Meat War
The world is changing. Countries that we in the 'Developed World' previously thought of as barbarous and not even good for colonising are starting to blossom. And by blossom I do of course mean, attempting to keep pace with 'The West'. Which of course must not be tolerated.
The most significant aspect of this change is that, as previously less well-off countries become richer, their populations demand the food the rest of the world enjoys. That's right it's all about the meat. They're sick of rice or dust or children's tears or whatever it is they suck up through their malformed feeding holes and they want to eat the good stuff.
Yet as our brothers in newly 'rich' countries aim to draw level with us in the meat stakes (shut up), our rightly bloated, and Internets-conjoined 'First World' ego demands we eat ever more unusual meat, just to remind them how much better than them we remain.
So, here are the top ten meat meals we should be eating to prove we are still best...
10. Golden Eagle Burger with Lion Cub Eye Salsa
9. Komodo Dragon Balls Soup with Ring Tailed Lemur Balls Cake
8. White Tiger Curry with Orang-u-nan
7. Snow Leopard Chow Mein and Crispy Blue Whale Blowhole Pancakes
6. Black Rhino Jerky, washed down with Fresh Panda Essence (obtained using the extraction method favoured in the Dark Crystal)
But you know, the problem is, even when you're chomping down on the rarest meats, there's always going to be someone disproportionately rich in one of those "Look at us, look at, us we're not poor anymore, even though 87% of our population sleeps in an AIDS hat on a crisis infested straw mat" who can match you.
So with that in mind, we have to raise our game, go the extra mile and pull as many cliches as possible out of the virus protected hat. These are the foods to remind Johnny Third World just who is big bad ballsy best and who is a living crippled hope ....
5. Unicorn Flavour Pringles, with Ewok Dip
Unicorn - even comes with a free toothpick
4. Leprechaun Bolognaise with Shaved Obama-san
3. Ligur Kebabs in pitta bread made from the ground up bones of Sadam Hussein
2. Madeline McCann au Vin
1. Baby P and pickle sandwiches
Nom nom nom
Gas BBQ? What next, shoes made of cheese?
Gas barbecue? Are you joking?
Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for modern technology, I’m as keen to implant nano-genius into my head and get a death-ray mounted on the bonnet of my car as the next self-hating, rage-filled suburbanite. But there are some things which just aren’t right.
Barbecues, on the surface, may be about eating food that’s slightly burnt and has a rather lovely smokey flavour but don’t be fooled. At the heart of the barbecue is the ability to make fire and cook on it. The barbecue puts us to the test. The barbecue says, “IF you were stranded on a dessert island could you hack it (with only what you can forage from B&Q)?”
Pathetic
The real barbecue asks the question and then demands you answer it. Not only that but that you do so within a short time; there’s only so long people will wait to eat before they go inside and use the grill.
The gas barbecue, on the other hand is just a cooker that happens to be outisde. All it requires is the flip of a switch. It's pathetic. And so are you for even thinking about using one.
I mean really, gas barbecue, it doesn’t even sound right, like Nazi rabbi or razor pants.
The Dangers of Dieting
I’m dieting at the moment. It’s a common story, I (still) need to lose the Christmas pounds and shouting at them doesn’t appear to be scaring them off. I had a tin of Pea and Ham soup for lunch. I might have to eat a piece of bread later. Otherwise I'll be ravenous when I get home and inhale dinner.
If I'm still hungry I'll probably eat one of my girlfriend’s arms and then she’ll be all like “Ow, ow, oh God, oh Jesus there's so much blood, there's so much blood, what the hell are you doing?! You ate my arm!”
And I'd be all like “Nom, nom, nom, munch, chomp, chomp.”
She’ll be screaming and crying and stuff and then eventually once I’m full I might feel sorry and try to make it up to her by getting the little hand-held kitchen vacuum and shoving it into her bloody stump. It would probably still work because it’s cordless and maybe we could find a way to charge it from her heart, which would be more eco-friendly, which is quite important to her.
But then after a while it probably wouldn't work and she might feint from the strain or blood loss or something and then I would probably just have some chips which would ruin my diet and I really wouldn't appreciate her not helping so maybe it’s worth her remembering that, so she can try to be less selfish in future.
Abba Will Kill Me
I'm going for sushi tonight. It's highly likely that while I am there someone will kill me. There won't be any fuss. It will be very quiet, it won't happen immediately but my fate will be sealed.
Of course I'm not talking about my lovely girlfriend who'll be there without, I hope, murderous intent. No I'm talking about the Polonium B pushing Russian secret service. They are going to kill me, I know this because what I am about to write is the kind of information that could bring Russia crashing to it's knees.
I could forget what I know. I could look the other way. I could. But I won't. I owe it it to you. I owe it to myself.
So, this is it. Four little words: Putin danced to Abba.
"Whoa! Get down! If you ever speak of this I'll make a hat from your lungs"
There, I've done it, that is a relief. He denies it of course. As would anyone who had danced to Abba, (yes, yes, it's great pop, but it's still as musically interesting as sand) or who set up a private concert with Abba tributary Bjorn Again.
God bless.
Read it here last.
RIP Captain Birds Eye
The actor who played the original Captain Birds Eye has died. No jokes about him being made into fish fingers as his last request please. Let’s show a little respect for a Captain who in 1993 was voted the most recognised captain after Captain Cook in a UK poll.
