How Rage Begins

Being the "techno 'tard" that I am, what to others are simple tasks, to me are pure Hell.
I'll keep it as simple as I can (For my benefit)

Apple has Bluetooth.
Phone has Bluetooth.
I want to Bluetooth stuff to the apple.
Have attempted connection.
Boxes pop up about authorising.
I authorise.
Fuck all happens.
No bluetoothing occurs.
I try 4 or 5 times.
Nothing happens.
Short fuse ignited.
Constant banging, scraping and building work next door.
Still no bluetoothing.
Short fuse nearing crisis point.
Banging so loud and hard, stuff is moving in my house.
Sawing. Sawing. Sawing. Sawing.

Remember those kids spinning tops you got going by pushing a handle in and out of the top?
That is what the ball of molten anger was doing in the pit of my stomach.
Pointless anger management strategies are as follows…

Take deep breaths….. No. Makes top spin faster.
Counting…. No. makes me count hammer blows. Makes top spin faster.
Remove self from situation… No. Can be heard everywhere in the house. Makes top spin faster.
Relaxing starting at the feet… No. Floor is vibrating with blows, causing me to count… Makes top spin faster.
No relief.

I calmed down when a friend arrived and told me her fantastic news.
The child she gave up for adoption in 1972 is looking for her.
She was so delighted and happy that the anger went!
So did the builders.
A smoke and huge mug of tea helped as well.

Positive, Negative And Eeeeesh

At last something positive has come from belonging to Genes Reunited.
I discovered that the person my Grandfather called his ‘Step-sister’ was his ‘Half-sister’, they shared the same father.
She is still alive and living in Cambridge.
Tuesday I met her daughter.
She is just as interested in discovering the family story as me.
I did catch myself staring at her, looking for familiarities in her face and I’m sure she did the same.
I now have a copy of my Great grandfather’s birth certificate and, at last, can confirm he was born in Cork.
The other breakthrough is I now have my Great Great Grandparent’s names.
The irony of this won’t be lost on all of you.
My Great Grandfather was an Inspector of Schools and his Father was a Chemist!
I was on the point of giving up but the search is now back on.

I got an email this evening that involved changing a letter in a word and punting it on.
Feeling a little bit wicked I made sure I sent it to all the dyslexics I know!
I hate those ‘chain letter’ email things; they should bollocks it right up!
Then my Big little brother infected me with some kind of MSN spyware.
It trawled my address book and got up to mischief.
See, instant karma, for letting the dyslexics loose on the internet scrabble thing.

This is a cracker..
The story aside, check out the picture.
What are they doing to the eyes?
Isn’t the whole point of what she’s wearing that we don’t see her?
Even if it were an actual photo of the woman, you’d have to have some sort of fucking Autism to recognise and identify an individual woman from Bangladesh.

Shells And Palms

My beachcombing and shell collecting has thrown up an awkward problem.
Combined with some good weed, a serious touch of OCD, the photo is the frightening result.
Cannabis doesn’t lead to heroin; it leads to fucking ‘Handycrafts’!

Now for the problems.
1.. How do I get it to stay together?
2.. What the hell can I mount it on?
And most importantly,
3.. How the fuck do I get it off the living room floor?

Come on, you are bright people, HELP!

Crisp-e visited yesterday, and I was close to tying him into the chair to keep from being anywhere near it!
On top of his dyspraxic tendencies, the bloke has a chaotic aura that he drags around with him.
His haplessness swooshes about him like an invisible cloak and this can sweep things from tables that he is not ACTUALLY near!
A bunch of arranged shells in the middle of the floor was basically, inviting disaster.

Today, instead of finding a nutter at Mass.
I, was someone’s nutter!
Palm Leaves are a fecking health and safety nightmare.
Kids were whipping each other with them and were nearly all crying by the time they had ‘processed’.
Everybody, but me, seemed to know the origami required to turn them into a cross.
The Gospel was FOUR pages long! FOUR!
I got disruptive.
Started poking the point of it into holes in the pews, trying to turn the pages of the liturgy book with it.
The man next to me took it; rustled up a cross and gave it back.
I was SO bored.
All the statues were Yashmak-ed beyond the eyeballs, in a fetching purple, so there was nothing to look at either.
As soon as the priest had passed my shoulder, I was out of there and part of the procession.
Scared the shite out of him when he turned round outside!
He let out a little yelp.
I frighten him a bit, I think.
I gave him a thumbs up, said,
“Loving your work” and headed off for some smokes.

The new BBC six part, “The Passion” has started.
It doesn't say anything about a ‘new’ ending, so I’ll give it a miss.

Avoidance, Adverts, Amsterdam

There is a secondhand bookshop along Rue Albert that I avoid.
It’s a few doors along from the Porn shop and you’ve got more chance seeing me coming out of there.
But something in the window of the ‘avoided’ shop caught my eye and I stopped.
This place must have some sort of super sensor because it started making a noise like I had entered the shop.
I stepped away.
It continued.
Then he was there. The reason for my avoidance.
I know that the bloke who runs the shop served 18 months for sex offences with a minor.
It was all over the local press a few years ago.
The way my memory is wired I can’t forget this and want to scream,
“Nonce!” every time I see him.
There is also a part of me that thinks, ‘He’s done his time, his slate’s clean’.
But the overwhelming part of me just wants to go,
NONCE! NONCE! NONCE! NONCE! NONCE! NONCE! NONCE! NONCE! at the top of my voice.
Fortunately, I had the ipod on and pretended I couldn’t hear him as I walked away.

Adverts, as usual, have been catching my eye.
The BT one, where she is sat in bed with the laptop, Nick from ‘My Family’ is cleaning his teeth.
She tells him she’s lost the file with all the baby pictures and stuff.
He says not to worry they can make another one.
She thinks he means ‘make more babies’. He means another file.
It’s all backed up you see!

In the real world, the first words from his mouth would have been,
“What have I told you about fecking around with that thing? How many times have I told you to tell me want you want and I’ll find it? Jesus Christ woman, give it here! Don‘t touch ANYTHING!”
No thoughts of a baby there.
I can also guarantee that the conversation would not have been conducted between the bedroom and en suite.
Yeah BT, we all have fucking en suite bathrooms.

The other ad is the Vanish Oxy-somethingorother.
This loud woman appears in a house and says,
‘You like whites don’t you?’
The lady of the house answers in the affirmative. And she is then shown how shite her whites are.
I scream at the TV,
“NO! and I’d like to know what the FUCK you are doing in my kitchen!?”

I’ve fallen in love with Johnny Kingdom.
I like wildlife programmes, I don’t particularly care if people are good I like them enthusiastic.
Bill Oddie gets on my tits with his totally childish attempts at humour.
Johnny is enthusiastic!!
Plus, he has one of the best West Country accents ever.
I read somewhere that on TV he is using his ‘Posh’ voice.

He has a new series out charting the trials and tribulations of owning his own land.
The tricks he is trying out to encourage animals to settle on there.
Through Johnny I have come up with a new drinking game.
During his latest series, every time he says, “My Land” drink a shot of vodka.
You’ll be mash up by 9pm, courtesy of BBC2.
Almost worth the license fee.
Almost.

The Chancellor has more or less, guaranteed that Labour lose the next election.
11p on a pack of smokes and increasing the price of booze.
Bye Bye Labour.

My Big little brother made it back from Amsterdam, unscathed and STI free!
There was also an awesome bit of synchronicity.
He went to one of my favourite coffee shops on the 8th of March.
Ten years to the very day, that I was there.
Love it!

After The Storm

This morning I spent over two hours walking along the beach.
Just to see what the sea had given up during last evening’s storm.
Judging by the amount of shells that have washed ashore, it was just as brutal at sea last night.

It was still very windy but the sun was out.

I met four people during the whole time.

A couple with metal detectors, a bloke with his dogs and Mr fuckingknowitall.

There were hundreds of small pink shells so I decided to collect a few for the garden.

This is when Mr Fuckingknowitall couldn't keep his thoughts to himself.

He started gesturing at me, it was so windy I couldn't hear what he was saying.

He caught up with me and started going on about 'people like you', 'Sea defences'.

At first I thought he was going to tell me that homosexuality had caused global warming and it was my fault there were cuttlefish all over the Promenade.

No.

People like me were eroding our natural defenses and would be responsible for his daughter's cellar flooding.

Or something.

Twat.

I told him my impact on the beach was not as devastating as his had been on the gene pool and that he should fuck off.

He did.

Storming Southsea

It blew an absolute hooligan last night.
This is what the seafront looked like this afternoon.
The road had been closed and the sea was beginning to whip up again.
There were loads of shells, bits of crabs but hardly any ‘pollution’.
No masses of tangled ropes, clumps of tar, a rafts worth of plastic bottles or carrier bags.
The latter being a real surprise given the current news coverage.
Maybe the council had been out early and cleared it.

I went to Lidl today and marvelled at how multi-cultural it is.
As I was bimbling around I heard, at least, 5 different languages being spoken.
They have some blinding stuff if you have a European/Mediterranean palate.
I love that I can buy squid, a bucket of Greek yogurt, Camembert, dodgy looking slippers and a Mitre Saw all in one place.
And very cheaply!
The ‘impulse buy’ basket at my till was filled with secateurs and those Belgian chocolates shaped like shellfish.
An usual combination I thought.

