Christmas card: the first
And here it is, my first Christmas card of 2006. And who should it come from, but that lovely airplane-fixing, lady-loving, first generation Eurotrash-Canadian grrrly-grrrl, Connie?

My usual response to receiving Christmas cards this early is “Fucking scummers!”, but since Connie sent hers all the way from Canada, I’m actually hugely thrilled to receive this one.

I do LOATHE writing Christmas cards though. It’s something that I’m now restricting to people I see on a less than monthly basis. The fuckers at work can arse off, I’m not writing “..and best wishes for 2006, Tina x” loads of times when I don’t even mean it. A waste of paper and ink, and, more importantly, time.

We’ve now got this thing whereby people are “giving to charity” instead of spending money on cards. Liars! Everyone knows that the fiver they’ll save will pay for at least 2 pints (will it? no idea these days) at the Christmas do. Why can’t they just be honest and say that they hate everyone at work and can’t be arsed to write cards to a bunch of wankers? That’s what I do.

Fuck ’em!

I don’t send Christmas cards to my family members either, I’ve never really seen the point. I can shout my Christmas wishes at them: “I wish you’d fucking shut the fuck up once in a fucking while and let me watch what the fuck I want in peace and fucking quiet! Merry Christmas!!”

But back to the good thing about Christmas cards – you see, you get balanced debate here as one half of my psyche wrestles with the other – Christmas cards are a great way to let people who you’ve not seen for ages know that you’re still alive and that you’re still their mate (very handy in case you need a spare bed for the night should you be passing through London, Brighton, Coventry, Surrey, British Columbia…). For these reasons, and there are others too, I write Christmas cards to those people I don’t get to see particularly often.

And back to the card from Connie… Awfully nice of a lass who, we all know is extremely busy with fixing aeroplanes, grinding rust, drinking fish juice (!), and loving her lovely French tickler, to spare the time to send me of all people a card, don’t you think? Indeed, but not only was there a card in the package that was delivered today. No, no, no(n)! The card accompanied the latest items that have been included in the great Canadian/UK cultural exchange.

So what else was in the packet?

And in the packet, there was a bag,

Is that a fucking harpoon??

And in that bag there was a fish,

BUT wait! A bit of fuckin’ delish smoked salmon to accompany That Woman’s pickles (or what’s left of ’em) for the Boxing Day running buffet is all very nice, but still a bit odd to send with a card. So what else was in the package that came all the way from British Columbia???? Get a load of these!

OH YES! Thank you Connie and God bless us everyone!

Right, some points of clarification are clearly (!) needed, since some of you can’t read simple English!

Firstly, the charity motorbike toy run is Saturday 10th December. The ride I had on this Friday just gone was a practice to see if I could handle being on a motorbike.

Secondly, the cake cannot be iced until the week before Christmas because it needs a couple of doses of brandy before then. I will photograph this process in its entirity, including the addition of the comedy plastic snowmen, reindeer and ribbon. I’m tempted to use Rudolph Buckaroo as a cake decoration for added entertainment when mum tries to cut the thing after a few sherries. Sort of booby trap it so it explodes if you struggle too hard with the icing.

Thirdly, errrm supermarkets are utter bastards.

Fourthly, the songs!

OK, the first one continues…

“….Oh yeah,
Oh yeah, you got to get it right.

You can do anything that you want to do,
Put your mind, body and soul to it
Prove it to yourself and say
I want (I want)
I will (I will)
I can do anything

It’s a difficult world and you’ve got to prove
That you’re ready and you can do it
Nothing in this world can stop you
I know
I can
I will fulfil my dream

Don’t stop movin’
Keep it up
Keep on groovin’
Get it right
You got to get it right
Don’t stop movin’
Dance your life
Keep on groovin’
Get it right,
You got to get it right…”

and so on

This was, of course, Living Joy’s Don’t stop moving, which is right up there with Alison Limerick’s Where love lives in the dance classics hall of fame. If you don’t know Alison Limerick’s Where love lives, then you’ve probably never heard of Living Joy’s Keep on moving either. Shame.

