Back in August, when it was pissing down all the time, I wrote this post about Stornoway, which is somewhere in the Hebrides – inner, outer, shake it all about er… Anyway, I thought nothing of it until I got this rather charming comment on it at the end of January.

Anonymous said…

listen u sad fuck i live in stornoway and i had the misfortune to cum across your stupid pointless website and i wish i had not. y would u tell people to fone this number and ask for a kebeb when its a bloody chinese u dope! get ur facts rite in future and the pubs are open on a sunday all of them and i pay my tv license so i am entitled to see the weather where i live. and unlike english people we all dont eat fat foods ie kebebs all the time!

27 January, 2008 14:52

Gosh, some people get so upset about things that they forget how to read and write properly! So I left a response, expressing my concern that an innocent post on my humble little blog would cause such upset in one of the town’s residents. I left it at that.

Now, saddo that I am, and I am, really – I claim to be nothing else – I check my web stats and I see this:

And when I look at the referring urls, I see this:

Now it’s not that obvious, but there are a lot of people linking to the Stornoway post from the Bebo member. Fuck knows what Bebo is, but the member is somebody who goes by the name (and I know I shouldn’t do it) “Reenie Reenster”. I have no idea who Reenie is, where he/she is, but I’d LOVE to know who they are and why so many people are visiting my blog from his/her Bebo page.

But NO! I refuse to get involved with another social networking site.

I wonder if they’re saying nice things about me….

I wonder if they communicate in txt spk.

Weird eh? But there are more and more visits being referred from this profile as I type.

I may have to get Piggy and Garfer to intervene on my behalf, I’m sure they can communicate with Livid of Lewis. I’m sure they can’t be as bad as the Alabama bible bashers who come to get me every now and again.

Edit: I knew it was coming!

Anonymous said…

You are fucking shithead, there isnt anything wrong with Stornoway ACTUALLY! and to thikersoid, the “sing songy” accent you maybe heard when you phoned up the chinese takeaway was a chinese accent, you fucking retard. AND whats wrong with all the good weather we get? I dont get how some people are so retarded. And sniffy, fuck off will you! You are the sad one for writing blogs about things like this when really you could get up off your arse and do something productive and worthwhile. GRRRR im annoyed at you and your stupid opinions, keep them to yourself if its gonna be shite that comes out.

13 February, 2008 19:50

Does this tit really think that Tickersoid actually goes back to read the comments on a post from August last year? Tosser.

Can we go on a day trip to Stornoway to meet its oh-so-eloquent inhabitants? Piggy, rev up the Scenic!

Spasmodic
Why is it that I can’t make a cup of coffee without my hand having a spaz attack as I’m trying to spoon coffee into the mug? The number of times I inexplicably throw the stuff all over the worktop. So annoying.

Gonna set my soul on fire!

Oh yes, it’s Viva Las Vegas for Sniffy and Trump as we have finally bitten the bullet and booked a holiday for later on in the year. The excitement! We’re travelling there in September with Trump’s family: a joint celebration of Marge-in-law’s 60th and Blister-in-law’s wedding anniversary.

We’re just going for the holiday… I’m not sure gay marriage is permitted in Nevada, in fact, I think they’ve actively banned it; which is bizarre for a state that’s home to one of the campest places on the planet. We could have a Blue Hawaii commitment ceremony at the Gay Chapel in Las Vegas. How very solemn that sounds. I’m going to hang out outside an Elvis chapel to see if somebody wants to use me as a witness for their wedding, or failing that, witness to a murder or road accident.

So, the planning begins. We’ll be staying at the classy “New York New York” Hotel and Casino – hopefully not in rooms adjoining our travelling companions. But that’s just the beginning; what on earth can you find to do for a week in the party capital of the world? Errrm, well there are the slot machines and the Grand Canyon 300 miles away, so that’ll keep me occupied for a bit. Then there are the shows! Bette Midler, Cher and Sir Elton Furnish play alternate nights at Caesar’s Palace, with Barry Manilow playing somewhere else. I’ll need a bit of luck on the slots to be able to afford those gigs I’m afraid.

Essentially, I’m just going to absorb the majesty and grandeur of the landscape… and look at women with long legs and feather head-dresses. In fact, I’m planning on having such an outfit for travelling in. Imagine the descent from the aeroplane, my elegant legs kicking, diamond-encrusted high-heels at the end of them…

You get the picture? Only I think the showgirls in the photo are actually blokes. Oh the flashbacks to Paddy’s Goose…

But yeah, so anybody with experience of Vegas, with some “must dos” for when we’re there, let me know.

