After years of indifference, resistance even, I’ve found myself watching the latest series of Big Brother.

It’s so boring. The contestants are boring. The show is boring. They even had to rev up a racist scandal from nothing to raise its profile. And it’s still boring.

But quite compelling all the same. I find myself watching the antics of a sample of the most repellent characters in the country and I somehow can’t resist; even the “live show”, where nothing happens and you can’t hear anything because the sounds are blanked out.

Pathetic.

Ideally, instead of evictions, the house should have a new tenant each week, until all the equally vacuous members of our society are locked up away from the rest of us.

With ten “women” and just one bloke, I’m really hoping that the girls just get into a big cat fight and kill each other. With hair straighteners.

Culture
No, I’m not referring the stuff that grows between my toes and in my belly button, I’m getting some culture at the theatre later on. Patricia Routledge in an Alan Bennett. Well, it just had to be, I suppose.

A goose on a moped
I was stirred from slumber in the early hours by a couple having a barny in a nearby street. It sounded like a fucking riot. Bastards. I really don’t understand what’s wrong with people round here, but there’s a total lack of consideration for people in the neighbourhood as people just go around shouting, banging doors, revving engines, playing car stereos really loud, etc, etc, at all times of the night. Morons.

Anyway, as I came to realise that there wasn’t a riot making its way towards us, the panic in my head settled and I heard one of my favourite noises: a honking goose… that sounded like it was riding a moped. The two (the goose and the moped) travelled in the same direction and speed at the same time; one ground level, the other up in the air. A wonderful coincidence that cheered me.

Boredom
Trapped in the Big Brother house for 14 weeks, what would Sniffy find herself doing? Obviously, fidelity isn’t an issue, so I wouldn’t have any problems declining the kind advances of fellow housemates.

I think I’d just want to sleep and eat, and probably smoke too. Get into a few arguments.

Would I be allowed a taser?

Uh oh, Trump’s home! Better give her some attention.

There was an alarming story in the news last week about a family who were forced to move house after being the subject of intolerable abuse. All the family members have red hair, well there’s no disguising the fact, they’re proper gingers.

At first, you could laugh this off, but apparently, now that the fuckwits amongst the population are no longer allowed to hurl abuse at people because of their skin colour or sexuality, they’re picking on people with red hair.

Is gingerism the new racism? I guess so. It’s picking on people because of the way they are.

The reason I’m mentioning this is because of a slight faux pas of mine last week, a couple of days the news story of the ginger bullying victims broke. In a teaching session, I questioned whether it was wise or fair to measure the height of children as they start school since extraordinarily short or children would perhaps feel singled out. I added “Poor things, all they’d need is to be ginger too and their confidence could be destroyed for life!”

Of course, there was a lass with ginger hair amongst the students and I found myself ankle-deep in a hole that I had to climb out of. Since my comment was made in order to point out that people – children – pick on folk for any reason possible and that anything that makes you stand out from a crowd, especially when you’re young, automatically makes you a target. Plus, I was was pretty ginger as a kid. I’ve been there. I felt the ginger pain. It was OK.

One of the other students, exclaimed, “Well, you can always dye your hair!”

I don’t know why, but I can’t stop saying “yes” in the style of a pirate. I did it before in Tesco: “Have you got a Clubcard?”

“Yarr!”

I’m such a tit at times.

Meaning
Back home after a fortnight wirelessless. My life has meaning again. I am whole.

Hankering
As I get older, I find myself hankering after my childhood days when it was easy and nice. It didn’t matter that you had no dress sense and that your hair was shockingly bad. It didn’t to me.

You got told when you were doing OK at school, you did exams that confirmed whether you were doing OK. If you weren’t doing OK, your parents could go in and defend you and tell the teacher why you weren’t getting on as well as you could.

In the real world, at work, you just plod on. Nobody tells you whether the work you do is good, OK, rubbish. You just carry on. And they wonder why you lack motivation, but they never bother to ask why, they just think you don’t give a crap.

If only we could have parents’ evenings for the workplace. Get my mum to go into work and tell the bosses off. It’d shake the public sector up good and proper.

Just wait till I’m in charge.

London 2012
I’m hoping for the Third World War to kick off so we don’t have to endure this pile of shite. I think the cost of another world war will probably a lot less than the cost of the London Olympics – you note LONDON Olympics, that the rest of the country is paying for, but won’t get any benefit from. Nobody wanted these games to come to the UK – apart from Seb Coe and Ken Livingston, that is. Billions of pounds down the drain for the purpose of massaging two already over inflated egos.

Tossers.

Anyway, there’s much excitement today as the new logo for the London Olympics has been unveiled.

I didn’t actually realise what it was supposed to represent until I read what it was.

Here’s my effort… about as much effort as is warranted.

Act on CO2
Just seen a public service ad from the Department for Transport on the telly about reducing CO2 emissions by reducing car engine revs and by driving smoothly. We’d love to drive smoothly, but they keep putting fucking road humps, traffic lights and 20mph limits all over the frigging roads.

Fucktards.