The second song:

“‘Bah Humbug!’, no that’s too strong
‘Cause it’s my favourite holiday”

Was indeed Christmas Wrapping, but the British spelling should’ve given it away that this was the Spice Girls version and not the original by The Waitresses. Soz. But, as Living Joy tell us: You got to get it right! Oooh, I’m such a trickster, trickster.

Sixthly, my docs are NOT girls’ docs. They are proper Docs and I have the blisters to prove it. I can assure you that the ankle padding is for decoration, it serves no purpose in protecting the wearer’s lower legs.

Seventhly, something even more appetising coming up for Day 6 of the Sniffy Advent (tomorrow, obviously, it’s not like I’m writing these and just posting them at midnight or anything).

A peck of pickled peppers
I’ve no idea what a peck is, or a bushel for that matter. A peck is a small kiss as far as I know. And neither pecks nor peppers bear any relevance to this post. Pickles, on the other hand is what we’re talking today!

In particular, I’m referring to difficulties in sourcing these:

And this:

As Christmas approaches.

Fuck, they’re only pickles, Tina. Get a grip woman!

Fuck right off, they are NOT “only pickles”, they are Hayward’s pickles and they are absolutely essential for my happiness. Without them, the Boxing Day running buffet might as well be a, oh it’s too horrible to even contemplate.

I’ve been known to be running around on 23rd of December, desperately trying to find these things. So, lesson learnt, I try to get hold of big, massive jars of both the mixed pickles and the piccalilli well in advance of the Christmas period. Alas, this year, I was

far

too

late…

Visiting Tesco on Friday night, I was outraged by the absence of Hayward’s piccalilli and the their stocking of only the measly 460g jars of the mixed pickles. I scoffed! There was no way they were having my pickle pounds if they couldn’t have the common courtesy to stock the pickles that I wanted in the size that I wanted.

So I tried to get into the psyche of the retailers and came to the conclusion that the more scummier ones would supply pickles worthy of the name “pickles”. I headed to Morrisons, sure that they’d have shelf upon shelf of delicious vegetable and vinegar-based products. Shocked and a-fucking-palled! They had only their own brand of piccalilli (as if anybody would!) and about three metres of shelf space covering all the varieties of pickled onions under the sun. They even had about a metre of shelf space for olives (olives, in Morrisons, in SWINTON!). But no mixed pickles of any description.

I almost fainted.

Determined to be successful in my quest, I found myself in Sainsbury’s who, thankfully, stocked both the piccalilli and the mixed pickles (small jars only), but also large jars of tangy pickled silverskin onions. I couldn’t bare/bear the thought of fighting with all the fucking mongs who frequent Asda, nor could I risk that pile of crap shop not stocking them either, so I cut my losses and bought them at Sainsbugs. I had no choice, for all I know, that valuable shelf space will be given over to yet MORE mince pies and assorted glittery crap next time I go there.

It’s fucking bollocks, the way you can’t get what you want at this time of year, but there’s so much utter shite available that always ends up producing the biggest “reduced to clear” pile come January. You never see Hayward’s mixed pickles with a reduced to clear sticker on, do you?

I need to get it in my diary for next October: “31st October, 2006 – have you bought your pickles yet?”

As much as people love wearing Dr Marten’s boots, there’s always a certain degree of agony that must be endured during the first few weeks of wearing a new pair. I am currently experiencing that agony and am suffering blisters on my heels and slight rubbing on my deformed little toe.

Of course, the pain experienced while breaking these things in causes the sufferer to have a certain gait. In my case, I walk even more like a dyke than usual, with bounding strides and minimal (restricted) bending of the ankles – a bit like a limp. This transfers to the upper half of my body that kind of swaggers and sways to compensate for the loss of movement in my ankles and the effect that this has on my balance.

Extremely attractive.

It’ll all be worth it in the long run… uness I get some sort of infection in my wounds and end up with a nasty dose of Stephacockaliticus.

