Protected: For the love of god, what is wrong with some people?

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Does anyone out there know if I can make a single post private to the general public and available to a small list of those I know well like we could on Vox? I’ve got some family stuff that I want to rant about but don’t want appearing on a search engine somewhere and I don’t know how to make it secret!

It’s my birthday

It’s my birthday today. I’m 31, which is rubbish. I had booked this afternoon off work so I could go out for lunch and go shopping but some asshat arranged a pre-start meeting for 1pm so now I’ll be spending my birthday afternoon on a shitworks, thanks a lot asshat. That’s really rubbish. I wanted to go to the pub with my local friends to celebrate but my parents, giving no forethought to the possible consequences in terms of celebrating, allowed me to be born slap in the middle of Jewish New Year, meaning that the nearest weekend to my birthday inevitably contains Yom Kippur, the one and only day in the year that my mainly Jewish group of local friends can’t come out. That’s properly rubbish. Still, could be worse, I could have only one eye or  a passion for velour tracksuits.

Redneck Moron

Sometimes you find something worthy of sharing and via Best Friend’s Facebook page I found something very amusing. Emails from a redneck to someone he thinks is a ‘foggot’. Lovely.

Anyone know how to stop a dog messing with a wound?

A couple of weeks ago I was playing with Geoffrey when I found a lump on his shoulder. Although the chances were that it would turn out to be just a fat deposit, I thought I’d better get it checked out. A visit to the vet, £279 and three days later I return with my dog, minus the lump that has been sent for histology and plus a 3 inch incision with 14 stitches.

For the first night the dog just lay about whimpering gently and looking very very mournful I do have a picture but for some reason it’s failed security protocol on here so I’ll have to tinker with it!). He got much fuss and much attention.

The day after he’d perked up a lot.

A week on and he’s discovered a fun new game to keep himself amused while I’m at work, it’s called ‘Bugger about with your wound and see if you can get it to open up again’. Wonderful.

Friday – I put a new dressing over the wound, pinched froma  friend who is a district nurse. Dog removes dressing, eats half of it and then spits the rest over the living room floor.

Saturday – I customise a turquoise vest top to cover the wound. It looks absolutely bloody ridiculous, like an episode of ‘pimp my hound’ but it does stop him chewing his stitches. Saturday night while we’re asleep dog removes vest top and shreds it all over the landing. Vacuum cleaner then sucks up a bit of shredded vest top, produces a lot of smoke, and a horrific burning smell then ceases to function entirely. 

Sunday – I spend the day shouting at the dog every time he touches his stitches. He spends the day sulking and pretending he can’t see me.

Monday – We return to the vet’s for a check up and he informs us that we’ve done really well keeping the dog off his stitches and the wound is healing nicely. I am quietly proud.

Tuesday – Things aren’t looking quite so neat and tidy when I get in from work to find that the bloody dog has not only removed three of the fourteen stitches himself but has opened up the bottom end of the wound and made a vile looking scab in the middle. He is clearly very pleased with his efforts, me slightly less so, as I am the one who had to fork out a fortune for the bloody things and am not thrilled by the idea of having to pay to get them done again. I wrap the dog in about 13 miles of crepe bandage. The dog promptly removes the crepe bandage then ignores the vet’s instruction for ‘light exercise’ in favour of dragging bandage around the garden, jumping up and down on it and shouting.

Today – I have bought an age 3-4 years t-shirt and a further 13 miles of bandage. I did try and match the t shirt to the dog but unless I had a light blue, green or white dog this was going to be difficult. Why do they only make kids clothes in bloody pastel colours or with stupid cartoon characters on? Surely we have ‘baby-goths’ in this country? In the end I gave up and bought light blue. So tonight the dog and I once again enter a battle of wills. Assuming of course that I don’t return home to find he’s removed the rest of the stitches. 

So if anyone has any bright ideas on how to stop a dog removing it’s own sutures (that don’t involve a lampshade collar, our adventure with a lampshade collar and the resulting carnage is a story all of its own) please do share……

Kiss and tell slappers

spud-faced moron

Once again the murky waters of celebrity stupidity have been stirred, this time by everyone’s favourite Scouse spud-face, Wayne Rooney, once again proving that even the simplest lessons cannot be learned by a man with the functional IQ of a stuffed raccoon.

This week it has emerged that Wayne has once again liaising with the world’s oldest profession, or, if you prefer, he’s been at it with hookers. To give him his due, in response to his enhanced salary he has moved up from a £40 bunk up with a grandmother known as ‘Old Slapper’ to a £1200 a night bunk up with, well, a much younger slapper, the delightful Jennifer Thompson. Now while Mr Rooney should and most probably will, be roundly criticised for his dalliance with a very expense call girl, attacking a man who is an utter moron is a little like fighting an unarmed man, so let’s have a go at a different target, Ms Thompson.

While the girl is not unattractive, she’s also not going to make men fall over in the street with her unearthly beauty either, plus being from Bolton she’s going to have a voice like a bag of spanners being dragged across a pavement. So it makes you wonder what on earth she does that costs £1200 a night. The mind truly boggles.What she shouldn’t do, if she’s a hooker, is kiss and tell, especially not in the manner she has done in the Daily Mail. Let’s have a little look at some of what she’s said shall we?

“Wayne chased me wtih sex texts and paid in wads of cash, he didn’t seem to care that he was betraying Colleen”. Well since he presumably didn’t get your phone number out of a local phone box, we can assume that neither did you dear. The sisterhood evidently not a bar to making a few quid out of shagging someone else’s husband while the wife is expecting a child.

“Wayne certainly enjoyed all our meetings and didn’t seem to care what he was doing to his wife. As a woman I wouldn’t want that done to me – especially if I was pregnant” – which would beg the question Jennifer, why do it to someone else?

“Wayne told us he’d never had a threesome before. He was shy and awkward” – My eyes are burning. Literally burning. Never should I have had to read the words ‘Wayne’ and ‘threesome’ in the same sentence. Never.

“I went with a few girls and the whole team was there…about half an hour later he held  my hand in front of everyone and led me away down these stairs. Michael Owen was looking at him in disgust. He made no effort to be discreet and I was embarrassed” – however not quite embarrassed enough to tell him to sod off it seems. And certainly not embarrassed enough not to tell millions of people about it in a national newspaper.

“You can love me or hate me. Don’t really care what people think” – especially not Mrs Rooney it would seem. And where is the option for ‘utter indifference except for a brief flash of contempt for a woman who would quite brazenly shit upon another woman’s world for no other reason than to earn a few grubby quid’. Being a hooker may be thought a dirty profession by some but to my mind it’s a deal more honourable than earning your cash through kiss and tell stories. At least it’s an honest exchange.

“I’m very much a family person. Nothing makes me happier than to wake up in the morning knowing I have the best family in the world and the best friends I could think of” – And mustn’t they all be proud of you right now? For such a ‘family person’ she’s shown remarkably little thought for what Colleen Rooney and her family feel. She also better make the cash from this interview last because she’s not going to be getting another penny from nights with premiership footballers now they know she’s indiscreet to a spectacular degree. I suspect the parties with footballers are also now going to be off limits. And since she’s now being blamed for Wayne Rooney being shit during the world cup she might be advised to stay indoors for a bit…

So gentleman, let this be a lesson to you – slappers have mouths that flap like a broken toilet door in a gale, learn from the errors of Mr Rooney and sport’s other legendary pork swordsman, Tiger Woods. Keep the mouse in the house and all will be well.

Flashback Memories

Isn’t it weird how a bit of music can suddenly transport you back to somewhere else? ‘Mr Jones’ by Counting Crows comes on the radio and suddenly I’m not in the office trying to avoid doing anything useful, I’m sat in my room at uni with a group of friends, barely able to see each other through the haze of cig and weed smoke filling the place. And everyone is singing really loudly because we’re all plastered.

Why are my memories so much less classy than everyone elses?