Tuesday, December 30, 2008

Apotheosis of the Artichoke

I am clean sprouted out.

I always find the desultory interregnum between Christmas and New year a useful time to contemplate why I hate most green vegetables with a passion greater than Morrisey's penchant for gladioli, or Pamela Anderson's passion for proving that short arse Canuck birds like stuffing spacehoppers up their jumpers.

Asparagus would do, if it wasn't mostly twig. A string bean would be tolerable, if it didn't leave a stray string rotting between my top left molars. I wouldn't say no to a broad bean if it got a bit Mexican and started quaffing tequila and getting a bit stroppy.

No, broad beans aren't for me.

Nor are carrots, which may be orange but are the most pointless vegetable known to humanity.

Anyhoo, here's the Undertones, proving that Derryboys who love their spuds are vastly superior to short arse Dublin pontifcaters like Bono.

I hope you know your onions.

Wednesday, December 24, 2008

Twas the night before Christmas

....and garfer is half cut. Feeling slightly less misanthropic than usual I wish all my deluded nincompoops a very happy Christmas. I hope nobody gets food poisoning from a dodgy prawn.

May the plums in your pudding prosper. In fact, if you're a male nincompoop, may your plums prosper full stop.

Monday, December 22, 2008

Ten Annoying Christmassy Things

* There's always one sweet in the box with a precariously balanced almond on top. One bite and half the almond falls off and rolls under the sofa.

* Everybody hates mince pies, yet everybody feels an inexplicable urge to force them on everybody else.

* People eat After Eight mints and put the empty wrappers back in the box. These people need shooting.

* Big Issue sellers make you feel mildly guilty.

* The Queen.

* Untangling Christmas tree lights. This activity invariably involves high volume cursing and swearing. Personally I'd rather wrestle an octopus.

* Indigestion.

* Squidgy presents. These are usually provided by skinflint relatives who think that a hand knitted jumper with baggy sleeves or a pair of socks are a fair swap for being providing with copious amounts of free food and booze.

* People who think a game of 'Twister' is the perfect way to occupy Christmas Day afternoon.

* Party hats. I have no desire to look a complete twat, whatever the occasion.

Bah humbug!


Thursday, December 18, 2008

Do Not Disturb

I am hotelling it at the moment, the expense of which I am defraying by Christmas shopping for items of an inconsequential and paltry nature for my nearest and dearest.

I like the anonymity provided by chain hotels, the sense of living in an enclosed bubble oblivious to workaday concerns. I am firmly convinced that should anything apocalyptic happen I will still be able to phone reception and demand that fresh towels and an extra pillow are dispatched to my room instantly.

It's not quite as good as the Manhattan hotel room where the charming Latino house maid was sensitive to my every need (and then some), but it's still acceptable.

Time is seeping through my pores, and regular meal times and the guilt of sleeping in are a distant memory.

Wednesday, December 17, 2008

Eyeless in Gaza

My animus has been thwarted yet again. Admittedly I'm not on the verge of destitution, or even fearful of the unlikely prospect of mild deprivation, but I am irked, annoyed, and of a mind to detach a leg from one of my occasional tables and insert it forcefully up the nearest bankers rectum.

Assets apparently have no value, and consequently cannot be lent against. This is a worry, as if nothing is worth fuck all we are all comprehensively fucked.

Fucking fuckity muppets the lot of them, the shower of useless bastards.

I think I'll go for a bit of a lie down.

Yo, ho, ho, and remember to avoid Mr Micawber.

Tuesday, December 16, 2008

Miscellaneous Pleasures

In no particular order:

* An artfully crafted and hand rolled cheroot containing choice Virginia tobaccy.

* The Fender Telecaster

Go on, whack that plank. You know you want to.

* A poke of chips

Fuck off, they're mine.

* Glenmorangie

Imbibeable (which deserves to be a word).

* Cheesy Wotsits

They might smell like your Granddad's underpants, but they're very moreish.

Monday, December 15, 2008

Irritating Things

Blind People

For some reason blind people keep bumping into me and poking me with their sticks. Rude isn't the word.


Constantly forecasted and all we get is freezing rain.

Small Towns

There's always some knob head student claiming that it's great to be back and moaning about seeing the same old faces.


Over rated and stringy.


Used to be cool as fuck but got bloated and sold out to the Injuns.


Employ the mindless morons that narrowly avoided getting a kicking at school. I'm planning to go blind just so that I can poke mine with a pointy stick (or a taser).

Sunday, December 14, 2008

A Guardian reader does some Christmas shopping

I loathe spending money on other people, preferring (quite sensibly) to fortify my self worth with utilitarian purchases of a wholly justifiable nature that benefit me. I scoff at the crass materialism and wasteful consumerism that has so benighted our shallow and valueless Western cultures.

I laugh at the pallor and anxiety of recession etched faces as they stare at the 50 inch plasma TV's that should rightfully be theirs but have been capriciously snatched from them by the harsh Gods of plastic. I sneer at the wee wifeys loading up on economy concentration camp turkeys at Asda.

If only more people had been sensible about spending money they didn't have this country wouldn't be evaporating like the bubbles in my jacuzzi.

Actually, speaking of jacuzzis, I've decided to launch a special Christmas appeal in aid of myself. I want the new model with complimentary Thai bathing belles and streaming cocktails. It's not too much to ask, and I expect everybody to contribute generously.

Friday, December 12, 2008

French Letter

My French teacher was fresh out of Teacher Training College and exemplified the curvaceous big bosomed come-hitherness that is every 15 year old boys ideal of feminine perfection. It was no bloody wonder none of us could manage French pronunciation, being incapable of saying anything other than a mumbled "dunno Miss" in her pneumatic presence.

I speak very, very poor French as a result of this educational handicap. This doesn't bother me unduly as I can't see much point in being able to speak fluent Froggy. It's not as though they still rule Indochina. If they did I could swan around Hanoi in a crumpled cream linen suit and seduce oriental beauties with my Baudelaire recitations. These days the Viet birds are more likely to invite me to partake in some 'boom boom' in one of their brothels, which isn't very glamorous at all and indicative of the verbal felicity which the Americans left in their bomb strewn wake.

I'm quite satisfied not to be able to speak French as the French clearly have no intention of learning to speak English. Each to their own I say.

Wednesday, December 10, 2008

Dentistry with Dietmar

Not everyone is lucky enough to have a German Harley Davidson riding dentist called Dietmar. Dietmar is efficient, in a brusquely Prussian manner, and does not interrupt his drilling and filling with pointless small talk.

Unfortunately Dietmar is rather out of sorts at the moment as he has acquired a drink driving conviction and is unable to live out his Easy Rider fantasies on his Harley. I have commiserated with him, and berated the idiocies of the British drink driving laws which prevent harmless Germans trundling around on their motorcycles. As such, I am one of Dietmar's favourite patients.

I recently had a prehistoric filling fall out, and having been somewhat tardy in having the matter attended to was unsure of the tooth's future. I asked Dietmar if the tooth could be saved. He replied that "I cannot save ze tooth permanently, but I can apply a temporary filling". Apparently this temporary filling should be good for five years or so, after which it will fall out and can be replaced with another temporary filling. "So it's not really temporary then?", I asked. "No", he said, "it is not temporary, but neither is it permanent".

So that's all right then.

Hegel, eat yer heart out.

Saturday, December 06, 2008

Drastic Enteritus

Being firmly convinced that decent drains and proper toilets are the hallmark of all civilized societies I tend more towards armchair travel than the real variety. Other cultures and cuisines are all very well and good, but there is little alluring about fly encircled toilet rims.

Having said that, I do like to dream about exotic destinations and the attractions they offer. I was reading up on Shanghai the other day and was pleased to note that one hotel claimed that all guests were sure to have a 'drastically good time'. I haven't had many drastically good times, so I'm sure it would prove to be an invigorating holiday.

The British economy is definitely going round the U bend, so I think we should all go out and have a drastically good time.

Britain needs drastics.