Category Archives: Food

Goulash in the Gulag

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I’m having goulash for my tea. Well, it’s beef casserole with lots of paprika in it, so I guess that makes it a goulash. We used to have it loads when we were kids and I doubt it’ll taste the same as Connie Cakesniffer’s, but I’ve made it in one of those traditional casseroles, so there’s some semblance of authenticity there.

Look at my tea:

Goulash

It’s currently cooling down as I don’t fancy putting something that’s just come out of a 200°C oven in my mouth. Smells nice enough though.

Anyway, I could hardly describe my living arrangements as being a “Gulag”, but perhaps mentally they are. I was accused of titivating my bedroom by Jo when she was having one of her rants about me living of the life of Riley here. This accusation is based on me putting up some curtains in there to keep the heat in:

Oo la la

Unfortunately, I bought completely the wrong size and they cover the entire tiny radiator so block the heat coming into the room. The chandelabra is nothing to do with me.

Rocky worries me sometimes; he pulls so hard on his lead that he makes himself vomit. this is nothing new, but sometimes he makes himself vomit so violently that he collapses onto the floor. He did again today when I was taking him for a walk, I thought he was having a convulsion. But he got to his feet, shook himself off, had a big poo and was OK again.

The problem was that he’d been eating cat food at my mum’s and now his beard smells of rotten Felix. Makes giving him a cuddle a bit unpleasant.



Ritorn’ a Fuckbook
Yes, I caved in and reactivated my Fuckbook profile. It’s actually quite good fun at times, especially now that I’ve deleted some of my most irritating “friends”; those people who just add you so they can send you shite.

In all honesty, I only did it so I could check out the photo’s of a former colleague’s new baby, but you know, all babies look the bloody same anyway. Anyway, at least I know how to deactivate myself again if needs be.

Wouldn’t it be fabulous if you could deactivate yourself in real life? If only.

It hurts

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Christmas Day is probably the only day of the year where you graze from getting up in the morning until going to bed at night. The grazing is only interrupted for a huge meal smack bang in the middle of the day. A huge meal with about three puddings and lots of fizzy drinks.

Needless to say, after consuming about half a kilo of salty snacks, 400g turkey, 200g bacon, 100g sausage, 250g sprouts, plus roast potatoes and parsnips and then two helpings of Christmas pudding and a generous slice of panettone… oh, and not forgetting an orange and a satsuma, just so as I could kid myself that I’d had something slightly health today… after all that food, I’m bloated like a blimp, I’m doing the most toxic farts imaginable, and everything hurts. It hurts to breathe.

I’m in bed now, as another Christmas Day draws to a close, looking forward to the morning in the sure hope that relief from my pain will come after a cup of coffee and the thought of a cigarette – of all the things that I have admitted to my parents, smoking cigarettes is one secret that I’m keeping to myself because, even though telling them I’m gay was quite traumatic, they will definitely kill me if they ever find out I smoke.

My brother is a lovely man, but he really gets on my tits and I hate the way he dominates the telly when he’s here. He insisted on watching some shite on Zone Horror instead of proper Christmas TV, and then he fell asleep during it. I went off and occupied myself by burning a DVD of a film I’d downloaded from the internet this afternoon. The Night of the Demon (or Curse of the Demon in the US) was made in 1957 and starred Dana Andrews as an American Psychologist who comes to the UK to debunk the claims of the leader of a devil-worshipping sect.  He is cursed by the said leader and tries avoid the same fate that befell a colleague – a big demon came out of the woods (“It’s in the trees, it’s coming!”) and forced him to drive into some live power lines.  Anyway, since TV was so utterly shocking tonight, we watched that and thoroughly enjoyed it.

Tomorrow is the Boxing Day running buffet.  Hurrah!  It’s quite good that the shower here at my folks’ is absolutely useless as it gives me an excuse to go home and have loads of fags to build up my nicotine levels before the noise in the afternoon starts again.  There will be my sister and Little Con, Alan (who always shouts) and Jane (who puts up with him for some god unknown reason, love I think), Jackie (cousin) and her husband Dave.  All talking over each other, with Mum not paying attention and demanding that things are repeated at least twice each time they’re said.  Me and Dad just keep ourselves to ourselves.

At least we won’t be joined by Jackie’s brother and his wife, who has been on a diet since the day I met her in 1984 and who won’t touch a thing to eat because “Oh no, I don’t like that, it’s hangin’.  I can’t stand that, it’s mingin'” and then insisting that their son won’t eat anything either “Oh no, he won’t eat that, he doesn’t like it”, which I think is the most rude behaviour imaginable when somebody has gone to the effort of preparing a load of stuff.  She never takes her coat off either and just sits huddled (usually over the buffet, whinging) with a face so sour that I’m sure it’s begging to be punched really hard… repeatedly.  I’ve never punched anybody and I don’t think I ever will.  I wonder if I  could pay somebody to do it.

I think there’s a half-chewed sprout blocking my colon.  I am in lots of pain.

All my own work

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After stealing somebody else’s talent with my last post, I think it’s only fair that I think of something original of my own.

Watching the music channels recently, it’s refreshing to see how the artists use their talents to come up with original Christmas songs.  You’ve got Roy Wood and Wizzard (I wish it could be Christmas every day), Cliff (Mistletoe and wine), Elton (that song that he did at Christmas), and those others that I can’t be arsed to remember, mainly because my brain has been saturated with them for the past three weeks and it is now using protective measures to prevent recall.

Anyway, there are some songs that have been done to death – Do they know it’s Christmas (three different versions, too many releases), White Christmas, Santa Baby, errm and some others (again, the protective measures have kicked in and I daren’t delve too deep in case something fuses and I end up running around the house nakes, chomping on the cardboard tube from a roll of wrapping paper while screaming All I want for Christmas, is yoooooooooooooo-hooooooooooo!!!)

So yes, cover versions.  There’s a bit of controversy at the moment because somebody (the winner of a TV talent show no less) DARE do a re-hash of Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah.  Who’s complaining, Cohen?  Like hell he is, he needs to fill the $10m hole in his pension that was left when his manager shafted him.  Nope, the evangelical fans of deceased singer Jeff Buckley are kicking up a stink  because somebody who can sing better than Jeff (even before he drowned himself) will probably get to the top of the chart with their version of the song.  You see, Jeff’s fans see his version of the song as sacred, never to be touched again.  Not that his is the best version, having listened to a load of them (and there have been gazillions) the best version is probably John Cale’s – as featured in Shrek, but not on the soundtrack (that was the perpetually flat Rufus Wainwright).

It’s a bloody song, for goodness sake.  Jeff Buckley, my arse.  If he was alive, do you really think that he’d give a shit whether the latest talent show hopeful had done yet another cover of a song that he didn’t even write?  No, he wouldn’t, unless he was an idiot, which he might have been since he went for a swim and drowning – even I couldn’t manage that (because I know I can’t swim and I wouldn’t try it).

People get so precious about things.  If you don’t like a new version of a song, don’t listen to it.  Get your Walkman out, find your Jeff Buckley tape and listen to your heart’s content.  Just stop fucking whinging.  And let’s face it, nobody would’ve even heard of Jeff Buckley if it hadn’t been for Alexandra Burke singing the song as X Factor winner.

Jean genie

Last night, I tried some jeans on that I bought in 2006, they’d been consigned to the back of the wardrobe since summer 2007 because I’d grown too fat for them.  They’re baggy now: arse crack-exposing baggy.

I celebrated by having Dominos pizza for tea.

And there’s another thing.  Dominos must’ve delivered here about 4 or 5 times now and they STILL have to phone up to ask where I am.  I know this is a a new estate and the road’s not on any maps yet, but don’t you think they’d make a note of where these new places are when they deliver to them?

Nice pizza though.  Mighty meaty with extra jalapenos and black olives (no onions, I detest onions on pizza, but quite as much as I detest pineapple or peppers).