Ahhh Shit

Just when you thought it was safe to go back into the water, when things were looking up, something always always crops up to put a dampener on your day. It doesn't matter what I do, there is ALWAYS something.

So I going around minding my own business when I discovered that today will be The End of the World! I mean, how unfair is THAT!

However, it's not all doom and gloom. In September 2006, the spanner making the same predictions said it would happen then, but was wrong.

Well, obviously.

So if today is the end, thanks for reading ;) Now, I wonder how I can End-of-the-World-proof my computer. I think it has to be bubble wrap and duct tape. NOTHING can get through bubble wrap and duct tape.


PS - this may or may not be a deciding factor, but he's in Texas.

Rise Of The (Washing) Machines

As of today, I am officially Sick of Random People. Let me rewind a bit into the previous week...

For whatever reasons, we forgot to pay the rental company that do our washing machine. However, unlike other companies, this rental company didn't write to us, nor did they call us. So imagine our surprise Tuesday evening when this chap knocks on the door, and tells us he's come to collect the machine.

"A-Buh?" is about all we can come up with, but as the machine is technically theirs, and we're rather taken aback, we ask "can we not sort this out?" and at his apologetic no, he trundled off with my pants cleaning device.

Buggerit.

So, in a blind panic, Jo calls her parents. They've always maintained, if ever you need help, don't get a loan, call us. So she did. What she didn't bet on was getting the third degree from them for half an hour, telling her how bad she is and so on. So we're both a bit pissed at that. But this is not the reason for this whinge.

That evening, Jo jumps on her FreeCycle list and posts a "Help, need a washing machine ASAP please!"
A bit later, Mrs Other contacts Jo. She has one that is in perfect condition, just has a "very minor leak", but otherwise it's fine. Excellent stuff, Jo jumps on her, gets directions, and the following day, Lane and myself trundle off into deepest darkest Wickford. The woman answers the door looking like she has the bubonic plague, let's us take her washing machine, and closes the door on us.

That, let me tell you, was an interesting journey, detailed by Lane. My first niggle of "Hmmmm...." comes when the "perfect condition" washing machine sticks to me. It's not just "a bit grubby" but "YUK". I also notice the back panel has been removed a lot, judging by the state of the panel itself and the screws holding it in.

After getting it down the stairs and outside, I notice a bit has dropped off from underneath. "Hmmmm" again. We get it into the car, and I figure the part that fell off is a bit that holds things in place. So I replace it.

A day and a half later, we finally get ahold of the pipe we need to plumb it in properly, and fire it up.

At first, I thought some sort of cargo plane was passing overhead. Then, perhaps, an earthquake, but you guessed it, it's the machine. The bearings are not only WAY past their best of times, but there sounds like there is a small collection of pottery, buttons, artefacts and other assorted crap inside the drum.

However, we push on - it's working, you just can't talk in the same room as it. Seriously, I can't begin to describe how loud it is.

So this morning, in my usual routine of "stagger around once awake" I put a load on, and bugger off to play WoW. Part of my head notes but doesn't realise, how quiet it is downstairs. I trundle down a while later to find the machine sitting there sulking. I can hear the motor running, but the inside is A) motionless, B) Full of grubby, soapy water, and C) full of clothes still.

A few pokes, prods and kicks, I get the machine to empty it's load of soapy water, remove the lump of laundry - which now smells, interestingly, like hot rubber, and being a Fully Unqualified Washing Machine Engineer, I take the back off.

The belt between motor and drum has slipped off. Mainly, and most obviously, because wheel on the drum is bent.

So, for future reference, "near perfect condition" means it's filthy, dirty, smelly, falling apart and otherwise CRAP that the cheeky bitch didn't want to pay to have removed from her own property. No, bloody idiot ME did it for her.

But, I have to say, it didn't leak.

So now I have to try and find a company to rent us another machine. Bloody nightmare.

Whinefest (Part the First)

Sometimes you just want to kill people. And I don't mean that literally, Mr FBI/MI5 or which ever government agencies might flag me for that. I mean just pure GAH!

None of this is in any order of irritation/whine/bitch, it's just as they come to mind, as they flow off the grey matter and onto the great big cyber lump that is the blog.

Names may or may not be changed to protect the innocent.


The Wrong Number:
So this morning on the way to school, my mobile rings. Not only do I not recognise the number, but it's also international. So I ignore it. And ignore it. And ignore it every time it rings the following dozen times. Eventually, because I'm just feeling all GAH! already, I answer it. Someone jabbers at me.

