I've discovered Johnny Cash. Recently there was a documentary on telly about JC - the life and struggle of Johnny Cash, the original Man in Black. Johnny Cash wore black to represent the misery and pain he carried on behalf of man. He had been, and still is one of the greatest music hardmen. I sat on the sofa with a lump in my throat, sought solice in my beer, at the end the documentary played out with Johnny singing Hurt, I nearly had to leave the room. It was emotional. While Elvis was taking trips from his dressing room to the Las Vegas stage in a golf buggy, stuffed full of deep-fried peanutbutter, bacon and banana sandwiches and pain killers, Johnny Cashy was playing to prisoners in San Quintin and Folsom prison, where he may once have been resident. 'A kickin' and a gougin' in the mud and the blood and the beer'

I can still remember the first time I heard the name, Johhny Cash. My mothers hairdresser, Lizzie Andrews, had her salon on Church Street in Pretoria. Although she was married, she was pretty butch, with bright pink hair, fag in mouth and a voice that had been put through the grinder. My mother wouldn't have her hair done there, it was a salon for men. As kids, Lizzie would trim our fringes and let us hang around the salon. This, incidentally, is where I first experienced the third party participation of bossoms in the hair cutting process. It has remained with me ever since. All my hairdessers from that point on have been buxom. Sometimes nothing else will do, the hairdresser's tits up against your cheeks definitely has its place in this world. Like home. Thank the Lord noone in our family as ever gone bald, it's just not in our genes.

Anyway, Lizzie Andrews always had good taste when it came to being bad. The Rolling Stones, Billy Joel, Deep Purple and Johnny Cash were always being played over the stereo in the Salon. Lizzie had a lot of books and magazines lying around, like bad jokes for adults. 101 Divorce jokes, Giles and adult books, almost in the style of color between the lines with rude puzzles were piled up in intruiging corners. There was one puzzle I can clearly remember and what you had to do was guess the person's name from the pictures. There was a picure of a condom and some money, I couldn't figure it out until I asked my lesbian aunt Lizzie what it was - 'Johnny Cash' came the reply.

I asked my mother what she thought of Johnny Cash. She told me of when she was in Colorado, her host at the time was a right-wing knucklehead at Colorado university. She often regales the story of when and where culture shock hit her. Culture shock is a real thing, it can hit anyone, at any time, anywhere. She found herself reeling in shock, and in a state of nervous panic in an outhouse in the Rockies, the guest of a gun-toting cowboy who hated niggers and mullahs and everything that wasn't pink. Apparently mother tells me, he was always listening to Johnny Cash. I doubt she would have anything good to say about JC, bad associations have tainted that one for her.

I was chatting to Ulrika the other night, and she asked me what I was doing at the time. 'Listening to Johnny Cash' I said. This was met by accusations of being old and washed out, 'Please' she begged, don't do it. It was explained to me that this was for rednecks and grumpy old men. I put myself in the latter category years ago, when I was about 28. She told me of how, as youngster, her father would make them listen to Johnny Cash, and that as they endured it and managed to escape (he was clearly trying to give his kids the best education a father can), they left him, whiskey in hand, listening to Johnny croon him into melancholy.

Why? She asked, do I want to listen to Johnny Cash. I only have one answer to that question.

We would all have been sissies without Johnny Cash.

Had a great lunch today. Roast saddle of lamb with all the trimmings, mint sauce, jelly and roast potatos. Im' becoming increasingly concerned - having to squeeze in an extra meal a day, four meals ought to do it.

Got to go, they've actually been working me, I'm doing a runner for the day!

Tor sent me photos of Jude's birthday - Pirates was the flavor of the day. Here are two pics of Emma-Mae, now isn't she just a goreous little angel? Check out Jude and his home-boys, telling you wassap and like big-up Brooklyn, Pretoria. The cake, as you can see is a pirate, I think Bridget baked it, she always gives them the best cakes! Those grubby little fingers that seem so intrigued by the odd cake belong to little Emma-Mae

Summer made it's presence known yesterday and broadcast itself by burning me to a crisp. It's slightly embarrassing coming from Africa, being a once-upon-a-time fan of the heat and the sun - I never expected to get bruleéd by the English sun. Yes, it's the same sun, but it has never happened to me here, until now that is.

