from the Michael Jackson book of “dressing for the big occasion” and turn up to interviews and court appearances in your pyjamas and slippers. It’d certainly get you noticed. Let’s think of the most outragreous outfits for that big job interview (in no particular order or preference):

1. Mardi gras drag queen (on a float!)
2. Father Christmas – ho, ho, ho!
3. Pirate – pirate accent obligatory (avast ye!)
4. Premiership footballer – you’d have to roll over and feign mortal injury every time they hit you with a tricky question
5. Tramp (preferably with Turette’s syndrome)
6. Jedi knight/Knight of the Round Table
7. 80s Rock chick, using a synthesiser to simulate Cher’s “I believe” voice
8. A nun or other comedy religious figure, accompanied by “bless you my child” wherever you can fit it in
9. Spaceman
10. NHS middle manager

Of course, what I’d REALLY love to do is dress up as Beatrix Kiddo, Samurai sword and all, and perform ninja moves to each question. Now THAT would be an interview worth seeing!

And people with false teeth shouldn’t eat! My dad, bless him, has false teeth. Lots of people have dentures, some sets are excellent and you hardly notice the user has a mouthful of plastic. My dad is never one to shirk the opportunity to exaggerate and he has taken on the role of false-teeth wearer with great gusto! If you could imagine a caricature of somebody trying to eat with false teeth, that’s my Dad. It makes mealtimes particularly pleasant – to the point that I have to leave the table as soon as I’ve finished because I’d be sick if I stuck around to bear witness. Last night he was crunching roasted, salted chick peas (chick peas again) for about an hour while watching telly last night.

He also does everything in slow motion: when he takes a mouthful of food (and it’s always a HUGE mouthful), it sort of happens as slowly as possible, from lifting the fork/spoon, to him lowering his head and finally to him opening his mouth wide enough to accommodate half a plate’s worth of pasta/veg/meat/rice. It’s truly amazing.

I’m often woken up by him washing his dentures before he goes to bed. He stores them in this plastic container thing and washes them, first under running water with a brush, then by rattling them in the container with some other sort of solution. Then he takes himself to his bedroom where I can hear him rustling the numerous bags of prescription medicines, followed by the pop, pop, pop of him bursting blister packs and organising his 20 pills for the next morning.

I love my parents dearly. I love them so much that it has always really hurt to think of them not being around anymore. But there has to be something that you really can’t cope with about the people you love the most – with me, it’s my slo-mo Dad and his teeth (and his temper, and his lack of understanding of English, and his Dad-logic).

Of course, I blame Tony Blair and Gordon Brown. If it hadn’t been for their appalling management of the economy and theft of pension funds, house prices wouldn’t have escalated so much (100% in 4 years compared with salary increases of about 8% over the same period), I’d have been able to move out to a place of my own by now. I was only supposed to be here for 6 months and now it feels like I’m trapped here for ever. Nice.

Imagine what it’d be like if inanimate objects weren’t inanimate, or were animated even. My toilet bowl wouldn’t be very happy today, that’s for sure! Having suffered a little tenderness in my guts for the past few weeks, I think the delicious chick pea and tomato soup that I had last night has pushed me over the edge. I think I’ll book myself in for a colonoscopy; theres something not right somewhere. It could be something stuck from a pineapple yoghurt, or perhaps even a semi-decomposed cocktail sausage that’s lingering from the Boxing Day running buffet. Or a tumour.

Meat is murder (but chicken isn’t)
There’s an interesting conference about animal welfare going on somewhere at the moment. A number of studies have been highlighted that demonstrate the intelligence, learning ability and “feelings” of farm animals. Did you know that sheep form close friendships? That’ s nice to know when you already feel really guilty about not having enough willpower to go vegetarian. I suppose I could stick to chickens and fishes, but sheeps and moo-moos are nice to eat too. And pigsys? We should actually think of eating pig products as an honour – we should worship our porcine buddies for providing us with sausages and bacon.