Waking early Sunday morning
Having had my sleep disturbed from the early hours by my fucking nutcase cat, I am now rather tired. Instead of doing things that I should be doing (ironing, going the gym, painting that loft hatch in my bedroom), I’m once again sat in front of my computer, pissing about.

Actually I’m sat sort of to the side of my computer and facing my monitor. In front, behind, to the side, my time would be much better served by doing something else.

I shall get off my arse and go the gym I think – blisters and all.

Christmas cakesniffing
It isn’t everyone’s cup of tea (or slice of cake), but the Christmas cake is one of the things I’ve always enjoyed most about the festive period. You know you’ve only got about 30 sleeps till Father Christmas comes when you make your Christmas cake.

For as long as I can remember, we’ve always used the same recipe for the Sniffy cake; I can recall those Friday evenings of my childhood, sometime in late November or early December when mum would busy herself in the kitchen, up to her elbows in stickiness. As the evening wore on, the aroma of warm fruitcake and cooking treacle drifted from the oven and filled the house, as if announcing “It’s Christmas!”.

For the following weeks, up until about a week before Christmas when it got entombed in royal icing, I’d be in charge of supervising the spiking the cake with rum or brandy. It was a huge responsibility ensuring that Mother didn’t forget.

Since last year, when I decided to resurrect that old Farmhouse Kitchen recipe, the baking of the Christmas cake has become a joint effort: Mum does the mithering, while I do the shouting. Somehow, we get a decent cake as the end product , which is a jolly good job considering the effort and the cost of the ingredients. But in an age when it’s so easy to go and buy one of these things, and let’s face it, the quality of the ones the supermarkets is excellent (not including Asda, obviously), there’s something good and wholesome about making one.

Today was the Sniffy Christmas cake baking day. The main argument centred on Mother’s lining of the cake tin, which needs to be double lined with greased foil and greaseproof paper. She made a bit of a cack-handed hash of it and I, at my petulant best, told her it was a complete abortion and that it was going to be shit. But this is the result of our combined efforts:

See how Connie didn’t manage to fit the foil and the paper snuggly to the inside of the tin and how the cake has not filled the shape because of this restriction? An ABORTION! That’s what that is!

Still, it’ll probably be OK once it’s been trimmed down and encased in marzipan and icing. Especially if I manage to sneak a fair bit of booze into it. Not too much, obviously. I don’t want to be getting tipsy and then falling off the wagon in spectacular fashion; finding myself running around the house, eating the entire cake and raiding the booze cupboard for sherry and leftover rum.

The recipe? Go on then:

Making it

1. Line an 8 inch square or 9 inch diameter round cake tin with a layer of foil and a layer of greaseproof paper, lightly greased on both sides (a 7 inch diameter round tin is fine). ABORTION ALERT! Allow both foil and greaseproof paper to extend above the sides of the tin by about 1½ inches. Tie a double thickness of brown paper round the outside (I cut an A4 manila envelope in half along its length and tied the two pieces around).
2. Preheat the oven to 160°C/Gas 3.
3. Cream together the butter, sugar, treacle & lemon rind. (This really hurts your arm)
4. Sift the flour, baking powder, spice, nutmeg & salt. Add the fruit and the ground and chopped almonds.
5. Beat the eggs until frothy. (Beat your mother)
6. Add half the beaten egg and 4tbsp of the flour and fruit mixture to the creamed butter mix, beat in.
7. Add the remaining egg and the rest of the dry ingredients, gradually mixing in the strained lemon juice (if using brandy or rum, add it to the lemon juice). Do not beat, but mix thoroughly.
8. Spoon the mixture into the tin.
9. Place the tin in the oven in the centre of the oven and immediately reduce the heat to 150°C/Gas 2. Bake for 1½ hours. Over the next half hour, gradually reduce the heat to 135°C/Gas 1. If, at this stage, the cake is browning too quickly, cover loosely with foil. Total cooking time should be about 3 ½ hours, or until the cake is firm with no sticky residue on the poky stick. Leave the cake in the tin to cool.
10. Next day, remove the cake from the tin and wrap it in foil for storage (if you have the strength: this ain’t no light sponge cake and it weighs a fucking tonne!). It should keep for several months.

