The problem with going from Bachelor to married dad

It isn't the converting of the music room that used to heavily reverberate with the sounds of electric guitars, sax, and drums wielded by way too caned way too drunk way too in the middle of a mid life crises chaps into a bedroom for a little girl.

It isn't the giving up of a private comfortable quiet office where thought was easily made available to process vast amounts of technical information into stunningly delivered training courses for bored engineers so that a new baby boy has a bedroom.

It isn't the clearing out of a fridge stocked with a ledgendary array of beers from around the world to make way for milk, smoothies, frubes, cheese strings, kinder bars, more frubes, babyBel cheeses, ambrosia ready made glow-sinisterly-in-the-dark custard pots, and a few frubes.

It isn't the removal of a vast selection of hugely entertaining war films and science fiction epics and collections of colourful hardcore horror stories to make way for Lego, an EU mountain of play doh, 40 different dolls that piss their pants when you squeeze their hands, and Fluffy goes bloody nowhere toys.

It isn't trying to fit every single bloke thing listed above into a single corner of a single room in the house.

No, it's none of that, none of it is a problem, what IS a problem is some bastard looking at it and telling me that it's false advertising calling it a corner because according to the laws of geometry the most I've achieved is a small smudge.



Oh and while I'm here, cheese strings, seriously, piss off.

1000 people, two loaves, two fishes, 20 minutes – cooking doesn’t get tougher than this

Welcome a new round of celebrity masterchef where YOU the viewer get to watch THEM the celebrities that haven’t quite made it to the “Lifestyles of the rich and famous” show and haven’t fallen far enough to get on to “I’m a celebrity, shove poisonous wiggling things up my nose and get me out of here because I’ve had a teenage hissy fit, and an odd attack of hay fever.”

Hosted by John Torode (the one that can cook) and Greg Wallace (the one that is probably easily amused by rude shaped vegetables in the Sun) we find our current spate of borderline ‘Who?’ list engaged in another round of “I made you a risotto with the consistency of roughly mating algae.”

This series offers us even tougher challenges than just a sorbet served to the king of Siam on the stomach of a freshly nude virgin. This series the challengers will face the greatest tests a chef would never face, Greg explains:

“Laaaaaaverly, this year we are going all out to test our contestants in ways they wouldn’t think possible. Innit? Today’s show promises to be a real corker, we are giving the contestants two chicken wings, a lettuce, and pak choi to feed 14 hungry soldiers. As if that wasn’t hard enough, the soldiers don’t know they are coming, and they are currently entrenched somewhere in Afghanistan. Can our chefs get it right that is the question, will their presentation match the flavour expectations with so few ingredients and so little ground cover from enemy fire, will they get the seasoning right, the danger is that they could over cook the chicken if they can’t get over the barbed wire fast enough. Cooking doesn’t get tougher than this!!”

John elaborates:

“Have you seen this wanker? Look what they paired me with, a vaguely London barrow boy who used to sell fruit and fucking veg. Jesus. I mean seriously, did you see him with Michel Roux Jnr? Did you know that they used the nodding dog from the Churchill advert for one of the shows? No, nobody noticed. Still, yes this show should be an absolute winner, there you see the terrified celebrities being ushered into the Chinook helicopter that will take them deep into the war zone to find 14 very hungry members of the SAS. Remember that those guys have a highly educated palette derived from eating bugs as they crawl past their hiding place so it’s going to be a tough audience.”

“Yea, err, innit”

“fucksake Greg. They will have to be johnny on the ball here to get the food out on time without compromising the SAS position and deliver food fit for a surprised apoplectic killer who’s month of lying still has been interrupted by hopefully a tasty well presented dish.”

“Yea, umm, yea, umm, can they pull this off, umm tougher umm, innit, cooking, innit”

“Do we PAY this idiot? Greg fuck off over there and play with your potatoes, ooh wait, the Chinook has arrived at the forward combat zone and the celebs are currently running to their preparation positions.”

“Corks lummie guvna Jordans copped it,

Dunt get tuffer than this”

National Trust - an institution, a charity, a sense of smug bastardness

Well, here I am in middle age with a dusty guitar, a family, and a bunny. What to do, what to do?

I know, I'll join the national trust. Yea, good idea, look at all these places I can see for free with my yearly subscription. Check out all the beautiful places with their wildlife, country scenes, castles, gardens, places to relax, and free parking.

Look at all the gifts I get when I join, a complete catalogue of all the places I can go to, a poster, a car sticker that means I can park for free, an umbrella, a sense of belonging, and, wait, yes, a huge sense of smug.

Check out the losers that have to pay to park, pay to get in, pay to get out, pay to enter the on-site shop, cough up cash for talking to an attendant.

Look how they are sneered at for not taking advantage of a years subscription for only £36.38, see the sights of the tour guides taking them into the toilet and flushing their pauper heads down the 18th century teak toilet (as used by King Henry VIII'th during his 'we've discovered curry' years).

Be amazed at how interactive the torture chamber really can be if they say no to giftaid.

Be in awe of the accuracy in the recreation of the witch-hunt years for people presenting expired cards.

