A Smiley Day

Housemates, now most of you have achieved ‘Sociable Kitchening’ Level 2; Washing up after your sorry arsed self.
I would like to suggest aiming for Level 3; Putting the bastard stuff away.
Not knowing where it goes is no excuse because you knew where it lived to get it out!
Neither is ‘draining’, once the stuff is actually dry.
Also, is it only me who finds it unacceptable to put things away wet?
It takes lazy to a new height and skanky into the stratosphere.

My friend from yesterday visited again today.
Her son wrote back to her with his phone number and she contacted him!
It went really well for a first ever phone call.
They arranged to meet a week Saturday.
A while later he phoned back saying he was too excited to wait and they are going to meet this week instead.
As she was telling me, I got goosebumps and all the hairs on my arms stood up.
It was so amazing having her share this.
I think I could actually feel the joy coming off her.
A nice feeling.

This has repeated on me all day long!

Then while I was in the garden, I overheard from builders next door;
A…. I feel sorry for you mate
B…. Why? Because I have to work for that cunt in there?
A…. Umm. No. Because you just stood in cat shit!
B…. OH! For Fuck’s sake!
A…. Hahahahahahahaha!

A smiley day!

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!