Anyway, it’s so exciting stalking somebody’s air journey. Apparently, Flight EK432 has started the final leg of its journey to Aukland; setting off from Brisbane a short while ago.


It’s almost like being with my sister on the flight, only much better because I don’t have to suffer being with her. Fantastic! I have a strange relationship with her; the further away she is, the more I care about her. I really loved her millions when she lived in Oz for a year. That’s Australia and not the Emerald City/Munchkin Land Oz, unfortunately. Jeez, if she’d have landed her house in Oz, I bet the Munchkins would’ve soon wanted the Wicked Witch of the West (East, whichever) back.

Ho, ho, ho-only joking. She’s great. But I’m the nice, popular one, obviously.

Don’t know where my web counter has gone, but if it’s broken for good, I’m not replacing it with something where I have to advertise. They can arseholes!

I could start a soap opera about this; you see all sorts down there. Today I couldn’t help laughing (to myself) at a couple of older ladies who were using the machinery as I made my way to the changing room. One, who must’ve been in her eighties, was wearing a purple cardigan while the other was tangled up in the machinery. I’d have helped, but I was laughing too much, making that snorting noise – it would’ve been unkind to laugh in their faces.

Some muscle man changed the handle on the lat pull-down, but didn’t swap it for the normal one after his god knows how many reps. The blokes are a pain in the arse; they use the weights machines, do their stuff, then sit there for a few minutes, contemplating. Then they set off again, do a few more reps, contemplate a bit more. And all this time, you’re just waiting to get on that last bit of machinery before going home. Sometimes you get two or three in a gang and they hog the machine for an hour at a time. Arsewipes.

There was an extremely tanned, blonde woman (she wasn’t born blonde) wearing a two piece: shorts and cropped top with “Baby” emblazoned on it (front of the top, backside of the shorts – tit). Baby my arse – mutton dressed as lamb. Well, complete slag, I’ll wager. Anyway, she was very thin so I hated her. She had the oddest technique on the rowing machine. And her skin was ruined from sunbed abuse – Hah!!!

Then I wanted to get on the mats and do some sit-ups, but some selfish bint was layed across two rather than lying on one – the stupid bitch needed a really hard kick up the arse with an open-toed sandal. Fucker. And when I went back into the changing room to retrieve my stuff, some lazy twat had left a squeezed-to-death tube of hair styling product on the bench and another had left a used tissue on the floor. Lazy bastards want a good slap.

Sometimes when I go, there’s a bloke with long hair and he wears a sleeveless vest and trackie bottoms. You can see his armpits and it’s horrible. Worse still, he smells and if you’re unfortunate enough to get next to him on the cross trainer and he starts really pumping it, it can cause disturbed breathing that leads to a fatal arrhythmia. I call him Stinky Cheese Man and I avoid him at all costs.

There’s also an oriental man – he too has long hair in a ponytail. He wears shorts, so you can see that he’s wearing normal trouser socks (either grey or brown). He looks really funny because he holds on to the top of the running machine as he runs (too fast); makes it look like he’s going to lose it and fall over.

Another bloke only seems to do stretching. He wears a hat and I want to know whether he’s bald.

If I was to describe myself? Jeez, strange shaped arse, bingo wings, can’t run, goes very red, surely should tie hair back, sometimes farts while on treadmill or cross trainer, never showers after a session. You’re DEAD RIGHT LOVE! Of course I don’t shower while I’m there, I’m not some sort of attention-seeking exhibitionist! Fuck me, public nuditiy? Whatever next??

Half an Identity
Wow, a thriller unfolds on the Interweb! Somebody is writing as if they have a new identity from the Witness Protection Programme. This can’t be for real. Either that or the author is fucking insane. Funny thing is, the name they’ve been given is Sam Black. I wonder if that’s the same “sexpot Sam” whose phonecalls I kepty getting on my mobile??? The bitch deserves to die!!!!!

Another thriller unfolding on the internet is the progress of my sister’s journey to Aukland. She’s done the Manchester to Dubai leg, changed at Dubai and is now about half an hour from landing at Singapore. Enthralling. Much more exciting than a blog about somebody’s experiences in the witness protection programme any day!

