Stimulating The Curry Garden

"The best cosmetic is great-looking skin", so says philosophy.com, the world renowned, intellectual website for philosophers who like to be fragrant & take care of their 'make-up optional' dermis sheath. They are, of course, wrong. The best cosmetic is the wet, dripping cheese of life, and I am here to help you navigate its narrow, Swiss alleys.

Cast off the shackles of Deal Or No Deal's bigotry, Noel Edmond's racist waist, Miss Dynamiteehee's righteous sexual innuendos and embrace the nutty goodness of my yellow, ever-curdling, milky fun.

It has been suggested that I might like to go and watch Jason Donovan while he prances around in nothing but his spangly dreamcoat at the Southampton Guildhall at some point in the not too distant future. Let me tell you, in a rather convoluted Eurovision-style way, why that would be oh so wrong. As you may have heard in the legends of yore, there are several types of cheese; not all of them are as good and wholesome as the over-ripe, warm & runny Brie of Dancing On Ice, glistening in the sunlight and lovingly left on the radiator overnight to accentuate the strong, cheesy flavour.

Hello Reykjavík, this is Skopje calling, here are the cheesy results from the Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonian jury:
Gorganzola- Aged, mature, a bit smelly and of Italian descent. Who could it be but good old, crusty old Madonna? Dix points.
A good hard Cheddar- Reliable, right-wing, a bit common, ubiquitous a few years ago, but a little passée now. Welcome back to the Spice Girls. Un point.
Jarlsberg- Scandinavian, sweet with a brightly coloured rind & large, irregular holes. Yes, it's Abba. Douze points!
Boursin- Soft & pretty, wrapped in shiny foil with a garlic after-taste. The international cheese ambassador, Kylie. Douze points, aussi!
The Laughing Cow- Ann Widdecombe. Nil points.

I would liken Mr Donovan to an unwanted Christmas present of icky, salty, blue (for cheesus sake) Stilton. One that has been cast aside in the frenzy of wrapping paper ripping. One that has fallen miserably behind the settee and left to rot and ooze and grow grey, fuzzy mould on top of its very own blue, squishy, pre-existing mould until at least mid July. That is how looking into the lifeless, balding eyes of Jason Donovan would taste.

So very wrong.