Baftas
Just tried to watch the Bafta film awards on the telly, but there’s something wrong with the sound system and I’m getting Jonathan Wross with echo. This bloke is bad enough without the repetition so I’ve switched to the classy “Monster in law”. Blimey, J-Lo is so convincing as your average all American girl from the block next door. Such a nice lass. I wonder how many Baftas this film was nominated for…

Trump tried to make me watch London to Brighton last night. Well, she didn’t try to make me watch it, it was one of the rental films that Rocky hadn’t eaten and she just put it on. Let’s just say that she knows my feelings about “gritty British films”. I fucking hate them; they’re so bloody depressing and usually poorly acted and usually dominated with Cockneys, Scousers or Jocks. I endured about 15 minutes of Trainspotting once. Rubbish.

You’d have thought that, what with having to compete on the global market, the British film makers would be forced to be right at the top of their game. But instead they just churn out the same old shite over and over again. Essentially, you only get enjoyment out of British films if you enjoy lots of violence, terrible accents and being really depressed and stressed by the experience.

Watched Juno last night, it was really good.

Apparently, some Government think tank or whatever thinks that it’ll be a good idea to produce a welcome pack to give to new immigrants to the UK. The pack would contain handy tips like, don’t touch people without their permission, don’t spit, don’t bother learning to speak English, that sort of thing. I suppose it’s a good idea in some respects, although you’d have thought that people would’ve done a bit of work to find out about the customs and ways of life here before applying to come here?

Anyway, the good old BBC, voice of the NuLabour, have done their usual job of identifying a sample of “hard working” immigrants and asked them how they found it when they first came here (see this link).

One comment in this article really made me lol to myself: Polish labourer Christopher Kozolkowski, 34, is waiting to be picked up for work. “You can’t be in any way racist if you want to live here,” he says. “In London you have black and white, Arab and Jew, living right next to each other. You have to leave your prejudices at home because we’re all the same underneath.”

So it’s OK to be a racist in Poland, but not here. It’s so nice to have our doors thrown open to people from countries with such retarded attitudes to equality. I suppose there are as many bigots here, the only difference between here and places like Poland is that you’re not allowed to be a bigot in public.

Shepherds pie
I made shepherds pie for tea tonight, only it was cottage pie, not shepherds (beef, not lamb). I always call it shepherds pie though because cottage pie sounds rather unsavoury, like something Tazzy and Piggy might get up to. Anyway, not feeling too good on Saturday (I thought I was just depressed, but it turned out I was getting ill with TB too), I sent Trump to the shop on her own. I don’t know why she does it, youthful defiance I suppose, but she always goes against my wishes and shops at Asda – shithole. I put it down to lack of patience on her part and lack of edible stock at Asda, but the mince she bought, although advertised as “minced beef” was clearly minced cow; bits of beef bulked out with fat and god knows what. How they have the cheek to sell that stuff. Dirty bastards.

I’ve just noticed that the lovely “Vancouver” 2008 calendar that April brought me was purchased at Walmart. Jesus, I’m surrounded by them. I thought she was surprisingly content in the hell-hole that is Asda Eastlands when I took her there last week. Then again, it was late afternoon and not 10pm, when most of the local Asian families think it’s an appropriate time to take their young children from their beds to go shopping, allowing them to scream for the duration.

Sick
Another Monday and another sick day – that’s about the fourth in the last year. Fucking disgrace. I don’t know why I always feel like shit on Mondays, well, I do today; it’s that dirty bitch April, spreading her germs while she was here, but the last few times I’ve been off sick have been on Mondays. Weird. I think it’s that lack of sleep on a Sunday night, in combination with depression, inducing crippling migraines (meegraines), but it looks very bad.

I spent the day snoozing in bed, being woken constantly by the screaming baby next door. Whinging little shit never lets up. It’s no doubt practising for when it’s old enough to be taken to Asda with its older sister at 11pm.

Stuff to watch
I have managed to get hold of the first five episodes of Season 5 of The L Word (currently showing in the States, not due for UK screens until autumn) – fabulous. I’m also looking forward to watching “Life”, which stars Damian Lewis and the lovely Sarah Shahi (Carmen de la Pica Morales of the L Word) – not sure when or if this is due to be screened in the UK.

Oh the wonders of modern technology.

Stay away from me!

Too late though, I am infected with North American germs brought to me by Typhoid pissoff; the type that make your airways burn, where you’re afraid to cough because of the pain. I ache too.

I don’t do coughs and colds very well. I have them very rarely these days – that last time I had a chesty cough was Christmas 1999 – so when I do get slightly ill, I am supremely pathetic. I really do think I’m dying.

I’ll be taking to my bed for the rest of the day, or the sofa with a blankie and Paramount Comedy.

Farewell my friends.

Stuck for inspiration at lunchtime, I’ve just cobbled together an Italian favourite: tonno e fagioli (tuna and beans). It tasted of nothing other than onions. Why?