Quite an achievement but for me it puts his death in a new light. Think about it, Captain Kirk didn’t even get to second place. He must have been pretty bitter about that. I detect a motive. Where was William Shatner the night Captain Birds Eye died? I’m sure he claims he was somewhere else advertising cereal but with access to a teleporter, who knows?
That Captain Cook came first is a surprise, who would even recognise him? Now Captain Hook, that’s a different matter, he’s very memorable; curly hair, fear of clocks, massive hook obviously, very distinct. Now that I think about it, he’s another one with a motive.
Then there's Captain Caveman. Say what you like, he's a savage. Sure it's all little pink dinosaurs here and saving the day there but don't tell me that sometimes his Neanderthal rage doesn't bubble to the surface with the force of a volcano. He could have hidden the corpse in his club.
Anyway, he'll be missed.
Love it or Hate it
They're right aren’t they, those Marmite ads?
People really do love it or hate it. Usually when products make a claim it's a little spurious. Not so with this one, some people really, really love it.
I've seen people around the dark, best avoided back streets of Kings Cross, in London. Young men with old men’s eyes and hollow cheeks, talking to better-fed guys in conspicuously thick gold chains and leather jackets. “Go on mate,” Pleads the withered face “I just need one lick. One lick mate. Go on mate, I brought my own spoon. "
Conversely, when people don’t like it, they really, really don't. I have offered good friends of mine a slice of toast and Marmite and I'm sure I've said "Do you want some Marmite toast?"
From the look of disgust on their face all they’ve heard is, "Would you like me to shoot your Grandmother and defecate into the wound?"
So obviously now I have to consider the moral implications of what I've written.
I'm talking about the product, not the wholly distasteful Grandmother comment. You see I'm not just mentioning a condiment; I'm advertising (ish) a product and putting money into some corporation’s pocket. So I should at least know whose pocket I'm lining shouldn't I? But how do you tell? They're all constantly merging, like some kind of enormous ethereal corporate shag-fest, slowly conglomerating into one huge entity. The moment they all finally all come together, I'm sure black clouds will gather in an already ashen sky, thunder will crash and the one true power will reveal itself to us, its willing slaves. We’ll stand on the filthy streets, crane our bent and broken necks to look up, slack-jawed and see, one thousand feet tall, clad from head to tail in impregnable black armour, the fattest, widest grinning Cheshire Cat you have ever seen. The ultimate fat cat.
Probably.
No Manners Required
I enjoy eating meat. Especially ribs. There’s something primal about eating meat from the bone, something visceral, something real. It’s like camping only tastier.
The animal nature of how you eat them, with fingers and a face covered in sauce means ribs are a time and a place without manners. I might (might) use a napkin; I might (probably not) wash my face afterwards. But during, I am in a Zen-like state, at once totally focussed and de-focussed, filled with nameless joy. The single minded meat-frenzy is a thing of beauty and would scare most sharks. I am a sight to behold. It is not for the feint-hearted. I don’t want your pity or understanding, just look away, it will be over soon. Until next time.
Although even if you do look away, you may be able to hear me, as I’m told I make some kind of warthog-like grunting noise while I eat ribs. But like people who snore I am unaware, due to the above mentioned Zen-like state. And even if I was aware, I wouldn’t care.
If it was not for the threat of a heart attack before the age of 40 and cholesterol replacing my blood I would eat ribs every day, for every single meal including breakfast. And instead of birthday cake. And wedding cake.
What have you done to my little boy?
Last Saturday a woman knocked at my front door. “What have you done to my little boy?” She asked loudly, as the aforementioned child cowered behind her leg. That’s a serious question on Saturday morning in suburbia, especially to a fat, unshaven, balding man in a dirty, ill-fitting dressing gown.
So I looked down at the kid and I didn’t recognise him.
“I’ve never seen him before in my life” I said, like some kind of movie walk-on idiot.
“Oh really” She says, with an arched eyebrow and voice so loud curtains have begun to twitch. I’m starting to worry. It’s moments like this that transform you from That nice bloke who helped me get my new table upstairs to The dirty f*$&ing nonce at number 48.
I once again protested my innocence but it fell on deaf ears.
“Come off it” She mews “And then I get a clue "He saw you.”
He saw me? So I know this isn’t some kid into whom I have clattered while rushing down a busy street or who’s foot I’ve ‘accidentally’ run over with a shopping trolley while he bellowed his heart out in a supermarket. No, he’s seen something. My mind’s racing but I really don’t have a very sordid life, unless you consider it sordid to fist a rotten corpse I really don’t see…sorry, I’m joking, no I’m pretty dull really, I'm no more sordid than most, certainly no Formula One Boss. I don't get up to anything I'm not allowed to do within the confines of my own house. Of course if he was spying while hiding in one of the cupboards he might have seen something rude but then again what would he be doing in my cupboard? Unless I had paid him to be there. With a video camera. In which case he should have kept his mouth shut. Christ, he’s supposed to be a professional! Which of course he’s not and he wasn’t in my cupboard. Or at least if he was I didn’t pay him to be there.
And then another clue, she bleats,
“Last weekend, he saw you, in the kitchen.”
Now I know for a fact that was the weekend my girlfriend was away. And then it dawns on me, Saturday night…me…alone in the house…no girlfriend to make me eat healthily?
The ribs didn’t even make it out of the kitchen; I inhaled them straight from the pan in a tornado of hot red sauce and bits of shattered bone. He must have been walking past, he must have seen. The poor little tinker. He’ll never be the same again.