I have a 'Michael Jackson' hand, in that my right arm is consistently Zoiberg red and my left arm is red, except my hand which is still perfectly white from wearing my silly golf glove. My face looks like that of a Manga animé red panda. My wonderful new sunglasses have left their mark on my face, like the proverbial but inverted piss-holes in snow. As i write I swear my room is being lit by the glow of my arms, a nice warm red light.

I went for a nap last night at about 10. I woke this morning at 09:00. Some nap.

Off to play golf this morning with Phil and Jonanthan. Will report back.

Ah, Italy! I'm hoping to have all the details of my Italy excursion up as a separate link by the end of the weekend - watch this space.

Still feeling good. With summer here, even though I prefer winter, I suspect this good feeling's going to stay with me a little bit longer. We have new neighbors, 2 girls - one of them is very good looking, Irish, and charming, delicious. They came knocking on my door asking if I knew anything about fuse boxes and the lighting circuit. Their lights went out about 4 days ago, and they've been using bed-side lamps to get about their flat. I pretended I knew exactly what I was doing, although I did tell them I knew absolutely nothing about fuse boxes and electric circuits. Nothing wrong with a little social engineering, especially when I have all these issues to work out with Catholics and Irish people (thanks to the vile vermin Paedo-alco bastards that are Christian Brothers). I have unfinished business with the Irish, maybe, if I'm lucky, I'll get to work through it with the neighbor. Mmmm, neighbor.

I got home yesterday and embarked on a cleaning frenzy. This time, once again, it involved the kitchen. The oven, the inside of the oven, I don't think had ever seen any kind of cleaning. I took to it with a fantastic and probably dangerous concoction of checmicals. It's that 'never had a science kit' problem some people have. As children we were never allowed to have Chemical Sets as mother feared we would blow our heads clean off, permanently embed glass shards into our faces or melt our fingers. Alas, no explosives came of the Flash, Persil and Cif brew - I did however end up with a clean oven and a little window on the oven door that I can actually see through.

Phil came home and saw me in the height of my cleaning frenzy. Usually this kind of behaviour occurs on remorseful Sunday mornings in an attempt to restore order and some degree of organisation back into my life. He refers to it as 'going nuts' and knows to leave me be, he expressed concern as I seemed to have my days out of kilter, this shouldn't be happening on a Wednesday. As a common courtesy he'll start doing something, until I tell him that he needn't feel obliged to clean. It's more a case of me re-organising my mental furniture than anything else - so back off.

I got an email from Gilbert the Frenchman. He lives in Pretoria with his wife (South African). They are going to be in France for a month, so I am going to visit them towards the end of June. He will be based in Lille, which is in Brittany. Another excursion to look forward to.

Wednesday morning, back to work. I'm not too happy about it as I feel the cynicism creeping back in. I really ought to fight it, I have no reason to be sour.

Italy left me feeling properly rejuvenated and inspired - it's one of those places that you come away from with intentions to be a better, more successful human being. The history, the people and the culture leave you enveloped by feel-good factor #10.

Been to the park for lunch, it's about 25 today, lovely.

Sunday morning, I have just been woken by the sound of the voices of warped little angels, since the entire house is tiled and marbled, the sound travels. Mike, or Gian Michel as I now call him has been kind enough to bring me an espresso.

Downstairs Nonna is watching mass on the television. She is 96 and even though you’d never guess, it’s not entirely feasible to take the old bird out of the cage. I’d love to make her day and take her to see the tomb of St Anthony, the patron saint of Padova. Nonna’s memory is slipping, she couldn’t remember who I was, until I told her my name was Alessandro. She goes through moments of being totally lucid to being, well, 96 years old. We should be so lucky.

The mass on television has Nonna so gripped that you could wrestle a lion around her and she wouldn’t even bat an eyelid. She can’t hear the television (hence the screaming hordes of Valkyrie choir-boys) and she can’t read the words on the screen, but she knows it’s mass – and you’d have to drag her kicking and screaming from the television, should you so wish.