Tesco cannelini beans in water (you can’t buy normal ones there anymore), tuna in brine = zero flavour

Bought some bread and cheese from Asda (should’ve known better); the bread was bland, the cheese (Lancashire) tasted of nothing. Why? No salt, again.

Pot Noodles, ruined.

Breakfast cereal, ruined.

I’m sick to death of food being ruined because the fucking government are pressuring producers to save us from the evils of food that actually tastes of something.

Fucking rubbish.

So fed up with it all.

Hip-hop feet
I bought new trainers yesterday; they’re quite trendy. I’m probably about 20 years too old to wear them. They were expensive, but it’s a good job I bought them because I returned to find that a certain pooch had eaten the portion of my £65 Nikes that the lace threads through. He’d also destroyed a pair of sunglasses.

Life is beautiful.

Well, there they went; whisked away on a Virgin train – how apt.

April and Misha left us today after an all too brief visit. Still, it was a blast seeing that foul-mouthed squaw again and I feel very honoured that she took time from her flying visit to come to see us here in fucking freezing, wind-blasted Manchesterford.

When I picked them up from the Norwich red-eye, I thought that Misha (who I’d never seen) was the 60 year old, limping dwarf woman who appeared to be pushing April’s luggage on a trolley, ten paces behind her. It turned out that Misha was actually a 7 foot tall blonde Amazonian. Bloody Canadians are so tall, bastards.

Anyway, after dropping stuff of chez Trumpsniffers, we went into Manchester for a full English Cafe North (I had their black pudding) followed by a trip on the Manchester Wheel. The Manchester Wheel is a bit weird since it’s actually one of the most interesting things on the Manchester skyline, and a bit too close to the city centre to see anything other than roof tops.

This was followed by a wander round the city in the freezing cold. They were pretty tired, but perked up when they went into Primark. Oh, the fucking shame of it. Highlight: older woman saying to toddler, “Yes darling, we’ll get you a sausage roll right now”.

Anyway, photos:

Velvet Revolter
For a different and fuller account of what happened that evening, visit Taz and Pig’s place. The evening was pretty good. April was particularly thrilled when Taz got his willy out.

And again when Piggy showed her his party trick with a little furry animal…

She kept asking Piggy about Tazzy’s willy for the rest of the evening. I know it was a strange shape and colour, but you’d have thought she’d have seen it all, given her life experiences and encounters with donkeys.

I don’t know why, but Paddy’s Goose has a strange pull on me and we ended up in there after the meal. It’s one of those places that looks like a normal pub as you walk in, until you turn round from the bar with your drink and notice that you’re surrounded by the 70 year old transvestites who gather there. So that’s where we stayed until I left to give somebody a lift home.

They all came back here and the fellers stayed too. It was a very late night, followed by an early awakening courtesy of gale force winds, thunder, lightning and hail stones.

Four hours sleep for all meant that we were all totally monged to be bothered battling the winds at Salford Quays. Too cold, too windy, too tired, we came home and vegged out until it was time to go for curry.

And then it was over as soon as it had begun. They’re now in London, with lots of proper sights to enjoy – fuck, what did they expect coming to Manchester in January? We only have two weeks of decent weather over the year and they usually occur sometime between May and September.

It was lovely to see April again and to meet Misha. I just love those North Americans and their excessively long legs!

Of course, I’m now off for a few days, but the dark clouds of Monday morning will soon be threatening. Joy.

I can’t see. My specs are upstairs and I can’t be bothered to go and get them.

Anyway, Her Royal Thighness and her friend should’ve landed by now I reckon. It’s quite exciting, the prospect of seeing April again; she was the perfect hostess when I visited back in 2006. I was quite honoured to be allowed to live in the home of a true Indian Squaw, to share their cuisine (Kraft dinners); culture (cable TV) and general way of life. I felt particularly privileged to be asked to join the Cowichan People as an honorary member, although the initiation tests were a bit death-defying (waterskiing, clinging to a helicopter, water slides, river rafting).

But I survived all that and now I have the opportunity to reciprocate.

They get here on Wednesday morning and I’ve been thinking of things that I can do with them for the two days they’re here. And that’s probably why I’m so unprepared for their visit. We’ll be meeting up with Piggy and Tazzy and have a wander round the City, so that’ll be a laugh. I want April to get into an argument with somebody in Asda; you should hear the language that comes out.

Did you know that Kraft sell something called “Cheesy Pasta” here in the UK? Yes, the UK does indeed have its very own Kraft Dinner – get yourself to your local Netto, it’s on offer!

