Today is a big day for England’s football fans. Injured striker Wayne Rooney is having a BIG scan on his foot to assess whether the break to his fourth metatarsal has healed sufficiently to allow him to be part of the World Cup squad.

A big scan, you note. Not just a scan, but a BIG, MASSIVE, HUGE, FUCK-OFF, ENORMOUS scan!

This is headline news from the BBC today. They have reporters stationed outside the hospital where the scan will be conducted this morning. It’s not a very big hospital; it’s a small private hospital in South Manchester.

It seems that the BBC is now employing reporters to deliver primary school news to us. What sort of reporting is that? “Wayne Rooney is having a big scan on his poorly lickle tootsy to see if he can play with his friends in the massive game of footie on Saturday”. For fuck’s sake.

It’s nice to note that Wayne, a clever lad, is “300% sure” of playing in the tournament. Three hundred percent eh? Brilliant. That means that we’ll have three Waynes playing will we? Three players sent off for petulance? Fucking hell.

Come on ENGERLAND!
England seems to be going football mad at the moment. There are flags of St George hanging from just about every window on council estates across the land. One innovation that crept in with the last world cup (sorry, this is “soccer” I’m talking about) was the appearance of England “car flags”. These annoying things attach to the car via a hook which holds the flag in place in the car’s closed window, thusly:

Every Tit in the country seems to be displaying these things. I feel that my annual war on caravaners may have to be postponed until after England get knocked out of the World Cup and people stop adorning their cars with this shite. I’m very tempted to buy a load of German flags and replace all the English equivalents on parked cars in the dead of night.

The thing is, I love the footie, I love the World Cup and I would love England to do well, but all this rubbish just makes me hate my national team and I end up rooting for Italy instead. Let’s face it though, the Italians are better looking and their kit is nicer.

Make them shut up
Please make the people here shut up! They had the cheek to force the move of one staff member to another office because “He causes a disturbance and is always on the computer”, but since they all got here this morning, I’ve head nothing but one VERY loud voice going on, and on, and on. Today’s outrages are:

• Being done for speeding by a mobile camera unit: “So I took photos of the area and I told the police ‘It doesn’t say that it’s a 30mph area ANYWHERE!'” Well, I’m sorry, but everyone knows that when it doesn’t specify a speed limit, the limit is 30mph, so shut the fuck up and pay the fine.
• Agenda for change – yet again! This has been an ongoing issue for at least the past 12 months.
• Woman in charge of the same department at the other base – AGAIN.

Shut the fuck up, just shut the fuck up!

Bigger
The cumulative cost of tyre replacements now runs at £170 this month (actually, it’s £170 in 8 days). Another one got fucked after I drove over a nail. Pissed off.

Smaller
I went to the theatre last night. Me! At the theatre!!!! It was a play called Smaller and it was excellent. Only three characters so I didn’t get confused, lots of comedy and not too much acting, just good performances.

Trump took me as a “You’ve been through a horrible, stressful experience and you deserve a treat” thing after I had a job interview yesterday. That might not be the reason why she bought the tickets, but she’s ever so nice to me.

And yes, job interview – I was doing preparation for it and so was too busy to blog. I’m not going away, just not able to vent my spleen as often as I had done in the past.

So there you go.

Of course, the good thing about soya milk is that you don’t tend to get herds of soya beans breaking through a fence and grazing on the hard shoulder of the motorway in morning rush hour, thus forcing the closure of the road while police ensure the safe return of the wayward legumes to their rightful place in the field.

Given the choice between grazing in a nice safe BIG field of grass or a narrow and very scary motorway hard shoulder (with huge trucks and cars flying past in excess of 70mph), what thought processes might be involved in three cows and a bull who take the latter option? Perhaps it was a publicity stunt, a cry for help to highlight the plight of those dairy beasts who are being shunned in favour of soya alternatives. Next thing we’ll be having is a real-life Cow Parade in our major cities: Heifers for justice, conducting a series of high profile stunts to raise dairy awareness. I can’t wait to see one climb the Houses of Parliament.

They’ll be in a city near you. Think on and look sharp!

