New additions to the Pesky Critters

For the past month, I've been walking the dogs before work, in a sad attempt to get fit.

It has failed. Largely due to the inordinate amount of time we owners spend gabbing while the dogs run around chasing things.

So here are the new members (photos not available)

Michael and Marley (Jack Russell x mutt)
Gail and Jack (another Jack Russell)
Julie and Sandy (big mutt, soppy)
Cathy and Tyler (big Staffie)
Joe and Blake (black laborador)
Two owners I keep forgetting, but the dogs are Casper (golden laborador) and Sally (King Charles Spaniel)
Craig and Simba, Lucy (big brown mutts, rocket propelled)

So the dogs now have a social life and are happy pack creatures. The cats hate it. Especially since the morning that Michael came round to collect us. He's eleven, autistic, we were missing and that's not in his scheme of things so he came to get us. Marley, 6 months old and a bouncy puppy, invited himself in and made himself right at home. Gail and Jack waited outside, as Jack had weighed up the cats and decided that the gatepost was about as far as he could safely go.

It might not be healthy, but it is fun. A mismatched group with a common interest, talking a lot of enjoyable rubbish and having a good time.

Like the MNG in the pub, but with chewy sticks.

Back from the Dark Side...

otherwise known as 'crap Bank Holiday Weekend'.

Manchester United did their best to send me grey and demented since the last entry, and nearly succeeded. Hull and Doncaster both did me proud, as did Queen of the South. Yes, I know they didn't win, but the pundit said that no-one recovers from 2-0 down to Rangers. Maybe he forgot that they can't hear the commentary from the pitch. For Stockport vs Rochdale, I couldn't choose, so I cheered them both (and fell asleep before the tv highlights so I don't know what I was cheering for).

On Saturday, Tig continued his raid on my bank account (booster jabs for him and the Yorkshire Terrier-ist) with Eric and Jasmine due next week. I faced with the choice of going to see the MNG finest strutting their stuff or being sensible and saving cash. I faced fighting through the crowds for Ricky Hatton and The Osmonds on the way and a huge taxi bill to get home. Btw, it was separate venues for Hatton and the Osmonds, fortunately as rumour has it that Marie Osmond was hankering after a shot at the title. It sounded great, but the red on the online banking wasn't so great. So I stayed in.

Then wrecked the sensible facade by necking a bottle of red wine and watching Eurovision.

All I can really remember is that one act appeared to have four women dressed as crinoline-lady-toilet-roll covers, with Helena Bonham-Carter's more weirdly dressed kid sister and the Child Catcher's creepy kid brother on vocals. A few rawk types waded in, some prat was dressed as an angel and Andy Abrahams will probably be in therapy for years. I can't really feel sorry for Wogan, bearing in mind the size of his fee. But Dustin the Turkey should feel as aggrieved as only a puppet can; I expect he was just a bit too classy.

In some respects, it was a good weekend. James, Angie and Tyler headed to Cornwall to see Angie's dad. I discovered the joys of tidying up, and found space, really real space in the boxroom and the shed! Finally I started a book that Sophie sent months back and I had been saving for a reading binge. And I could've watched live bands in a force 8 gale in Manchester city centre, but I chose a good book instead. The MiNGe should be proud.

I also found Bailey in front of the telly, listening to Julie Andrews as they repeated 'The Sound of Music' again. Oh dearydear...

How to confuse the H&S expert, without even trying...

One of our external trainers delivered a course yesterday. During the usual friendly chit-chat, he told us that he supported Hull City.

He admitted he was enjoying the thought of maybe returning to Manchester to watch his team play Premiership football. Better than teaching our lot about Fire Safety!

So I did the dutiful thing and tried to explain about the Gubbometer at Mike's blog.

I thought I'd done the Gubbometer a disservice, as his eyes glazed over. Maybe I hadn't described it as well as I could. Then he owned up - he wants them to go up, but he doesn't dare plan anything in case Bristol City win and it all ends in tears. Learning about the Gubbometer fell into the same category as checking train timetables or car parking near Premiership grounds.

Don't make assumptions, ever.

We tried to cheer him by pointing out that it is Neet's birthday on Saturday. In between celebrating being err...uuummm...still 30-something, cheering Ricky Hatton on and avoiding Eurovision by going out on the town, she will cheer for Hull City. If he supported Manchester United, tonight.

A deal was struck all round, but I've cried off. After all, I wanted Rangers to win last week, Stalyvegas to reach Blue Square Premier and Cardiff for the FA cup...

Just off to Ladbrokes to put a bet on Chelsea and Bristol City.

Tig on the warpath - 2

Poor cat.

Teeth removed and trying not to wobble over. He struggles with anaesthetic and tries to hang on to his last shred of cat dignity. We've had this scenario for about five days now. I think (hope) he's acting up a little, as he seems fine in the garden when he thinks we are not looking.

Then we keep pouncing on him, to administer capsules of toxic substance.

We are at the half-way stage and his goodwill has run out. He's back to snarling at full volume, good power behind the claws and first class scowling maintained for hours at a time.

If he didn't seem a bit on the light side, and a teeny bit scared, I'd be well pleased at the arsey attitude. But he is a bit underweight, and he does look scared.

He isn't being Tig.

Back online

Thanks to BT, I'm back online.

Only a week down, but I've been suffering the withdrawal symptoms.

And I made the big mistake of re-routing the landline to the mobile....

So I've had to do everything I need to do at work. Yesterday felt really strange with no access, especially as I'd missed Mike Whalley's addition to the Five Live coverage on Wednesday night, and was too busy at work to catch up!

I wandered around Manchester on Wednesday to see what all the fuss was about. I was there between 5-7pm and the fans I met were lovely. Even the lairy lads were nice!

I had heard the buildup on breakfast tv, and Five Live, on the way in. Was surprised at the lack of portaloos and extra rubbish bins, though. Didn't they expect anyone to turn up, after offering an invite out to one and all? Manchester felt like a house that had been trashed after a bad Facebook party, but I think MCC deserved it, frankly. I was trapped between a couple discussing the failing AV equipment at around 6.15pm, so why didn't they get it sorted sooner?

As for the violence at the end of the night, why be surprised that this event was hit by the hard-core hooligans? Sadly, no one else gets away from it, this was no different. If you do the maths, apparently the trouble amounted to a pathetically small percentage. No consolation to PC Mick Regan, but where were all the forces used to track the soccer hooligans on other big events?

Sorry I didn't live up to the promise about PhotoShopping my colleagues into the Rangers fighting fans. But I couldn't do it. Not even my supremely irritating colleagues deserve to be linked with those people.

And the lovely Rangers fans certainly don't deserve it.

UEFA Cup Final, City of Manchester Stadium, 14 May 2008

Don't worry, the Reservoir Mogs have not decided to rival the wonderful Mike Whalley's World of Sport. Nip over there if you want proper football journalism. This is just observation on the effect of sunshine and sporting fervour on the paranoid.

The sun is shining, the banners were all looking very nice at 8.30am this morning, and you could not move in Manchester city centre at lunchtime. We know this because some nice friend has sent pictures from the news.

And my dear colleagues are bricking it. Manchester has been invaded by 100,000 drunk Scottish rapists and pillagers, who will destroy our wonderful town and much too dangerous to walk on our streets. They are certain of it. Oh yes, indeedy we are going to hell in a tartan handcart.

????? WTF????

And you wonder why I'm checking out the Jobsmine at Manchester Evening News.

Neet, the mother of the wonderful Child Dawkins, is a big footie fan. Mercifully she isn't in today! I shudder to think what she would have said. This morning we had a course on Equality and Diversity (no stereotyping of ethnic and socio-economic groups because it is a BAD THING). It didn't permeate the fear and hatred of this office though.

So Big Mouth here, decides to have a go on behalf of the football fans. And now they are all cowering slightly, waiting for me to start speaking Scottish and reveal the Rangers shirt under the t-shirt. Personally I'm more scared of the Chavs vs Students vomiting contests on a Saturday night.

And yet we work just off the main road leading to an A&E department, and I am sure I've heard fewer ambulance sirens than usual. Okay, so some cases may have been diverted to hospitals you can reach without a police escort through the crowd. But, according to the theory, the vicious soccer thugs should have been sending them down by the lorryload so it should have been constant screeching. One of them swears it has been really busy. I keep my window open most days; I disagree.

So sod them and their nasty narrow views, I'm going to walk back to the car park past the fan sites, enjoy the atmosphere and drive home after kick-off. I have no real chance of getting past the stadium until then, so I'm going to make the most of it.

And if it should end in carnage I am going to Photoshop pictures of my colleagues onto the offenders....

Tig on the warpath

It's not easy, being Tig. Especially today, booked in to have his teeth cleaned, and a dodgy one removed.

Driving to the vets this morning with a grumpy-arsed and hungry cat was not fun. He was being a little demon, in the hell-fire sense. I am a woman doomed. No food since 8.30pm yesterday?? Not even allowed to eat that really big spider he found in the bedroom? (Certainly not - it was huge, and I had my orders from the new vet on the block). Did I really think I could escape unscathed? Yet in the surgery he was a little stripy cuddly cat, charm personified.

Git.

And meanwhile, back at the ranch, Mum is dealing with the other four, who were also put on the 'no food after 8.30pm' diet. But she will be ok; I was the one who starved them all, she is Grannie God Cop with opposable thumbs and a working knowledge of a tin opener.

Guess which one of us will be banished to sleep in the shed for a while?

Grrr...

In case you think I'm practising a new language of Petspeak, you're wrong.

It's just the low warning growl of a hacked-off administrator, dealing with cretins, when she should be basking in the sunshine with beer and an ice-cream.

The low warning growl of one who no longer cares that the chief protagonist is twice her weight, nearly a foot taller, and reportedly senior management.

It's going to get narsty....