"I only speak English"
More babble
"I'm sorry, you've probably got the wrong number" I say, rationalising, that this person is trying to contact someone that not only speaks Italian, but is expecting so many attempts at a call.
"I calla from da Italy" he says in 'English'. I say 'English' because his accent was so heavy I could hardly understand it.
"I think you have the wrong number" wondering for a minute if it's a certain crazy Italian I know having a laugh. L0tars, if that was you, I'll kill you. Anyway...
"Meester Terrrry? I calla from da Italy" he says again.
"No, I'm not Terry nor Mr Terry, you have the wrong number.
"Dis da numba I have for da Meester Terrrry. Do you have da numba for longa?"
"This is my number, and it's a new number (I know, I checked), so you're dialling wrong."
"Oh, itsa okay, I'm a sorreeee."
"No worries, thanks, bye"

Fifteen nano seconds later, the phone rings, Italian number. "You've still got the wrong number".
"Meester Terrrry?"

Rinse and repeat three times before I switch Mr Mobile to silent.

And no, I won't apologise for my Italian accent impression.


Damn Kids: The Boy
It's the weather, I swear to all that is good and pure, it must be the weather. My little cherub that is Jaysen has just been Mooder of the Year this last week. Everything you ask is "hang on" or "in a minute" or an outright "no". It's not just him; I've noticed a few kids in his class are talking the same way to their parents, so if it's not the weather, it's a nasty case of airborne Shitbagitus going around school.

Case in Point: This morning at 7am, I get up, and he's on Jo's computer, killing all that is evil in Unreal Tournament. He's in his boxers.
"Morning little man" I offer in way of greeting, as I do every morning.
"Make me breakfast" is the reply. I offer a "pfft" and give him The Daddy Look, but he doesn't see it, too engrossed in winning. I saunter off to have a whizz and a shower, come back in, and he's not moved. By now, it's 7.30am.

Yes, I had to wash my hair.

"Jaysen, get dressed and breakfast"
"I don't wanna go to school" he replies - still not looking at me.
"Tough -" I reply, leaning over to hit pause, which gets me a glare "- now go get your clothes on and get breakfast."
He stomps off, huffing and puffing, so I kill his game. Don't care if it's not saved or whatever, his loss.
"I can't find any boxers" he says.
"They're in your drawer" I reply, knowing the next question/statement will be,
"I've not got any socks" he calls upstairs.
"In the basket. The basket full of socks." I call back down, grinding my teeth. Bear in mind, the clothing hunt occurs every morning. Socks and Boxers are ALWAYS in the same place, trousers are ALWAYS where he left them (ie, somewhere at random between the front door and his bedroom), and shirts are ALWAYS hanging up. But I digress.
He comes back upstairs (stomping) and starts whining about how school is unfair, how Tam gets to stay home, how it's boring and blah blah blah. Till he sees Jo's computer is on her desktop and not a paused game of Unreal.
Cue more bitching and more whining, and he sits on the sofa watching cartoons in a huff.
I just fuel the fire, remind him to get breakfast and to get a move on.

The joy continues right up till the moment he says bye bye, and goes through the school gate.
Daily.


Doctors Are Evil
It's no great secret that my previous GP was a bit... Well, we'll call him "off his game", when a closer representation would be something along the lines of sandwiches missing from picnics , or being as mad as a box of frogs. While he had told me many times what "could" be wrong with me, I was never told, "Mr English, here is a diagnosis for your issues."

I should point out too, that Previous GP was also struck off the medical register for "Outdated Practices". Which I won't even go over because, you know, it's just more whining.

So, New GP; He's young, hip, knows his shizz and is a smart button. So when I tell him what could be wrong with me, he gets a form, scribbles on it, and says something that involves my least favorite words.

Blood Test.

I am not a needle person. Tattoo needles; no problem. Piercing needles; piece of piss. Bodily-fluid-removal/adding-needles; whoooole different kettle of fish. In a different ballgame. I'm the man that goes for a flu shot, and leaves with a concussion. I'm the man that goes to have stitches and a tetanus, and leaves with an accident report card.

So yesterday, while trying to fix Celestes computer (yet another story), Jo texts me. "Mum will be here in the morning to take you for your blood test".

Impending doom. That's all I feel.

Last night, I did NOT sleep. When I did manage to doze off, I had nightmares of needles, bloods being drawn and all sorts of generic nastiness. I felt like turds this morning, I've picked my fingers into oblivion. Jo's mum arrived bright and early, we pack off into the car, and head to the hospital. It might as well have been Barad-dûr for all I cared.