Gian Michel took me on a massive day out yesterday. In typical haphazard fashion, he woke me up early, announcing that we were going to visit his cousins (I love it when the Italians talk about ‘family’) in Udenese some 2-3 hours away by train. I got up and did my ablutions as quickly as possible, got my espresso from Flori, the Romanian girl who comes in from time to time to look after Nonna, tucked into some panetone and prepared myself mentally for a trip to see the cousins. Gian Michel (from this point on known as GM) then made a phone call, only to declare that his cousins were not home, and that we would not be going to see them.

GM then told me of the 13th century village of Montagnana, where Nonna was born and grew up. The city he told me, is surrounded by walls and a now dried moat. Four massive sliding wooden doors protect each entrance to the city. Best of all though, is that there is a festival of Proscuito (Italian cured ham) inside the city of Montagnana.

We set off for Montagnana. GM was working his magic, showboating his social engineering skills on everyone, from bus drivers to young ladies working in the sales office of the bus station. No one escapes a grilling. There is a lesson to be learned there. Someone once told me that in London, if you don’t look up, physically, you miss London, and it’s true. The same applies to not talking to people. If you don’t ask, you’ll never know. On Friday night for example, we went out for dinner – I’ll tell you all more about that later. But sat next to us was a couple, he was English (enter Hugh Grant accent and, erm, well, you know, I, I, and my sister and Mummy, they think I’m well, the cat’s anus, oh God you all think I’m so charming), I overheard him remarking on how open the Italians are, and how retentive and reserved the English are, that to talk to a stranger is an invasion of privacy. Here in Padova you really do walk the streets and greet people a good day. Men and women alike give each other a kiss on each cheek, perhaps even a hug when they meet – my father would think that homo-erotic, and probably declare the entire male populous of Italy to be of that particular persuasion. When you are here, the charm of the place sucks you in, you realise what a brutal, retentive, abrasive and blinkered society I was raised in, thank St Anthony’s sweet sandals that I was raised by a woman. I’m getting sidetracked by something I can deal with later on in life through therapy.

Montagnana. The bus trip to Montagnana was a treat – it took about an hour through lush green mountainous regions and villages. GM was being transported back to when he was a young boy at a college nearby, telling me and anyone else sitting close by on the bus that during the war, squadrons of planes would fly over at night, and during the day the they would pull bullets out of walls and pick up spent cartridges in hope of finding leftover gunpowder to play with. GM by the way, is 72, he is physically stronger than anyone I know, and has the drive, sexual appetite and zest of a 20 year old – basically a freak of nature. However given that his mother is 96, and his father who also died at a very old age it’s probably genetic. He is very proud of the fact that when his father died, they found semen stains in the bed, that to the very end he had his priorities in order.

Once we finally got to Montagnana, we walked through one of the mighty entrances. Any invaders in time gone by, would have had to get through a moat, a draw-bridge and a storm of archer’s arrows to gain entrance to the city. The tops of the walls surrounding the city are cut with slits where the archers would have peered through to fire their arrows.

First things first, it was time to eat and be merry. We sought out the Proscuito festival and found it immediately. Imagine the German beer festival, but for ham, tents full of people gorging on ham and cheese, bread and wine. We bought coupons for ham, cheese and wine. For €15 we got 2 plates of the finest cured ham piled high, 2 plates of mixed cheese and bottle of Italian Cabernet and fresh, crispy Italian bread. After eating and debating fervently, as Italians do, quaffing the bottle of wine in about 15 minutes assisted transformation of me becoming Alessandro – GM speaks Italian to me, I only ever have to say ‘si si, bene, tutto bene’ because, being GM he is always right. I am going to sign up for Italian lessons when I get back to London as I feel it’s a language I could learn. I have been getting by in Padova in my very bad and broken Italian, thanks to the very old English/Italian dictionary Nonna has let me make use of…. ‘La dictionare di Italiano è Englese è munto utile Nonna’

GM took me on a tour of the ancient city. Pointing out where his grandfather used to live, where his uncle lived – he had not been back in a very long time, it was clear the memories were flooding back for him, it was emotional, thanks to the wine. We went into every shop, the coffee shop for an espresso, the pastry shop to talk to the rather large and luscious baker’s daughter, I wanted her there and then, smothered in marzipan and cream, in a controlled environment of course, she was as big as a house, the fact that she was the baker’s daughter made this perfectly, well, perfect.