It’s blowing a gale again now and pissing with rain.
Everything is tied down in the garden but I’m worried that my frog spawn will get washed out of the pond if it overflows.

Slime And Sublime

This is the frog spawn I transferred from the pond in Wiltshire to the big bucket of water that is mine, in Pompey.
The picture is blurred.
Half to do with my camera and half my revulsion.
Frog Spawn is like an iceberg.
There is SO much more below water.
I was gagging as this lot slopped all over my hands as I shook it into the jar.
Horrible, Slimey, Nastiness of the highest order.
Boarding School flashback!

Today, I have watched Pompey fluke their way into the FA Cup Semis, beating Manchester United.
11-1 on Portsmouth winning.
Fucking 11-1!!!
I wish I’d had a punt on that!
Just as well really, Gambling is a vice I could really do without.

This evening Mr and Mrs Crisp-e have hosted me.
Splendid food, outstanding company, ‘descriptive’ weed!
Saki Vodka… Amazing tasting stuff.
There was also something made of Damsons.
It all became too much and I laid on the floor to await the cab.

This is my tune of the day.. There is something about the lyrics.
The video is a bit good too!

Identity

One of the housemates has an Irish heritage, that on one side, goes back to 1160 and on the other back to G-d, apparently!
So imagine her surprise when she received an invitation to join the local Anglo Italian Society.
The name does look and sound totally Italian but is ancient in Ireland.
The Irish got about a bit while they served in the British Army, even more so during The Famine.
It wouldn’t be beyond reason that a few ended up in Italy and Spain.

She was a bit miffed to discover that she had missed the monthly presentation,
“How to dress and present yourself - The Italian Way”.
We did wonder how much this would differ from the Irish Club presentation of the same thing.
We decided it came down to an age group and a look.
Those with a Headscarf, Rosary Beads, judgement in their eyes with optional Wellies are the same in both cultures.

For the younger generations:
Irish = Clothes that booze and food stains come out of in 1 wash.
Italian = A thousand ways to tie a Hermes scarf.

Trips:
Irish = 3 day debauched piss up in Dublin or 3 days on your knees at Knock/Lourdes/Fatima.
Italian = 7 day Food and Wine holiday in Puglia, Wine tasting in Umbria or 3 days in Rome/Lourdes/Fatima.

Raffle Prizes:
Irish = 1st A milk churn of Guinness
2nd Six Rashers
3rd Basket of Pot Pourri
Italian = 1st Five days Wine tasting in Tuscany
2nd A Parma Ham
3rd Italian Food Hamper.

I’m now sharing a house with someone practising an Italian accent at a Joe Dolce level and copying the hand movement as seen on ‘Football Italia’.
The real splitter was the letter was signed by some bloke with the surname,
‘ Mcavoi’.

A story that nearly slipped me by was about a Jewish School in London.
The students there refused to sit the English exam because they ‘could have’ studied The Merchant of Venice.
Their complaint was the negative racial stereotyping of Shylock.
I like to think that this was an intelligent protest.
I like to hope they are trying to point out that Shakespeare, by having knowledge of and writing about The French, Italians, Danes, Jews and Moors; may have lived in a quite a multi-cultural 16th century.
You never know.

I invented a new word this evening,
‘Fish Butcher’.
I was too stoned to pull Fishmonger from my memory.
I kind of like it better.
‘Monger’ sounds a bit yukky.

Gutted

As some of you know, I’ve more or less cut myself off from my Mother’s side of the family.
The Big little brother, an Uncle and a couple of cousins are all I keep in contact with.
One of those cousins has broken my heart.

I’ve housed him, more than once.
I’ve fed him when he wasn‘t working.
Got him a job.
He has stolen money from me.
He has stolen from Housemates.
His Mother (ATM’s sister) has had me hide him when the police have been after him.
Supported him through a break up and loss of custody of his son.
All, I have done because I considered him another ‘black sheep’, like me.
I considered him a brother.

Yesterday I found out that his son was christened on Sunday and he didn’t even tell me it was happening.
I spoke to him just days beforehand.
I wouldn’t have gone even if I’d been asked…. But to have had the invitation would have been nice.

Gutted people. Gutted.

Quakes, Waits And Riding

There was an earthquake last night and it seems everybody but me felt it!
Tremors from Scotland to the Isle of Wight
I was up at 1am and nothing, not a wobble.
In an interview, some bloke from Lincolnshire said,
“I was woken up. It was hell.”
Um.. Hell?
I don’t think so.
Being buried under your house for days with injuries and no food or water is hell.
A few ornaments falling off the shelf is most definitely not.

I’ve noticed stuff today.
Like how small the writing is on posters at the eye clinic.
Sadistic fuckers.
Then twins came in.
I couldn’t help thinking what a head fuck that would be for the poor double-visioned bastards.
There were two old, deaf sisters who for some reason couldn’t swap seats with each other.
Doing so they’d have been on each other’s hearing side.
Also, moving me from one waiting room to another doesn’t make me feel I’m getting to the doctor any quicker.

Another thing I’ve noticed is, old ladies with bikes that have a basket on the front, never fucking ride them.
The bikes have bags and all sorts of crap hanging off them but THEY are never ON them.
I see three old dears regularly, but I’ve never, once, seen any of them on the bicycle.
Maybe it’s just Pompey.

This bloke’s lucky he can see at all.
If he’s using double doses of Viagra the fucker should be blind!

Simple Things

I decided not to tackle the grumbling, stinking sink today.
I slung bi-carbonate of soda and vinegar down it and pretended it wasn’t there.
I kept imaging what I would find in the u bend and it put me right off.
Tomorrow.

Instead, I cooked.
Check it out.
Butternut squash and chickpea soup!
I’ve also done meatballs in vodka sauce for tomorrow.
Great sink avoidance strategies.

There have been ‘revelations’ that the hideous Paul Burrell twat is gay.
Really? Gay you say?
I would never have had an inkling.
Now, hands up if that came as a real shock to you.
Another one from the Celebrity Jungle.
He and Biggins didn’t seem to have any obvious problems swallowing animal genitalia.
I’m not saying it’s a clear sign, but if you can get a kangaroo cock and balls down without gagging, it suggests certain ‘leanings’ to me.

I had Phantom Cat Syndrome this afternoon.
So convinced that a feline was rubbing up against my leg, I put my hand down to stroke it.
Nothing.
No cat.
It mildly freaked me out and sent me in search of the boys just so I could shout, “Fuckers”, at them.

I’m wearing new socks.
Sometimes having new socks is as good as having new shoes.
Not that interesting but it’s really made my day!
Simple things. Simple things.

The Catholic And The Yid

I had every intention of going to the 8.15 Mass but couldn’t be arsed to get up.
At the 10.15 I decided to sit somewhere nearer the front, away from the back pew rockers and nutters.
When I got the first lungful of incense, I remembered why I sat at the back.
Something seems to happen to old women when the hit the 75ish mark.
They sit at the front of the church and all of a sudden the back of their hair ceases to exist for them.
The front and their face is all pristine and made up, the back is a fucking birds nest.
There was a superb moment when a Dad held a little baby up in front of his face, just as it sneezed.
It covered them both.
Who knew a baby could be that full of snot!
Most entertaining.

What has pissed me off today, is the priest telling us to write to our MPs encouraging them to vote against any further ‘Abortion Liberalisation’ and ‘the removal of the need for a father from law and birth certificates’.
I’d be interested in just how many kids have ‘Father Unknown’ on their birth certificates in this city.
I don’t want my politics and religion being mixed up.
For some reason this has always enraged me.
There are still people who take what the priest says, as part of Mass, as ‘gospel’ and don’t even bother to form their own opinion.
Separation of church and state works in France.
I started talking loudly, suggesting that nobody take ANY of their medication because it could have been tested or produced from ‘illegal’ sources.
I was bundled out, in front of the priest’s procession before I could shout,
“KEEP YOUR ROSARIES OFF MY OVARIES”!
Just as well I suppose.

My beloved Spurs won The League Cup Final, against Chelsea.
People, I’m not afraid to admit that I wept!
I had Crisp-e on the ‘phone for the last 5 minutes, which were sphincter tighteningly tense.
I am now tucking in to my second bottle of wine in celebration.
Robbie and The Sassy One have been round and have eaten my culinary experiments!
I’ll let you know of any deaths in the morning.

Tottenham ‘til I die!

Booze Blues

Tesco are considering putting up the prices of their alcohol.
They have agreed that cheap booze is causing ‘binge drinking’ amongst the young.
Not my fucking problem.
Why should I be punished for someone else’s piss poor parenting?
Put the age up to 21, I don’t care.
Drinkers are taxed beyond reason as it is.
That’s why we were all fecking off to France for our booze and smokes in the first place.

Not that it matters, in my experience the parents buy it for them.
I’ve confiscated vodka on a school trip only to be informed,
“You better fucking give that back, my Mum bought that for me.”
My reply was that I’d return it to the Mother, which I did.
Her reaction?
“Ah Bless! I bought that for her to ’ave on the trip. Weren’t she allowed it?”
I managed to stop myself screaming,
‘Of course not! She’s fucking 15, you mental bitch!’
Fine. She might like being in charge of a pissed up teen, I don’t.
Especially when they feel they can sue YOU for anything the kid does to injure themselves.
I want to be able to sue a parent for having the brass neck to send their terminally thick offspring to a mainstream school.
With extra damages if the child is particularly fucking ugly.

The sink in the kitchen is making strange noises.
Expensive sounding noises.
Stuff needs replacing noises.
I’m ignoring it, hoping it goes tits up while I’m not here.

Great line from the rugby,
“You are not allowed to tread on people anymore, you should be, but you can’t”.
You have got to love Brian Moore!

Is it just me or do these just sound really fucking itchy?
I’d also like to know how they get from China to our bathrooms.
The bamboo wafts away on a passing thermal does it?
Tell me how the Chinese get them here in an ‘eco-friendly’ manner.

You just got to love the Catholic Church in South America don’t you?
All her children were ‘born prematurely’…
Prematurely? Prematurely?!!
(Helps it you take your voice up an octave on each of those!)
I should fucking say so!
Seven kids before she is 17.

Ire And Eire

The trip to Ireland began with some serious anger.
They tried to take my Zippo lighter away from me at security.
The BAA website states you can carry one lighter on your person, but doesn’t specify type.
Trying to argue this with the ‘Supervisor’ Nazi was going nowhere.
I suggested taking the flint out and rendering it useless that way.
Supervisor Nazi was having none of it.
She took all of the innards and left me with the case.
Even though her colleagues were agreeing with me.
Totally eviscerated my Zippo.
What could I have done with it anyway? Lit a fart?
Antisocial, but not exactly terrorism.

Arguing got my boots removed and x-rayed and my 100mls of shampoo tested.
I wanted to have a big old freak out but decided that as I was hiding some personal use weed about my person, it was best just to leave it!

I’d forgotten how fast Mass is said in Ireland.
I tried with the responses but started to sound a little bit ‘Special’, so stopped.
The priest read the wrong Gospel so just started over again, then tried to quote a poem but couldn’t remember it all.
All most entertaining.
Joyously there was no ‘sign of peace’.
There were a whole load of prayers I don’t ever, ever remember saying and I was on my knees at different times.

I’ve been fed to within an inch of my life.

Apparently there are different ‘levels’ of hungry.
You may not be hungry enough for a Full Irish but hungry enough for a biscuit.
Similar to Hobbits knowing about Second Breakfast.
I’ve stood in Cashel High Street watching workmen let passing ‘auld fellers’ stand and stare in the hole in the road with them.
Health and Safety, my arse.
A flat cap and a roll up was there only defence against injury.
I’ve spent a few hours throwing a ball for a cute but mad Springer Spaniel, named Molly.
I’ve met up with Lenten and can report he is well.
The Aunt and The Uncle are as ever, Brilliant!

Brilliantly Funny

I can't remember how I surfed into this but I think it's superb!
Saying, 'I gave you the clap', face to face can be a tad awkward.
This is brilliant!

Hounds, Rage And Eire

I’ve been in Wiltshire for a few days.
Blue, the new Greyhound, is settling in wonderfully.
He has a cracking personality and character, but absolutely no social skills.
He steals food and drink (Tea, wine and Bailey’s!) and tries to lift his leg in the house.
He is learning how to walk on the lead without yanking the shoulder of the walker from its socket.
His ‘prey’ instinct is still very strong. He will go for anything small, furry and feathery.
Greyhounds go from 0 to 35mph in seconds, can see for almost a mile and have the most amazing peripheral vision.
You have to be aware of him all the time.
Jess, on the other hand, is his polar opposite.
She avoids little dogs and is totally uninterested in cats.
You can eat your dinner off your lap, unmolested.
Jessie is so very patient with him and they get on brilliantly.

I usually find being out and about in the countryside very calming, except for yesterday.
We were driving along a narrow country lane when we encountered another car.
Expecting the driver to pull in to the passing place 6 feet in front of him, M carried on.
So did the other driver, seemingly, without slowing down.
There was an almighty smash as wing mirrors hit, more or less destroying M’s.
He stopped and jumped out of his car.

So did I.
This well-dressed, well-spoken 70 year old man came at me shouting and screaming,
“Why didn’t you pull over? Are you stupid?”
I said nothing until he called me a Prick.
Nought to Psycho in under 2 seconds.
(As I’m typing this I can feel my heart racing and myself winding up again)
Then I went apeshit.

“Right, now YOU have sworn at ME, I can FUCKING start.
Why the fuck didn’t YOU pull in, you senile fucking cunt? Eh?
Where the fuck did you expect us to go? The passing place is your side you prick!
You thought you would bully your way through, just as you are trying to do now.
You have made a fucking HUGE mistake, you wanker because I’m a medicated fucking mental!
Now, I suggest you turn your geriatric fucking self round and run old man.
Fucking RUN!”

I starting walking towards him and he ran people!
He ran like he hasn’t in decades.
Can’t be easy in sensible Brogues either!
By my third step he was in his car and driving away.
Idiot.

It took me over two hours to calm down.
Thank G-d for Diazepam! Or I’d still be raging.
Gives you an idea what I was like before the anger management and the removal of ‘E’ numbers from my diet!

Ho Hum.
Anyway, off to Ireland tomorrow for a few days.
I’ll be here.
If you click on the ‘zoom out’ about 6 times, it’ll give you an idea just how far into the arse end of nowhere I’m going!
I haven’t decided if I’m taking the laptop yet, it’s a pain in the arse at airport security, but so handy when I’m away.
I like to get my photos downloaded, in case I do something stupid, like erase the lot!
So, you may hear from me or you may not.


Finally, todays “I know it’s wrong to laugh but…..”
Also, that’s some serious fecking Limescale!

Rehab, Rugby And Today

Britney Spears, Amy Winehouse, Eva Mendez and Kirsten Dunst. Anyone else want to check themselves into rehab?
Looks like Heath Ledger has put the ‘detox’ up them.
Kirsten has booked in because, and get this, ‘She is crying a lot’.
I find myself screaming, your fucking point?
Kirsten. Love.
Fucking crying? Really?
Dear Christ, that is every teacher I know at LEAST once a week!
I can’t help thinking that these people need some kind of ‘Chav Buddy’.
A ‘Mental Mentor’ to show them the real world.
Some low income, low achieving, high conceiving, benefit drawing, ‘trailer trash’ they can swap with for a month.
Live their lives, on their budget, in their home, with their kids and see how close you get to tears then.
Fuck Off!

Yesterday’s Rugby commentary gave me a laugh.
Gabby Logan says to the camera,
“I’m sat here with two of the best Hookers ever”.
Camera then pans to a pair of THE most cauliflower eared, battered, broken nosed, beat up, looking feckers you’ve ever seen.
One of them was biting his lip trying not to laugh; the camera crew must have been cracked up because this guy’s eyes were just flicking all over the place!

It’s been a gorgeous day.
I have pruned the grapevine and the fruit trees. The herbs are all cut back and the cats have been looking at me as if I’m mad.
I have the most serious secateur blisters ever.

Today I have cooked a total Mediterranean fare.
I had a yen for soul food.
Roasted garlic soup, Falafel, Kofte kebabs, Tzatziki, home made pitta and Greek salad, tahini and a load of yogurt sauces.
Most yummers.

We are know sat in front of the BAFTA’s saying,
NO!!
You fecking what!

Under Pressure

I played with blood pressure machines most of last night.
The Tame Pharmacist brought them home for Mrs Next Door to check out.
The experiments conducted would point towards cannabis lowering my blood pressure but the nicotine ‘delivery system’ increasing my pulse rate considerably.
The machines are a bit scary and inflate themselves, which makes your heart race to start with.
A bit unfair I feel.
Basically, with each ciggie I smoke I’m playing Russian Roulette with a stroke.
I love it!

If there is anything that would affect my blood pressure adversely, it’s Lourdes.
Hideous, gaudy, greedy, unholy place that it is.
This year his Nazi-ness is handing out ‘Indulgences’ for idiots who do the pilgrimage.
The indulgence reduces the time a soul spends in purgatory.
What bollocks!
I wouldn’t be surprised if the only way to get the indulgence would be to book the trip through the Vatican Airline.
As if that’s a plane you’d want to get on!
Imagine the coughing, spluttering, moaning and groaning that would be going on.
Nuns and priests all over the place.
What a horror!
In-flight movie, The Song of Bernadette or Quo Vadis.
Jaysus!
I wouldn’t want a miracle cure. I’d want euthanizing.
Pilot may as well just fly the fucker straight into the ground.

A waiter who is leaving Lourdes sums it up,

“I’m leaving, because I can’t stand seeing another revolting, badly-cooked burger sold to innocent British people for €6, when the wholesale price was 50 cents. It’s taboo to say it round here, but I’m disgusted by the greed.”

I’m still amazed people fall for this old shit. Fecking grow up!
Drink water and all your ailments will be cured.
Yeah, right!
If it tastes anything like the filth they give you in Bath, I’d give it a huge body swerve if I were you.
Cloudy, grey looking stuff with a blended pumice stone texture.
For fuck’s sake, you can still taste the Romans in that shite!

It’s been 50 years since the Munich Air Disaster.
I have to admit, as a fan on the terraces, I have sung and chanted about this.
None of it complimentary!
But I would like to just remind people about the goalkeeper, Harry Gregg.
This man ran back into the plane and pulled people out.
Bobby Charlton, Dennis Violett, Matt Busby, Jackie Blanchflower, the pregnant wife of a Yugoslavian diplomat and her daughter.
He always told the truth about it as well.
When others said they helped, he would put the story right.
“No they didn’t, they ran away.”
He called them back and handed them the baby he saved from the burning wreckage.
For over 45 years the poor bastard suffered ‘survivor’s guilt’.
To me, Harry Gregg you are one of the greatest British Heroes.

Housemates, this is going to sound like déjà vu, it certainly does to me.
Who likes getting into a ‘hairy’ bath or shower?
I sure as shit don’t!
I can promise you that all the time my arsehole points downward, I DO NOT want to deal with the ‘Plughole Hamster’.
Rinse the bastard down for fuck’s sake.
Don’t make me start leaving notes.
Nobody enjoys those, least of all me.

Looking East

Last night we helped Housemate Pat celebrate Chinese New Year.
She spent the whole day preparing food.
Mrs Next Door and her niece brought dishes with them as well.
Now, Chinese food has never been a favourite of mine, but this food was amazing.
I even ate Thai noodles.
Pat had made some amazing sushi but tried to kill me with wasabi.
Jaysus, that green nastiness is hot!
A huge amount of wine was drunk and there was even an empty whiskey bottle this morning.

The things you find out about people after a few drinks is amazing.
Mrs Next Door’s Dad is a bigamist! How cool is that?!
Her Mum knows, but is very traditional and won’t get divorced. Fortunately they live in different countries.
It must have been a good night because I have no recollection of going to bed.
I did have a nosebleed during the night and woke up looking like I had survived an autopsy.

Today, I was taken to a hospital appointment as ‘moral support’.
Yeah, I know?!
Who’d take me?
I couldn’t go in the MRI room so entertained my self with a game my sister and I used to play at the hospital.
“Find The Morgue”.
You take the lift down as far as it will go and look for a door with a cheerful name.
That’s usually the morgue.
The one at this hospital is called ‘Rose Lodge’.
There is no Chapel because of extensive building work but there was a prayer room.

I walked in just as a Muslim doctor rolled out his prayer mat.
We had that awkward moment when we just stared at each other, so I said, “Can I have a go?”
He looked really shocked, laughed and said, “Yeah! Alright!”
He showed me how to say the prayers. When to kneel down, when to stand up, when to fold my arms, the lot.
It was excellent!
You have to stand in front of G-d, then thank and praise him.
You also have to ask G-d to show you the right way.
You stand and let G-d know that, in your heart you are ready to pray.
Then you hold your hands up and say, ‘G-d is great’.
Some verses of the Qur’an are recited and you bend over from the waist.
Several more verses are spoken then you bow down and touch your head to the ground.
I probably haven’t explained that very well!
I’m used to spending time on my knees before G-d, but this was a really unique feeling.
Real submission and deference.

This evening I have eaten Kurdish food and fecking yummers it was too!

Dust And Ashes

I only managed two pancakes yesterday.
Shameful.
One filled with Nutella and the other with tinned mandarins.
Yummers!
I was trying for the Golden Syrup, Lemon and Sugar one but was feeling a bit sick.

Mass today, reintroduced me to a subtype of catholic I had almost forgotten about.
The Statue Hugger.
Today’s ‘hugger’ took the specialism a stage further and was also a kisser.
She started at Mary’s feet and started working up.
She stopped mid-thigh.
Thank all that is Holy.
The Yid in me can’t get my head around statues; I never have and never will.
Honestly, when I see them, ‘Graven Image’ pops into my head.
There were also a lot of old women with male pattern baldness.
A bizarre fascination of mine!
The Gospel was all about doing good deeds in secret, not being so obvious about prayer and worship.
An unusual reading considering were all left with a fucking great OBVIOUS smudge of ash on our foreheads.
There was an extraordinary moment just at the Transubstantiation bit.
Some kind of Gun salute was fired in the Dockyard.
When this happens the percussion and sound can be heard and felt all over the city.
As he held the host up, the booming began.

Stronger weed but less used.
This has pissed me off.
Why don’t they tell you about the complete and utter nastiness that is sprayed on the crops just before harvest?
Chemical shit made to make the cannabis weigh more.
Chemical shit that has never been tested on humans.
Chemical shit that has never been tested for the affects on mental health.
Report the complete story.
Don’t just say ‘weed is bad’.
The Weed has been fucked about with.
Take control of it. Tax it. ‘Amsterdam’ it.
Just don’t ban it. It doesn’t stop us.
But what is being punted out on ‘us smokers’ now is dangerous.
If you think cannabis is costing the NHS now, you will not believe the damage that is coming.

For some reason I think this too, will end up being about penetration.
It would add a whole new dimension to, ‘Butch enough to get you pregnant’, I suppose.


“Dust thou art; to dust returnest, was not spoken of the soul.”

Snot And Saints

I am loaded up with Contac 400.
Housemate Claire, while at the hospital trying to get better, has brought home germs.
Typhoid Clairey, as she is now known.
It’s not even a proper cold.
I can manage about 8 sneezes on the trot and my nose is just dripping warm ‘water’.
Looking forward to the hacking cough when it makes its way to my lungs.

As soon as I saw this photo I got the song from ‘The Meaning of Life’ in my head.
‘Every sperm is sacred, every sperm is good….’
Along with Monty Python, there is just enough OCD ‘clean freakery’ about me that thinks,
“That’s a bloody good idea!”
ATM told me about episodes of Oprah where they swabbed public areas; cinemas, restaurants etc.
The ‘residue’ found on bedspreads in hotels is enough to turn one agoraphobic.

It’s Saint Agatha’s day.
She spurned the advances of some Roman or other and he got bitter and twisted.
He made sure she was persecuted for her Christianity.
Before being burnt at the stake, she was tortured and her breasts cut off.
Unsurprisingly, she is patron of breast cancer patients and amusingly, patron of bell founders and bakers!

My Darwin Award has to go to this guy!

Sunday Takes Its Toll

I had to abandon Mass after 15 minutes.
There were Baptisms going on, screaming kids galore.
It amuses me how the regular non attendees give themselves away.
They are the people in suits and their ‘Sunday Best’.
The regular attendees have on whatever was to hand and clean.
It was all too much for me and I had to get out.
The regular ‘Mass Mental’ added another string to his bow of burning bonkers.
Hitting himself in the head really fast then spitting on the floor.
His nose picking has taken on a ‘Cowboy’ flourish.
Make your forefinger and thumb into a gun, like when you were a kid.
Place the tips of both ‘barrels’ up each nostril, now fire like you were in the shoot out at the Ok Corral.
Returning to nostrils to reload.
When my rocking synched with his, I knew it was time to go.

This! could only happen to Mad Matt.
Mr and Mrs Crisp-e dropped him at the station at 9.20pm last night.
This is the text I received from him at 11.56pm, dyslexia and all.

“Fucking disaster! Train delayd buses runing late got stuck in a faulty caredge and stranded at bersaldon! Next train 6am. 118 think weding chofers r a taxi ferm. And its very cold. Thanks for lovely eve and tunes. Hope 2 see u very soon x.”

As any good friend would do, I immediately forwarded the text to Crisp-e so we could laugh our arses off at his expense.
It started with me calling him the High Priest of Hapless, the list progressed like this:

The Clergyman of Chaos
The Druid of Disaster
The Rabbi of Recklessness
The Friar of Fuck Ups
The Shamen of Shambles
The Monsignor of Misrule
The Pontiff of Pandemonium
The Lama of Lawlessness
The Minister of Mayhem
The Buddha of Bedlam

A Samaritan, fit enough to drive, was dispatched to rescue him.

I saw a programme today that mentioned The Passing Bell.
This is tolled at the instant of a person’s death to invite their neighbours to pray for the safe passing of the soul.
The single tolling bell was also thought to frighten away the devil and his minions.
The Puritans got rid of ‘The Soul Bell’ by an act of Parliament claiming it was ‘a popish practise to be stamped out’.
Catholic churches in England still aren’t allowed to ring bells.
It gradually worked its way back in.
I can’t remember the last time I heard church bells in the city.
Every Sunday when I’m in Wiltshire I hear them.
It seems to be confined to villages these days.
Just as well really, as the man said,

“Never send to know for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee.”

A Day Of It

I have had, what my Dad would describe as, ‘A fucking day of it!’
There was a plan to meet my cousin at a railway station 40 minutes away.
An exchange of ‘herbs’ was arranged.
As he’d pissed me about with the time, my temper was just shy of Psycho.
(Whoever heard of someone, whose business is weighing stuff, not having scales?!)
I got on to the enquiries site and chose my train.
While buying the ticket at my station I was informed there was a bus laid on.
I replied, ‘No. If I’d wanted the bus I would have gone to the Hard’. (Where the bus station is!)
The man mumbled on about work on the track.
So I said, ‘Why doesn’t it say this shit on the fucking website then?’
He tried to tell me it did and I had read it wrong.
I flipped and a LOT of loud swearing ensued.
The station was full of police because of Pompey playing at home.
One came over and asked if there was a problem.
I told him there fucking would be if he got involved.
I must have looked pretty mental, because he went away.

When the bus eventually arrived, I watched as everybody ignored the young mum with a toddler and new baby struggle with her pram.
I asked if I could help, expecting to be put in charge of the pushchair.
She handed me the toddler who took one look at me, realised I wasn’t Mum or Nan, and screamed like I’d bitten her.
This did nothing to improve my mood.
She then handed me the baby in it’s carrying thing while she tried to stow the pushchair away.
The baby started crying because its dummy thing had come out.
Mum was still trying to undo straps on the storage area.
Two screaming kids.
Then to top it all the Mum shouted at me,
“Can you put her dummy back in please!”
As calmly and softly as I possibly could, (I WAS holding children!) I replied,
“Um… No. I have only got two hands AND I’m not your fucking husband!”
There was an apology.
For some reason, the process was repeated at the other end.
Without the ‘sharp’ words this time.
The look on my cousin’s face as he saw me with two kids was priceless.
He looked totally confused as he mouthed ‘What The Fuck!’

For all that effort, it’s nice to know that a few of my nearest and dearest are sat at home, slitty eyed and grinning!
It was also comforting to know that the choice to remain childless was fecking inspired!

We’ll say nothing about the rugby, it will only start me off again.

Savaged and Sectioned

Yesterday I woke up to a savage day.
Storm force winds and horizontal rain.
Not a whisper of any snow here though.
Today it was blue skies, sunshine and bitter cold.
St F, over in the West of Ireland sent text pictures of heavy snow.
Jealous? Oh, just a tad!
Didn’t take her long to master her new camera phone!
I know Peter Kaye claims, ‘old ladies with mobile phones look wrong’, but it really suits St F!
It was a bizarre start to the day.
I got in the shower with my glasses on, it took me a while to work out what had happened and why I couldn‘t see.

I’m feeling for Blue today.
While out for a walk he, well, um “Caught” a little yapper type dog.
He was on his lead the yapper one wasn’t.
It ran up to him and then tried to run away.
Instantly, 2 thousand years worth of breeding kicked in and before it had taken four steps, Blue had it.
Greyhounds shake their prey to death and because of the strength in their necks, this doesn’t usually take long.
The little dog was, fortunately, unharmed but I’m pissed off for Blue.
He must be so confused; he was racing up until about six months ago and was being praised for doing that very thing.
People with little dogs seem to think that their hound doesn’t need restraining because they are ‘Small’.
Then they shouldn’t be surprised if it gets savaged.

Season 4 of Boston Legal started last night.
Bliss.
I’ve missed them, all the characters are like old friends.
The image of Jerry getting his groove on was priceless.
This evening was the last of Jam and Jerusalem. Again, some priceless lines, a particular classic from Queenie!

At last someone has given enough of a shit to sort this fecking nutter out!
Mirrored on this side of the water with Winehouse being dragged to rehab.
Although, I have to admit that Amy would be more of a loss to the music world than Britney.

Number 9

Today, I had a phone call from someone with an amazingly strong Indian accent, asking if my house number was the number it is.
I answered…. that it depended who was asking.
I was informed they were from the ‘Telegram Office’. Can’t say I have ever heard of them.
She said something really, really fast.
I chose to go, ‘Proper Pompey’.

The lady told me she was after my neighbour at number 9.
Had I ever heard of Clare G? Did I know if she resided at the address?
When I had last seen her?
Did I know where she had a gone?
Uuuuuhm….. Nope.
Did I know the people in number 9, as there was post for them.
Mmmmm…… Nope.
Being a good Pompey girl, I wouldn’t ‘grass’ green foliage on the Common if I was stood on it!

I went to tell my neighbours at No9 what was occurring, that I hadn’t grassed them up because it wasn’t the ‘Pompey way’…
You may be criminals….. But you are OUR CRIMINALS!
The neighbours were very pleased and would contact the said Clare.
“You get anymore trouble from these cunts babe, Let us know.
We‘ll end it”.
Then, as a kind of afterthought, ‘What’s your name’?
I told them.
‘Are you So and So from Such and Such?’
Mmmmm… Yes I am.
‘Is your Dad, What’s His Name?’
Yes.
‘Fucking Hell! Come in, Come in!… Tea? Coffee? Booze? Anything you want! I’m phoning my Dad to tell him who is sat here!
He loves your Old Man!
Somehow, I’m ‘trading’ on my Dad’s reputation as a bit of a rogue and a monster of the one punch knock out.
Then one of the mates piped up,
“Alright Miss?, You taught my brother, sisters, cousin and my Mum reckons she went to school with you”.
It turned out he was right on all counts and I had punched his uncle so hard his jaw still clicked when he ate and his Mother couldn’t wait to show me her scars I had caused.
I am now ‘well in’ at No9 Aliens Rd if I want to explore my Pikey heritage!

I’ve had a haircut.
Thank fuck!
It was getting a bit out of hand. I now have a substantial amount of grey!
I can no longer have my hair cut along the nearest thoroughfare to me, which hosts a multitude of shearing establishments.
There have been some violent incidents involving my Barnet and the use of “Ooooops!” as an acceptable adjective while being the ‘stylist’ wrangling my hair!
I think not.

What I really object to is the time it takes for Her to cut my hair.
£22 it costs me.
£22!
I think I should get a minute for every pound.
Make up shit, I don’t care!
My haircut involves clippers set on a Grade 5. Eight minutes…. Tops!.. For what is basically a strim!
Offer me tea, coffee, juice, light hand relief.
I want my Shekel’s worth.

The Hound And The Pragmatist

This is Blue.
Jess retired. This boy was rescued.
While she was racing she lived in nice kennels, she wasn’t mistreated, she just finished racing.
Like Jess, Blue is an Irish hound but didn’t come from reputable kennels like she did.
At the time of his rescue he was on the way to Spain for vivisection.
His body is a network of scars and injuries.
The tops of his ears are missing, what’s left of them have the scars from teeth.
The same around his neck and across his face.
He has had broken ribs which have been left untreated. They have mended on their own and poke out at awkward angles.
He has a big ‘Puncture’ scar on his belly which looks like a bullet hole.

He is huge and strong compared to the girl but is so gentle and loving.
All he wants are lots of cuddles and grooming.
It’s weird dealing with a male dog though.
I can sit and mindlessly stroke Jess without fear of ‘Reproductive’ contact.
Not so with Blue!
I’m not sure who was more surprised or horrified.

This amused me no end!
Do it truthfully first then go back and tell lies. It’s great!
When answering truthfully, I have a Pragmatic Relationship Style.
I am ‘relatively agreeable’. That got my grin on!
This one made me laugh out loud,
I am ‘as conscientious as the average person’!
I love that.
Neither, the song or film I chose was in the top picks of ‘My Style’.
I did score very highly on the passion scale thing though!

Be Right Back

I don’t know about the rest of you but this would proper put me off my responses.
It might even put me off my bit of wafer.
Luckily there was someone to take a photo for his son, who would have loved to have been there for the demise.

Although, I feel a PC backlash in this story, I don’t care, it made me laugh my arse off!

I’m off to Wiltshire for a few days.
Jess has a new brother called Blue.
I can’t wait to meet him.
Bloggage should resume Wednesday.

Music And Stories

I have found a flaw in itunes.
Well, it’s a flaw to me.
When I buy anything I don’t need a little window popping up asking me if I’m sure I want to purchase the tune.
I need a little box that pops up and says,
“Check your ‘library’ you stoned dick! Are you sure you haven’t got this?”
Far more fucking useful to me!

I watched this tonight.
An amazingly talented young man.
Foetus’s can now be tested for CF at an early stage.
There is no test for any kind of genius, musical, or otherwise.
What choice would you make?
Some things we are better off not knowing.
‘Those whom the gods love die young’.
Apparently.

Just when I thought it couldn’t get any more surreal, I found out that the 3 Little Pigs story could be offensive to Muslims.
They are aren’t the only people not to partake of the Swine.
Next it will be the Three Billy Goats Gruff that get it.
Not respecting the homeless or something.
There are some fearsome, troll like, creatures living under some of the bridges in Pompey!

This has been my tune of the day!

A Thing Of Beauty

I know there are far more beautiful sights in the world but at the moment, this'll do for me!

How gorgeous is that?

It is on a par with one from Munich a few years ago.

That one read,

England 5 Germany 1

I’m thinking that this has more to do with their address than ‘Facebook Fame’.
Not a lot goes on in South Wales at the best of times.

I Love The Smell Of Pope In The Morning...... Victory

As if to prove that old, ‘just when you think you’ve seen it all’ thing, the internet sends me this.
To make matters worse, it’s not even a joke.
“…Aristocratic, Old World Cologne with surprising freshness…”
Let me translate.
“…Arrogant Nazi, Right Wing Bigot with unsurprising fanaticism…”
I have sent off for my free sample as I’d be interested to know what that smells like.

Schnee.. Engage sports filter..

My Beloved Spurs are in to the final of the Carling Cup!
Not the greatest of cup competitions but they got there by spanking Arsenal like a ginger step-child.
That alone makes it just fucking beautiful.
5-1 on the night, 6-2 on aggregate.
I managed to share the last minute, the last goal and the sound of White Hart Lane going fecking ape-shit with Crisp-e.
You’ve got to love mobile phones just for that.
It was an emotional moment!
I couldn’t actually sit and watch the match.
Fear of the Jinx.
Whenever I watch them play Arsenal they lose.
If I don’t they win.
QED.

I am ONE happy Pixie!

Or I was.. Heath Ledger is dead.
Jeez..
What a waste.

Getting Involved

On my way back from buying some smokes this afternoon, a bloke riding a bicycle had an epileptic fit right in front of me in the middle of the road.
ATM’s words from my childhood came back with startling clarity.
“DO NOT get involved. Keep walking. If someone drops dead in front of you, step over them. DO NOT get involved.”

The lady in the car behind him stopped and luckily was a nurse.
This all happened about 30 metres from a busy four way junction with traffic lights.
I let the nurse do her stuff with the break dancing patient and got on with directing traffic.
He was out of it for a good ten minutes but when he came round, fuck me did he come round!

He came up off the ground like Roberto Duran coming out for the final round!
“Get the fuck off me! Fuck off! Leave me alone and get a fucking life! You fucking bastards” and other kind words of gratitude.
The nurse lady said she thought he might do that.
Apparently, some react violently after a fit.
Eventually the police and ambulance turned up.
As one of the Policemen approached I caught hold of him and said,
“Watch yourself mate, he’s proper fucking punchy!”
He grimaced and said,
“Oh Fuck! Thanks for that Babe and great job with the traffic! Want a job?”

We stood together and had a smoke while his young, keen, colleague was trying to deal with the man, who was now swinging his bike around like an Artistic Gymnast.
I asked if his partner was new, he rolled his eyes to heaven and nodded.
I wished him luck and disappeared before they wanted details.
DO NOT get involved.

If any of this came ashore here, it wouldn’t be there long enough to photograph!
When I was a kid a coal lorry shed its load in a residential street.
By the time the driver got back from the phone box (no mobiles then!) the road was clean and there wasn’t a soul or piece of coal in sight.
Good old Pompey!

Sunday Special

Mass was amusing this morning as the PA system gave up the ghost totally.
The priest announced this before starting and a few of us moved towards the front.
One lady loudly informed everyone that she couldn’t hear him when he did have the thing on and was staying where she was.
Then there were the ‘I always sit here’ crowd and that lot wouldn’t move for Jesus Christ himself.
So, the responses took on a ‘Round’ quality with the bunch at the back being a few seconds behind the rest of us.
We used to deliberately do that at school, start the hymns half a verse late.
Drives people mental.

I know this is from ‘The News Of The Screws’ but it’s an absolute cracker and has repeated on me all day!
Just so you get the idea this is 24mm -------------- (Roughly)
Needle Dick does spring to mind!
I can’t imagine that the edges of, whatever orifice he was utilising, were particularly user friendly.
Not having been made for that particular purpose and all that.
You’ve also got to wonder as to the wording of the warning for it.
“Display purposes only. Dress it up. Do not fuck it; she’s not that kind of doll”?
But to complain about it and want your money back?
That is special! Very special!

Sick

Today, I have mostly being trying to hang on to the contents of my stomach.
I have mostly been unsuccessful.
It got to the point where I was drinking water just so that I would have something to bring up.

I had a phone call from a friend at Mayhem telling me all about the illegal stuff that is going on there.
Falsifying coursework, falsifying data, falsifying predicted grades.
All done because of threats from the Headteacher.
They told me of someone who refused to bump up the predicted grades; they were screamed and shouted at, so the Head (or one of his Arse Kissing leadership team) did it.
There are now at least 3 people I have lost all respect for and will probably never talk to again.
They have no excuse and it makes me sick to my stomach.

I told the person to ‘blow the whistle’ but they are too afraid to and say no one would back them up for the same reason, fear.
They just want to get out of the place.
Another teacher sacrificed to the man’s unbelievable arrogance.

Wrong

I will issue this warning to all the nonces out there only once.
All of you have got to my blog by typing in ‘Young Grils/Girls Fucking’ or anything along those lines; I have reported you and your IP address to CEOP.
I especially hope they manage to get all of you from those good, g-d-fearing countries like Iran, Turkey, UAE and Saudi Arabia.
I have absolutely no problem with your government hanging or cutting bits off you AT ALL.
Fucking filth that you are.

I don’t know what it is about this that makes me feels so uncomfortable, but it does.
I’m up for any research that could lead to a cure for some of the more hideous diseases and conditions that blight us.
Somehow, this just strikes me as wrong.

Even more wrong is this.
36 veteran servicemen have been offered 3 million quid between them for the all the experiments carried out on them by the government at Porton Down.
They were given such nastiness as Sarin and told it was a cold remedy.
Then there is this slapper.
5 Million!
A woman who has had her lips swelled to the size of rubber dinghies by Christ knows what.
They were so bad they practically rendered her unemployable.
A woman who has had her husband arrested for hitting her and her sister.
Yeah, of course she fell out of bed.
Appalling woman. Appalling pay out.

Gas, Hate, Film And Drugs

British Gas sent their bloke to do the annual check up of the boiler and all that stuff.
From the noises that he made when he spoke I thought he’d had a Tracheotomy, he made sounds like the suction thing at the dentist.
It turned out he was a severe stutterer and this noise was part of getting the words out.
Most disconcerting.

Now, if this had been a ‘Christian’ worker refusing to sell the Koran do you think they would still be employed by Marks and Sparks?
Of course they fucking wouldn’t.
It’s this kind of shit that makes people angry, militant and anti Islamic.
It’s pissed me off and I consider myself relatively liberal.
I have some fantastic Muslim mates and they all say incidents like this embarrass them.
Every one of them considers themselves British first and Muslim second.
Except one, who considers himself a Portsmouth FC fan second and Muslim third!
Curious how this ‘Devout’ Muslim woman doesn’t mind having her wages paid by a company founded, and run, by Jews.
Fucking idiot.

This afternoon I watched Curse Of The Golden Flower.
Not since the first time I ever saw Fantasia have I been awestruck by colours in a film.
I love Chow Yun Fat and absolutely adore Martial Arts films.
This wasn’t so much about the fighting but about the ‘Politics’ of the Imperial family.
There are also a lot of bouncing boobies going on and as you all know, I’m a sucker for boobies.
Every pun intended!
All in all it wasn’t a great film.
The military choreography was amazing.
It’s no wonder that the Chinese government have ‘hired’ Yimou Zhang to stage the opening ceremony of the Beijing Olympics.

There have been 14 police raids on cannabis dealers in the last four days.
So, the drought is back.
For the FIRST time ever I was offered something ‘harder’ and for the FIRST time ever, I considered going for it.
But didn’t.
The obvious choice would be to cane the alcohol that’s in the house but taking into account my genetic predisposition for Alcoholism, I don’t want to.
Certain booze makes me violent, cannabis doesn’t.
Cannabis doesn’t lead to harder drugs, the fecking LACK of it does.
The lack is due to the Police, SO dope doesn’t lead to hard drugs, the fucking Police do!

My Beloved Spurs are through to the next round of the FA Cup.
They beat Reading 1 nil!

A Dead Run

I am so very bored with all the Diana inquest bollocks.
Who gives a flying fuck in all honesty?
I’ve had a gutful.
Whatever the outcome she is still going to be dead.
I don’t know why the just don’t give Mr Fayed what he wants, a British passport.
Every other Tomasz, Ricardo and Hasnat can have one.
Let him have it and perhaps he’ll shut up.
Don’t even get me started on Paul Burrell; he’s made a fucking good living off of her name these last ten years.
Pointless prick.
Even more of a piss off is that we are paying for this.

I feel sorry for Oscar Pistorius.
Banned from the Olympics because having no legs gives him an unfair advantage when running.
Unfair advantage? He’s got no fucking legs!
An unfair advantage is a system full of performance enhancing drugs and steroids.

Oz And The Bro

How fucking annoying is it when you are half way through watching something and some knob comes in and wants to know what’s happening.
Or they sit for a bit, then start to ask questions because they haven’t seen it from the beginning?
Fuck Off!
Watch it from the beginning or shut the hell up.
Yesterday, the first three seasons of Oz arrived from Amazon and I watched the first one in a single sitting.
Today the Oz marathon continues and I started the second series.
Maybe it’s just me or the DVD’s have been ‘cut’ but I seem to remember it being way more brutal and violent.

The Big little brother came round this evening.
He brought D the ex dealer with him, the one who smells of wet dog, damp and patchouli oil.
He hasn’t changed.
Still talks complete bollocks.
Which was a shame because the brother and I were getting quite deep.
D kept interrupting and the Brother and I didn’t get the chance to talk about what we wanted.
I told him that, in science terms, I think of him as my ‘control experiment’.
All the times I did something and ATM whacked me and screamed in my face, “You are just like your fucking Father!”
All the times I was made to feel shit for behaviour blamed on someone I didn’t even know!
It’s weird now, seeing it in my brother, with whom I only share a Mother.
Does this mean ATM keeps marrying the same kind of man?
Not at all!
The Brother’s Father is a really nice guy.
So, how do the Brother and I share Traits that have always been attributed to my Dad?

Like I don’t know!

The Last Action Hero

Wednesday evening, during the meal with Sassy, she spoke about Edmund Hillary and funeral eulogies.
Look what she did?
She only went and killed a world hero! A man who is almost a god in Nepal.
I’m coming up with a list of people who piss me off, for discussion next time we are together.
The two of us could do some damage.
I managed to kill Steve Urwin a year or two ago.
It seems that our powers are limited to Antipodean types at the moment, but given some practise…. Who knows!
I’ve been trying NOT to think about Rolf Harris and concentrating on Peter Andre instead.

I don’t know how many years of therapy this one would take, but my money is on a hell of a lot.
I can’t get my head around just how disturbing that would be.
Makes me shudder every time I think of it.

This would spook the hell out of me.
Get it a fecking kitten?
Bollocks!
I’d have that creepy little bastard put down.

My favourite Sir Ed story is this.
12 years ago a 14 year old, called Ollie Bradshaw, phoned him up for help with his homework.
He said,
“Out of all the very important people in the country, the fact that I could call up the greatest New Zealander out of the blue and have him yarn to a 14 year old, pretty much sums the guy up.”

Rest gently Sir Ed.
They don’t make them like him anymore.

The Past, The Ridiculous And The Present

The lack of smokes drove me out of the house at 8.30am and into the hell that is the ‘School Walk’.
Women, kids, pushchairs and in some cases, dogs, all trying to walk on the same patch of pavement.
I also bumped into the poor bastard who attempted to teach me German.
I couldn’t remember his name because we always called him Penfold.
He looked like the character from the DangerMouse cartoon.
He clocked me straight away.
“Morning Sleepy”
Gobsmacked, I replied,
“Morning Sir”.
Sir? Sir?
What happened there!? When did I get fucking polite?

With the benefit of hindsight the guy was amazing.
He would start writing on the board using his left hand, when he got to the middle; he swapped and continued with his right.
His writing didn’t alter in the slightest.
All the while we would be catapulting chewed paper pulp at the board with metal rulers stolen from Metalwork.
Even with all that crap spattering around him he never missed a beat.
We also used to rob his ciggies!
What bastards we were.

George W arrived in Israel today.
With 5 helicopters, a convoy of cars and his own bodyguard.
I wonder who pays for that.
The American or the Israeli taxpayer?
I suppose it's something... He could have turned up with a fecking Army!
I will give up my citizenship of the human race if that prick manages to negotiate peace in The Holy Land.
I truly will.
An Irony like that is just TOO much to take on board.
If he could succeed, where people who can string a sentence together have failed, would be SO wrong.

Sassy came for dinner and we have put the world to rights.
We have laughed lots. Imbibed a beverage or two.
Slagged off Newcastle United for what they have done to our beloved Sam.
Done our bonding thing without having to punch anyone in the arm, speed drink or touch our genital areas.
Although, Housemate Claire informed us, that now she is healing from her surgery, they have put her nipples ‘back on’ wrong.
They have been rotated through 45 degrees.
Who knew that would make a difference?
I thought as long as the nerves were all re-attached, you’d be sound.
Apparently not.
It feels different.
This is news I could have lived without, but in the spirit of sharing and science….

We have listened to music, incorporating Sassy’s ‘Musical OCD’.
Which involves playing one song over and over again.
Fortunately, I can relate to this specific form of madness, as I had had the same song on ‘repeat’ earlier.
I have managed to whack my funny bone.
Fecker!
Twice, in the same place, and am not best pleased.
Gin and coffee soon had me back on track.
Schnee, it was your kind of girls night mate!
Gail would have loved it too!

All things considered.
A good day.

Saints, Shameless And Sketching

Yet again I find myself wanting Stephen Fry to rule the world.
I’d vote for him if he was running for a bus.
I agree, totally, with what he is saying here but I’m sure Rupert Everett has said something similar.

The Catholic Church have hit me with another one of their, WTF, moments.
Now, that is nasty!
Couldn’t they have said a Mass or put on a concert or something.
Digging the fucker up seems a little extreme.
I’d also argue that being pumped full of Formaldehyde IS ‘a measure taken to preserve’.
That’s what the stuff does!
I dread to think what ‘removing relics’ could mean, given the number of Holy fingers, toes, blood, ribs, skulls and foreskins that are scattered around European churches.
I’d like to imagine that a bunch of Cardinals get stoned together and have a life size game of Operation.
“Ahh! Shit Dude! The Holy Wishbone! That’s a fecker to get out!”

The new series of Shameless is fantastic.
Absolutely cracking!
Schnee, DO NOT miss it.
The line, “I am a bulimic who can’t stand vomit”, will never leave me.
I hurt my throat laughing.

Adverts are keeping me shouting at the TV.
The Mini Cooper Etch a Sketch ad in particular.
To use a saying from my youth,
“As fucking If!”
I had one of those bastards and there’s no way it did that!
That’s why I took it apart not long after I got it.
It's full of grey talc stuff and tiny ball bearing things.
My Nan was fit to be tied.
Not to be recommended, it gets EVERYWHERE.

Nuns, Germs And Curry

I feel like I’ve had a productive day considering that to, ‘the untrained eye’, it looks like I do fuck all!

The book I ordered from Amazon arrived at 11am and I’d finished it by 2.30pm.
Not bad going.
From it I learnt a new word, ‘Exclaustration’.
This is the permission given to a Nun, still under vows, to live outside of her community temporarily. She would be under the jurisdiction of the local bishop rather than her Order’s Superior.
I knew someone like that and she was SO cool she was subzero!
The book was called ‘Lesbian Nuns - Breaking The Silence’.
Stop yourselves!

It’s not as prurient as it sounds, it was really interesting and in a lot of the cases, extremely sad.
For some of them the vow of chastity was no problem, it was what they had signed on for; the real problem seemed to be the lack of ANY physical contact AT ALL.
Not a hug, a handshake or a matey slap on the back ever again.
Catholics usually come from huge, touchy feely, families.
To suddenly have absolutely nothing must be horrific. A basic form of torture. Couple that with another basic torture, lack of sleep, is it any wonder some of these women had breakdowns.
It has made me reconsider my attitude to some of the bitches who beat the crap out of me!

The Tame Pharmacist has interesting news from the forward trenches of the NHS.
There has been a 300% rise in the number of people using their own pen to sign the back of their prescriptions.
They don’t want to touch a shared pen.
It seems the horror stories about the spread of MRSA and the Norovirus are hitting home.

I cooked up a storm.
Minced lamb curry, with tomatoes, peppers, apricots and sultanas.
For something I made up as I went along it was pretty damn tasty!
The chilli turned out to be hotter than first anticipated and I am now expecting a swarm of Arse Wasps in the morning.
Not my favourite experience.

Food And Time Wasting

I enjoy cooking.
I find it relaxing and my inner Yid loves people enjoying my food.
This ‘hobby’ leads to me watching various cooking shows.
I have now found one I can shout at.
‘Come Dine With Me’.
People who have absolutely no fucking idea what they are doing in the kitchen, cooking with the top of the range pots, pans and utensils.
Equipment, I believe should be mine.
I find myself screaming,
“Look what that complete twat is doing to that pan! LOOK! Bastard! He has MY stuff! Christ, that’s a £100 pan!”
Don’t even get me started on the knives.

This is now one of my biggest time wasters!
It’s brilliant.
I’ve typed in lots of family names; none of them were tried at ‘The Bailey’, which is mildly disappointing.
Just surfing through some of the cases is interesting though.
I’ve found a women who was put to death for ‘sodomy with a dog’.
A dog!
Which begs the question, who told?
It turned out she had a nosey neighbour and holes in her walls.

Today, I have done precisely, fuck all.
It’s been great!
One of the Housemates cooked a blinding dinner and it’s been wine and ‘Gladiator’ all evening.
Spot on.

No One Expects The Face

I had known all day that one of the Housemates was going out tonight.
I mentally prepared and steeled myself for the usual battery of questions.
“Does this go with this? Which shoes? Does my bum look big? Are my ankles fat? In or Out? These earrings with this necklace? Are my boobs level? Did you pack the bag yourself?” Etc.
Not a fecking one.
Instead I got one there was absolutely no preparation for,
“Is my face ok?”
All sorts of stuff whizzed through my mind, so I pulled the childhood ‘get out of washing up trick’ and disappeared to the toilet.
Here, I used my ‘Text Sassy’ option and worked out it was a question about make-up.
I got the reply right and she left in a waft of perfume. The kind you taste rather than smell.
Nice work Sassy.

Am I alone in being freaked out by a woman wearing one flat shoe and one high heel?
Hobbling like one of those people with one leg seriously shorter than the other; then gaining and losing height at second intervals shouting,
“Which? Which? For Christ’s sake WHICH? The taxi! The taxi!”

What I love about this story is that he only took one shoe of each pair.
Inspired!
How fecking infuriating would it be to have just one Manolo or Jimmy Choo?
Or in my case, one Doc Martin and one Nike.
Brilliant!

Smiles And Yummers

This has cracked me up today and I’m seriously hoping that Prince William has to learn this as part of his RAF training.
In fact, I think it ought to be a compulsory part of it!
Makes you proud!

Sassy and I shared an extremely civil and ‘English’ afternoon tea.
But instead of the traditional biscuits we had the food of our tribal ancestors; salt beef, rye bread and dill pickles.
Most satisfactory.
I will definitely be getting another one on the go before this one is finished.