The Pathology department is always busy. The doctors of the area seem to send everyone up there at random, plus the preggers people waddling in for their tests. The average age, I should add, is about 826 years, thanks to the horde of old cronies (+partner) that live up there. The waiting system, akin to a butcher, is take a ticket, wait for your number.

Yes, "Your number is up" does spring to mind.

Screen Display upon arrival: 31
Ticket Number in sweaty hand: 61

Shit.

Like a deer trapped in headlights, I sit in the waiting room; Jo is being ever so supportive by counting down for me "Ooooh only 14 to go" BZZZ "Oooh 13" BZZZ" Just 12 - not too bad is it..." Tam is trying to entertain me by running around and acting cute, while Jo's mum is corralling Tam so she doesn't escape into the bowels of Basildon Hospital.

58, 59, 60.......................... 61.

So I go in, Jo follows, and I sit in front of one of the blood sucking vampires phlebotomists. I hand her my form, she pulls forth her sword and Jo interrupts. "Has he told you he's scared of needles" The woman smirks and answers no, giving me that awwww but you're a big boy. You want a lolly pop? Jo then adds "Did he tells you he sometimes passes out?" Vampire Queen stops and looks at me with that look only a woman can give. "No, he didn't, but you really should tell us that sort of thing."

Yes, I know I should tell, but it's really not manly is it.

So I get impaled on her spike and she asks if I am ok. I can't talk, my tongue is lost somewhere in Bermuda. My eyes are cold, and the room is very pretty and spinny. Plus, the dead giveaway is the Cold Eyes. My eyes get cold when I am going to drop. Jo is telling me to stay with her and the leech is working hard to JustGetTheDamnBloodAndGetTheFreakOut.

After she drains my gallon of blood, I sit, whoozy as hell, trying to relocate my tongue, and after a minute, she kicks me out. I survived in a manly fashion, but now feel sick and headachey.

Just for a doc to look at it and shrug.

Oh, and to rub salt in the wound - I had to starve for this test, no food after midnight (because I am gremlin thing) and nothing to drink after 3am. The Pathology lab is through the small cafe in the hospital.


Damn Kids: The Girl
Tam is well, truly and fully rooted into her Terrible Twos. Seriously, this child has done everything BUT murder, and even then, I wouldn't put it past her. She's good at hiding evidence.

For example. I get in last night, and where Jo is still The Hobble Queen, she had Tam and Jaysen go downstairs and get some cereal. I don't know why they wanted it after dinner, but hey, better than whatever else they wanted. Jaysen tells Jo that Tam spilt some cereal. Jo tells Jaysen to leave it for Sally.

Anyway, I get in, take two paces into the darkened hall and hear *crunch* from underfoot. Cereal. Through the hall, up three or four stairs, and covering the kitching and dining room. A virtually full box of cereal, scattered. Sally sits on the stairs looking down at me, and her expression says "Piss off, I ain't eating that"

Well what good are you then. So I crunch through to the kitchen, get the dustpan and brush, and crunch through to the hall, and sweep my way through the ground floor of the house. Golden Balls, how I hate thee.

Yes, Golden Balls, that is what they are. So the get caught by the brush and roll away.

Aside from cereal incidents, Tam also loves to play with toys. Yesterday after lunch, Jo went upstairs and tidied up Tams room. She had strewn stuff all over the shop, so Jo cleared it up. 7.30pm rolls around, and the kids go to bed. Both of them dick around at bedtime something chronic, but last night, Tam had bigger plans. She wanted to surpass herself...


That, dear reader, is Tamsyns room. But wait, there's more. Not content with covering 94% of her own bedroom in toys and junk, she moved up the food chain:


And that is Jaysens room. Full marks for being thorough. I can't get into either room without stomping on something.

And I'm not even going to detail her wanting to do everything by herself. I mean cooking, and carrying hot/sharp things and generally throwing an arsey strop fit if she's not allowed. Nor will I cover the highdive bombing run she performs on me in bed at random. Nor the stroppy kicking/pitching/scratching she performs occasionally.


And to make things even more interesting, this isn't actually everything. Not yet. I've not ranted about idiots online, idiots around me, nor the inlaws, nor the washing machine repossession, not even computers and technology or anything else that is just hacking me off. But I will... Oh yes...

Now if you will excuse me, I need to wash up in order to make myself a cup of tea and some toast.

Shades

It's cold. I mean true British "Fricking Brrrr!" cold today, pushing zero when we went out, frost and ice... Brisk, I believe the phrase is, thanks mostly to the fact the last few nights have been completely devoid of cloud.

