Monday, May 30, 2005

Chop Chop

There really is nothing to beat Mother Nature's own pork chop, is there?

Your pork chop is a dish best enjoyed alone, I always feel. It is only when alone that one can truly do justice to this meaty treat, requiring as it does to be picked up and picked at with expert, probing teeth and fingers. You need to suck on its bones and angle it to get at the sweetest, juiciest meat that resists the attentions of the knife and fork.

There is a certain primal thrill to this, a harking back to simpler caveman times that gives the feeling that had one been born in an earlier age one would have been a devil of a fellow with a bow and arrow or a club when it came to the hunting and gathering lifestyle.

Of course our caveman ancestors didn't eat their brontosaurus flesh with a piquant tomato and pesto sauce with mushrooms, olives and peppers in it, but I'm sure you see my point.

I know there are vegetarian folk out there who would not share my enthusiasm for this king among foodstuffs, but frankly these people are fools and ninnies. Life is a bothersome enough business, with a hundred and one sorrows and catastrophes happening around us each day. And what are these addle-pated nincompoops spending their precious lives worrying about? "Aw, the poor piggies and moo cows are going to die. Tubbyboohoo for the lovely ickle animals."

To quote American rapper Ice Cube, "Fuck 'em". They're only animals after all, and they're tasty.

Perhaps the time is not right for my candid views on the joys of eating baby flesh just yet, though. Although they are delicious, there are a great number of politically-correct, looney-leftie types who insist that they are technically human beings and there is somehow something wrong in feasting on their tender, succulent meat.

The weirdy-beardy, mung bean-chomping, sandal-wearing, long hair-having freaks.

Keep yourself nice. Adieu.

Monday, May 23, 2005

More on the Leg Theme, I'm Afraid

What novelty there is in having a broken leg has well and truly worn off. If any of you young people were to ask me for advice, I would warn you against any sort of legbone fracturing antics. Yes, you get to swank around on crutches with a plaster cast on. Admittedly you get a couple of months away from work, but it isn’t all gravy.

In fact, if I may slip into the vernacular for a moment, it is rather a fuck on.

For a start there is the hopping. Under normal circumstances I enjoy a hop as much as the next man and, presumably, so do you. As an occasional treat one cannot whack a bit of one-legged action. However, when it is one’s only mode of transport the glamour starts to fade. A life lived on one leg is no life at all. Dash it, I’m a man not a cunting flamingo. This hopping business simply won’t do.

Also, the necessity of staying in can become wearisome. At first glance, the prospect of endless long lie-ins, lazing around watching tv, reading books and listening to music seems pleasing. Three weeks later, cabin fever sets in. The four walls of one’s abode become oppressive, the urge for the open spaces is paramount. The plight of a songbird in a gilded cage seems to fit the circumstances rather neatly. Quite a nifty and original observation that, eh? Don't you go pinching it.

Thankfully, the caprices of the British summertime are such that the confined convalescent is mainly just missing the chance to get soaked in sudden rain showers.

Furthermore, a summer of test match cricket begins this week and the Colonel will be there for every session, cushions plumped and tall, cold drink in hand. So, cheg on office monkeys, you am the twarts.

Finally, a word of advice if you are visiting a person who is sick. You represent the whole world outside of that person’s house and all that is going on out there. Try to entertain them with stories that will astound and amaze, bring them up to date on local affairs and common acquaintances. Discuss events of national and international importance, possibly giving your opinion that things will get worse before they get any better. As a last resort, you can always discuss the weather and how it is not merely the heat that gets you, rather it is the humidity.

Do any of these, but do not, I repeat do not, harp on about the person’s injury, mixing in numerous horror stories of persons who have suffered complications with similar conditions and concluding with your jaundiced opinions on the medical staff of the local hospital.

Quite frankly, we don’t need to hear that type of thing. Go tell it to the marines or put it where the sun refuses to shine. A pox be on all you naysayers and bringers of woe, begone thou foolish knaves.

Thanks for the bread and milk though.

Increase the peace, I’m outta here.

Wednesday, May 11, 2005

When the leg he breaks

What ho, folks.

Sorry for neglecting you all, had a spot of medical bother. I went and broke my leg while playing Association Football. That's the story anyway, you know the score, official secrets and all that rot. Anyway, suffice to say I spent a week in hospital and so far a week and a half at home with a plaster cast on.

This installment will consist of some of my half-baked musings as I lay a-tossing and a-turning in my weary infirmary billet. Without aggrandizing myself in any way, I would have to say that the nearest comparison would be Fyodor Dostoevsky.

In 1849 our man Fyodor was exiled to Siberia where he endured four years of hard labour. His memories of these times are collected in his celebrated "House of the Dead". I've read this book and he doesn't mention piss once. Clearly I am better than him. Anyhow, without further ado, let's grip it and rip it.

Lucozade

This tasty beverage appears to have lost any health-restoring properties it may have had when I was a stripling. This is probably not unconnected with the shedding of the sticky orange sellophane wrapping it once sported. A kind of fizzy pop Samson’s locks type of deal.

The eager beavers who have taken over the Lucozade empire since Old Man Ernie Lucoz passed away have re-positioned the Lucozade brand. No longer the sole province of pyjama-clad youngsters tucked up in bed with a Beano and a bowl of soup, these days Lucozade is marketed mainly towards tracksuit clad sports poseurs. There also seems to have been an attempt on the Irn Bru niche market of the hungover weekend party animal. However, this has proved less successful with the true alkies, tiprats and radgies showing an admirable brand loyalty to the Caledonian girder-derived restorer.

Piss

Passing water while hunched over a plastic bottle in bed is a rum old do. Attempting same feat while a thin curtain separates you from a ward full of wheezing oldsters and busy nurses going about their business is even less of a walk in the park. On one occasion I was there fully seven minutes before any business resulted.

I imagine this is what “erectile dysfunction” (being a big puff who can’t get it up when you’ve got a lass there, choking for it) must be like. Although at least in that instance you would have some tits to look at.

However, when urinating in bottles, there is always the danger that once you have started to “speak”, you may have too much to say. The consequences of such an incident would doubtless have a deleterious effect on one’s prestige among the nursing staff. Nobody could feel truly at ease knowing that others refer to them as “Old Pissybed”. Thankfully this situation did not arise. The Colonel has the bladder muscles of a young Sly Stallone. Yes, look impressed.

In fact, on the final evening of my confinement, I judged this matter to a nicety, leaving just an inch below the stopper of the bottle, just enough to let the liquid “breathe”. The nurse who came to take it away was mightily impressed with my efforts, making comments to this effect and showing off the bottle to her partner on the ward as if it were some notable sports trophy.

“Hey, I’m dead proud, me” I piped up, to beaming smiles all round. Good times, my friends, good times.

Snooker

It can scarcely have escaped your notice that we have recently witnessed the World Snooker Championships. Won, you will recall, by that fat lad. A great sporting occasion, you will agree.

We all know it, we all love it. An ideal way of passing the idle hours when confined to bed, I think you'd agree.

There are however, a couple of flies in the ointment.

Firstly, advertisements just look wrong when worn on waistcoats and dickie bowties. Yes, your garish nylon football shirts, yes your Formula 1 motor cars, by all means plaster them with hoardings for lager beers and online casinos, but formal evening wear? I rather fancy not. Sort it out David Vines.

Finally, a special word for the good people who make up the audiences at the snooker. My word, what a motley collection of Ocean Finance poster girls, porridge-countenanced youths in bulging replica football tops and glakey, four-eyed “George at Asda” types who appear as though they can only achieve arousal when watching “A Question of Sport”.

Still, they’re a very “knowledgeable” crowd, by all accounts. And at least they aren’t motor sports enthusiasts.

See you next time, douchebags.