I noticed two fucktard car drivers using iPods on my way home from work this evening (on the stretch of road where the coppers pulled me up last week). One of them even cut me up: no indication, just a nice leisurely drift across the lanes and into my side. I beeped, beeped again, flashed my lights, shouted. But the fucking idiot was so oblivious to anything that was going on to the side or behind him that he just moved into my lane without looking. Of course he couldn’t hear me because he was listening to some shite on his shitty iPod.

If only I’d let him hit me. Imagine the fun I’d have had in court with him. The thing is, he was driving some fancy Mercedes or something and I’m quite sure that the stereos on those things are pretty good anyway, so why did he need to use his iPod?

Wanker.

At the time this was happening, the guy driving the car behind me had his iPod on and he was also holding a conversation on his mobile.

Nob.

I have decided that what is needed to counteract these fucking imbeciles is an iProd: essentially a cattle prod that can be used to shock some sense into fools who are too absorbed in their own little musical worlds to realise that the world is going on around them and that the world is a dangerous place. A few hundred volts might, just might, do the trick. Imagine the advertising campaign: those sillhouetted people dancing around and being given the odd electric shock to warn them that they’re wandering into oncoming traffic without looking.

Perhaps such warning devices should be kept at the design stage and we should let natural selection take over.

Aunt Bessie’s
Just had some Aunt Bessie’s bramley apple pie. It was the sweetest thing I’ve ever had in my entire life. So laden with excess sugar that I couldn’t taste anything remotely resembling apple. Don’t bother with them. Not good.

Not good like Nanaimo bar. Nanaimo bars are a bit like millionaire shortbread, only completely different. They were invented by a housewife from Nanaimo, BC, who entered a competition to find the ultimate chocolate square. They’re fucking delish. They’re also very sweet. Make some for a diabetic friend or relative, they’ll love you for it.

In June 2005 I had a go at Paul McCartney. Considering I’d been blogging since the January of that year, I thought I was quite restrained with this six month delay at laying into this useless and embarrassing never-was.

Look at the comment that was left on the very same post yesterday.

Anonymous said…

Paul McCartney might not be any longer in his prime – but at least he was at one point, whereas you will not.

22 July, 2006 16:59

Fuck. Right. Off.

How can people be bothered to leave comments on posts that are over a year old? Mental, obesessed-with-their-heroes fucktards. It’s a good job Cliff Richard fans haven’t got a clue how to access the internet!

Wankers.

Toilet noises
People make all sorts of noises in toilets. The best ones are those trumpy ones that sneak out while you’re trying to have a wee; they kind of amplify in the bowl and make you snigger. The other night, I happened to find myself in a compromising situation in a toilet cubicle with a certain somebody while at a wedding we were attending. Things had been getting a bit thingy between us and we sort of, well, you know, got a bit whatsit. When another of the guests came into the cubicle next to us, we had to abandon our plans because I couldn’t keep quiet. So my companion decided to cut her losses and have a wee, trumping in the process. I giggled lots; that giggling when you’re trying so hard not to laugh that it just makes things a thousand times worse.

We burst out of the cubicle milliseconds before the other woman came out of hers. She talked to us and apologised for making a smell and having a poo. She then asked if we’d heard somebody crying and asked if we were OK.

“We’re fine, thanks. Having a great time.”

Hot and steamy can describe many things at the moment: my unshowered bum; cup of coffee; and the weather being a few. However, the hot and steamy I’m referring to right now is the activity of ironing.

Off to a wedding at lunchtime so I had to iron a load of stuff. My suit falls into a crumpled mess as soon as I take it off the hanger, but I have to make some sort of effort. I also had blouses and and some new stuff of Trump’s to do. Phew, steamy!

New garments come with so much shit attached to them with those horrible little plastic tags. Each new thing has at least two labels on them, plus spare buttons, plus the price labels from the shops. It’s all too much. I know you’re supposed to be able to pull these things off with ease, but they just cut into my delicate skin like a fucking garrotte. Pisses me right off.

It’s YOUR fault
Crime figures for England and Wales are out today. The number of street robberies continues to rise and it’s not the criminals that are being blamed, oh no, it’s all OUR fault for having MP3 players and mobile phones. This is just another example of the logic that comes out of our shite government over here.

Essentially, the message is: don’t bother buying anything nice with the money that’s left over after you’ve been taxed to death because we won’t do anything about it if you’re mugged or burgled. We might as well give all our cash to charity and dress in sack cloths.

If you’re in the process of having your property broken in to, there’s no point calling the police to come and investigate because you’ll be told that there are no free units in the area. Of course there are no free units in the area: they’re all stood on the kerb, being horrible to motorists who they’ve decided to harrass for the sake of it. God forbid they’d actually do anything to live up to their mission statement: Fighting crime, protecting people. They might have to break into a sweat and go all funny if they were forced to speak to real people and help them out.