Of course, no cloud not only means frost, it also means that the sun is bright as anything. So, there's me, walking Jaysen to school in my Fat Bastard coat, a jumper, hands inside the sleeve for warmth, and, of course, my trusty sunglasses. Granted, I wear them when it's bright, not just sunny, as squinting in the light gives me a headache.

"What do you look like?" said random parent at the school this morning.

"A-buh?" came my incoherent reply, looking down at myself. Blue jeans, blue coat, some coloured jumper (beige, I think), black boots, sunglasses. Now, while I am a fat pasty with zero dress sense, I am pretty sure that I was dressed in a fairly non-out-there style. "A-buh?" came my reply again after the inspection.

"It's mid-winter and you're wearing sunglasses!" he chortled. "Haha what do you look like?!"

So, by now I've managed to upgrade my speech from nonsensical phonetics, to actual words. "But it's sunny - really sunny!" I protest, not bothering to mention that they are also prescription glasses so I can actually see. He laughed again. "Yeah but it's winter!"

And he wandered off after his spawn that was running off into the distance, leaving me standing there, a beacon amongst the mini-people running around before going into class. Looking around the playground, I noted that I was in fact the ONLY person wearing sunglasses. Everyone else was squinting into the light while wrapped up.

So, have I committed some fashion faux pas? Do sun glasses have some sort of unwritten rule on them; "If thine weather is below 10 degrees, thou shalt not wear shades"

People wonder why I don't pay attention to fashion.

The Gas Man Cometh

So, as I was going to say yesterday before I was rudely interrupted by someone trying to perform acrobatics on the stairs, yesterday was a wee bit chilly in Chez 0ddness.

See, because we *cough* messed up a bill, we have a prepayment gas meter that has, over the last couple of months, been a bit wobbly in its performance. For those that don't get what it is, you take the card to the shop, put money on it, slot it in the machine, and it steals allocates some money for the outstanding bill and the rest goes onto current use. Well, me and Jo have a knack of forgetting to top it up, and only realise when she starts dinner and finds a lack of, you know, gas.

So anyway - of late, when the meter runs out of money, it just locks up. "Call Help" it suggests. Very helpful. However, it A) Only happens at night and, B) When it's cold. So we have to call a Scottish call center, queue for almost an hour, explain what's happened, then get asked to confirm my personal details (because identity thieves would love to report a broken meter...), then get asked to provide a new meter reading, then explain the problem, then get put on hold...

You know, call center crap.

So, we get told "within four hours unless they are busy" which to me says "Like, you know, whenever".

Last night was cold. And we had to have *shudder* microwave food because no gas = no cooker. Also add into the equation I feel gross. Jo has Cel and Lane over to play SingStar, Jaysen was out, and Tam and Nadine (Cel's 11 year old) were maurading. It was like three cats being skinned with little demons running rampant.

Jaysen escaped to a fireworks display. Smart lad. Well, not that smart - he's sick as a wee sick puppy this morning.

Aaaaanyway. You can tell I am exhausted because of the rambling.

So, at some point, a man knocks on the door. "Come to fix your meter sir." Finally my inner monologue says in a sarcastic manner, and lead him to the offending meter. He has a look at it, and smacks it one.

Yes folks, technical skills at their finest. KerPOW! Nothing happens. He does it again and it beeps once. He "Hmmmms" but says nothing. I tell him "We're due for a new one on the 20th of this month" and he nods once. So he puts his magic Technician Card in, and the display wobbles a bit and says "FAIL"

So, I try to make small talk with the very bored looking tech. "Not too busy tonight I hope?" he grunts. Grunts at me. I wouldn't mind if he was doing something technical, but he was removing two screws to expose four batteries. Not rocket science. Not to be put off, I push on. Because, you know, I'm an ass like that.

"Well, hopefully with half the county out at fireworks displays, it'll be a bit quieter than you." I suggest. "Just because it's Bonfire Night doesn't mean gas meters won't go wrong." Ooookay, Mr Literal. "Let's hope there's no gas leaks then - no fun digging up a road with fireworks exploding overhead" I push on.

"I'm on meters tonight, not leaks. And I'm on till midnight."

While he talks, he does more "technical" stuff. He unplugs the battery pack, turns it around, and plugs it into a different socket. I kid you not. Does the Button-Press-Magic-Card thingie, and the "FAIL" pops on the screen again. He sighed.

"Your meter is broken" he tells me in a reeeeally bored manner. And then, the mother of all questions. "Do you want me to replace it for you?" Erm... It's cold. We needed food. And hot water - let's not forget hot water. "Yes pleeeease." I say. "Would you like a cup of tea?" I offer Mr Sigh-a-lot. "One sugar. I'll get your meter and my tools off the van" and he wanders off.

Long story short (too late), he fits the meter in silence, drinks his tea, checks the cooker and boiler, and leaves. Not even a thank you for the tea. Which he didn't actually finish.

And there was no gas leak last night. Shame - I kinda hoped he'd get pulled off "meters" and added to street digging...

Having Nightmare Day(s)

With us toddling off to a friends for the weekend, we decided to fiddle the laptop into getting Warcraft to run so we're not left out. Well, I decided it wouldn't hurt to reinstall the laptop, and a couple of days back, set to the "Backup/Copy/Reinstall" formula that some of you know so well.

And I got the bloody thing running again TODAY. It's just been a complete f'ing bitch to sort out, with errors and whatnot, but finally, I beat it into submission and now have a laptop that can run WoW - it'll be low quality, but it works, and that's a win in my book.

This morning Jaysen was a pain in the ass and was arguing and bitching about everything. A few late nights in a row and he becomes Satan incarnate. Anything and everything that could go wrong DID go wrong today, not to mention the house appeared to resemble a squat. Thankfully, my shouting and ranting at The Boy this morning woke up Jo, and while I was doing the school run - running late, no less - she set to deshitifying the house.

I'm tired, I ache, and just pissed off. I am SO looking forward to escaping for the weekend!

Saw the doctor yesterday finally, after getting accepted to the new surgery. However, we saw the Nurse, not the doc for whatever reasons, which means the meds I ran out of night-before-last but was expecting to get replaced yesterday... Well, hopefully I'll get a refill by Friday morning or the weekend will be... interesting.

We went to Jo's parents last night for Halloween. Her mum makes a mean chunky chilli, the kids dress up and hand out the sweets to the kids knocking on the doors, and generally act social. However... Within 15 minutes of walking in, Jo's dad gave me his laptop and said "computery things - fix the sound". I spent 45 minutes getting pissed off at someone elses computer (remember, at this point, I was losing in a fight against my own machine!), and could NOT figure it out. I threw in the towel, when Jo's mum leaned in and turned up the volume control on the side.

I couldn't make this shit up ;)

It was just one thing after another, and by 8.30pm, I was ready for bed. My laptop had other ideas, and I sat up till gone 11pm screaming at the stupid thing. I won though.

Anyways, we're now into November. Joy. Xmas is looming, the shops in town at getting worse, but on the bright side, there is plenty of Stollen for me to gorge myself on. Mmmmm...

As for the boobies of October - I still have a couple of Female-Pairs to put up, and then, just for the girls, I will do a post of Moobs. I have mine still to post, and a few pairs that have been sent to me, so fair is fair, after all. As it stands, I've got just over £15 to donate to a Breast Cancer charity from the girlies, and probably another £5 or so for the moobs. Not too shabby, really.

And I have received a challenge from someone. If I start "training" now, she will stump up £50 for me to do a walk of at least 26 miles in 2009. That's a marathon. This is my own fault for mentioning I'd love to do something walkie-based for charity, and so there it is. Gauntlet thrown.

And who am I to engage common sense?! So in the next few days/weeks/months, I have to decide on What and Where I am going to do, and figure out some kind of "get slightly fitter so I don't fall over" scheme. Happy Days.

If you have any suggestions, I'm all ears. I'm rather fond of trying to find a 26-mile slope and buying a pair of roller skates... And for the bloody-minded among you, yes, I have a passport!

Faces In The Dark

It's no secret that I am an insomniac. Some nights I lay awake ALL night with my mind ticking over things, other nights my mind is sort of... empty, and I just let my eyes wander around the room.

I've always laid awake in the dark, and always look around the room, trying to find something innocuous to focus on to help me sleep, but one thing that has always been consistent is the faces around me. Some are deep in thought, some are angry, or mad, or smiling and laughing - some are people, or animals, or stylised or even "other". Monsters, Aliens - whatever.

Now, this sounds odd, and probably sounds like I am going off my rocker, but I assume you *cluck moo baaaa* I am not. They have always been around me - in the wallpaper, in the curtains, in hanging or crumpled clothing, trees outside, clouds. As a child, I used to bury my head under the covers because they scared me, but as an adult, I know it's just my mind playing tricks on me. Some nights, I actually find myself actively seeking them out, but other nights, I feel like the world is staring at me.