Yarr!

Tahoma
Don’t know why, but everything’s gone Tahoma on the front page of my blog. Weird.

It’s great to know that a new batch of Hammer Horrors will be getting churned out. Fantastic films.

But that aside, I happened to catch the TV programme “Under the hammer” the other day. Basically, people buy rotten old houses in auctions, do them up and either live in them, rent them out or sell them. One couple bought a plot of land and, before they’d even had planning permission to build on it, they were pondering how much the proposed two homes would be worth “at today’s prices” – two homes that they and their father/in law would be living, respectively. So if they’re going to be living in them, what does it matter how much they’re worth?

I get so pissed off with this obsession that people have over the values of their homes. The value is often an awful lot less than what people actually have to pay for them, thanks to the ludicrously inflated house prices in the UK.

The God Delusion
I picked this book up because it was on offer in Waterstone’s. Basically, Richard Dawkins – scientist and confirmed atheist – assembles a number of very good arguments against the possibility of there being a supernatural being “out there”, in charge of stuff. Reading his long-winded arguments, you see how totally illogical religion is. It’s basically something that has been used for centuries for the sole purpose of population control. So we’re in a situation, in the 21st century, where we have to consult with all sorts of people about things to gauge their feelings, based not on evidence or logic, but superstitious mumbo jumbo.

The monotheistic religions have whittled away at all the ancients Roman, Greek and Viking gods of this or that, leaving just the one. It’s about time we got rid of the last one.

This book should be compulsory for all school children, politicians and religious leaders. Far too many people try to justify their own bigotry or just plain stupidity and stubbornness, because of their faith. It’s about time modern society stopped bending over backwards to accommodate them. In another age, or with a different “God”, the same people might be accused of having a mental illness.

The dog delusion – aka Pets in head buckets
I love it when animals have operations and they have to wear those cones on their heads. I might suggest a company makes some special designs with pictures of flowers, radiant sunshine, spirals and that. They’d be cool.

It ain’t rocket science
As I drove into Manchester from Rochdale this morning (about 14 miles), it struck me how many sets of lights there were on my route. What also struck me was the proportion of them that were on red as I reached them. I wasn’t exceeding the speed limit, I wasn’t racing between sets, just driving along fairly sensibly.

I pondered…. If I could be bothered – and I would have done this back in my obsessive compulsive, let’s count everything phase – I would count all the sets of lights on this route and also calculate the proportion that were on red, green, or amber. With a map, you’d be able to measure the distance between the lights and calculate the average speed covered between them – either at a constant 30 or 40mph (depending on the stretch of road), or in terms of acceleration from zero. Doing a bit of simple maths, you’d then be able to come up with some sort of formula for ensuring that the majority of the lights were on green as you reached them if you travelled at the speed limit.

Now, if I can think of this in my sleepy state on the way to work, why the fuck doesn’t the Department of Transport?

Cunts.

Gadgets
I’ll soon be undertaking a new role at work. As part of this, I’ll be getting: laptop with 3G card for internet anywhere; mobile phone; PDA (already have a good one, but it’ll be OK for novelty/play value for a day or so); perhaps even a shat nav (I’ll Ebay this and pretend it got nicked). Do they not realise what providing me with all this gadgetry will do to me? Fools.

P { margin:0px;padding:0px;} body { FONT-SIZE:10pt;FONT-FAMILY:Tahoma;} From: ramin razaq Sent: Wednesday, 23 May, 2007 1:39:32 PM Subject: Reply me immediately From: Dr Ramin Razaq Attention please, I am Dr Ramin Razaq the bank manager of AFRICA BANK (AB) BURKINA FASO WEST AFRICA BRANCH. I am contacting you based on Trust and confidentiality that you will keep this as top secret. don’t be scared or surprised, i am the manager of AFRICA BANK and i have an opportunity to transfer sum of US$10.5MILLION (TEN MILLION FIVE HUNDRED UNITED STATE DOLLARS) I have the courage to look for a reliable and Honest Person who will be capable for this important business Transaction, believing that you will never let me down either now or in Future. The owner of this account is JOSEPH F. GRILLO, foreigner and he is the Manager Of petrol chemical service, a chemical engineer by Proffession.He died in world trade center as a victim of the September 11,2001 Incident that befall the United State of America, the bank has made series of efforts to contact any of the relatives to claim this money but without success, you can confirm through this website:http://www.september11victims.com/ and my Investigation proved to me as well that his company does not know anything About this account. I want to transfer this money into a safe foreign account abroad but I Don’t know any foreigner,I know that this message will come to you as a surprise as we don’t know ourselves before, but be sure that it is real And A Genuine business. hope that you will never let me down in this transaction, at the conclusion of this business, you will be giving 30% of the total amount, 70% will be for me. I look forward to your earliest reply by email for more details Thanks. Best regards Dr Razaq.

So, how should Sniffy reply?