Wankers.

Fucking summer.

You wear “summer trousers” and you need “summer shoes” to go with them. Summer shoes are usually open-toed sandals. I’ve been wearing open-toed sandals today. I’ve not been wearing socks with them. They’re really comfortable sandals, made in Italy of soft leather. Really comfortable until the bare skin on your heels starts to rub against the leather.

….To form big blisters….

…. That totally incapacitate you

God, I’m in pain. I tried buying some specialist heel/blister plasters, but they just rubbed off – rubbing against the open wounds as they did so. So I had to buy some new shoes. Backless ones.

Fucking summer. Can’t wait to get my trainers back on. With socks.

Deliverance
I have been accused of not pulling my weight by a certain Canadian. I’d like to offer the case for the defence.

With the sounds of Duelling banjos in my ears, I paddled with the rest of them.

Spot the English person

I did try paddling, but my pathetic little arms were still too sore after my attempts at waterskiing. Besides, I was too busy concentrating on clenching my buttocks to prevent involuntary evacuation through my shitter to be able to even think about sticking my oar in that icy water.

Sniffy takes on the natives
This is an interesting shot. It shows me engaging in the early stages of a smackdown challenge with April’s youngest delinquent.

And then you saw me dead

There wasn’t really any contest and she had me floored within 5 seconds. They have this old aboriginal trick of running head-first at your kneecaps. It really hurts. They use it to capture elk and black bears apparently. There was evidence of such killings in April’s freezer.

When I was over there, I got a text message from Connie Cakesniffer asking whether I’d seen any natives. I pointed out that I was living with them. She responded by saying that she thought they’d live in wigwams or burnt-out tree trunks.

Oh for equality and diversity training for the over 60s.

Pyramid power
As Connie mentioned in her blog, we went visiting the Summerhill Winery, somewhere near Kelowna. This place is 100% organic and it is famed for maturing all of its wine in a big concrete pyramid. I’m not sure whether all that pyramid talk is a load of old bollocks, and since I’ll never drink any of their stuff I don’t really care, but it’s a nice gimmick and I’m sure it ensures more sales of the stuff at the end of the free tasting session.

We all had great fun there, it was in such a picturesque location overlooking Lake Okanagan:

With excellent company:

A bit of ancient mysticism/bollocks:

Free plonk:

And even I was compensated for not being able to try any:

You’d have thought that the fucking pyramid power would’ve protected the bloody stuff against the evils of airport baggage handlers, but not to worry.

Round one: Sniffy wins
I was driving through Manchester city centre on my way home last night. It was getting on for midnight, the weather was clear, the traffic was light, the streets aren’t usually filled with pissheads until Thursday night and last night was no exception. It was quiet.

I proceded through the successive sets of lights as they changed from red to green, changing lanes here and there so as not be hindered by cars that had been waiting there while the signals were on red.

As the bright lights faded and one city melted into the next, I noticed a police car had appeared behind me out of nowhere. Its siren sounded once, I looked in my mirror again. It sounded again, I looked again. The lights then started flashing and I realised that they wanted me to pull over. EH? What’s to do here then?

Stopping my car, I opened my door and looked behind me: the police woman who had been driving was already out of the car “Get out of the car!”.

Fuck, it’s one of the guards from Prisoner Cell Block H. How rude!

“Have you been drinking?”

“No, I don’t drink.”

“Why were you driving like that?”

“Like what? I’m just going home.”

“Just going home eh? Let me smell your breath!”

Jesus, if only you knew where my mouth had been half an hour ago.

“Have you got your documents with you?”

“Just my licence.”

“Now, will you tell me why you were driving so erratically at such speed? We clocked you at 55mph”

“I’m sorry, but there’s absolutely NO WAY I was doing that speed, no way whatsoever. I never speed. I’d like to see some evidence because I know damn well that I wasn’t going over 30.”

You mean that you flew up the road to get behind me from a fair distance away and that you got up to 55? Why’s it OK for you to drive that fast?

“You can either take the points or take it to court.”

“I’ll take it to court, I wasn’t speeding and I wasn’t doing anything wrong.”

“You were swerving through the traffic and driving erratically.”

“There wasn’t any traffic. All I was doing changing lanes so I didn’t have to stop behind traffic that was setting off from lights when they changed to green, that’s what the lanes are for. I wasn’t driving erratically, just using the road layout the way it is supposed to be used.”

“I would’ve have thought somebody in your profession would be more careful”

Ahhhh, so you’ve seen “Dr” on my driving licence, have you?

“I was being careful, I drive along this road every day and I know the layout very well. I wasn’t doing anything wrong and I’d like to see some evidence that I was doing 55mph when I know that I wasn’t and never would.”

“Don’t worry, you’re not going to get any points, you’ll just have to produce your documents at your nearest police station.”

You’ve changed your tune. What happened to being threatened with a court appearance?

“Oh right, fair enough.”

“You’ve got seven days to produce your documents.”

I was so fucking annoyed. The fucking Nazis! I got home and read the ticket. She’d put the wrong time and spelt my name wrong, so not only could she not read, but she couldn’t tell the time either. DUR!

I just find it so bizarre that she thought that acting so aggressively and in such a threatening manner was going to be useful in a situation where she suspected that she was dealing with a drunk driver. Surely such behaviour is likely to elicit an equally, if not worse response from somebody who has been drinking? And they wonder why they have to wear stab-proof vests.

Why do certain police officers feel the need to act in such a way? It’s clearly a power thing, but they need to remember that they’re public servants and that they also rely on the trust of the public to enable them to do their jobs.

Tossers.

Now, should I submit a complaint about her? I think she needs to be told, doesn’t she? Or perhaps I should mention her badge number and name here for when she Googles herself?

What does everyone reckon? Should the nasty bitch copper get her comeuppance, or should I be grateful that I didn’t get seven bullets in my face?

Let’s have an open debate about why we all hate the police.

So Francesco and Chadwick realised that their love for each other would never be accepted in the small town where it had flourished. Danger lay ahead and they feared that they would be forced to live their lives apart. They needed to move on, so they embarked on an epic adventure in British Columbia and Washington.

Would they be safe?

Would they fall victim to a lynch mob?

Read on…

It was a lonely life for Francesco. Things had been bad for a while and he found himself on the streets, pimping his little plastic arse to get enough cash to fuel his booze and kebab habit.

Things changed overnight when he was whisked away by a young Canadian called Chadwick. They’d met on the lonely and dangerous streets of Manchester when Chadwick had been looking for company while on a business trip. Love blossomed instantly and Francesco was wooed with flowers and the kindness of his new companion.

With nothing to lose, Francesco decided to take up Chadwick’s offer of a new life in Canada. They stowed away in the baggage of an unsuspecting traveller and found themselves in the wonderful city of Vancouver.

Oh how they loved it there, partying with the people and enjoying the sunshine.

But they were soon to be on the move again after things went wrong in Ye Olde Kabob Shoppe on Davie St – Francesco had foolishly opened his mouth and asked for “doner with the lot”, instantly giving his accent away and making his little arse very attractive to the hoards of big beastly bears who were after a little European. They hitched a ride to Vancouver Island on a passing donkey.

While there, they enjoyed the good life and the sex was fantastic! Unable to keep their paws off each other, they tried everything imaginable, doing things that would make a whore blush – some of it barely legal.

On a boat:

Camping:

Cottaging:

Alas, all good things must come to an end and our boys were rumbled after Francesco’s over-exuberent celebrations at Italy’s world cup win.

And now they’re back here in Blighty, trying to cause mischief wherever they go. You see, Sniffy would never have been able to get away with any misbehaving on her hols…

And now the little bastards are trying to get April and Connie to come and rescue them!

I’ve been awake for 24 hours, I’m starting to feel a bit sick. Long distance flying is shite: it’s impossible to sleep because the seats are so uncomfortable; there’s always a bloody film playing; it’s always too light. I tried covering my eyes with my hood, but this made my hair a mess and the stewardesses ignored me because they were scared!

Jesus, I’m tired now.

Anyway, I have some observations from my trip to Canada that I think should be shared with Blogworld.

For a Briton, being in Canada is a little like being in a strange parallel universe. You find yourself in a place that seems very familiar, the climate is very similar to that at home (at least on coastal British Columbia it is), they speak English, shops are the same, as is much of the food. But it’s just not the same as England… thank fuck, I suppose.

I was most impressed with the way the toilets flush – they sort of suck everthing out in a vacuum, then fill the pot with water. My only bugbare was the the way they never had a complete toilet seat – they seem to favour the type with the gap at the front for some reason. Never really worked what that’s all about. Of course, one thing that I WASN’T impressed with was the “portapotty” chemical toilets that took you by surprise when you’d expect something to have a proper plumbed flush from its exterior.

Come again?
The pronunciations are different and they use completely different words and phrases when meaning the same things as we do. For example, I was often greeted with “You’re such a fucking cunt” by people meaning “Hey, how you doing? Hope you have a great day!”, subtle differences, you see.

Things get worse in the States. Whereas the Canadians have the nouse to understand that people across the world say the same words differently, or mean the same as they do by using slightly different terms, the Americans cannot compute. For example, when asking for a “blended iced mocha”, I was met with a blank stare from the coffee shop in Brewster, WA, until April stepped to translate: “That’s a mow-ka frappe”. There’s no such thing as “cafe au lait”, but there’s latte a-plenty in the coffee shops. You can really throw them by talking about a fortnight.

Anyway, vive la difference and all that. It’s nice that things aren’t all the same wherever you go – there’d be no point in going anywhere, would there?

Oh-kanagan
This is weird, still on the subject of pronunciation… I went through the “Okanagan” in Canada and “Okanogan County” in America. There’s a lake Okanagan too – it is very big. But when I spoke to people about visiting “The Okanagan”, I was met with many blank looks. They don’t pronounce Okanagan the way you’d expect, instead, it’s like Oh-kan-argan.

At least I know now! It’s nice to know how to pronounce the name of such a beautiful part of the world. Here is Mother, demonstrating what the Okanagan looks like by means of her obligatory tea towel that I bought there:

I’ve warned her that she has to be very careful because this is a special mystical, voodoo teatowel. The consequences of accidentally burning it when she’s removing something from under the grill are raging forest fires that destroy the area surrounding Kelowna! She won’t pay any attention to my pleas, so think on and look sharp!

You’re very welcome
The Canadians are trained to respond to thanks with “You’re welcome”. I think it’s genetic. It is also very endearing and I like it. Of course I engaged in such exchanges of pleasantries with my very own “It’s a fucking pleasure”. I think it’ll catch on.

I may come back with photos and stuff from my trip, but you can get the gist of what happened from those terrible girls, Connie and April. The bitches may have been trying to kill me, but they did it in such a lovely way. April, Connie and Jenn are absolute darlings; I’m so glad that I had the opportunity to meet them and I really hope that I get the chance to meet up with them all very soon.

A quick PS
Baggage handlers at Manchester Airport are a bunch of clumsy fucking idiots. Be warned if you’re too lazy to transfer $35 bottles of RED wine from your case to your carry-on baggage.

Soooooooooooooo good!

Finally got those pesky queer bears off this computer and I can bring y’all a quick update from British Columbia.

Sunday 2nd July:
Met up with April and her tribe and was whisked away to Vancouver Island.

Monday 3rd July:
Had a scout around the local town and did the tourist thing of taking a horse and buggy ride around the murals. This was fun, with Jeeeennneeee the horse dragging us around.

She let me drive her car. Har har har. Daft woman.

In the afternoon, April had her first attempt at trying to kill me by taking me out with her sister and brother in law on their boat. I didn’t do swimming, but was thrown out to sea in a dinghy, being rowed by number one son.

My arse got soaked.

Tuesday 4th July:
Little Qualicum falls.

Cathedral Grove.

Sproat Lake. It was here that April tried to kill me again: they made m try waterskiing. This is great fun if you enjoy being dragged face first through freezing cold water while your wrists are pulled off. Let’s just say that I wasn’t successful, but I had great fun trying. I still can’t form a grip that’s strong enough to squeeze toothpaste today.

Did some kayaking. It was fun.

I slept in a tent that night. Me! In a tent!!!

Wednesday 5th July:
Pacific Rim National Park and the great black bear/cougar/wolf hunt. There were bears about.. apparently. We had all the info on what to do if we encountered one. You’re not supposed to run and scream or play dead or stare at them. It doesn’t matter if you don’t see any. We didn’t see any. We didn’t see any birds either. Except crows.

Also went up to Tofino, which is a nice fishing/tourist town somewhere on the left hand side of Vancouver Island. This is a nice little place, but there weren’t any bears there either.

Thursday 6th – Sunday 9th July:
America! April drove us over to Washington State over the Cascade Mountain Range. The Americans let me in, the Canadians were probably relieved to be rid of me for a couple of days.

1. Went up in a helicopter.
2. Did waterslides.
3. Did white water rafting.
4. Visited the Grand Coulee Dam

See how three of these were potentially life-threatening? Oh, and there were rattlesnakes there too. And it was very hot and sunny and I’ve probably got skin cancer.

April gets rid of me tomorrow.

Oh yeah, almost forgot…

COME ON!!!!!

Sniffy has let us free to roam the streets of Vancouver (in Canada). We’ve been having lots of fun on Davie St (where all the queers are).

Sniffy has gone off somewhere, we’re not sure where, but she left us with her camera…

We’ll be back when we can with more tales of our forbidden love.

Bags packed. Nervous tension at an all time high.

I’m outta here…

There may be updates from Canada.

Who in their right mind has butter beans and corn on the cob the night before a 10 hour flight?