At last someone seems to have taken a bit of control and ‘sectioned’ Britney Spears.
Or whatever it is in America that means she has to stay in hospital.
That one has been a long time coming.
Although, I must admit to a smile when I saw her ankle, ‘cuffed’, to the stretcher.
It’ll be Miss Winehouse next, if they manage to get to her before the Grim Reaper.

The Norovirus is still doing its thing so I have bleached the kitchen to within an inch of its life.

Hair, Snow, Bacteria And Soul Food

Strange things are afoot with my hair.
Yesterday I awoke looking like Tin Tin and today I’ve had more of a Beatles thing going on.
Something seriously needs to be done.
I’m at what ATM would call ‘that funny stage’ age wise.
I’m not sure what to do with it any more; all it wants to do is stick up at peculiar angles.

Yesterday I was promised snow.
It’s bitterly cold but I have no snow and I’m pissed off.
It no longer bothers me that my politicians lie to me; I kind of expect it now.
But I won’t stand for it from my fecking weatherman.
Bastard!
As I have whinged about before, we NEVER get snow!

The Tame Pharmacist was bundled into the bathroom with anti-bacterial stuff as she walked through the door tonight.
A good plan as it turned out, she’d had ‘the unclean’ in the shop.
This hellish nastiness is going around.
Contagious in the extreme.
Housemate Claire and I had seen the news and weren’t enamoured of the prospect.
It has shut wards at both local hospitals.
Advice from TP if you get it, DO NOT leave house, you will be infectious until 48hrs after your symptoms stop and keep hydrated.
(She suggests ‘light coloured’ fluids as the vomiting IS projectile! Being bothered by such affairs, she worries about ‘staining’.)
It all sounds fine if you want to lose a bit of weight, but a tad hectic if we all got it at once.

My salt beef has finished it’s ‘cure’ stage and is now in the big pot for the next 3 hours.
I can’t wait to taste it but am trying not to ‘Harass’ it!

A New Year

The New Year celebrations have been a pissed up affair.

I have bruises in places I imagined couldn’t be bruised!
Backs of my hands, wrists, inside of my right knee, right buttock, right elbow and a goose egg on the back of my head.
I slipped and fell coming out of next door.
By the bruise pattern I’d argue it was a right sided fall!
Why I imagined that the front of their house would be any less treacherous than mine, I blame on Famous Grouse.

There was a dog at next door’s New Year celebration.
A Yorkie.
The kind of dog that grows from the armpit of an old lady.
Usually, with a fecking bow in it’s ‘hair’.
These kinds of dogs don’t have ‘Fur’.
This thing was no different.
Its owner took it to the dinner table with her.
I swear, she sat down with a plate full of food and the fucking dog in her lap.
It was, also, one of those dogs that snap at you. Trying to bite you all the time.
A Yapper type dog.
Being the only smoker I went to the garden and was asked to take the dog for a slash.
Not a problem.
Again, the thing tried to bite me.
People, being unaccompanied, I gave it a ‘backhander’.
In fact, that’s a lie.
I twatted it down the garden so hard it looked like a hairy bowling ball.
Unsurprisingly, it didn’t come near me for the rest of the night.
When it got near, and brave enough, to bite me, I was too quick and it bit its owner!
It was a beautiful moment.
I always ask what the ‘purpose’ of a breed is.
Greyhounds hunt, Collies round up your sheep, Jack Russell’s get rats and rabbits etc.
From what I can work out, this thing has no fecking purpose at all.
Other than sitting on a lap.

Happy New Year!

Germs, Death And Friends

This morning I went to the 8.30 or The Coughing and Spluttering Mass.
It being the geriatric liturgy they were very polite and put their hands over their mouths.
Hands which later, would be held out to me for the sign of peace.
It struck me as being a bit unsanitary so I started my own coughing fit to keep them away.
The lady along the pew from me sounded like bouncy castle deflating as she breathed.
I was already pressed up hard against the end of the seat and couldn’t get any further away.

I clocked this a couple of days ago but it’s taken a while to get bounced around my stoned head.
What an amazing job title THAT is?
Exorcist in Chief!
I have a bible, a candle and I could rustle up a bell from somewhere.
It is now up there, with Black Rod, as my ideal job.
I think I may be getting a lot of work in Spain…….. Among the fucking Clergy, if the end of this article is anything to go by.

I was sad to hear that Joe Dolan had died.
Until recently I couldn’t work out why I loved this song so much or HOW I knew the words.
I was telling my uncle about it and he started laughing his head off.
Apparently it was the first record he ever bought.
He and ATM played it to death.
She was pregnant with me at the time. The uncle is now a solid believer that a baby can be influenced from outside the womb.

The Vancouver bunch paid us a final visit today.
Thank you so much for spending a few of your last, hectic, hours with us.
Much appreciated.

I made the fucking hideous mistake of watching Snow Dogs.
(Waiting for football)
I cried like a baby!
Families reuniting gets me every time but add hounds to the mix and I’m a snivelling, snotting wreck.
This one was the worst yet!

Searches, Sales And Johnnies

As ever, I’m amazed at what people type in to Google only to end up at my blog post about Sassy’s cats.
The latest being ‘Frist Fucker’ from someone in Valdosta, Georgia, USA.
How nice of you to be totally unembarrassed by your strange proclivities and piss poor spelling.
One can only assume you were trying for ‘Fist’.
It is common knowledge that Google keeps a record of every search made through it.

Now we are being subjected to the post Christmas advertising.
Bastard ‘Sales’.
Why the feck would I want to buy a leather sofa at this time of year?
Or a ‘half price’ kitchen, bedroom or bathroom?
Ho Hum, it’ll soon be New Year and the advertising will be for holidays in fucking Turkey and Greece.

Something I noticed at ATM’s yesterday but has taken a night to leach in is, I’ve been airbrushed from history.
There is not a single photo of me in the house!
A whole corner of the Dining Room dedicated to family snaps, not a single one of me.
It’s not like there were a huge number of me anyway, but it appears ATM only has 2 children these days.
I’ve decided not to let it bother me, besides, if I hadn’t been in the house in the first place, I would never have known.
It made me want my Nan though.
So, I cooked ‘Comfort Food’.
I made her Red Cabbage and Apples! My house smells bloody gorgeous…….. And a little bit like my Nan’s.
That’ll do for me.


My Beloved Spurs did their very best to cheer me up and won 6-4!
Dimitar Berbatov is a fecking Legend!


I also got a late Christmas present through the post today.
One of those Oxfam ‘buy a goat’ affairs.
An absolutely inspired gift.
Condoms!
Johnnies for Africa!
I love it.

The Fear And The Acronym

The Big little Brother decided that today, 24 hours before
ATM arrives back from Florida, that we should prepare the DMT.
In her house.

I have to admit to being panicky that he’d got the wrong day and she would walk through the door.
The thought of her walking into the kitchen and seeing me, the brother and Crisp-e chopping up tree bark in her sooper dooper blender and transferring it to her slow cooker, filled me with utter panic.
The air was thick with pink dust; thank G-d she has an extractor fan!
Once we had started it suddenly dawned on the brother that the ’blender’ was, in fact, ATM’s sooper dooper Smoothie maker.
We continued using it anyway.
All giggling at the idea ATM could drink a Smoothie and end up on a ‘Vision Quest’!

My brother’s complete inability to plan a piss up in a brewery means that the grinding stage was as far as we got.
Huge thanks to Crisp-e for his supervision and ability to read the instructions properly.
The last bit alone, almost certainly saving one or both of us a trip to Odstock Burns Unit!

I’ve also been in the grip of a seriously Bad Hair Day.
For most of the day I have looked like Ernie Wise.
My hair has had something very similar to this going on.
Not a good look for Ernie, let alone me!

I watched The History Boys this evening.
Cracking film.
Although, it makes me slightly uncomfortable the way the gay teachers are portrayed.
Why is any teacher, gay or lesbian, assumed to be ‘interested’ in kids?
Tut Tut Tut.
Choked me up at the end though.
‘Pass it on boys, pass it on’.
I’ve missed Frances de le Tour, how fabulous is she?!
For some reason the last time I saw her (that I remember) was in Rising Damp.

Aftermath

Thank Christ that’s all over.
Christmas was great.
Starting with Christmas Eve and seeing Crisp-e’s family.
They drove down from London for their first Pompey visit.
I was on my best behaviour and didn’t drop a single “Fuck” in front of his Mum.
Phew!
Sassy came for dinner Christmas Day. The absolute highlight being, ‘herself’ leaving with her knickers in her pocket!
She can explain that one all by herself.
I’m far too discreet!
Rob turned up at about 10pm and we drank Vodka and coffee until 3am.
A splendid day!

Housemates, I know it is the season of Goodwill and all that but this won’t wait.
There must be a way of putting opened packets of spaghetti and linguine back in the cupboard.
One that means I don’t feel like a lone Spartan as pasta arrows rain down on me when I open the fecking door.
I was physically damaged by linguine today!
Not a sentence I intend to use again, I can tell you.

Sadly, Benazir Bhutto has been killed by a suicide bomber.
What I find confusing is how a bunch of people who embrace Martyrdom, think that their guy is going to be the only ‘Martyr’ to come out of this act.

This gave me the best laugh of the year on Christmas day.
Tommy you're a fecking LEGEND!