Papering the cracks
Cosmetics can only cover up the bits where a person starts to fall apart. With sufficient resources, I’d be down to my local cosmetic surgery clinic for all over body sculpture and my eye bags reducing. The excess bits could make a whole other person – probably one who is more than capable of keeping her blog up to date.

Unfortunately I don’t have the cash to go under the knife, so I’m resorting to stuff you can buy in Tesco (no, they haven’t started a cosmetic surgery service yet, but after the flower fiasco, I don’t think I’d bother if they did thankyouverymuch). I am currently trying “Dove Summer Glow” body moisturiser to make me look like an Umpa Lumpa in time for my trip to Canada, and also something from L’Oreal to fill in my frown lines. I don’t know what it’s called, but you can feel little microbeads popping on your face as you apply it… and then your skin really starts to burn. I think the idea is that people will be more worried about the appearance of blisters than fine lines.

It’s great to know I’m worth it.

Wheelchair It’s a Knockout Dodgem Smackdown
I went to the shopping centre over lunchtime. While I was there, I was amused to see a rather interesting stand-off between three motorised invalid scooters and a wheelchair. They’d somehow come together and got themeselves entangled. None of them were backing down though; there was NO WAY any of them was going to engage reverse: “I’m disabled you know!” were their cries of protest. “I’m older and I’m not motorised!”, “Mine’s a bariatric scooter – I’ll kick your arse with this baby!”

A congestion charge for wheeled-users of public areas? Bring it on!

Eating
Cynthia was eating her lunch when I went into the kitchen to reconstitute my Cup-a-Soup. She was loitering near the sink so I couldn’t avoid her as she ate what smelled like fish paste from a little glass jar by maniacally scraping a spoon – even after she had finished. I was also given the pleasure of her talking while she was eating; she was interrogating me about Canada and smacking her lips. I hate hearing the sound of people eating, it really does drive me mad.

Ozzy Osbourne
I used to really be in to Ozzy Osbourne and Black Sabbath when I was a youngster. I enjoyed being in a very black mood – or at least looking like I was. Diary of a Madman was one of Ozzy’s finest albums; I played it to death.

Some might say that my taste in clothing borders on the criminal. Well, I’ve finally organised my wardrobe with the cheapo Ikea hangers.

I’m sure I’m not alone in my obsessive requirement for all garments to hang facing the same direction. In fact, I find it hard to believe that there’s any other way to hang clothes. Could you imagine? Doesn’t bear thinking about.

Car trouble
I’m crap at driving. I have no idea where the kerb is in relation to the nearside of my car. It’s surprising that I’ve never twatted the wing mirror of a parked car while driving passed. I guess it’s just trying to figure out where the wheels are in relation to the rest of the world that causes me a problem. I’m generally better at going backwards than forwards. It’s no surprise then that something like this:

Would result in this:

and this:

Idiot.

It didn’t half make an impressive noise when I hit it. BANG! Hisssssss….. Even more impressive was the fact that I did this while parking alongside the kerb outside’ my girlfriend’s parents’ house and EVEN BETTER was the beligerent V-sign that I directed towards some abusive youths while said GF’s dad was being really kind and changing my spare wheel. She saw me do it and scowled at me too.

It’s a bit weird, having to behave yourself.

Why don’t more junctions have filters for turning right? It’d save people racing through on red.

Soya
Why is there an anti-lactose movement that seems to be gathering pace at the moment? What is it with all these soya milk products all of a sudden?

This stuff claims to be a “dairy-free alternative to milk”. Well so what? So is Pepsi and beer, for fuck’s sake. It tastes like shite and leaves a residue on your teeth that makes them feel kind of itchy.

My sister claims that you “shouldn’t take in too much lactose”. I’ve no idea where she gets this from. It’s probaby something that’s being sent down from the Mysterious They, along with the idea that taking in extra gut bacteria from “live” yoghurt is an essential fro surviving the modern world.

“I’m lactose intolerant” is the cry from many a freak who champions this crap. Bollocks you are. You’re just a fucking crank who’s read something in some crackpot vegan magazine. They’ll then go on to say they’re cutting out carbs and other “yeastie” things because “Dr” Gillian McKeith says they’re bad for you. Yeah, you’re so concerned about your health, but you’ll go out and get shitfaced 3 times a week, eat a load of processed crap and smoke 20 fags a day. It’s that shit that’s making you bloated, not milk you dickhead.

Swimming costumes
Whoever invented these things should be tried for crimes against humanity. I’m waitng for those Victorian-style ones that cover down to your elbows and knees to come back into fashion.

Do they have an active whaling programme in Canada?

I’m afraid not. I’ll be back with a vengeance later on today. But in the meantime, I’m just posting a quickie because there appears to be a problem with stuff again.

Does anybody care? I don’t.

More later….

This deserves a mention: Stuff on my cat.

I could start a similar thing called “Stuff on my clothes”, which would invariably be stuff that comes off cats. Hairy little fuckers.

I took a minor detour and sent myself on an errand to Ikea on my journey between Bases 2b and 2a this morning. I have visited this store on a number of occasions in the 16 or so years since it opened. It’s situated on a large retail park that is also home to a Marks and Spencer, Next, Boots, etc, so I visit the retail park itself fairly regularly even if I’m not inflicting myself with Scandanavian confusion; surrounding myself with stuff that is named in a similar fashion to the bits that kept falling off the Mir space station.

Anyway, I got lost. I got lost going to IKEA. Didn’t have a fucking clue where I was and managed to divert myself so ended up at the wrong end of the park. Dick.

So, that got me annoyed. People who know me will testify that I get grumpy when I’m confused, I get even grumpier if I’m confused with myself. I went into the blue and yellow building, to the downstairs bit where, following a previous trip where I’d walked the entire first floor of the store before I found them on the ground floor, I knew picture frames and things were. I then realised that I’d need a trolly, but couldn’t figure out how to get to them to get hold of one. More confusion, blood pressure rising…. but I eventually got one and picked up the frame.

Onwards! I was on an errand to find a throw (like for over a sofa that you don’t like the colour of) and carried on around the ground floor, following the arrows on the floor, while looking out for what I was after. You see those arrows are great; they guide you around the store so you don’t miss anything, but because everybody is going in the same direction, the flow is nice and steady. Nice and steady until you realise that you’ve got to the checkouts and haven’t seen what you’re after. You have to turn around and make your way back to the very beginning to take the travellator to the first floor. You have to do this while working against the flow of what seems to be the entire population of the North West and their children and prams.

At the top of the travellator, you and your trolley are thrown off pretty unceremoniously, yet some fucking smug retiree numpty is stood on the landing point, looking around obliviously while whistling and fiddling with something particularly fascinating in the pocket of their beige slacks (beige socks, beige slip-ons too, no doubt). Having regained composure after near death “by the power of grey-skull”, you have a look to see where you’re going. The floor plan isn’t really that useful, but it seems that the best way round to where you might want to be is against the flow of the on-rushing Scouse-Manc hybrid mutants that frequent the store.

Coat hangers £1.24 for an 8 pack? BARGAIN! Get 4 of those.

You get to where you think you need to be, having negotiated a number of abandoned trolleys and abandoned screaming children. Welcome to bedding and textiles. It’s really difficult to concentrate on the task in hand when you overhear the conversations of people who are admiring the most vile things with far too much enthusiasm and volume… in a Scouse accent and a speech impediment. But, you soldier on and eventually find what you need and make your escape, following the arrows and uttering loud noises of disapproval at anybody who dares to be going in the wrong direction.

Downstairs, and you pick up a second picture frame and some more hangers – just in case – before following yet more arrows on the convoluted journey to the tills.

Jesus, what an ordeal! I was absolutely exhausted and emotionally drained having spent 40minutes in the vicinity of some complete fucking idiots and their stupid, spazzy kids. I decided to “nip into” Marks’s to pick up some bits from the food hall.