1. Fuck off
2. Learn to type/spell, you ignorant shite
3. What the fuck is “TEN MILLION FIVE HUNDRED UNITED STATE DOLLARS”?
4. Is this the same as “Sucky-sucky, ten dollah. I love you long time?”
5. Just fuck off

Bored
I’m at work. I can’t access blogs. Half of my other favourite sites have also been blocked. Nobody to talk to. Need Kit Kat. Want to go home.

Looshkin respite
Looshkin the psychotic cat is enjoying her stay at Trump’s parents’ home. She is a cat transformed: cuddly, friendly happy. We’re puzzled by this. What is wrong with her that she doesn’t like her real home in a Manchester ‘hood, where she can enjoy watching youngsters enjoying the open space of the field behind the house; the scratbag yobs on scooters, flying around the roads at all times of day and night; the nicotine as it drifts in from the neighbours on one side; the sound of the young father playfully chasing his daughter around the house (with an axe) on the other; the threat from Snowy, the nicotine-stained cat, as he stares up at her from the top of his fence.

Of course, her attitude to her current temporary dwelling might change if she happens upon a chance encounter with Jazz, the toe-licking Staffordshire Bull Terrier.

House and dog-sitting with Trump in deepest Lancashire STOP No wireless networks in area to hijack STOP Bastards! STOP Job is shite STOP Need taser STOP Need food STOP And some milk because we’ve run out STOP And don’t forget to pick up hair conditioner when you nip home later STOP Oh, and don’t forget you’ve got a dentist appointment tomorrow STOP

Not happy with having her photo plastered on the internet, along with disparaging comments and general indifference, Looshkin the cat left a dirty protest for me to find when I got in from work yesterday.

And all the time I was cleaning up, my knees were being attacked by the little fucker.

I despair. We could have another fifteen years with that little bundle of fun.

Holiday
I want to go on holiday. Somewhere where the sun shines and it is warm, where there is good regional cooking and lots of photo opportunities.

But what do we do with the psychotic cat for a week while we’re off having fun in the sun? I vote for an anaesthetic/Whiskas IV infusion with her locked in my parents’ shed. Actually, why just do it for a week? We could have her in a permanent state of suspended animation! In a nappy!!!

Sniffy on the beat
I’m thinking of joining the police. Nothing to do with my overwhelming sense of public duty, of defending the good guys, of helping folk and trying to make my community a better place to live for everybody. No, I want to join the police because there is a suggestion of standard bobbies on the beat being given tasers. You won’t even have to be a firearms officer, just a normal bobby!

What next? In a few years’ time, they might be giving them to traffic wardens and crossing ladies! Imagine that, a crossing lady whose lollipop has been converted into a taser, or maybe just a cattle prod, to zap anybody of their choosing who crosses their path. Ace. Personally, I’d be on the lookout for “Chorlton mum” as she takes little Zeb and Cressida to school while pushing baby Tomassina in the three-wheeler.

Gotcha!

Home alone
Me and Loosh are on our own this evening. Trump is off to her parents’ place in readiness for a fortnight’s fun and frolics house and dog sitting. Me and the cat, locked down together. It’ll be like the first night in a prison cell for a nervous convict; knowing that an attack from their cell mate is inevitable, but never knowing when it’s going to happen.

We had spring and now we’ve gone straight through to autumn. It’s been pissing it down for a week now and the temperature has plummeted to October levels.

After a year of being plagued by squeaky, streaky windscreen wipers, I bought a new set the other week. Seventeen pounds, thankyouverymuch. They worked magnificently as I merrily squirted screenwash. I was so happy when the sun was shining and I didn’t actually need to use my wipers; I’d give my windscreen a daily squirt, and it’d clear with a smooth and silent sweep across the glass.

Now the rain is back. I need my wipers all the time… or I may actually die… and they’re squeaking like total fuckers. It’s got to the point where I’d rather not have my wipers on in torrential rain to save me from the pain of my noisy wipers.

The rain will be with us until at least the end of the week. Joy.

Eurovision song farce
As usual, the Eurovision song contest was reduced to a farce as neighbouring “new European” countries from the former Eastern Bloc and Baltic states voted for their neighbours. This competition just shows why we shouldn’t have anything to do with Europe.

Serbia won it this year. After a lot of delving through the internet, I finally managed to find out that the winning artiste is a lesbian. I would never have known from the look of her, or from her routine; surrounded by a load of femmes, pawing her, running their hands over her shoulders, singing close to her ears, mouth.

Of course, Eurovision is so gay that any gay act is bound to get a huge proportion of votes from the millions of queers gathered across the continent in their parties and in the gay bars of Europe. I bet the girls at Coyotes in Manchester were glued to the widescreen TV, eagerly texting away in support of Marija. They should really be looking after those fingers and not wearing them out on futile text voting!

A to Z of swearing
Courtesy of Jamie Smart’s Bohda Te:

The house of flying kitties
This is what generally greets us when we return home from work, just substitute the gingham fish for a shin or kneecap.

Monday, Monday
It’s bedtime on Sunday.

Fuck.

I really hate Mondays. And every other day apart from weekend days and bank holidays.

By popular demand, I bring you: