Good news today! Great British crisp brand Golden Wonder has been saved from extinction by Irish salty snack favourite Tayto. There’s something pleasing about learning this; it’s like the little boy with his finger in the dike, holding back the oppressive force of water.

I suppose we run the danger of always gunning for the underdog, irrespective how their quality compares with their bigger competitors. Big is seen to bad, but if the quality is good, or better than the alternative, then so what. But Golden Wonder ARE nicer, I’m convinced of this.

All this fuss over something that we shouldn’t be having anyway.

The great travel to work triathalon
The new multistorey car park has finally opened at work, ending 18 months of park and ride misery as most of us were chucked off site during its construction.

It’s a lovely car park – HUGE, with fabulous sweeping slopes and generous parking bays. No tight corners to catch your car on, oh no, this place is a beauty. There’s just a slight problem. It has been built to provide parking for a massive hospital site and it is on the furthest possible part of the site from where most people work, so there’s a ten to fifteen minute walk to or from your desk. The car park is so far away from any of the clinical areas that there’s even a shuttle bus service to take patients and visitors around the site.

Walk? Yes, Tina, it’s that thing you do when you go to the bar.

That’s progress for you.

Lovely car park though.

A series of unfortunate typos
The standard typewriter keyboard is a weird thing, all the letters being jumbled up so as to prevent proficient early typists become too fast and mashing up the typewriter keys. A consequence of this is the positioning of the letter ‘U’ next to the letter ‘I’. With a name like “Tina”, this can result in the unfortunate typo of me signing off e-mails as:

Best wishes,

Tuna

A series of unfortunate skin complaints
I am in my mid thirties and I am still suffering from terrible pustulous boils on my face, and now neck. My latest spot is right on the margin of my top lip and it hurts like a complete bastard.

You’d think that I’d have learned by now that my spots are never really that good for squeezing, but I still always give them a go. They’re just agonisingly painful for a few days before disappearing, so I suffer the idnignity of disfigurement as well as the pain, but rarely get to experience the pleasure of splattering one out against a clean mirror.

Life is a constant let down.

Pancake day
Tomorrow is Pancake Day, or Shrove Tuesday (or Mardi Gras if you’re poncy). It’s something to symbolise Jesus’s 40 days and nights in the wilderness while he found himself. It was just as well he’d nipped into that Little Chef before he went. It was there that he enjoyed a plate of delicious pancakes with maple syrup and ice cream before he wandered off. The calorific value of 15,000 was just about enough to see him through his ordeal. A few of the facts may be a bit hazy there, but that’s something like how it was.

I love pancakes, but I only tend to have them on Pancake Day. Like they say, everything in moderation. But since I like virtually everything, there has to be a trade off whereby I can only have certain things once a year (McDonald’s, Pizza Hut, pancakes, sex, etc).

I was surprised to learn that my Muslim colleague would also be enjoying pancakes and that she wouldn’t turn her nose up to a hot cross bun. The cheek on it! I don’t know, Muslims complain about westerners’ lack of understanding, but they constantly confuse us and shift the goal posts: it’s OK for them to do Easter and Christmas things, but ask them get you a sausage barm when they’re at the canteen, or offer them a pork pie and they’re up in arms, burning your duffle coat!

I don’t know, you just can’t win with some people.

Anyway, back to pancakes. In terms of fillings, despite generally going for the savoury alternative for most things (nuts, popcorn, etc), I prefer sweet fillings for my pancakes. The absolute BEST way to enjoy them is with a sprinkling of sugar and drizzled with lemon juice – simplicity and perfection. Of course, I wouldn’t turn down maple syrup and ice cream, or oranges in Cointreau syrup, but lemon and sugar does it for me just fine.

So today’s burning question is:

At 19 February, 2006 16:43, Anonymous said…

“Why must young people always use the F word in their Bio. Free speech and all that I know. I used to be that way when I was young too. Now I am middle aged and have teenagers that insist on using the F word. Now I find it disgusting.”

This was a comment that was left today on one of my posts from a few weeks back. In all fairness, I agree that I swear too much, both in real life and in my blog. It was something that started out as a bit of a joke then became a bad habit. One that is hard to kick. I don’t like hearing swearing much either, but it all depends on the context I suppose. I think here, I write the things I wish I could say to people and that includes all the expletives that I wish on the world on a daily basis.

However, I’d like to point something out to this commenter. Firstly, I ain’t that young. Secondly, I can’t take credit for the profile text that they are referring to:

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
  They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
  And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
  By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
  And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
  It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
  And don't have any kids yourself.

This is actually Philip Larkin’s This be the verse, which I’d never heard of because I’m an uncultured yob, but Garfer kindly posted into a comment he left somewhere. I absolutely love it; it sums up my attitude to life and, since many of my gripes relate to my parents and other people’s kids, it seems apt for this blog.

For the rest of my blog? Yes, I am foul-fucking-mouthed, but so what? Nearly 2,000 died in a mudslide at the tail end of last week, the muslims are still going potty and wanting us all wiped off the face of the earth, the fundamentalist Christians have got a stranglehold of the American government, we’re living in a dictatorship, we pay too much tax and get nothing back for it, and half the world is starving. My use of colourful language seems rather insignificant in comparison.

Shoo!
Well, my heart has been well and truly warmed by the overwhelming response to my plea for help in my epic quest for a pair of shoes that I like. Here are the suggestions from the wonderful Land of Blog.

Bearing in mind I said that I only ever wear “comfortable” shoes or trainers and I never wear anything “girly”, I was really pleased with people’s suggestions.

First up was that wonderful Irish man, SID

Thanks, SID. I really appreciate the effort you went to in identifying these as something that I might wear.

Jesus help me.

Then we had Indiana Jones’s suggestion:

Not bad, but I might have trouble finding my size in some of That Merrill’s styles.

Inexplicable Device chose these:

Interesting

And here are some that I quite the look of:

Stuff it, I’ll just stick with my trainers I think. It’s far too difficult.

Right you tossers, since I have a severe problem in finding shoes that I like, why don’t YOU find some for me?

Take a look at the Schuh website and choose a pair that you think might suit me. Nothing daft, no strappies (ho, ho, ho!), something that might be OK for me based on the problems I highlighted in the previous post. If you find a pair that you think is suitable, e-mail me the link using the “e-mail a friend” feature at the website.

I’ll post the piccies here and I may buy the most popular pair.

NB I don’t need trainers and I’ve recently bought some Docs, so I’m after a pair of shoes that’ll look good with jeans.

For the benefit of “Squeal like a” Piggy, here is a post for this sunny Saturday afternoon.

Today’s post consisted of yet another offer of a loan, this time from Abbey. Cunts.

When I was desperate for a bit of cash so I could put a deposit down on a flat I was renting, none of the fuckers would help out, I had to borrow the money off a friend while I sorted out something with my bank. Now that I don’t need any money, well I do, but I don’t want to borrow it, they’re inundating me with offers of cheap loans. Fucking wankers.

At the Trafford Centre
I went to this big tumour on the landscape of Greater Manchester this morning in the hope of finding some shoes that I liked, and also to see what was going on with GAP. Schuh was STILL closed and the GAP has been shut for refurbishment. All the other shoe shops were only selling Timberland roll-tops, knee high boots and strappy numbers that I wouldn’t be seen dead in.

I am extremely fussy when it comes to footwear: I can only wear trainers or boots and I feel a complete spaz in anything else. The problem is that my feet are too small and, what with my huge arse and diamond-formation shape, I look fucking ridiculous unless I wear wide-legged of boot-cut trousers and jeans. Of course, with wide-legged or boot-cuts, you look even more ridiculous if you have tiny little feet with just your toes poking out from the bottoms.

Hence I like quite substantial shoes – “comfortable shoes”, as some might call them, or “dyke shoes”, as others might refer to them.

Perhaps I worry too much, but I just know that my arse/foot size ratio presents me with a huge problem when buying footwear. I lose sleep over it.

Anyway, my main outlet for buying shoes is Schuh, which has been closed for refurbishment for my last 4 visits to the Trafford Centre. In fact, loads of stores are shut at the moment and the whole place is a huge disappointment. Some say it’s a prime target for a terrorist attack, but not even the muslim fundamentalists can be bothered with it at the mo.

Strappy sandals. I hate girly shoes, particularly strappy sandals and things with heels. The thing is, I can’t see how anybody can be comfortable wearing them.

While I’m on the subject of shoes, I might as well go through my trainer collection. I never buy Nike footwear, preferring Adidas and K-Swiss on the fashion front. For sporty things, I go for Asics and New Balance – proper shoes for running you see, and since it’s the running that gives me most trouble to my ankles, it’s proper runners that I go for.

Don’t look a’ me, I’m really BORIN’
I shall try to make this the ULTIMATE in boring posts by errm, just ending it here and going down the shops for some bread.

I’m being purred at by a desperate-looking, lardy-arsed ginger tom. Uh oh, he’s creeping nearer.

I love it when people get absolutely obsessed with something. Well, I find it interesting that people can take their own interest/hatred/fascination so far that they don’t just restrict themselves to one or two posts in a blog, but they set up a whole website devoted to the object of their obsession.

Two that popped up from this week’s Popbitch round up are:

I hate Pete Doherty and
The Diana-Morrissey Phenomenon

The first of the two is pretty self-explanatory. Pete Doherty is a talentless, smacked-up wanker who is supposed to be a “popstar”, but who has earned notoriety more for his relationship with Kate Moss and his never-ending run-ins with the police over drugs offences. It looks quite a good site though.

It’s the sort of site I’d like to set up myself and dedicate to one of my colleagues: “The evidence: she is a lazy cunt who, from day one, has ensured the systematic redistribution of her workload to everybody else in the department; she is boring; she says “v” or “f” instead of “th” (“wiv”, “somefin”); I hate her.”

Or I could devote an entire site to my hatred of Asda or Tony Blair or Davina McCall. But I haven’t got the energy.

The other site, “The Diana-Morrissey Phenomenon” is much scarier and I hope it’s been put together by somebody who is taking the piss. It does have the look of the ramblings of somebody who is a little bit mad though. Still, it’s good fun and worth a look.

And at last! Something to shove up smug bastard Mac users’ arses. Apparently there’s a malicious worm that ‘s making its way around the iChat system. Good. Fucking pious Mac users and their “People target Windows because they’re protesting against the Microsoft monopoly”. Well at last somebody is protesting against Mac smugness and shit PC-ness. I’m just amazed they found anything worth attacking in a Mac since they’re completely shite to the core.

Electrickery
The electric man has just been here to read the meter. They don’t have electric and gas meters in convenient places in older houses; that’s unless Social Services have wasted £70,000 on a rennovation for people claiming to have difficulty “coping” with normal houses and they’ve moved the meters to outdoor boxes. But our gas meter is under my desk here and the electric meter is behind the TV/video/cable box/dvd in the living room. Dad has made a vanity cover to hide it and the fuse box, but this just gives my folks somewhere else to stick loads of shit like this:

I’ve no idea why, but my dad loves collecting utter crap like this – free things from packets of tea and coffee and breakfast cereal, stuff he finds on the street. I could kill him for it (and many other crimes he’s committed against humanity over the years).

So, as much as I try not to be, I’m a bit of a hoarder too. It stems from anything I ever throw away being retrieved from the bin by my dad, with the result that I’ve given up on throwing things away because they just end up being dragged out of the bin anyway.

“Dad, why have you taken this out of the bin?”

“Because I thought you might want it.”

“But I’d put it in the bin because I didn’t want it, it’s no use… at all… for ANYTHING!”

“Mumble, mumble…Just THROW it away then!”

“Yes, if it’s no good for anything, chuck it away.”

Simple rule of thumb: if you haven’t used/worn something for a year or so, unless it’s something very special, the likelihood is that you won’t use it ever again. I was looking in the back of the kitchen cupboard the other day – one of the kitchen cupboards that are full to bursting with my parents’ medication rather than kitchen-type things – at the back of the cupboard was a box of Premarin, which is an HRT drug. I asked Mum when she stopped her HRT, it was only ten years ago. They’ve had a new kitchen fitted since then, for fuck’s sake.

But they’ve passed their bad habits onto me; I resist chucking things out because they “might come in”. For example, let’s have a look through these desk drawers:

• Ring reinforcements for punched paper;
• Box of floppy disks (stolen from previous job)
• Expresson cover for Nokia 8210 mobile phone (2001)
• Another Expresson cover for a Nokia 8210 mobile phone (2001)
• 2001 desk diary
• Packet of photos (35mm!) ca 2001
• My old ring (replaced by one that ended up being unceremoniously disposed of in takeaway leftovers after a row)
• Some Blutak
• Palm instructions (bought 2001)
• Radio instructions (received Christmas 2000)
• Packet of retractable pencil rubbers (stolen from previous job)

In fact, I’ve realised what this desk drawer represents. It represents the “Just find somewhere for it!” actions of somebody who is moving back into the parental home temporarily. Somebody who moved back in 2001 with the intention of only staying 6 months.

It’s time to get out.

Did you know that if you’re caught with a load of deadly chemicals and you have the intention of using them to kill people in like a terrorist attack, you could be convicted of “conspiracy to cause a public nuisance”.

I don’t mean to sound funny, but causing a public nuisance is getting a bit pissed and shouting a lot at passers by. Or running up to people really fast then running round them in circles till they get dizzy.

Getting hold of a load of ricin (which is one of the deadliest naturally occuring things on the planet) and plotting to use it to kill a load of people isn’t my idea of being a bit of a nuisance.

“Oh what bother, hundreds of people have been killed by ricin getting into the water supply. Tsk!”

Never mind.

Unholy thoughts
A friend has just sent me a text message to ask if it’s wrong to have improper thoughts about a priest? Well, it’s not wrong for her because she’s clearly a sex-crazed fiend and it just comes naturally, but what does everybody else think?

Personally, I have a bit of a nun thing going on, but I blame Julie Andrews for that.

Before I proceed:

They even cleaned over the headlamps so they could perform the headlamp aim tests. Saves me a job.

Bankers!
Yesterday, I was unlucky enough to have to visit the bank near where I work at Base 1, which is essentially next to the largest university campus in Europe (sounds impressive, but isn’t). I made the mistake of mis-timing my trip to the “university branch” of my bank and I ended up not setting off from work until shortly before midday.

I had to fight my way through hoards of students who seemed to be loitering on the pavement as I made my way up the main road towards the bank. What were they doing, just standing around in their scruffy clothes, all young and happy and IN MY FUCKING WAY. Bastards.

Come on!! Get out of my fucking way, the queue at the bank will be huge by the time I get there. MOVE, you retarded tit. How can somebody so utterly brain dead be at university? You lot deserve to be in thousands of pounds of debt; they’d have laughed at your frigging application form in my day. You should’ve got a job at McDonald’s when you were 18 because that’s where you’re going to end up when you’re 21!

I got to the bank and, having broken through the lines of more mongoloid students as they stood around in front of the building, I found myself stuck behind another as they tried to work out why the door wouldn’t open when they pushed or pulled it. “You need to press that button to release the security lock”… rattle, bang, bang… as they ignored me and continued their struggle. Eventually, somebody exited and we made our way in.

I was fourth in the queue of people awaiting attendance from the single cashier. It’s 12.05pm, why is there only one position open?…. I stood patiently and listened to the nature of business of the young woman who was being dealt with:

“Hiya (cheerily)!!! Can I transfer £3 from this account into this one please?” The cashier set about the task with an air of super efficiency, “Anything else?”

“Yes, and £17 back from that one to this one too?” Tippy tappy, tap, tap. “Anything else that I can help you with?”

“Errm, yeah, can you just check the balance in this account?”

“Oh, and this one too please?”

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

“Anything else?”

“Could I withdraw £20 from this account please?”

For fuck’s sake.

The cashier composed herself, smiled, “Next please”.

The next man deposited a cheque and was gone, as quick as a flash.

“Next please.”

“Hello, could you check the balance on this account please….”

….

….

“…Oh, sorry, I’ve given you the wrong card, it’s errrm, hang on, this one!”

….

….

“…Oh no! Sorry!!! It’s THIS card, sorry, yes this one. Or…. can I just have a look at that card you’ve got? Oh, errrm…”

Jesus fucking Christ Almighty! How many cards and bank accounts do these fucking people have? They’re too stupid to have anything more complicated than a fucking piggy bank, how on earth have they managed to get more than one bank account??? For fuck’s sake, you fucking nobheads, you’ve just been queuing up behind some other friggin’ spaz for half an hour, couldn’t you have used that time to sort out which fucking card you were using?

Gosh.

I’d hate to be a cashier.

Once I’d conducted my business, I had to endure the idiot in front of me trying to figure out what “Press to exit, push door when green light is lit” means.


He’s not fat, he’s “big-boned”
My lard-arse cat Sonny is asleep on the bed next to me here. Sonny is an extremely handsome, but very nervous ginger tom. He is quite high-maintenance. Here he is on a good day:

My, what sharp claws he has.

Sonny is very nervous, he tends to comfort eat. He comfort eats a lot. He comfort eats to such an extent that he has now put on so much weight that his fur doesn’t fit him. His little orange coat is a bit stretched so that his fur is sticking up.

Fat pig.

How do you put a cat on a diet when it shares its home with three normal specimens? I might get him some speed.

Does:

neurotic cat + speed = good combination?

Can I go on?

Of course I can, I always seem to. More’s the pity.

You can stick your poncy Duke of Edinburgh award, FT! This is a tale of real adventure, real danger of life-threatening moments where split-second decisions were vital.

Yes, I had to WALK home from Swinton, a mile and half away, this evening. Walk. “It’s that thing you do when you go to the bar”, somebody once told me when I questioned the suggestion that we “WALK???” home from Coventry city centre after a night out. Walking a mile and a half in school shoes (those ones with really hard, but thin soles) is a killer, especially on uneven paving slabs.

When you’re walking along and you come to a junction and you stop because you’ve seen that a car is turning into that junction and you don’t want to cause the motorist any delay, why is it that the motorist invariably waves you on? You’ve stopped for fuck’s sake, it’s no odds to you, but they might miss a gap in the traffic if they don’t make the turn there and then and then they’ll hate you forever. So you have to set off in a half-hearted run to show your appreciation for their courtesy, mumbling to yourself all the to the other pavement “Stupid fuckers, fancy making me run. Twats.”

But what tragedy befell me to plunge me into such a test of my endurance? My car is getting MOTd tomorrow and I had to drop it into the garage this evening because I won’t have chance to take it there before work in the morning. The garage is OK. I just hope that the chap who I handed my keys to – who isn’t the sharpest of the bunch of the blokes there – remembers to lock my car away inside the workshop before they go home tonight. Should I go and check?

I’m sure the MOT is a complete rip off. For those not in the know, MOT stands for “Ministry of Transport” (I think) and is the name given to the annual test of roadworthiness of all vehicles of 3 years of age and over. The test costs about £40 at the moment, but they always manage to find minor repairs that bring the total bill to over £100.

Of course in the olden days of my first car, the MOT was an annual event that filled me dread. Already wallowing in the mire of postgraduate debt, my car was a continual drain on my resources. It was a 12 year old, 1980 Ford Fiesta 1.1 GL (that meant that it had a rear windscreen wiper!). It overheated all the time and I had to drive with the radiator on hot through all weather conditions. I later discovered that it needed a new radiator, after 3 thermostats and lots of very uncomfortable journeys – not only because of the heat, but also the smell of curry that wafted through the car when the heater blower was turned on. I think I replaced just about everything on that car at least once by the time I got rid of it. I did many of the repairs myself and when it became necessary to replace the starter motor a second time, I just couldn’t face battling with the thing while lying on the frosty February ground. I got myself a loan and bought a new(er) car. That little car was famous around here; I painted eyelashes on the bonnet above the headlamps you see. The things you do when you’re bored and you have a Hammerite-loaded paintbrush in your hand.

Heated debate
There was a burning issue that I was determined to open a debate on, but I can’t remember what it was.

OK then, instead of that, let me ask the incredibly important question: what is your favourite type of bean?

There’s a big political debate and vote in the UK Parliament today as the government tries to push through laws to introduce ID cards in Britain. They tell us that ID cards will be vital to:

• Prevent terrorism
• Prevent crime
• Counter benefit fraud
• Double up as a passport/drivers’ licence
• Enable us to have all our necessary identifications in one place

To implement the scheme, the Government will have to set up a huge IT system to store lots of our personal details, plus biometric data. This will mean that people who have never committed a crime, who have never done anything other than be a citizen of the UK, will have to have DNA tests, their fingerprints taken and an iris scan. Carrying ID cards will not be compulsory. They will cost “in the region of £100” to those who wish to have them.

No doubt the database will be outsourced to India for maintenance. Whatever happens, I’d like to bet that personal data ends up being sold to the highest bidders.

In terms of playing the prevention of terrorism card, it’s already been established that the terrorists who perpertrated the 7th July London bombings were UK citizens; they’d have had UKID cards in the same way as they carried UK passports to go to Pakistan. Those who committed the train bombings in Madrid carried Spanish ID cards. And what about foreign terrorists entering a country, they wouldn’t have an ID card anyway.

I’ve yet to see one argument or shred of evidence to convince me that ID cards can be of use in prevention of terrorism.

It’s all a load of complete and utter bollocks, thought up by a paranoid government that is hell-bent on having total control of the people of UK. It is also part of a wider plan of the Europeans to ensure that all people in the EU carry ID cards, with all sorts of personal data being available to share between countries.

Hrrrrrm, not liking the sound of this. Why not just come out and barcode us at birth, or give us serial numbers in the same way that the Nazis treated the Jews and their other victims?

Fuckers. They can shitting well shit off. This is something that I definitely will demonstrate about. I know who I am, my family knows who I am, I can prove my ID ten times over, I do not want or need an ID card. I especially do not want to be fingerprinted or have my DNA analysed or iris scanned and stored on some central computer, along with other information about my family, who I live with, who I vote for, where I shop, how often I leave the country, etc, etc.

How about a quick vote? Who would like an ID card that:

• Is compulsory to have, but not to carry
• Contains biometric data such as fingerprints, iris scans, DNA profiles
• Contains personal data about you and your family
• Results in all your personal and health data being kept on one database
• Can be used to track a person’s movements from job to job, country to country
• Can act as a passport (which we already have)
• Can act as a driver’s licence (which we already have)
• Can act as proof of ID (which we already have)
• Will cost at least £100

Come on, any takers?

Seven seven, nine eleven
While I’m on about terrorism, which I’m not, there’s something that really pisses me off about terrorist attacks (apart from horrific murder and destruction of course): the way they are identified through the abbreviated date of the attack, rather than the location or the targets.

It all started with the attacks on the World Trade Centre and Pentagon on 11th September, 2001. These atrocities, in which thousands of real people died and in which others’ lives were destroyed, became abbreviated to 9/11. I think people were trying to signify a link between the loss of life from the NY Fire Department and Emergency Services – dial 911 you see. But in years to come, people will only know of 9/11, not about where the attacks took place, who it affected and why they made such an impact.

Of course the 11th of September 2001 was a kind of watershed, but the dehumanisation of the outrage seems to me to be a dangerous thing.

On 7th July 2005, 52 people were murdered by terrorists on the public transport network in London. To continue the trend, the press insist on describing these events simply by saying 7/7. This is impersonal and disrespectful.

Worse still, it’s yet another example of annoying Americanisms creeping into our culture and it gets right on my fucking tits!

It’s fascinating, finding out how people get referred to this blog. I’m sure everybody has a look to see what Google or MSN search terms people use.

Here are some good ones from the past day or so.

A visitor from Kuala Lumpur asks: “Is it wrong to stare at women’s breasts?” . To put your mind at ease, no, it’s not wrong at all. Certainly not if they’re a nice purt pair that are worth having a good ogle at. Of course, some ladies may object, but I’m sure most would find it quite flattering.

Then again, if you happen to be a Muslim – as you might be, judging from your location – then YES! It’s extremely wrong to stare at women’s breasts and you should be throroughly ashamed of yourself. You’re lucky not to have your head lopped off for even thinking such vile things. Perv.

Another visitor from Australia has just found me by searching for “the kill ers wallpaper”. No idea, sorry.

Some others include:

• “hairy people”
• “videos of manky mating”
• “heather mills mccartney hate”
• “twat”
• “twat sniffer”
• “sniff my cunt”

I think we’re seeing a theme here. Dirty fuckers.

Wet
It’s been raining for the past 12 hours. Shitting weather.

What would I have done if the weather had been fine?

1. Washed my car
2. Gone for a walk up a hill
3. Raked up the leaves from the front lawn
4. Helped Dad erect a fence (MSN search: “erect dad”)
5. Sat and pissed about on the internet all day

I’m going for number 5.

Pork
There’s a very Piggy feel to the weekend. Not only has blogworld been shocked and worried by that cunt Piggy being put to the mercy of the NHS , but I’ve been going mad buying all sorts of pig-products .

I love pork products and pigs have got to be the absolute BEST animals on the planet for the variety of meats we can get from them. Not only that, they’re cute little (big) buggers when they’re not slaughtered and chopped up into various bits of things. It’s true when they say “You can eat everything except the squeak”.

I just wish meat didn’t come from animals, it’s a real shame.

The smell of Sunday
In a line from kd lang’s Summer Fling, she sings “The smell of Sunday in our hair, we ran on the beach with Kennedy flair”.

Oh if only I could get the smell of Sunday out of my hair. The smell of Sunday chez Sniff is a mixture of persistent Dad poo and boiling veg.

I’ve no idea what it is about my dad’s Sunday poos, but he saves up some of the rankest smelling shite for the day of rest. How anybody is supposed to rest with that permeating the house is beyond me. The smell survives open windows and multiple blasts of air freshener. I’m currently trying to keep it at bay with Toilet Duck and a closed toilet lid.

There’s something odd about men; they can’t just go for a poo, they have to go for a “sit”. How can having a poo become an event? Do all men save their poos for a special occasion, or are they generally normal during the week, but have some Y-linked thing that compels them to sit on the toilet for an hour each Sunday, making smells that could fell a herd of buffalo?

Who knows???

I’m off to see if it’s safe to lift the lid on the toilet again. I may be some time.