Maybe it's one of the reasons I have insomnia.

A while back, I had a poke around the internet, and it turns out there is a term for it; Pareidolia:

The term pareidolia, referenced in 1994 by Steven Goldstein,[1] describes a psychological phenomenon involving a vague and random stimulus (often an image or sound) being perceived as significant. Common examples include images of animals or faces in clouds, the man in the moon, and hidden messages on records played in reverse. The word comes from the Greek para- — beside, with or alongside — and eidolon — image (the diminutive of eidos — image, form, shape). Pareidolia is a type of apophenia.

So, that is the generic word to cover the term. The visual version is that other word there; Apophenia:

Apophenia is the experience of seeing patterns or connections in random or meaningless data. The term was coined in 1958 by Klaus Conrad, who defined it as the "unmotivated seeing of connections" accompanied by a "specific experience of an abnormal meaningfulness".

I'm sure we've all done it at some point in our life - seen a cloud that looks just like a face, or an object. And let's face it, there are plenty of people that sell "Images of Christ" on Ebay, seeing his face in food, or in stains, or watermarks or whatever. And the pictures from 9/11, with the devils face in the smoke and dust.

But me, I just carry on as normal, disregarding them or studying them as my head allows. Last night at two in the morning, I noticed our net curtain formed a near-perfect profile of an Indian, standing and looking down at something.

I Love StatCounter

I love my StatCounter. I'm not so much interested in the number of people coming to visit me (though it is nice!), I like to know about HOW they came to be here, how they found me - either clicking a link elsewhere, or using a search engine - and I like to see where in the world people are coming from.

My favourite feature has to be the Keyword Activity, that is, what people entered into Google/Yahoo/MSN and so on before finding me. In the past, this had lead to some interesting results, from "Tweenies having sex" to "Date knife wielding psychopath" to "Dooleys sex toy" and "Gays in Brunei".

So, this morning, I checked as usual, and this is what I found:

Have to wonder why people like #5 on that list use search engines sometimes. And I wonder in turn if they realise everything they look far is recorded in at least one place, usually more.

Yesterdays Rant

Yesterday, I posted about the crazy freak that decided to create the scenario of her child being diagnosed as brain dead, who proceeded to recover, and made me question all my choices and decisions with Bethy. Lots of you have commented or emailed me out of disgust for this woman. I keep considering naming and shaming, but, lucky for me "Other" Emma has done it on her blog.

But that's not all - she's written an open letter to the crazy bitch. I know of a few other people that are now very unhappy with this idiot, and figured "what the hell" and have left a comment for her to read. Yes, I lost my rag a bit.

But hey! Now is YOUR turn. Go read the post and leave your own comment for the crazy hag. Am I inciting anger towards someone? Probably. But 0ddly, I am not that worried. Angry Dan managed to bury Compassionate Dan under the patio yesterday, so that's who she has to deal with.

Will I get an apology? I highly doubt it. Will she come out the woodwork? Possibly. if you end up here Elaina, I want you to know how angry and upset you've made people. An apology won't fix that, but it'd be a start. A reason as to why you did it would be even better.

Rant: Liars, Crazy People and Head Cases

Just a note, this could turn into a sweary rant. I haven't really decided yet. I'm angry, but not sure just HOW angry.

If you remember back in late-April, my mood took a turn for the worse. I had read something on a CHD List that hit me close to home and cut me through to the core. I was devastated, and had to deal with it as I didn't want to share with Jo as I knew how badly it would have effected her. I could only say so much on here just in case the author of the email arrived on here and thought I was bad mouthing her, her child, or her situation.

The simple version was this: Her child was in hospital having heart surgery, and as happens, things too a turn for the worse. Reading her mails was like reading my own updates - the problems, the hitches, everything that went wrong was like thinking about Bethany going through it all over again. And then it happened - something caused the childs brain to swell, and the doctors announced he was brain dead. Which is exactly what happened to Bethy.

But.

She refused to accept this, and order more tests, second opinions, and, after a week or so, the child managed to pull through. That was the straw that broke my back - Bethany had the same diagnosis, but WE never ordered tests or second opinions, and it stopped there. But the seed of doubt was well and truly planted in my head. The "What If's" started, the doubt took over, and I shut myself away from everyone and everything without explanation.

A couple of weeks later, the child was taken ill suddenly, and rushed back into hospital, and, sadly, he died.