A great day was had in Montagnana, alas we had to leave, by the time we left, I could easily have had another round of Proscuito, cheese, bread and wine.

On the bus back to Padova we got talking to an old boy who had some good history to part with. He told us the history of a piazza in Padova that was the site of a water coliseum. Like gladiators fighting each other and lions, this particular sport involved miniature galleys that would battle each other in crocodile infested waters. Those unfortunate enough to be knocked off their mini boats were considered crocodile food. The place had since been covered over and surrounded by 200 statues of politicians and philosophers, bridges now build over a remaining moat. This piazza I’m told, is the largest in Europe after red square.

On the edge of the piazza is St Giustino cathedral. Possibly the biggest I have ever seen. Inside the cathedral there are many alters and artefacts that adorn the place from floor to ceiling. Unfortunately we were not allowed to take any pictures inside, all I can say is that it left me with a burning desire to visit Rome, Florence and Venice to see the full extent of the riches of the Catholic empire.

All around Padova are symbols of the lions and beasts that would scare the bejesus out of any God fearing medieval peasant. This lion was apparently a symbol for the Venetian Maritime Republic, and relics can be found peppered all over Padova, on top of old columns, outside of churches, everywhere. There are images around that are so dark, it got me thinking where they came from, Bosch would have loved it, who’s mind conjured these images up, how powerful was the hold over the collective social mind by the church, controlled by fear.
I bought GM an ice-cream. The first he said in 10 years. We bought another. The second I said, in 10 years. When in Italy, don’t look beyond a lemon/chocolate cone. My stomach rumbles and the waft of spinach cooking in tomato and garlic wafts up from downstairs.

We went across the square to the church of St Anthony. Thousands of people flock to this church every day. They come in droves, and I wonder why. The power of the Catholic church begins to dawn on me, and can’t help but begin to wonder if it isn’t the most evil, powerful and wealthy business in operation today. The pull they have over people is incredible. The streams of people entering the church seem to be hypnotised. Outside candles are being sold, some cost €30, about £16 and everyone has one. Once again, no photos are allowed to be taken inside the church.

I was stunned when I entered the church. Some things, artefacts and buildings are indeed priceless. It’s strange to be in the presence of something that through history and time has no possible value. I begin to wonder about the Vatican and the Catholic church, a dark and disturbing cloud permeates my consciousness, are we really that subject to the powers that be, just how much wool covers our eyes. Who does the Vatican consult? I ponder Nonna, welded and hypnotised by mass on the television, like a pillar of salt.

The interior of the church is like nothing I have ever seen before. Those bastards could build. Everything is constructed out of marble, silver, gold, gems and stone. The level of perfection is something I have never witnessed. Everywhere the images of heaven, hell, God, angels, cherubs, glory and miracles is so spectacular it’s almost believable. Like special effects of the day, no wonder the pull over the people is so strong. The place glimmers and shines in what can only be described as a divine image. People saunter along, like zombies, hypnotised by the holiness of St Anthony. There must be 20 or 30 altars, at least. At the main altar, mass is being held. Gm and I follow the Zombie flow to see the tomb of St Anthony. Around me people weep and touch everything, from corner stones to benches, the floor, anything. We made our way around the edges, leading up to the tomb – it is covered in silver and gold. Artefacts and paintings, sculptures relief’s adorn the place from the floor to ceiling. The silver is black, apart from where people have stroked it over the last 6-700 years, the corners and edges of everything gleam.

Leading up to the tomb, we see the coffin, his burial robes, his tongue and vocal cords on a jar, everything embellished with gold. Every piece of St Anthony is encased in as much gold and valuable metal as possible. It’s ludicrous. I thought the Catholic church was about the real estate, it goes way beyond that. How did it reach this magnitude? What has it really been about? Who owns this? Why? It leaves me wanting to study history, there is something so Rosemary’s baby about this. Just how little and insignificant am I?

People leave their €30 candles in a box for St Anthony and weep. No doubt the candles make their way outside as soon as possible to be sold off again. Even GM, who is not religious, feels compelled to curtsy and make the sign of the cross as he leaves the church.

I can’t wait to get to Venice, GM tells me I haven’t seen anything yet.

