Shriving The Night Away

Shrovetide is over and only the vast expanse of a cold & grey Lent is before us, so I have decided it is time to prepare my cardboard box full of straw and descend into a deep hibernation until the too-perky tortoise fiddlers come to tempt me out of my slumber with their sweet, brown eggs. I have spent my last remaining days of fat pleasure scouring eBay in order to replenish my Seven Inches Of Cheese whilst systematically shuffling armfuls of Martika postcards.

As the leftovers in the kitchen cupboard mainly consisted of aubergines & taramasalata I had to venture out to procure the eggs, flour, noodles, coriander, oyster sauce & prawns needed to create the traditional Shrove feast of pancakes & Phad Thai. During my mission I stopped off to gaily play with my faithful pet shopping trolley, but was rewarded with a good hard knee-grazing by the voluptuous asphalt. I bandaged my barely bleeding joints with the conveniently placed Behemoth-Sized Tissues Of Doom and, despite being a sievless colander sifter, proceeded to fulfil my destiny of sore throats & gloopy batter. Mmtoss.


Currently listening to Seven Whole Inches Of Cheese

Like A Bird's Eggplant

Feel the magic, hear the roar, aubergines are loose.

Make use of the handsome aubergine (use him or lose him). He likes to be used, he is, indeed, loose.
A large, pendulous & purple fruit, he can be found stalking the confines of the Menopause and Hormonal Change website, where he goes by his exotic dancer pseudonym of 'Brinjal, bringer of Egg'.

Don't touch his green bits, for they are poison (and a bit clammy).

You may bruise him with vinegar and apply him to your cracked nipples, abscesses and haemorrhoids, he likes nothing more. Burn his peduncle until it is reduced to ashes and he will reward you with relief from your intestinal haemorrhages, piles and toothache.

Now be off with you, the performance is due to start. I must go and take my place behind the velour curtain and watch as the dance begins anew.

Awesome Like A Hotdog

Despite its complete februariness, this is a rip-roaringly good week to be surrounded by. It all began with the mysterious legend of Pigglyfish & his underlings, and continued in much the same, throbbing, blue vein. Cheesy!

We have had the premiere of season two of the infamously Indian chat show, Koffee With Karan. Episode one featured the ubiquitous & heavily nosed, Shahrukh Khan and the only woman with a louder cackle than Shilpa, Kajol. Mumbai-tastic!

The pointless award season also came upon us this week, what with the woefully Stephen Fryless Baftas and, more importantly, the BBC Radio 2 Folk Awards. Huddling under my tartan blanket for warmth, I heard the sounds of some lucky photographer apparently getting a good look up Kate Rusby's skirt. Gong recipients included Bellowhead, for most populous band and Seth Lakeman, for best moistly dressed individual. Wet & fiddly!

The end of the week holds much promise in the form of homoerotic, Westcountry fudge selling & police documentary, Hot Fuzz. What makes you think it was murrrrderrrr? Awesome!

Even on this most holy St. Valentines Day, I ate a bowl of Puffed Wheat this morning and already my wee smells like a Honey Monster's. Brilliant!


Currently listening: A Weekend In The City by Bloc Party

Pin The Blame On The Pony

After a particularly hard night's work, meticulously alphabetising my 7"s and whipping up a culinary triumph in the shape of a tangy orange fish dish, my thoughts turned to the wonders of New Forest life.

The office for the Post Office's sorting office in our beloved town is technically located in the next village, Blashford, which means a bit of a trek when the postyman fails to deliver the large mass of musical treats that tend to get ordered just after pay day. To my horror, I now discover that a proper pavement of gleaming tarmac has been laid all the way to the delightful industrial estate that houses all the lovely red Royal Mail vans.

I used to like to pretend that I was really in the countryside, passing by the profusion of dilapidated barns and rusting farm equipment, as I regularly schlepped down the crunchy mud pathway. Though the illusion was often shattered by the huge lorries thundering past on the adjacent main road to Salisbury.

Oh, the sights and the sounds, I did still get to walk down the rural-sounding Gravel Lane, although it's not so much gravel as ageing, pothole riddled concrete, and is currently cleft in twain by the sodding great A31 dual carriageway. On the way back, I heard the heart warming pop of a shotgun echoing from the next field, as a flock of birds fled over my head in squawky terror.

Ah, Ringwood: all the sweaty inconvenience of country living, with none of the pretty, Sunday afternoon on ITV bits.


Currently listening: Candylion by Gruff Rhys

How Much Ground Would A Groundhog Hog?

Punxsutawney Phil has spoken, just last week the wood chucking rodent told the world that he did not spy a shadow, honest, not me guv'nor. But, but, but, he is obviously a compulsive liar. Where is this early spring he has promised us? It's still bloody freezing! The innocent, warbling birds & daffodils may have been listening to the deceitful marmot, but now they've been smothered in a thick layer of snow. Or they would have been if the magic weather people hadn't been fibbing too. Where's my snow? Where is it, huh? I want it, I want it, want it! Waaaaaah!

More perfidious animal news. It seems those double-crossing kings of the jungle have decided to keep all their lovely chocolate to themselves. Yes, that is correct, the Lion Bar is to be withdrawn from our craving mouths. If it isn't bad enough that nasty Nestlé are aggressively shoving their powdered milk teats down poor African baby's throats, thus denying them the natural breastular equivalent, now they taking away the precious natural, feline treats from the crying, hungry children of the world.

I reckon the Swiss bitches stole my snow.


Currently listening: Rough Trade Shops: Counter Culture 2006

Where's Wallace?

Ok, so Mac's back, but where the bloody hell did Wallace go? Come on Miss Veronica Mars, solve that mystery!

As you can see ideas are a little thin on the ground this time of year. A new month has obviously not brought a new well spring of inspiration. My brain has been drained by a bladder straining 5 hour Battlestar Galactica marathon, followed by an exhausting round of Poker and Hide-The-Poof.

So, hmm, in the absence of anything better to do, howzabout some Fabulous Fun Facts For February?

Twenty three years ago, on this very day, the death warrant was signed for our beloved halfpenny coin, ahh. I remember toddling round Key Markets with my brand spanky calculator in hand, adding up the shopping, trying to work out why there wasn't a ½ button. So, being the delightful, angelic child that I was, I helpfully removed any items from my mother's trolley that had that naughty, little ½p at the end.

February was the last month to be thought up by those pesky Romans. They weren't that keen on winter and left a gaping hole between the tenth month of the year, December, and the first, March. 'Twas named after a little shindig they had called 'Februa', derived from the Latin for purification. In good old Anglo Saxon days, we called it 'the month of mud', or sometimes 'the cabbage month'. The Islamic month of Safar begins in a couple of weeks, which means 'the void month', and in the French Revolutionary calendar most of February was named 'Pluviôse', meaning 'rainy'. Very fitting names for the shortest & shittiest lunarish cycle of the year. Roll on August (I recommend 'Pigeon Pure Silk Antiperspirant', with pure almond oil, Vitamin E and intensive moisturisers for multi-active protection of your skin and excessive underarm hair).


Curently listening: Wincing the Night Away by The Shins