• Am I going to die?
• Will they show mercy and switch off the life-support machine, or leave me a dribbling cabbage?
• In those seconds prior to meeting my doom, will there be opportunity to jump clear of danger?
• Which way should I jump?
• Will it hurt?
• How do I scratch my nose with these big gloves on?
• Can I let go of the grab rail to scratch my nose?
• Where is my nose?
• I wish I could put my specs on properly through this fucking helmet, the side is really digging into my head. I wonder if I’ll remember to put my contact lenses in next time?
• When will the feeling return to my lower legs and feet?
• My shoulders and knees and ankles have seized up.
• This is fun!

So the purpose of this harem scarem adventure? Well, some bloke had really gone to town on decorating his house with Christmas lights and there was a gathering for the switch on. Funds were being raised for the Hospice charity that will benefit from the main Bikers’ toy run and some of the Bikers turned up to show support, along with Coronation Street actress Bev Callard, who was doing the big switch on….

So you see, being a “biker chick” (oh yes!) not only allows you to ride around on a tonne’s worth of vibrator, you also get to meet minor celebrities such as soap actresses, Bob the Builder, giant snowmen AND inflatable Father Christmasses.

Bev and her hubby own a pub and they kindly provided coffees for the bike gang after the switch on. There we were, blocking entrances on a busy Friday night while all the punters were awaiting the start of the pub’s own talent show, “The Eccles Factor” (no lie), when who should turn up as guest of honour? No, not the Pope, it was fellow soap star Bill Tarmey (Jack Duckworth). Whatever next? I might try and wangle a part.

Friday night
It’s been such a long time since I’ve found myself in a pub, let alone a normal (not city centre) pub on a Friday Night, that I’d forgotten what they were like. Lots of women with highlights and tans, all in their best clobber and jewellery, drinking God knows what – what do women drink? Not pints, that’s for sure.

And there I was, in a pub – not a “nice” pub, but a decent, working class pub – on a Friday night in Salford and I was thinking, I could quite happily do this again. I could quite happily go back ten years in time and go to a pub like this, get pissed and have a laugh, maybe even get on that stupid stage and sing in front of my mates and minor celebs alike.

I wrapped myself up in my biker gear, squeezed myself into the helmet, struggled to get my fucking bastard specs on, slapped my driver on his back and off we sped into the chilly, windy night.

Hey ho.

“Bah, humbug!” No, that’s too strong
‘Cause it is my favourite holiday

Happy Ecksmass!
Season’s Greetings and Happy Holidays to everyone. Santa Claus is coming to town.

I fucking HATE Xmas, it is meaningless. Any cards or a greeting with “Xmas” on them get binned instantly.

Ecksmass.

What the hell is Ecksmass when it’s at home? Can somebody explain it?

Merry Christmas and a happy New Year. That’s how it should be.

Not Xmas, Season’s Greetings, New Years, or Holidays.

If you want to wish somebody a Happy Hannukah, then wish them so. Same goes for Eid, Diwali, Yuletide and any others that might fall at this time of year, but show a bit of respect and keep them separate, don’t lump them under “Season’s Greetings” for fear of offending somebody.

And I’d like “New Years” explaining to me. Surely you only get one new year at a time, so why the plural?

Holidays – you work till the very last minute and get two days off work before returning for that twighlight zone between Christmas and New Year, then you get another day off. I suppose that this one is actually correct over here since this is when the UK gets most of its bank holidays. Unless you’re me. I’m taking some extra days off so I get a full fortnight break from the 23rd December till 9th January. Ho ho ho!

Ho ho NO! I don’t know what pisses me off about “Santa Claus”, but I’ve always preferred “Father Christmas”. I think “Santa Claus” must send me into singing “Santa Claus is coming to town”; although I start off with the Jackson’s version, this inevitably switches to Bruce Springsteen’s at some point, and this automatically ruins the entire Christmas period for me as soon as it happens.

SHITE! It’s happened. Bah fucking humbug.