Marks and Spencer’s food hall is brilliant, but the layout is impossible to understand. You don’t just buy chicken goujons there, you buy mini-fillets from East Anglian corn-fed, organic, Christian, singing chickens. As such, you pay a fucking fortune for them. You pay a fortune for the sweet red, yellow, and orange peppers – ideal for salads, but not just salads; salads with the finest 20 year old balsamic vinegar and extra virgin olive oil, cold-pressed by virgins wearing virginal white dresses, straight from their confirmation. Anyway, for a load of old crap that’s going to be fried to death in the presence of overpowering Mexican fajita spices, I’m not sure it’s worth the extra cost, but I couldn’t face Tesco or, even worse, Asda!

Talking of Tesco and Asda, this 24hr opening lark is getting a bit out of hand. More and more people are doing their shopping in the evenings and I can’t say as I blame them. It’s nice to go shopping when it’s only grown ups there who get things in their trolleys without any fussing from their whinging parastic shitbag kids. Unfortunately, people with whinging parasitic shitbag kids have also started going shopping in the evenings. Can’t they be banned? Can nobody impose a curfew on these annoying fuckers? I’m sure Tesco would do a roaring trade if it started a “No under14s after 8pm” rule. Don’t people with kids ever think that normal people might want to be able to do stuff without being exposed to them and their noise, whining, oversized buggies and snot? Selfish cunts.

It’s in the evenings that the supermarkets try to stock up too, so the aisles are jam packed with cages of produce as the harrassed and underpayed staff try to ensure the availability of all us selfish bastards who won’t leave our shopping till the weekend.

When I was in my local Tesco the other night, I noticed a smallish woman, probably about my age. She had a trolley full to overflowing with shopping, which she was pulling along behind by its front edge. We made eye contact and she must’ve mistaken my look of contempt for one of compassion and she smiled at me as if to say “These things certainly aren’t easy to manoeuvre!”. No, but try pushing the fucking thing instead of towing it, you stupid FUCKTARD!

More anger!
Trump doesn’t allow me to shout at other motorists, no matter how crap they are. For example, behind a car at a roundabout yesterday. Car sets off, I follow. Without applying its brakes, the car in front inexplicably reduces speed to 5mph as both of us are trying to avoid being hit by another oncoming car. I get shouted at for driving too close. This happens all the time; the car in front will set off from some light and start to turn a corner and will then just slow down without warning. I get shouted at for driving too close. And when I shout at the other motorists, I get told off again. I’m not rating my chances of getting a roof-top rocket launcher for my birthday. Motoring isn’t what it used to be.

Before my Ikea ordeal, I’d filled up with petol. I was exiting the petrol station, turning left onto a one-way dual carriageway. I’d stopped to have a look for oncoming traffic and, as I was stopped, a boy of about 13 or 14 on a bike crossed my path from the left – as he did so, he was shouting at me and sticking the Vs up. I wound the window down and shouted back, told him to “come back here so I can rip your fucking head off, you little shit!”. He rode off. I’ve still absolutely no idea what his problem was, other than he should’ve been terminated at 6 weeks’ gestation. Little shit.

Should I go into teaching?

I’m ashamed to admit that I have been left feeling violated and dirty by one who I thought I could trust and who would never do anything to hurt me. The pain sits with me still now.

I made the mistake of arriving at Trump’s as she was tucking into her tea (dinner to you lot) last night. I recoiled at the sight when I thought that somebody had vomited on her plate, but soon realised that she was eating cottage cheese on a baked potato.

Not wanting to get involved, and to save my stomach doing summersaults of nausea, I sat, eyes forward, while she continued eating.

Then it happened. I sensed her turn to me and, in her charming, appealing, irrestible voice, she said, “Try a bit of cottage cheese”.

I ignored her.

She persisted: “Go on try some for me. Please”

“Errrm no, I really don’t want to, honestly, I don’t think I can”

I’m sure she could sense that I was going into a cold sweat at this point, bit she tried again. “How can you be so sure that you don’t like it if you never try it?”

“I don’t think I’ll try bum sex either, but I don’t want to try it to make sure!”

It wasn’t working. At this point, I’d got up from the sofa and gone into the dining room. She followed me, threatening me with the vomit-laden fork. “Please try some. Pleeeeeeese”.

I gave in.

