Bugger.

Because I am officially the clumsiest pillock this side of the Equator, I managed to snap the stem off one of the wine glasses we got as a wedding present from Grandmother just by taking it off the shelf. So I can now look forward to an evening of trawling the internet to see if anyone out there is, by any strange coincidence, trying to sell any of this particular brand and make of wineglass.

I have no one to blame but myself.

Bugger.

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It’s ranting time again!!

I was going to write about the second bit of my holiday in Helsinki but stupidly I decided to have a look at the BBC news website first and there I found this. So I have been distracted by my need to rant.

Let's start with an irrefutable fact shall we? This country is royally fucked and everyone in the US and Europe is laughing at us. We are paying almost £6 a gallon (which is roughly 11 US dollars a gallon for anyone in the US), the pension fund has been plundered by Gordon Clown, the po-faced bastard in charge. There are tens of thousands of people who are just choosing not to bother working and are living on the state, the NHS is crumbling, people can't get a dentist for love nor money, the education system is shit,  many kids are leaving it without the basic ability to read and write. Our economy is a shambles, house prices are falling, food prices, taxes and bills are rising above the salary levels of more and more people. The streets are full of feral kids carrying and using knives. So, out of all these concerns for the British citizen, which do you think is the most pressing one our MPs?

Answer: None of the above. So if it's none of these, surely there must be something really dreadful going on that has caught their attention? Yes there is. The British public, who have up to now behaved like  tame cash cow crapping blank cheques into the outstretched hands of the arrogant tosspieces that run the country, have rebelled. They are now calling for transparency, for MPs expenses to be made public. While I'm sure the majority of MPs are honest and decent people (or those who aren't in the Labour party anyway), some MPs seem to be getting distinctly antsy about this idea. As well they might. Items paid for by the taxpayer that have been revealed recently include the installation of mock Tudor gabling to ex deputy Prime Minister John Prescott's enormous grace and favour home, Margeret Beckett's window cleaner, cleaners for a number of politicians and Gordon Brown's SKY susbscription. Tony Blair, in common with many senior ministers, was claiming expenses for a second home despite having a large grace and favour home in London. If this is the crap that has surfaced on the lake of politics so far, you can be certain that there are more shopping trolleys and old bicycles lurking in the waters that haven't yet been spotted. And our MPs want it to stay that way. This is why they are now trying to get in place a new system, a system that would avoid the need for transparency and an end to the public being able to see what they claim for.

The new system? A yearly payment of £23 000 per MP to cover the cost of running their second home. £23 000. I don't know how much your home costs to run but I can tell you that if mine cost £22k a year I would be right up shit street, or more to the point, homeless. I know for a fact that you can runa  home in London for less than £23 000 a year because my brother and his wife are doing just that. So at a time when Britain's economy is teetering on the edge of recession, the best thing our MPs can find to do is to ensure that the feathering of their own nests isn't interrupted by the proletariat demanding honesty. Makes you proud to be British doesn't it?

My contempt for these revolting vultures who have driven the country off a cliff and are now picking over the corpse knows no bounds.  

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The Clampitts on tour part 1.

And so we were ready. We'd managed to pack everything, remember our passports and tickets and we'd arrived at the airport ready and raring to fly to Helsinki for my cousin's wedding. As we go into the check in hall we can hear a god almighty bellowing, people are cringing backwards from the strident tones echoing across the space, what on earth could it be? Ah yes, it's my auntie Sue, cheerfully informing my second cousin Rene (and the rest of Manchester Airport) that she's having terrible trouble with her sinusus, can't small or taste anything. Yep, it's my family, the full Northern contingent (minus my uncle Peter) and we're all off to Finland together.

So we get checked in and go through to security where we have the inevitable conversatoin about what does and doesn't class as liquid so what does and doesn't need to go into little clear plastic bags. Eventually we come to the conclusion that lipgloss IS liquid and in they go. The security man confiscates my bottled water and has a discussion with the husband about his aftershave which is eventually given back to him. He puts it into his backpack but crucially (as you will see) forgets to put it in a plastic bag. And off we go to x-ray.

Me and my belongings go through fine. The husband of course sets the machine off and he's taken to one side to have his shoes searched. As was Rachel whose flip flops seemed to have caused an undue amount of interest. Quite how much Semtex you can get into a pair of flip flops is a mystery to me but anyway, eventually they gave them back.

Our belongings come through the x ray machine. I pick up my stuff and then notice that a fierce looking woman with horrendous split ends and badly applied makeup is clutching the husband's rucksack. It's at this point that things go a bit pear shaped.

ME: Is there a problem with the bag?

HER: Is this your bag?

ME: No, it's my husband's bag, is there something wrong with it?

HER: We are extremely suspicious about why he has undeclared liquids in it. You've declared your liquids and he hasn't. I am VERY suspicious.

ME: Oh right. Fine.

HER (loudly): BUT IT ISN'T FINE IS IT MADAM??? It isn't fine AT ALL.

Me: Riiiiiiight. (beckons him over).

So she rummages about for a bit and then triumphantly pulls out a can of Sure for men deoderant, his aftershave and a pot of Oxy cleansing pads for skin.

HER: So? What's your explanation?

HIM: The lady in the other security room just checked the aftershave and gave it back to me.

HER: Well why, pray tell me, isn't it in a plastic bag? Everyone else manages the plastic bag thing, can you give me a good reason why you can't? I am MOST suspicious. And what about the other stuff?

ME: I didn't realise deoderant classed as liquid. And the pot isn't liquid, it's little skin cleaning pads.

HER (picking up the can and shaking it then injecting more sarcasm than I ever believed possible into her tone): Er what's this I hear in there, oh, listen, it's liquid.

ME (struggling manfully not to punch her between the eyes): Sorry, it didn't occur to me to class it as a liquid.

HER (glaring at me): Well excuse me but you've put all your liquids into a bag so you clearly know what a liquid is so you are making a hypocrisy of what you're saying aren't you? And that makes me suspicious.

By now I'm biting my lip, steam is beginning to issue from my ears and my grip on my temper is getting very tenuous.

ME: But I haven't got deoderant in my bag so I didnt think about it.

HER: I don't need and I'm not having any smart remarks from you so I suggest you cut it out.

ME: I wasn't being smart, I was just saying……..

HER (grabbing MY bag of stuff and his and grinning smugly): So now ALL of this is going to have to go through x ray and we'll just see what they allow you two smart mouths to keep.

She strides off to the x ray machine and you can lip read her saying "Can you believe the nerve of them" to the x ray guy. He is too thunderstruck to say anything and I'm too busy wrestling with my increasingly rising temper to comment.

She returns and resentfully hands me back my plastic bag of toiletries.

HER: They say you can have this back.

Mistakenly, I attempt to diffuse the atmosphere with humour.

ME: Ah go on, don't bin his aftershave, it was well expensive!

Her eyebrows shoot so far up her forehead that for a moment I suspect they are going to take off from the top of her head and circle the room. She turns an odd shade of purple and sends daggers from her eyes in my direction.

HER (shouting): AND SO, I’LL HAVE YOU KNOW, IS EMPLOYING 20 GUARDS TO HAND OUT PLASTIC BAGS TO THE LIKES OF YOU WHO CAN'T EVEN GET IT RIGHT.

I resist the urge to inform her that there were only 2 guards handing out plastic bags and since they probably did an 8 hour shift it was unlikely that the airport employed 20 of them. I also don't make the blindingly obvious statement that I DID get it right, it was mu husband that didn't. Even through the fog of anger I realise that this wouldn't be the wisest course of action, especially as she seemed to have attended the Adolf Hitler school of Customer Service.

HER (smugly holding up the deoderant): Well, that’s gone for a start (chucks it in a bin wearing a huge grin) and so, you’ll no doubt be pleased to know, is THIS (and she chucks the cleansing pads in as well).

We both stare at the aftershave. It’s like a standoff at the Alamo. Eventually she picks it up.

HER (not looking at all pleased) The x ray operative says you can have this (thrusts it in my direction) back.

I grin. I can’t help it. The aftershave was the sticking point and despite the fact that this rat-faced little bitch with a power complex had tried her utmost, she’d failed to get it confiscated. She couldn’t resist a comeback.

HER (again, loading on the sarcasm): And next time, if you two could at least attempt to adhere to the rules??

ME: Well I’ll certainly try. But I’d hate to miss another encounter as pleasant as this one.

We walk away. Rat-Face glares after us. She has lost and she knows it. Despite her every provocation I haven’t lost my temper so she hasn’t been able to have me sat on by men with sub-machine guns, I have managed not to inform her that just because she hasn’t got laid since 1993 and she’ s in a shit-boring job, just because none of her colleagues will sit with her at lunch and she never learned how to apply makeup properly is no reason to be rude to people who are going on holiday.