Shopping with Connie (awwww, bless her) is one of those Christmas traditions that I both enjoy and endure. In recent years, since moving back into the family home, I’ve always managed to get most of my presents bought by the second week of December. Internet shopping, late night opening, good ranges of stocking fillers at the supermarkets, having TKMaxx on the doorstep here; they’re all really useful in providing a relatively pain-free experience…

…Until Mother mentions, somewhere around the evening of the 20th of December, “Oh, I haven’t bought a thing yet, I’ve just not had time and I don’t know my way around the shops.” (she’s retired). So, after an hour and a half of queuing on the roads of Barton and Trafford, after fights in car parks, we find ourselves in the Trafford Centre (big massive hell-hole shopping centre on outskirts of Manc).

Things are generally really nice, lovely in fact: we wander round Debenhams, Marks’s, Selfridges, smelling the latest fragrances, looking at the lovely things; we do really well in finding things that we think people will like.

But there’s one thing that always causes trouble: my fucking brother! He always asks for something that is simply impossible to source in any real shop; this can be a CD, DVD, particular make/type of jeans. This is when panic sets in, Mum enters headless chicken mode and insists on going into every single shop in the entire shopping centre, asking bemused assistants for the weird request of my stupid brother then berating them when they haven’t got it.

Added to the experience is the heat in these places. It being December and fucking freezing outside, you wrap up warm. But all the shops are super-heated and Mother gets a sweat on. I ask if I can carry her coat for her, but she is so focussed on searching (but not finding), that she carries on.

Things become fraught. Mother’s limp worsens, she gets hotter and hotter. I fall to the floor and beg her to give up, saying that I’ll look for it online and that my brother will just have to wait, but it’s his own fault for being a dick and not asking for normal things – the tosser. Admitting defeat, but relieved, we give up the search and go somewhere for a nice coffee and a sit down.

Of course, at this point my poor mum is exhausted and very hot, but the car is a furthest possible point from where we are. I take her to the car park and make her wait while I go fetch the car, she has to sit behind me because she has difficulty in getting into the passenger side.

My mum is an elderly lady and this makes me sad.

But it doesn’t stop her annoying the fuck out of me.

I was a good girl and made her come to TKMaxx with me last night. It was nice and quiet there and she had a good nosy around, bought some nice nick-nacks for people. I think she enjoyed it and I may take her for the big shop next week, time permitting.

Did you ever sit, those rainy Sunday afternoons of your childhood and look out of your bedroom window as the rain poured down, trapping you indoors?

The raindrops combined to form rivulets that cut a path down the windowpane. You’d watch, hypnotised by the repetitive jerky dance of each drop as it followed the route taken by those that fell before, by the sound of rain as it hit the leaves of the trees that enclosed the garden.

Your breath would condense on the cold glass, clouding your entertainment, so you’d clear the mist with the sleeve of your jumper and resume the watch through a streaked and fluffy window; a cold, damp sleeve providing only the slightest distraction from your intense concentration.

Looking at the larger drops as they are suspended, defying gravity, you notice the distorted world contained within and try to relate the curves and colours to your own world. You wonder what it’s like in droplet world… most probably wet, I should think.

Not forgetting that today is World AIDS Day, it is also the first day of Advent.

Advent is of course “the liturgical period preceding Christmas, beginning in Western churches on the fourth Sunday before Christmas and in Eastern churches in mid-November, and observed by many Christians as a season of prayer, fasting, and penitence.”

Here in the UK, this meaning is lost and each day of Advent simply means a little choccie from a calendar for a greedy guts nipper.

I know Herge is doing something wonderful and festive each day in the run up to Christmas, but that doesn’t stop the rest of us having a bit of fun and marking this very special and important time of year.

Each day, I hope to spread the joy of Christmas by bringing you my thoughts on the special, the wonderful, the tacky, the irritating and the plain awful things you see, hear and experience only at this time of year (or from late October if you live in a scummy part of the world like I do).

Day 1 of the Sniffy Advent Calendar is suitably marked by what met me when I got home yesterday evening: