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.

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.