Get educated in the history of some of Britain's finest houses built by the fine upstanding slave owners of old, and the extended use of the National Trust brolly that comes with the introduction pack. Immerse yourself in the flup flup flup sound made by rapidly opening and closing the umbrella in the face of an oik in the cafe queue who's tried to buy a scone and a coffee:

"Scone and a coffee please"

"£18.36 please"

"What?"

"pfffff, scone and a coffee, that will be £18.36. Now"

"Is there something special about it, does the scone have cocaine in it or something?"

"No, raisins"

"Jesus, well, I have had a nice day, and it is for charity, £18.36 it is then."

"Sorry, price is now £20"

"What!!!! why?"

"You've been speaking to me for 20 seconds."

"Taking the piss lady!!! Oi mate have you heard what she just said?"

FLUP FLUP FLUP "ARGHwhatthefuck?"


I was trained well.

UFO Lands on Parliament - The 9/11 Conspiracy Proved!!

Did you know that A UFO landed on the houses of Parliament last week in the early hours?

NO?

That's because you are all stupid people and you are all being sheep, sheeple, one huge herd of cattle. I know that's different from sheep but they both eat grass, which is what all of YOU are doing, eating grass, yes, that's what you are a grass eating sheep or cow.

Last week, about one hour after I ate some shrooms and washed them down with quality mad dog 20/20 I went for a walk in London. How surprised was I when approaching the Houses of Parliament to see a UFO in the shape of OSAMA BIN LADEN eating a JEW landing on the roof. I saw it like throw out a green light before flying off into the sky. All it left behind was a freshly made Caesar salad. THE next day I saw this :

Now that's proof that 9/11 was an inside job.

Nobody in UK has heard about what I saw because the newspapers are all controlled by JEWS that are controlling everyone and everything and that means you are sheep, or a cow, or something else that eats grass and like doesn't watch the news and won't go on the internet and look at all these websites I know.

When are you going to wake up and smell the coffee like I have. I have literally watched literally hours and hours and hours of badly spelt, unqualified, meaningless conjecture put together by teenagers with no academic grounding in anything but like they are clever and can use windows movie maker and cool fonts and add awesome Nazi rock songs. Man these guys are super impressive, they are not sheep, they are more like duck billed platypuses coz they are free and not conformist like sheep are, or cows, which is what you are. I know I'm right coz I know so many websites it can't be wrong. I've not wasted the finest days of my life in dark rooms with a tinfoil hat to stop the rays getting to my brane for nothing. Far from it, all this stuff is like super important, like you know, when they turn Saturn or Jupiter into a new sun, THEN you will all know but I will be ok coz I know it's going to happen and I'm a duck billed platypus I am.

And if you don't believe me then answer me this question if you can tear yourselves away from the grass and mooing and stuff:

Why a Caesar salad?

SEE! don't be a sheep, be a platypus.

of poodles and mailboxes and bungees

Follow on from this post

I would like to state, for the inquisitive of mind and bored of life, several things need to be considered before trying to reduce unsolicited mailshot with poodles, bungees, and mailboxes.

First, it's an absolute truth that large poodles cannot fit through letter boxes, no matter how far back you stretch the bungee.

Secondly, poodles can be angry little bastards.

Third, there is no doggy chew in the world that will entice a previously launched poodle to get back into the damn slingshot.


And so it is fair to state that trying to give a postie the shock of a lifetime is not simply a function of canine velocity. Well, it is, but it's a one off unless you has an adequate supply of ignorant poodles and it's a new postman every day who hasn't been informed by depot that "The occupier" at number 4 will mash an irritated barking bogbrush against the door glass when you approach with the latest important information on double glazing.

Although that particular offer was rather useful after the damage from the first attempt, oh the irony of it all.

I think a rethink is in order, possibly some other form of animal could be launched in a decisive effort to reduce the amount of trees that are dying in the name of breakdown recovery for only 20 pence per day.

Perhaps a snake.

I belong to the world now !

You know, sometimes things have to be done simply because they have to be done. Rather like cleaning dog mess off your shoes or writing 'not known at this address' on a mailshot stamped with a “hand delivered by the Royal Mail” strap line before putting it back into a mail box for them to deal with. Admittedly the latter action is accompanied by a sense of mischievous smugness, whereas trying to do the same to the former may be messy, illegal, and would have yielded better results by sitting on the wall digging the mess from the cracks in ones shoes before flicking it at a postie trying to get things “To the occupier”.

So a blog would appear to be the thing to be done, so I shall do. Why? I, and others ask. Well, the only answer I can think of is that, rather like flicking dog poo at posties who are trying to tell “The occupier” of the superb insurance savings available, it seems like the right thing to do at the time.

I'm not sure what I'm going to write about, but I'm certain something will come to.................mind, although I am resigned to the fact that it's probably not going to be my mind.

I will take suggestions though. May I suggest that someone suggests “Poodles, dealing with them”, I probably have a few words on how to deal with natures living loo brush. Ooh, and politics, I like politics, it's so........what's the word......shite.

Ahh I should mention, there's likely to be swearing here, I'm a realist not an apologist.

So on with the show, thanks for dropping by, I'm off for a coffee and to experiment with a large bungee, a poodle, and a letterbox.