So we’ll be running around on Tuesday and getting the house fit for the visit. We’re doing this quite a lot at the moment anyway; what with trying to sell it and having viewings and things. We had another viewing yesterday, 1pm. I spent 2 hours cleaning up, tidying it, making it spick and span. Then I had to take myself and the dog out so they didn’t twig that a same sexed couple live here with their alternative lifestyle (with a name like Hussain, your own prejudices forewarn you of theirs). So I wandered the streets, waiting for Trump to text me to say they’d left. Forty minutes later, tired me, tired pooch, and a call from Trump to say it didn’t look like they were turning up.

I was so fucking mad when I got back. Ignorant, rude bastards couldn’t even be bothered to phone the estate agents to tell them they weren’t going to bother. So in the tale of trying to sell Trump’s house, we’ve had:

1. The buyer who put an offer in then came round without an appointment at 7.30pm one evening saying “I’ve put an offer in on the house, can I just have another look round because I want to compare it with another I’ve just seen”. Basically, he was putting an offer on everything, then deciding which he wanted to buy afterwards.
2. The viewers who come in, walk around, don’t say anything, then leave, without ever giving feedback.
3. The viewers who come round ask lots of questions, leave, but still don’t leave feedback.
4. The buyers who say they have a mortgage in principle, put an offer in, then can’t get a mortgage.
5. The fucking bastards who don’t turn up after you’ve wasted the whole fucking morning on a Saturday.

And for most of these, I feel forced to leave the house before they get here because the people viewing would probably burn us alive because we’re gay.

I’m going to start insisting that the estate agent asks for a £50 deposit, returnable when they’ve actually had the courtesy to view the property.

I blame Trump for buying a house round here in the first place. I’m wondering if I can burn it down.

I love the way they leave the free paper sticking out of the letter box. That’s right, let all the fucking heat out of the house, don’t mind me. Does anybody even ask for the free paper? Cocks. Oh, I see the estate agent has put the house ad in there again.

And then you saw me dead.

I was in the supermarket the other day. As I left, I walked past the news stand and there I saw a glossy mag called Period Living. Imagine that, a monthly devoted to monthlies.

How nice.

I was too laden down with groceries to be bothered to stop to buy one, but it’s left me pondering as to its content.

Editorial – How to tell when your colleague is being visited by the Pink Fairy
I don’t think you need to read a magazine article to point out the tell-tale signs of a woman’s menstrual cycle. And colleagues are best avoided irrespective of the state of their hormones and gussets.

Special feature – Plug it up or let it flow: do modern sanitary towels really cut the mustard?

Honestly, I can feel a letter coming on. And they sold it in Sainsbury’s too!

I want my plastic wallet back!
I finally sent my driver’s licence off to Swansea so as to change my address – I’ve only been here since April. Anyway, I sent off the paper bit, the card bit and the plastic wallet that they both came in originally. The amended licence was returned sans wallet. Thieving Welsh bastards.

I’ll remember this the next time they want road tax from me. “Oh, did I forget to send the cheque? Silly me.”

T minus seventeen
April will be here in 17 days. I’m not quite sure what I’m going to do with her. I’ve never really thought about the things I could do with April in all honesty. No, really, honestly, it’s never entered my head.

I wonder if I need to tell the local authorities that she’s coming, just so as to warn them and so they can ensure an extra police presence round these parts.

I’m going to take on this thing, it’ll be fun. I might tell her that you have to climb up the frame to access the pods.

Monday minus nine
The weekend is nearly over again. Sundays are so depressing; the anticipation of another week at work. How desperately miserable.

We’re expecting gale force winds again tonight.

Why’s it always windy at night when you’re trying to sleep? Fucking weather.

“Auntie Em! Auntie Em!” I get woken up by the Wizard of Oz hurricane dream..

And in my waking confusion, I think that I’m drowning because my face is submerged in nose-drip because I’m starting with a cold.

Fuck, it’s started already. There are hail stones coming right at the living room window. Brilliant.

Rocky is growling at window and door.

He’s such a good guard dog; shouting at fast-moving air and frozen water. Now he’s threatening it with his squeaky baa-lamb/unicorn. So ferocious. I feel very safe with him in the house.

Recycling
I really hate recycling. It just means you have a load of crap hanging around the house for weeks on end until you finally put it out on the right day for collection. Three bin liners full of cans and bottles overflowing from the outhouse and covering the already restricted worktop space in the kitchen. You used to be able to chuck all this shite out with the rest of the rubbish.

Why can’t they get incapacity benefit scroungers to sort out the rubbish for us? You could just dump all the waste collections to block the exit from the nearest Asda car park so they can’t get out until they’ve cleared the rubbish into recycling piles.

If only they’d let me be in charge.

Plotting
So my plotting is restricted to what I’ll do when the delicious April comes to visit for a couple of days at the end of the month.

Oh the joys of showing her the sights of the ghetto, I’m so excited!