I was horrified. The taste and texture of the stuff confirmed that I have been absolutely 100% correct in avoiding this shite all my life. It is fucking disgusting. Watery sour cream with bits of rubberised vomit in it. No thank you.

She seemed to enjoy it though and at least I beat her at Trivial Pursuit.

Pay day confusion
I have no idea how much I earn anymore. I few bits of back pay, along with a national restructuring exercise has left us all over the place. On a new pay scale, and up an increment – my first one since starting the job 5 years ago.

And still there’s not enough in my take home pay to get my eyes lasered. I think this is definitely the way forward, but it’s so expensive. So much so that I’m revisiting my options for buying new specs.

Parents on holiday
Do I need to add any more? They’ve gone away for a week, visiting the “home country”. It’s quite nice being given the run of the house. Even better since my sister is here recovering after surgery, so the hous is secure while I’m work and my tea is ready for me when I get in. What else was ready for me when I got in yesterday afternoon was a cat with a diarrhoea and sickness bug. Why do things always go wrong with the animals when the parents are out of the country?

I hate umbrellas.

As much as I’ve tried to open myself up to the idea of these things being a good idea, I simply can’t accept them into my life.

It’s been raining a LOT over the past week. Here’s what it’s going to be like for the next week:

Still wet, yet I refuse to use a brolly:

• They’re a right old pain carry aloft above your head
• You’re left with only one free hand
• They don’t protect you from sideways rain
• They are vulnerable to wind
• You have nowhere to put the things when you’re nipping in and out of shops
• They take up too much space when lots of people are carrying them on a busy pavement
• Some bastards even poke your eyes out with the pokey end bits of them
• They’re a right old pain to carry around “in case it rains”
• Entire corridors in the work place are often rendered umbrella assault courses as users dry theirs outside of their offices
• They’re for tossers

Stupid things, that’s what they are.

Not like Kagouls! Kagouls are ace. I managed to find myself a plain black one (from Millet’s, thanks FT) before the journey up to the Lakes. Trump got one too, but we didn’t go for matching; there are plenty in the Sisterhood who dress in matching clothes with matching hairdos (see any civil partnership ceremony photos) without us two joining the ranks.

I was very pleased with my kagoul. Look, here’s me being pleased while wearing it:

So the Lakes, what were they like? Wet, but not so bad as we were trapped in the hotel; trapped with this bed head! Not bed head as in “bad hair brought about by sleeping”, as in the head of the bed- just look at that chintztasticness!

Anyway, I now have to write this again because my PC went tits up while I was trying to compose the frigging post. Pile of shite.

So what was it like up there? The weather could’ve been better, but it wasn’t raining all the time and we managed to go for a few wanders, starting off at Bowness on Windermere, which I think is the largest lake up there.

Bowness is a nice little town, but you can see that it could be in danger of becoming run down. This chap was clearly disgusted at the high levels of duck excrement that was all over the shore of the lake. It’s hard to understand why the dirty little fuckers don’t do their business while in the water, like I would.

A few miles up the road, you can grasp the full beauty of the area when you pull into a parking area to see this.

See, the sun did shine while we were there. It was nice to be able to park up and take in the calming scenery while enjoying an ice cream. Particularly since I’d just been run off the road by yet another shitforbrains coach driver who didn’t know the width of their own vehicle and didn’t have the sense to reverse 10 metres so I could get to a passing space and instead forced me to drive through the shrubbery in the verge. Idiot.

Further up the road, it becomes the Kirkstone Pass – I think this is the highest bit or something. See how it’s so high it’s in the clouds!

There’s a pub at the summit called the Kirkstone Pass Inn. It’s a very traditional place with roaring log fires in the winter – it also has the tiniest ladies’ toilet on the planet.

Spring is a nice time to visit anywhere in England (apart from the weather being predictably be awful). Everything is very fresh and the spring flowers and blossoms can be spectacular. This photo doesn’t do any justice to this bit of bluebell woodland that we came across, but it gives some of the idea of what it was like.

