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.

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.