Tum-te-tum…. Waiting on the tarmac at Changi right now! (12.17)…. 28 hour journey in total. That means losing over a whole day. In that day, imagine the things that could be achieved. All those episodes of Will and Grace on repeat.

Rob Roy’s on the telly next door; I can hear Scottish people getting massacred by the English. If only. I like the extras in films like that; Titanic and Lord of the Rings are classics for it. It fits the age-old winning formula that dates back to the biblical classics like Ben Hur and The Greatest Story Ever Told. There would be cities or communities that were facing death and destruction from invaders or disaster (where all the “Middle Eastern” and African people had bright blue eyes??) and they’d show the men running about and falling over, and the women huddled up together with the children, looking “scared”. The same scene could’ve been taken from any one of those films and cut and pasted into another (sinking of Titanic, the death of Christ in Ben Hur, attack on that city thing in Return of the King).

In fact, Lord of the Rings was ruined by the extras and the stupid comedy moments (Merry and Pippin – whichever the irriating Jock shit was); why do they always have to put a quirky comedy character in films that would be so much better if they were kept serious? Must be to appeal to stupid people who can’t concentrate on the plot for more than 5 minutes at a time.

Pile of shit, you wouldn’t find that in a gritty Northern drama.

Random, ranting musings (and ramblings of course)…
Here are some descriptions of people’s blogs – a “random” selection of the first ten (English ones with descriptions) I came across by clicking the “next blog” button.

• My random rants, confusing citations, raving reviews, shocking surveys and so much more about tech, sports and pretty much everything all the way from heaven to hell …..
• The only fair fight is one that I am winning
• My own little slice of the internet where I can bitch and moan. I hope those who visit “Hot Sweaty Change” will enjoy themselves
• “If dogs run free, then why not we. Across the swooping plain?My ears hear a symphonyOf two mules, trains and rain.”
• I’m a scientist. I work in the NHS. Haven’t worked out yet how I ended up here. All postings are my opinion only. They are my interpretation of events. Actual contents may differ from those pictured.
• Emotional Warfare and Other Rantings
  A dream journal, private thoughts, public opinion and general non-sense.
• Ramblings and discussion about the New York Mets, sports, and life in general.
• Because it’s free and we are now of the age where it’s practically required…
• If you like the SBP, the Scotchy-Scotch Revolution, and Brother Dar, then you will love his daily rantations. Now 50% more rantatia-rriffic, and comin’ at you live from Hot-lanta…Can you DEAL WITH IT?

Ramblings, rantings, work gossip. Cakesniffing.

It’d be really fantastic if that bloke who Kevin Spacey played in Seven (John Doe) had a blog, that’d be worth a read. It might get a bit boring after a while. In fact, how many people who contribute to blogs are actually psychotic killers in real life? Just think, you could be reading the blog of a serial killer. Some of the things that people go on about in their blogs is scarily similar to what John Doe wrote in his journals; all those nasty thoughts about people they know, written for the world to see. People like to remain anonymous because they fear the recriminations of their identities being exposed. Doesn’t this make blogging the modern day equivalent of poison pen letters? Who gives a shit, a bit of gossip and bitching is great for the neutral observer!

I’ve just had a number 6 poo. These are the ones that trick you into thinking that they’re a fart, then when you try to squeeze them out, you shit your pants. (For poo categories, go to “Things you shouldn’t like, but just can’t help yourself” and “Bristol Stool Form Scale”).

I have achieved sod all today. That’s what happens when you’re up and at ’em at at 8am on a Saturday instead of languishing in bed until dinnertime (that’s lunchtime to the uneducated).

Is this such a bad thing? Hell no! Bloody hell, getting up early at the weekend is essential for a person to descend into a state of mindless boredom bordering on a Zen thing. You can score extra points for losing time in hour blocks – I managed two hours of Will & Grace repeats and didn’t even notice, and this evening has disappeared completely (it’s now bedtime and this is an edit).