The Lake District prides itself on its unspoilt beauty, with lots of lovely quaint towns and villages dotted about it. Most of the towns are tourist traps that are rich in their variety of shops for the lovers of outdoor pursuits. Similar to our cities, the towns of the Lakes are becoming clones of each other. Ambleside is a pretty popular place, full of walkers, all in matching kagouls (it’s just not the done thing!), carrying those walking pole things. But you can feel the charm there. There’s something nice and English about it – expensive and wet.

At Ullswater, you can get yourself very dizzy by watching the swallows dunking into the water. These little buggers are impossible to photograph, but you have to try…

So yes, it was all very pretty and enjoyable. The bed in the hotel was a bit “soft” and it dipped in the middle. With unavoidable roll-together, Trump was a little annoyed at waking with my elbow in her face on Saturday morning. Being the loving type, she gently kissed it and pushed it away, uttering the words “there now my darling, you have plenty of room over there”. Oh, no, it was more of an angry shove and a “get your elbow out of my face!”. Ho hum.

British hotels are ace – all too similar to Fawlty Towers (“Flowery Twats”) – and the reception guy did a bit of a double take when he saw the two of us were sharing a “that’s a double room with bed and breakfast?” He didn’t make much eye contact.

The number of the Beast

On returning to civilisation, we engaged in chimp activity and it was during this that THIS was discovered:

it might be easier to see it on this one….

When I questioned “Mother” she claimed that I’d always had this “birth mark”. So why hadn’t she told me? I still believe that I am adopted, but now I am sure that my natural parents aren’t gypsies as I’d once thought. No, I am convinced that I was born to a whore of Satan who engaged in depraved sexual acts with a hound from the very depths of Hell!!!!!!

Actually, I think it’s actually just a birth mark, but it’s weird when you find something out about yourself for the first time.

I could write an ode
– If I knew what one was –
To a guy named Mat
Alas, my world is bereft of Mats
Yet I am blessed by the presence of so-called secretaries
Who do not know how to format
So this is for them instead

You see, that’s great poetry that is. Poetry is just sentences that have hard returns shoved in them in weird places. Change the format of a sentence and it becomes a poem.

So, what has me rattled? You’d think that people who have the job of doing stuff like word processing, secretaries and the like, you think that they’d know how to format a document properly. Now, I’ve never got myself a typing qualification, but I soon learned that there is something called “tabulation” that helps align rows of text into columns. Using tabs is fantastic and it’s so much tidier than simply hitting the space key in the hope that things will work out.

This is the effect you get when you let some secretaries loose on a piece of work:

Perhaps I’m just cruel. Perhaps you shouldn’t expect people to worry if their work looks shite when they’re preoccupied with worrying whether the outside temperature will hit 15°C before hometime.

Who the hell are you?

E-mails are fantastic. Very quick, very convenient, you can attach all sorts of stuff to them – I love ’em! But it’s always handy to know who you’re dealing with and what capacity they’re working in.

I got an e-mail yesterday from my ex-boss, I wanted his contact details so I could put him down as a referee for a job that I’m applying for. His e-mail signature is something like this:

John
AB&C Manager, WXYZ

Completely fucking meangingless.

Drives me mad.

Me? I give the grid reference to my desk. I know some people who put the bus numbers and other local transport links. They stop short of putting the car parking charges and “Sub of the day” on there though.

Dirty weekend
I’m looking forward to this weekend; going up to the Lake District with the lovely Trump. It’s going to piss it down the entire time we’re there.

You know, you can’t buy a plain black kagoul anywhere!

Still, it’ll be nice to spend time together. Nice for me at least, I’m not sure whether she’ll be as thrilled having endured my shouting at other motorists for the two hour drive up there. I’ll make sure she has her iPod and PSP charged up so she can be preoccupied with that instead.

I’ll report back on Sunday.

…That Sniffy finally got her arse into gear and wrote something to impart her infinite wisdom on the world.

As if.

Things are good. However, I am currently preoccupied with writing a job application. It’s a pile of shite. I hate this whole having to sell yourself thing. I’m pretty self-deprecating in real life and it’s just not in my nature to be able to highlight my achievements for the sake of making myself look good. Of course, it’s probably just the case that I haven’t got any achievements worth highlighting in the first place….