Anyway, anyone who doubts that animals have feelings should swap places with me most Saturday mornings when Otto wakes me up whinging about his shit monster anxieties and his rumbly tummy. The cats form different relationships with each other: Maisie hates everybody and beats the boys up; Sonny likes of one the stray cats who lives outside, but LOATHES Otto (I’m often woken by Otto whimpering as Sonny is trying to rip his throat out); Max is a bit of a loaner, but he’ll attack Otto for a laugh – especially if he can push Otto over into a puddle; Otto is a real sweetie who loves and wants to play with anybody. They all love me as their favourite “can-opener”.

Of course nobody could ever accuse me of procrastination, but I’ve been
meaning to change the blog settings for a while now. This means that I
should be able to e-mail posts to my blog, thus evading the scrutiny of
the Nazi Bastard IT Police at work.

One of my favourite words at the moment is irascible. It describes me
perfectly.

Yes, it’s St Turpy-Turpy day and everyone’s an Irishman for the day. No doubt, everybody will be having smelly, black Guinness poos tomorrow. Everyone except me of course. I’m English not Oirish, and I don’t think I could find any connection with the Emerald Isle if my life depended on it – although I think a great-grandmother may have lived in Belfast for a while. Oh, and I don’t drink, so the Guinness (and Guinness poos) are out of the question. I could simulate this by eating lots of charcoal or lots of black pudding, but I don’t think it’s worth the effort.

Back to black (text), but continuing the colour theme, I feel the time has come to make mention of that scourge of the cutlery tray: the BROWN TEASPOON. Now, I like brown: most of my clothes are brown (or beige); coffee is brown and I love coffee; some of my favourite coloured poos have been brown and brown wee is fantastic. However, brown teaspoons are just disgusting. They’re an indictator of shoddy (no-existent) washing up practices and there needs to be a clampdown. I’m going to contact Home Office minister and Salford MP, Hazel Blears, to ask whether the Government can introduce a bill giving the police powers to enter people’s homes to assess the brown-ness of their teaspoons and perhaps to extent to powers to search crockery cupboards for telltale signs of greasiness on plates and cups. Perhaps people suspected of not doing their pots properly could be put under house arrest? Just a thought

My insides are all wrong and my ear hurts from where my specs have been digging in today. Oh burdens of my life are manifested in physical erosion. Perhaps a session with my fellow fat fighters might help jiggle the badness out of me.

Seriously, this is getting out of hand. I’ve been busy at work in Base 2 for the past 2 days. What’s all that about then? I’m supposed to use my time here to catch up on my internet activity! I think it’s all building up to me taking some time off on long-term sick with “stress”. You can’t work in the NHS for 4 years without being off sick because of being crazy and weak, so I guess it’s about time I fulfilled my destiny.

If I was more mysterious I’d have a desssstiny, rather than a destiny, and I’d be myssssssterious too.

While on the subject of mental illness, I’m quite pleased with the way my Beatrix Kiddo alter-ego is developing. People start to piss me off and my mind switches over to killer mode: on the outside, I look normal, but inside I’m experiencing the most wonderful images of bloody carnage, death and destruction inflicted by my own fair hands. Lucky that I don’t have the full virtual reality of feeling the squeeze of size 6 motorcycle leathers, I can definitely live without that.

I’ve got to go now. The boss is coming over from the Dark Side to use my computer because his is shagged. I’m sure his PC is fine, he just wants me scintillating company for a couple of hours.

Well, I haven’t got the faintest idea what a feed is, but there’s one associated with this blog. If somebody can enlighten me as to what a feed is and atoms and RSS and XMLs and things, I’ll be very grateful. The only thing I know about feeding is to do with food going into my tummy – obviously food that is prepared properly and fits criteria laid down in a previous post.

Went to Fat Fighters tonight; I worked myself so hard that at one point I almost had liver coming up through my nose, and I’m not talking about the liver I had for my tea. Liver for tea????? Yeah, and there was black pudding too, it was fuckin’ delish!

Sitting around
Again, there were a lot of people at the gym, just sitting on machines staring into space. I could throttle them! Do your reps and fuck off so somebody else can use the bloody thing, you selfish twat! Jeez, some people eh? It could be worth conducting a survey to assess what exactly they’re thinking about. Nothing most probably by the look of them – they don’t seem to have much going on between their ears.

Buses do my head in
Stupid things. You give up half the width of the road to them and they still insist on blocking the bits for other vehicles. Hardly fair is it? Then you get the leftie greenies saying that there’s too much congestion and we need more bus lanes and buses. I’m sorry, but from where I’m sat, it’s the fact that you’ve reduced road capacity by introducing bus lanes that’s caused the congestion in the first place. If you take a two-lane stretch of road, then reduce its width to one lane, then that means the traffic has to occupy a longer stretch of road. It’s not rocket science – of course it’s not rocket science, rocket science is about putting things in space, this is about poor bastards trying to get home from work, but heing blocked by fuckwit town and road planners. On my way home through Central Manchester this afternoon, there was a stretch of Oxford Road with about 10-15 buses, all vying for road position and blocking the entire route for the rest of the traffic. It’s the buses that are a major contributor to congestion, believe me. It’d take a bloody retard not to see it.

Nobheads.


Sonny the cat has got all but one whisker white – the rogue one is jet black. Wonder what noise he’d make if I pulled it out. Sonny is the one that keeps me company by prowling backwards and forwards across my desk – constantly, over and over again. He purrs all the time too and is very neurotic. He’s ginger and he knows it.

Well, typing is one of them – and how! Taking contact lenses out is another. I’m sure there are other activities that are more comfortable with a shorter nail, but this cakesniffer doesn’t know anything about that sort of thing.

I’m quite lazy and I use nail clippers to do my nails – I can’t be bother filing them or any of that crap. I prefer Bassett’s Trim, or is is TRIM? nail clippers, but they’ve recently moved production to Korea from the USA and the new ones aren’t as good. Whatever you use, nail clippings are uncontrollable and they fly all over the place.

Quite disgusting really.

I used to break nails quite regularly when I was a child and that feeling of broken nail against a smooth surface really goes through you. Sends shivers down me spine just to think about it.


Tesco are going the right way for being on the receiving end of some electronic correspondence from this particular consumer champion. They used to have a really good selection of pasta, now half that aisle’s been given over to organic produce and wheat-free crap. They used to sell Neutrogena shampoo, now they don’t. They used to sell loads of stuff that I used to buy and NOW THEY DON’T! And they keep moving everything else around. They give too much shelf space over to seasonal goods and forget the every day things that people go in for. Bastards.

Still, somebody will be getting a nice Easter egg, so I bet they won’t be complaining.

For some reason, the young chap on the till seemed a little alarmed when I responded “No, they should burn ’em all down!” when he asked if I was collecting computers for schools vouchers. Bloody kids can’t even read and the little bastards are pissing about on computers! It’s just pure laziness, using PCs as surrogate teachers. No child should be allowed anywhere near a PC until they’re in secondary school and until they can read and write properly. Stupid fucked-up way round of doing things.


Check these out!
Now I like a bit of reality TV, but it’s a bit tiresome at the moment. Thank God for the imaginations of Veebs and Herge. I can’t wait for the next installment of Celebrity Euthanasia Challenge. Perhaps a good reality TV show would involve locking a teacher, a social worker, a nurse, a doctor, a politician and Davina McCall into a house. I wouldn’t do anything with them, like film them or anything, I’d just leave them there. At least it’d take some of the useless gits out of the system. I suppose the house could be burnt down on Bommie Night or something.

http://www.jimvanblaricum.com/realitytv.html http://angrychimp.blogspot.com