Underneath the blazing sky. Wouldn’t it be great if you woke up one day and it was 1985 again? You could live your life as if you were one of the characters from St Elmo’s Fire or the Breakfast Club (essentially the same people repackaged). I particularly liked Wendy Beamish in St Elmo’s Fire; for her fashion sense more than anything: I never imagined that there were so many shades of pink (can you spot her in the poster?)…

Talking of funny photos, check this out. It’s from an old primary school photo and I have no idea who it is.

Pee is almost as good as poo for making you marvel at the wonder of human physiology. I like the way it has different varieties of colour; ranging from almost colourless, to quite dark brown. I have two particular favourite wee colours: fluorescent yellow and orange/brown. The orange/brown one tends to happen after you’ve not had a wee for about 8 hours. I’ve no idea what causes fluorescent yellow. Another great pee colour is purple after you’ve had beetroot.

Of course, it’s not only the colour of pee that comes in different varieties or is affected by diet; the odour changes too. It generally has a chicken noodle soup (yellow) or concentrated chicken stock (orange/brown) smell, but I understand that asparagus makes it smell really weird.

Women at the gym don’t half get dolled up sometimes. There are a couple of variants: young, lithe cow (they’re not cows really, but they’re thin, young and pretty and I hate them just because of that); and the older 40-50 year old. I’m sure some people put on full slap and do their hair before going the gym, then while they’re there, they hardly do anything physical. I dread to think what some of these women-only gyms look like. Bet you go into respiratory distress from all the hairspray and perfume.

Swing that gospel axe!
After checking out the Jim Vanblurdedurnsmum blog, it seemed fitting to upload some more scary album covers, although I can’t compete with the handless organist.

“Think! Don’t drive tired, take a break”. It was flashing at me on my way home again this evening. I’d love to take a break, but it’s not practical on my way home from work and you need a mortgage to buy refreshments at services. Strange that this “warning” notification only started at the same time that some local motorway services opened.

There are a variety of modern facilities in the works’ kitchen here at base number 2: fridge; hot water dispenser; microwave; dishwasher; cutlery; bin, to name but a few. For some reason, somebody keeps putting a plastic teaspoon in the sugar bowl – despite the fact that there are oodles of steel ones in the drawer. I put these nasty plastic things in the bin at every opportunity. Leaving things like that in sugar bowls constitutes a health hazard in my book, and if you need to leave something in the sugar bowl, why not use one of the hundreds of steel spoons? I just think that you use a fresh spoon to dole out your coffee, the same spoon to dole out your sugar and then you use the same spoon to stir your drink – the spoon should then go in the dishwasher (or sink) and not, not, NOT on the work surface or draining board.

Similarly, if you make a cup of tea, put the used teabag in the fucking bin – don’t put it in a used mug that’s been left on the draining board. Seriously, how difficult is it to put a used item in the bin? It’s the same as the sealing tags off the milk bottles – they never find their way in the bin either and they just end up lying about on the worktop. I’d like to find the culprit(s) so I could have the opportunity to interrogate them and try to discover their motivation and reasoning for this behaviour. There probably isn’t a reasonable explanation. To coin a phrase – some people are just complete fucktards.

Oh yeah, and tea and coffee spillages left to dry out on the worktop too. That’s just bloody lazy.

For some reason, I’ve found myself making exclamations in a weird Bob Dylan-esque whiny singing voice. I’ve found myself living in a Bollywood musical – without the Bangra, the bling and the dancing. Actually, it’s nothing like a Bollywood film, it’s just me being a twat.

People at shopping centres are ignorant fuckers. They walk along; 2, 3 or 4 abreast and they barge straight into me and shove me out of the way. Bastards. I wonder if it has anything to do with me being a 2 year old gypsy child.

Anyway, if you’re the type of person who walks along in shopping centres and expects everybody to get out of your way, you’re a complete tosser and the whole world wants you dead! Well, it’d be nice if you showed a bit of common courtesy. So think on and look sharp!

Having had a look at the postcards at the Postsecret site, I think I might start a service like that for readers of this blog (all 2 of ’em) to post any secrets they’d like to get off their chests. All posts will be treated in the strictest confidence and nobody will laugh at anybody. Of course, such a setup needs to be monitored by a suitable person who has no skeletons in their closets. So it’s only fitting and right that I should volunteer my services for that role.