Five years in the same job is not good for morale. You lose your confidence and become negative about all aspects of your work. I just know that I’m not happy and I need to get out.

I think the whole idea of work is pretty shite. In evolutionary terms, it’s just something to keep people occupied after they breed. Humans were probably better off being hunter-gatherers. Make it through childhood, have some offspring, die when hubby doesn’t come home from a day’s hunting after he’s been eaten by a woolly mammoth – or something like that. What with becoming proper, thinking beings who live past our biological usefulness, we have to think of things to do to earn income. Of course, some people continue to rely on their biological usefulness and make a living out of breeding – very successfully too in the UK. The rest of us have to find jobs to do that pay us money in compensation for taking our time.

Does anybody really enjoy their job? If they did, they wouldn’t want to be paid for it, would they?

I’m desperately trying to think of my next career move. Well, a career would be nice I suppose.

Bah! To it all.

Don’t panic!
“THEY’RE TESTING THE FIRE ALARMS!” Posh Scouse has just informed us as the bells rang around us. Really? And here’s me thinking I was suffering from tinitus. I hope there’s a drought and hosepipe ban on Merseyside and Cheshire this year – I cannot WAIT for the whinging and tales of standpipe traumas from this lot.

Oh no, responsibility! Posh Scouse has gone to make a cup of tea and I’m alone. Thank goodness I know she’s not far away in case any of their phones ring! I’ve noticed that everytime anybody leaves their desk here, they announce what they’re up to: “Just popping down to the library”; “Just popping over to suchabody’s office”; “Just going to the kitchen”; “Just going on my lunch”; “Just going to get my kalashnikov from my car so I can come back in and blow your fucking brains out!”

Ain’t it a shame
Flyng saucers could land
But it wouldn’t make much difference to my man
I could walk aboard and thank the Lord
And I’d leave this damn town in seconds flat
Check my bags and never come back
Oh, our love is
Like a fuse that’s burned out….

Yes folks, alas it’s true. The fairytale seems to be over for the most reviled money-grabbing, attention-seeker of the last decade. Ex-beatle Sir Paul McCartney and his gold-digging missus have split.

HA!

HA!

HA!

I bet Stella is pleased.

I don’t know why, but i have an irrational (well, sometimes perfectly rational) hatred of certain “celebs”. My top ten British(ish) ones are:

1. Sir Paul McCartney (and Heather)
2. Sir Cliff Richard
3. St Bono de Bonio
4. Stephen Fry
5. Chantelle and Preston (who the fuck?)
6. Billy Connolly
7. Sienna Miller (I’ve no idea who she or what she does, is she supposed to be an actress?)
8. “Tiger” Tim Henman
9. Sir Ellen MacArthur
10. Olive from On the Buses

I don’t really dislike Olive from On the Buses, I was having trouble getting up to 10.

There are loads of people who are famous or “celebrities” just because they hang around with famous people. Heather Mills-McCartney lost her leg in a road accident, met Sir Paul, thought “Aye, aye, me luck’s in here”, got married, had baby (v clever for the D-I-V-O-R-C-E), annoyed the fuck out of everyone and now everybody is laughing because Macca is ditching the bitch!

I wonder if she’ll be signing up for “I’m a celebrity: Get me out of here!”. That’d be brilliant.

Hoo-har
The press has been whipping up a frenzy following the murder of an off-duty special constable in London last week. Special constables are volunteers who work with regular police officers for a few hours a week. The press are loving it because a) she was a woman and b) she was an asian lady. It was an horrific crime, but the headlines have escalated to include “Brave PC killed in frenzied knife attack”, “Public urged to come forward in hunt for policewoman’s killer”, that sort of thing.

Now, I’m not wanting to be horrible about any of this, and I’m sure none of these headlines have anything to do with the woman’s family, but she wasn’t a policewoman, she was a hairdresser. She wasn’t on duty when she was killed, it was the night time, she’d been for a meal with her hubby and it seems that she may have been killed with her own kitchen knife that she’d taken with her to investigate a disturbance outside her home.

I wonder what the headlines would be if I was murdered in a frenzied attack? I’m guessing something along the lines of “Thank fuck for that!”.