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Monday, 14 February 2011

C-Bombs, Rants and Car Interferers

I was going to write a blog about the C-word. You know, Cee yoU Next Tuesday? The C-Bomb? The MacBeth of cursing? About how it can, for some reason, cause the utmost offence to some and how those people who automatically proclaim how much they “hate that word” cause an equal, proportionate amount of annoyance to those to whom they proclaim it. I, for one, am a fan. Whilst I agree with my mum, and most mothers no doubt, that you don’t have to swear to be funny I must add this caveat – it does help!

A well timed c-bomb, my new preferred suggestion of the unmentionable, can add such weight to one of my favourite things. A good old rant. It was this situation that I found myself in this morning but before I tell you about that I will paraphrase the would-be blog. The c-word has been demonised thanks to two opposing groups of utter idiots. One group, the Danny Dyer would be gangsters of this world (they pronounce it “caaaant”) who were no doubt bullied at school and have severe inadequacy issues and therefore must act the ‘ard man to anyone half their body weight or size but would really relieve their bladder at the first sign of trouble and end up working in Accounts. The second group a generation of banner waving protest-at-mis-matched-sock-for-the-sake-of-having-something-to-do-with-their-lives types who need to find a reason for living because they think no-one will ever love them for being themselves and therefore they need to have a cause. Like hoodies, Ug-boots, iPhones and Audis, perfectly usable in their one rights and well designed for their given purpose but soiled by misuse by mindless thugs, wannabe “it” girls, pretentious faux yuppies and men with small genitalia.  I personally believe that everything in moderation is the best approach. This particular word should be used sparingly as part of a calorie controlled verbal diet of delightfully verbose passages punctuated by the occasional monosyllabic four letter word infused tirade. It’s the wordy equivalent of feel good food. A Ginsters for the irate, a Big Mac for the put upon and at times it deliciously hits the spot.

The reason that I curtail by musings over the c-word is because of this. Last night some low-life broke into my cursed car. Nothing was taken, they had a good look around, tossed things this way and that. Papers and content as opposed to.......anyway. Despite the fact that I never intended to use my blog as a ranting post I need to vent. So. To whatever scumbag that broke into my cursed car last night I have 3 things to say:

1 - What's wrong with Ben Folds Five and Adele? I ought to fill up on N-Dubz tat and Cheryl Cole so you’ve something for the Mrs next time you musically illiterate vermin.

2 – Speaking of which, next time look behind the passenger seat where my bag with anything valuable was aside from the £300+ of cricket kit in the boot. Moron.

3 - I hope you die of internal rupturing from a showery encounter with a large anything-but-gentleman in the next remand institution that you happen to find yourself in. You are a waste of skin, no matter how much you claim to love your mother, and no doubt in fact fall in to one of the two categories listed above. In fact no only do I wish a pox upon you but I hope your entire family wake up tomorrow and find that the Sky dish doesn’t work, Jeremy Kyle has been cancelled, all of their sports clothing based wardrobes have vanished and been turned into things from Marks and Spencers smart-casual knitware range AND that they can pronounce the letter “T” making them outcasts and an embarrassment to you.

I do feel a little better now. Just a little mind. Try it yourself sometime and let me know how you get on. Oh and if any none regular reader want to buy a, ahem, pristine Peugeot 206, very little wrong with it.......

Friday, 11 February 2011

Why the Chinese Eat Dog.

Now obviously it’s a sweeping generalisation that the Chinese, as a nation, eat dogs. In fact of the Chinese people that I’ve met and known several may have had dogs (as pets!) but I know of none vanishing in a black-beany haze. However, whilst I am truly a dog lover, and not in a gastronomic sense, I am coming around to perhaps some motive at least as to why one may indulge in a pup pasty or a Lassie stew.

Just a quick note for any vegetarians reading - I understand that you may have experienced the following nor in principal agree. For your sake if you substitute the following; turkey for a brussel sprout, pork for cauliflower, beef for broccoli, chicken for a leek, duck for a nice fresh carrot, fish for mangetu and lamb for a sweet honey roast parsnip then you may just get the gist.

So, the theory that I have goes thus. The cuter the animal, the better the taste. At the very bottom of the scale, I can assure you, I once tried alligator. Beastly fiend, the epitomy of leathery evil and a taste of fish with a porky texture. Quite unsettling compared to actual pork.  Pigs, occasionally cute but generally boarish and certainly seldom a childs preferred object of affection at a farm visit is turned to pork chops, a filling but average meat rarely cooked to jaw dropping standards. The occasional piggy cuties are simply explained. Bacon. Mmmmm.

So onward the cute vs flavour scale continues. Turkey, an ugly bird and thankfully retained for one feast a year, steeped in gravy, cranberry and all manner of accompaniments to make it bearable. Contrastingly chicken, cute, fluffy little things that grow into amusingly jerky adults, are really rather tasty! The Colonel has made a fortune from it. Would his turkey have been finger lickin’ good? I doubt it. As we all know Nemo, the cute little fella and his fishy, adventurous, underdog nature go fantastically with chips on a Friday night or perhaps cream cheese on a breakfast bagel. Mmmm. Moving onward and upward is steak. Her big brown eyes and fluttering eyelashes, that look of love and a slap from a big dark tongue as you pass the pen. Deeeeeeelicious.

Finally the top of the English tree at least, just pipping Bambi, it's lamb. Fluffy, bouncy, mint-saucey heaven. Whether drop off the bone, flavour sensation Morrocan undertoned beauty or pink, simple, tasty joy. Top of the cute AND taste tree you see!

Surely, continuing on this scale we all know what’s next. Are nations are just ahead of their  time? A puppy fondue perhaps? Kitten casserole? I have no burning desire to find out personally for two reasons. Firstly I am, as stated above, a dog lover. Loyal, fun, the most interactive of pets and the one that loves back. Secondly, if dog is a wondrous ambrosia, send from the gods to nourish us then what is next? After having this discussion with someone last night I couldn’t help but drool a little and my tummy let out a slight whimper as the latest Huggies advert flitted across the TV screen. I'd best stop at lamb!

Statistically proven?

Thursday, 3 February 2011

My 30s so far!

I have had so many people tell me “it’s downhill from here” this week it’s untrue. I had no fear about turning thirty. None.

It's no secret that I fully plan to grow older in a disgraceful way without fear of recourse or ramification. I have never really feared what people think of me – as can be seen by a number of temporary summer jobs (Sherriff of Nottingham/Guy of Gisborne, ‘Arry the Betfair Arrow) and misadventures (Full Monty!). But judging by the first three days I have to hold my hands up, I was arrogant and wrong. This also proves the point that there is a first time for everything.

Tuesday, day one was perhaps just a mild suggestion of things to come. Simply I managed to mid-thumb the alarm, so I woke up late, just leaving time to grab the obscenely sized cream cakes and actually get to work. A day of little work and long lunch was what the doctor ordered before a quiet birthday family meal. The calm before the storm perhaps.  An absent minded slip first thing though was the tip of the ice berg!

Wednesday was the day of celebrating with the guys. Plans made, rendezvous agreed. Ah the best laid schemes of mice and men.......Work came and went. There is an atmosphere you could cut with a knife at present that I was gleefully unaware of in my birthday stupor resulting in a chainsaw massacre of pointed looks and sharp remarks. Still, it didn’t matter, I was a drive home and shower from heading to the pub for a session with my eclectic group of mates. Tragically Le Car had other ideas. The middle of rush hour, the third of four lanes on a major road and clunk. Le clutch est mort Rodders. 45 minutes sat in accelerating live traffic before police assistance to push m’poor motor off the road followed by another hour and a quarter awaiting the RAC. Another trip to the same garage and a key swap meant three hours to get home in total. Fortunately my wonderful mates came to get me then fed me great company, good cake and sweet, sweet eliquor Jack Danienls.

Thursday managed to cap the lot! Having fought off the warming alcohol infused blanket of sleep i found myelf donned in a fetching medical dressing gown and sports shorts hiding my modesty and awaiting an Xray at the chiropractors. I say hide my modesty but to be honest the shorts were overkill on what was a very cold morning! I took up my position with childish glee, facing front then to the side for my portrait and profile shots. All that was missing was my convict number and a stripy top! All this to finally find out what’s been causing more than a little discomfort. My naive enjoyment of the whole process was given short shrift.

Whilst the words “hernia”, “broken” and “slipped” were kept well away the phrase “unusual for someone your age” and “degenerative” came as far more of a surprise. As always a flood of questions rushed into mind 30 minutes after leaving but it’s a little late. What does that mean? How serious is it? How can I stop it!?!! I managed to get myself into more of a tizz than Madonna in an African orphanage and I’d quickly forgotten my newly adopted assured approach to all things life and beyond this year. I contemplate asking my friend Google but refrain. My mind plays enough nasty tricks on me without giving it any additional ammunition. I know, I’m, a big drama queen but my only trips to hospitals involve visiting so this has got me a little messed up.

Now I sit writing my blog, attempting to drown out the creaking ceiling and pounding bed springs in the room above, things have settled within me. An afternoon chat with the Doc cleared enough things up thanks to calming phrases that it would’ve been good to hear at 8.30am. “It’s nothing unusual, just a little sooner rather than later” and “it may mean a few more trips and treatments before things are quite right”. Don't worry readers it really isn't something to get concerned about, just much ado about nothing.  I in fact cheered myself up with dinner out and a self-gift of a Derek and Clive CD! Brilliance in a flurry of C-Bombs, it can't help but to raise a smile!