So now we fast-forward back to now, and the last couple of days, people have been trying to get ahold of me. I noticed on Emma and Other Emmas blog, a post about trolls, but didn't think much of it. The Emma last night tells me something that caught me off guard. The woman made up the entire story. I don't know if the child exists or existed or whatever, but everything she said was a lie.

Today, I am dozing off on the sofa and my mobile rings, and it's Other Emma - she and the head honcho at Heartline have been trying to get a hold of me, and she explained to me all the lies that this person got caught up in, how she contradicted herself, how she changed details, altered major details and generally got trapped in her own lies.

To put it another way - she made up everything, and I had my heart torn out and stamped on because of a LIE.

Who the fuck does she think she is? What sort of person takes something like that and makes up a disaster around it? Seriously, how the hell can someone be so thoughtless. This stupid bitch posted on the UK list and one of the American lists I am on, and I know of at least two other parents that have had to deal with the same thing we did with Bethany. Did they see this persons story? Were they as cut up as I was, believing that this story was true and that there was the smallest inkling of possibility that they had made a mistake?

When I first read her story, I was heartbroken, I felt sick and angry at myself for not pushing for more tests. When I found out that this story was pure fucking fabrication, I was angry. I don't get angry very often, but I am sure if I knew where this person lived, then I would be having some very strong words with her. Assuming it is even a her.

Then there is the Compassionate side of me. Maybe she has a mental condition and needs help? Maybe she DID lose her child that way, and is reliving it all somehow. But Compassionate Dan is currently being beaten with a stick by Hacked Off Dan with a pair of dirty socks forced down his throat.

Part of me is in a mind to email her, to let her know exactly how fucked off I am, how upset I was, how upset I am now. There are some crazy fucks in this world, and it seems that my Crazy Fucker magnet is running at full strength.

Needless to say, I banned AND removed her from my UK List, plus let the owner and moderator of another list know - helpful being chums with people and letting them know they have fuck-heads on their lists!

Who knows, I might find it in myself to forgive this psycho, but I am not sure I can. She basically forced me to relive the last two weeks of Bethys life, but with added angle of making wrong decisions and questioning everything I'd done, said and decided.

Booze-Bruise

Last night, for the first time in a fair while, we managed to offload the kids; Jaysen went to stay with Jo's mum, Tamsyn went to stay with a neighbour (which was nerve-wracking in and of itself). Our friend Amber hit 31 this week, and as all fun-loving adults, we decided to hit our local alternative club, The Pink Toothbrush. Yes, I am fully aware of what that is a euphanism for. If you don't know, you can always ask.

Anyway, we hit the wildlife at around 9pm, taking the piss out of one another in the cab there, and getting into the club with the rest of the crowd by half nine when we started to drink.

And Drink.

And Drink.

12.30am, we realised we had a half-hour before Mr Cab Driver would be outside, and decided we needed fried food. So we went to the best burger van for miles around, ate stacks of meat, onions, bun, sauces and pure cholesterol. We were all rather drunk, so it didn't count.

We piled back into the cab, got to the drop off point, and spent half an hour dancing and laughing in the street. It's amazing what happens when someone has an mp3 of the Austin Powers theme on their phone. So we bumbled home, got in, had some more laughs, then hit the sack around 3am. 8am I wake up with a bladder that would put a swimming pool to shame and stay half-awake till 10.30am when we crawled out of bed.

All morning I was complaining of my leg hurting, and come 4pm, I had a peek and it looks like I was hit by a car. I have an eight-inch bruise that no one can place. I didn't fall, get hit, get in a fight (I'm a cheery/laughy drunk), despite almost knocking out one of the crowd, and breaking the shoulder of another. So here I am limping around with a BoozeBruise. Very strange.

We did well last night on the bar though. Beer, Vodka, Beer, some sort of fruit-vodka mix, we blagged a few free shots for being so damn sexy, something bubblegum flavoured, something strawberry cheesecake flavoured. Jagemeister also came out to play, as did pernot, absinthe and whatever else we tried.

But I am blessed with not worrying about hangovers!

Anyway, aside from getting mysterious injuries, obviously, I am back :) During the week, we received a report that our "issues should be resolved" and I've managed to keep an internet connection for about an hour so far. A new record ;) Has to be said, Telewest-which-is-now-Virgin Media is officially shite. I have no idea what has changed since they got taken over, but they get two fat-thumbs down.

Hopefully last night being out late and up "early ish" has jiggered my body clock back into some form of semblance. I've not slept properly since last weekend, being awake for 20-22 hours mostly, and fighting sleep during the day so I might sleep at night. Booze & Painkillers is the next step ;)

Tomorrow is Fathers Day, so after calling my dad to say Hi, we're off to see Jo's dad who's home-alone this weekend. He's also fiddled with his webpage, so no doubt I'm going to have to redesign from the ground up. He "cleaned some stuff off" which invariably means "I deleted some important files". Yay.

And so, I bid you goodnight!

Somewhere, A Village Is Missing Their Idiot

There are, in the world, some people that really believe the crap that goes on in their mind. You have people go on killing sprees because "God told them to do it", people killing others of a race or religion because they "believe it is right" and there are people that are just generally mental. And by mental, I don't mean sitting down and rocking in a padded room, but mental as in, they write all kinds of crap and believe it to be either funny, interesting, helpful, or whatever.

Some of these idiots somehow manage to find AND use a computer, and then figure out how to get on to the In'Tar'Web and even more amazing, is that they manage to spout their rubbish where ever they get the chance. Some people read it, shake their head, and move on. Some people label them trolls, and still others consider replying, but don't give them the time of day. Then there are the people like me, that honestly couldn't care less if someone is a troll, if someone is doing it for attention, or f they threaten me with the wrath of doom.

So Dan, why the rambling post thus-far? Well, early today, Nancy posted something she found on a Heart-Defect newsgroup (think mailing list with different options) that made a few of us pissed off, angry or just shaking their head in disbelief. I read it and had to smirk. This person has posted something that is frankly an amazing view on something that is close to home. Enjoy.

From: edwin2000@hotmail.com

The real cause of heart defects.

The doctors want us to believe that heart defects are caused by some sort of medical condition. They're wrong. They just tell us that because they know they can get their greedy hands into out bank accounts.

Heart defects are caused solely by demons. The heart is the symbol of love, and it's proper functions are controlled by "God" or good spirits, (whatever you believe in). A heart goes awry when an evil or angry spirit invades it. People who do not share, do not spend their life doing good, or who become too self centered are the ones whose hearts are taken over by these evil demons. Once this demon enters the heart, the damage begins. They start by blocking the flow of blood, or damaging the hearts functions in other ways. This condition worsens and eventually these demons take total control of the heart. Soon, the persons body begins to deteriorate and fail. When the demon takes complete control of the heart, the good spirits leave and the demon is in control of this heart and the body it keeps alive.

There is no way that surgery does any good. The demons must be removed by the heart owner. However, there are times it's too late. The person no longer has control of their own body and the demons now own the person. These people die. Those that still have some of the good spirits are able to heal themselves. The surgeons do nothing, in fact they often do more damage than good. Some people report feeling better after heart surgery and this may be the case. However, the better feelings are caused by the prayers these people receive from friends and relatives during the surgical procedures, NOT by the surgery itself.

The solution is preventative medicine. Be in control of your life, live a life of love and these evil demons will not enter the body. This is the only sure method to prevent heart defects.

Edwin

Now, I know what you're thinking, especially those of you that remember my run in with the Crazy Religious Nut last May, but this idiot - I HAD to reply to him. I didn't hide my name, who I was or where I was from or anything - I ripped into him. However, being as smart as I am, I lost the message I sent to him, so I can't show my reply. But it was scathing, and I even invited him here so he could see your comments if you want to make any. You can see his actual thread here.

But don't worry - he's probably a spotty 19 year old living in his parents basement.

Murder Attracts The Crazies

I'm not jaded nor blinkered. I understand that bad things appeal to some people. I don't know why it does, but it seems to be a fact of life. Not to mention the internet has several sites dedicated to nasty stuff. The worrying stuff is when they arrive at my blog, even though I know exactly HOW they got here, it's an odd feeling, that a google search has spurned someone to click my link, as it were.

As I mentioned in my Linkage post below, England is currently gripped by the Serial Killer on the loose in Suffolk - which is the county up from Essex and really not that far away. One of the victims comes from my home town of Colchester here in Essex, and had travelled up there to work. But anyway, there are rewards out - including a quarter of a million pounds by a Sunday Tabloid - extra police drafted in from across the country, and generally, trying to find this person as quickly as they can.

So when I check my StatCounter this morning, and find someone came to 0ddness with a search for "photos in london serial killings" I wonder what drives a person to look for such images. WHY would you want to see a murder victim?

The person in question was clearly not happy s/he didn't find what they were looking for, as they stayed for about NO seconds, but still, it boggles the mind.

Let's just hope this person is a criminologist, looking for something else entirely, in a strictly professional manner. And while we're hoping, let's hope I win the lottery ;)