And so on we proceed to the plane.

 

Next time: Learning some Finnish, a trip on a bus, a Finnish wedding and the lairiest drunk I’ve ever met in my life.

 

 

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Tuesday’s Thoughts

It's Tuesday time again….

 

Grinding my gears

  • Mr Useless at work is being useless again. This afternoon I have to request a whole raft of information again because foolishly I sent it to him (it being his job to deal with it) and he has ignored/ lost it all. The useless twat. If he was any more useless he'd spontaneously combust.
  • I'm skint. Nothing you there, you think. Well there is y'see because according to the news today it is the fault of the government since their stealth taxes and sneaky ways, brought in in the last ten years, have increased the tax burden 50%. Add to that the rising cost of utilities, council tax, food bills and insurance and it explains why I'm skint. It's official – I am not a wastrel.
  • It's really sunny outside. This would be a good thing if I were not stuck inside doing boring crap for work.
  • I've just fallen over a parcel in my office and now I look like a muppet.
  • I was given so many tablets at my consultation for the results of my scan that I've had to write the dosages on the back coz I can't remember them.

Revving my Engine

  • It is only 2 and a half hours till hometime.
  • I fly to Helsinki on Friday for my cousin's wedding which should be a right laugh.
  • It's less than a month till I go to Portugal for my holidays!!
  • I've moved my desk and now I can get the window in my office open so it's not nearly as hot as yesterday.
  • I've not seen anyone in bikini jeans, even though it's hot out!

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It’s just plain wrong.

Something very disturbing has been brought to my attention and it is this:

 

 

THE BIKINI JEANS

Dear god. Apparently these have been created by a Japanese company called Sanna de Brazil and I'm wondering who they are designed to appeal to. They certainly aren't suitable for a British climate, we have rain and freezing sleet for 6 months of the year and 3 weeks of sunshine is classed as a heatwave, not really ideal for jeans that barely cover the essentials. Added to which (and I may well be showing my age here) I reckon they look a wee bit slutty.

There is of course another reason to be wary of the bikini jean. When hipster jeans were the thing you absolutely had to wear then every size 18 chav squeezed themselves into a pair, there were spare tyres escaping all over the show and muffin tops aplenty. Next came the 'skinny jean' and across the land you could hear seams screaming for mercy as Kayleigh-Chantelle desperately tried to squeeze her enormous thighs into a pair of jeans designed for a girl half her size. Following this was the 'high waisted' jean, a creature that should have been confined to the desperately skinny with no boobs but unfortunately wasn't, resulting in the 'recently institutionalised' look, as though they had been dressed by the local authority in lost clothing from the 1970s. Given that any girl who knows how to dress herself isn't going to go a yard near something as blatantly weird as the bikini jean, that leaves the girls who don't know how to dress themselves as a potential market. Picture it – 15 stones of chavette escaping from the sides and front of a pair of bikini jeans, little denim ties cutting into lardy flesh like cheesewire through Edam and arse making a valiant bid for freedom at the back. If a thing of beauty is a joy forever I have serious doubts as to whether this particular item of clothing is going to provide anyone with any happiness. Look out for them in a shopping centre near you and don't forget to report back if you have any sightings.

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5 Questions for Summer.

The lovely mini-heatwave that has engulfed Britain has left me with some important and unanswered questions. So here they are:

 

1.  Why is everyone in this country so obsessed with tans?

Britain is now officially 'tantastic'. We have something called 'tanorexics', which are not (as you might expect) young women with an eating disorder that means they will consume nothing but fake tan, no, these are people who are addicted to sunbeds.

 

Nice colour dear. The burnt toast look is SOOO now. When asked about her concerns about prolonged sunbed use, one tanoraxic said "“My tan gives me confidence. I’m pleased to hear I don’t have a lot of damage to my face. I’m more bothered about getting wrinkles than skin cancer. When you’re young it’s hard to worry about getting old.” Leaving aside the fact that in the olden days someone this vain and stupid would have been wiped out early by natural selection, thereby giving them no chance of breeding and passing on this inane brainlessness to further generations, who the hell is more concerned by wrinkles than cancer? When did this madness begin? In Victorian times skin like mine, white as the driven snow, was the thing to have. It signalled that you were not someone who had to be out in the sun working, no, you were posh enough to be able to stay indoors if the sun came out. Nowadays you aren't one of the in crowd unless you are the colour of a mahogany sideboard and have skin like a dried out old leather handbag.

 

2. Given the current obsession with tans, why has no one yet created a fake tan that's easy to use?

In a rare moment of pandering to current trend (and because I'm bloody roasting in trousers) I decided to make another attempt at putting fake tan on the dazzling white expanse of my legs. Last time it did not go well but perhaps this time would go better. Or perhaps not. I still have strange tiger stripe legs with deep brown knees and much whiter shins and I still have the streak down the side of my foot and between my toes that makes it look a bit like I've trodden in a turd. Added to which, no person on earth has ever naturally been the bizarre shade of gingernut-orange that the tanned bits of my legs have gone. When someone invents a fake tan that doesn't make you look like you've been involved in a chemical accident then I'll try again. Until then I think I'll leave it.

 

3.  Escaping Spare Tyres, why do they think it's a good idea?

Why is it that during Winter, those among us sporting a fine layer of winter padding know that the done thing is to keep it under wraps. Hell, after about 21 there's precious few of us look quite the same in a bikini but everyone's wearing a jumper so it's all good however Summer is a different story altogether. There are some people who just haven't grasped the fact that only those size 8 or below should be wearing certain types of clothing so at the first ray of sunshine, the first inkling of a sunbeam peeking out from behind a cloud, the crop top is pulled out from the back of the wardrobe where it has been nesting since last September, dusted off and is proudly levered on, using a shoe horn.

 

Why on earth does this seem like a good idea? Whilst I'm all for size equality there are some things that just aren't pretty and Kayleigh-Chantelle's size 18 bulk escaping from under a size 10 top is one of them. And for any of those girls out there who insist on doing this and were wondering, the answer is no, the spare tyre does not look 50 times more attractive and acceptable if lathered in fake tan and dyed chemical orange. So don't do it.

 

4.  Topless Chavs, is there any need?

 

Does the sight of this charming young man fill you with lust? Does the fact that his weedy little chest, devoid of any hair or discernable muscle tone and decorated only by a badly spelled tattoo is on display cause you to lose all self control? Didn't think so. Me neither. But this is all too common a sight on the streets of Manchester when the sun comes out, chav males strutting about with their chests out like shaven peacocks in baseball caps and novelty socks. They do say that beauty is in the eye of the beholder but I can't believe anyone could be blind enough to find this attractive and the ones with the 8 and half month pregnant beer belly look are even worse. The reason this classes as a question of summer not just a rant against the blatantly asthetically offensive is this – I don't understand why there isn't some sort of bylaw against chavs walking around topless. If I walked around without my top on the constabulary would soon have something to say so why can chav blokes do it with impunity? Surely that is far more offensive to the eye? Baffling.

 

5 – Why must sunshine be greeted by a burst of gangsta rap?

Picture the scene – the sun is out, you're in the garden with a book, it's Pimms o'clock and all's right with the world. You are just listening to the birds tweeting merrily in the bushes when suddenly"I'M GONNA SMACK YOUR MOTHERFUCKIN' BITCH UP HOMEY"Oh goody, the chavs on the balconies of the housing association flats have decided that they want to sunbathe too and what is sunbathing without your stereo on the windowledge blasting out tales of shooting, 'ho's, drug use and violence to the entire neighbourhood at 400 decibels? Why would you want to listen to the sounds of the birds and the kids playing out at the front when you can have "Puff Eejit Drugsmaster" telling you all about how he "Got himself a motherfuckin' weapon and laid dem brothers down man coz he de man wij de weed and de homeys". Quite. He 'de man' probably living in a gated community with other rich blokes going nowhere near any poor neighbourhoods or actual violence. Prat. Why is that every time I try and sit int eh garden this happens? Have the balcony-prats never heard of earphones or do they think they are doing us all a favour by treating us to the mindless crap that passes for music in their world? Whatever the answer I wish they'd bloody pack it in.

 

Summer, a world of good times but so baffling in so many ways.

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It’s a memoir meme!

I've been tagged by Flamingo Dancer to produce a 6 word memoir along with a picture. After a bit of thought (mainly because all the ones I could come up with had 7 words in and taking one out stopped them from making sense!) I've finally got one. And I now tag Lori, Bobbie, Laid out in Lavender, Kelly, Just Me and Goliard 

 

 

Watch out because sometimes I bite.

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