I have just woken up, was dreaming about sleeping. Quick notes so that I don't forget... Mike has ben showing me around Padova - It's a wonderful town, one of Italy's oldest University towns.

The flight was ok, in that I only wantred to vomit towards the end, no sleep and being a wee bit pissed must hvae done it for me.

Mike has been schmoozing everyone from the bus driver to the waitresses, the butcher and the cheeseman - telling them that (and this is from the Italian I can understand), he has known me as a mate of his son since I was 'Bambino' - he makes his gesture' hand about 3 feet off the ground' has he forgotten that I was 6" tall when I was 15, when he first met me. Ah the imagination.

I am off to stroll Padova and check out the local Piazza's. The women are loverly, the spritzers even more so (Mike had me laughing my head off last night in one of the Piazza's - giving me a lesson in hand gestures)

The toilets are a feeak out, hole in the ground, the taps are controlled by pedals, not unlike that on a piano or an organ.

Public nevermind, I'll make this all understandable once I have time. I'm searching for a memory card for the camera - not to be found. Later this afternoon, mike is going to take me to the old city of Padova, and then to the shrine of st Anthony, where millions of catholics gather on a certain date to watch a vial of his blood congeal and melt - don't mind if I remain sceptical.

It's 23:30...

I haven't done a damn thing to get myself ready for Venice. I went shopping for a Flash Memory card on Tottenham Court Road after work, decided to amke fresh lasagne, with homemade pasta, had someone around to collect software and chat - I had no idea how to get to Stansted Airport for 05:00, decided to call Ulrika for a chat and bus information (half an hour later) - by which time it was 23:00. So, now I blog because it's keeping the panic away. I managed to order a cab that gets here in... 3.5 hours. Now I must pack and bath... and drink more of the Hoegarden, I can't leave them all for Phil.

What have I done.

I am off to Venice tomorrow. Catholic girls, lavazza, panforte and the crazy old bastard Gian Michel Sorrentini will keep me company. I land at 09:00 in the morning, so I'll have to get an early-ish night tonight.

A word to the public... should you wish to leave a comment, and are not a member of the blogging community, simply click on the 'post anonymous' radio button to skip the registration process. You can always sign off with your name so we know who you are.

To those who complain about my food rantings, may I remind you that I was a chef - a very good one if I may say so. Even though I am a skinny bastard (a skinny chef would have been as effective as a naked one), I feel as passionately about food as I did in the prime of my culinary career. It is a filter through which I measure the quality of life, a litmus test. One of the only things I really have control over is what I eat and drink. When it comes to food and drink - I SHALL NOT BE SUBJECT TO SHIT!

As you can see, I have applied a new template to Creative Output. It is a constant work in progress and your input would be appreciated (please leave comments on new layout if you think it sucks).

A new comments feature has been implemented - so gone is auld scotch piss artist. Please leave commens using the new, more UI friendly feature.

We went to play golf yesterday. I ache all over and fear the day I start doing any kind of fast-paced exercise, I'll surely die. We must have walked several miles through terrible conditions, rain and mud made for more drag. I did really well, better than some in the group, and for a first timer, apparently I played an exceptional game.

The course is in Berkshire, a pseudo, wannabe wealthy part of the country. Leaving London always tears strips off me. Little Britain, exists all over this little island - weird that. Leaving London is, well, venturing forth into England. A totally different kind of person can be found in Little Britain - from country chavs to weird ass Thai restaurants in Wokingham, Berkhamsted. We went for a few pints after the game, which eventually led to realising starvation, which led to us stupidly believing that we could, or should find somewhere to eat. We made several attempts to fnd somewhere to park our empty bellies and feed, one of which was a Pizza Express - there was a queue outside Pizza Express, that in itself was bizarre. Eventually, after being told that we would have to wait at least an hour for a table, we set off to find yet another place to brave eating food that could only come from kitchens of hell, disease, filth and death.

We settled on a pub/Thai restaurant. This town was one of those places where people look at you with glancing suspicion, you hear them mumble under their breath, in thick Gloucester-ish accents 'You don' be fro' aroond these paerts'. The walls of the town know you're not from around there. All the buildings are Tudor-style with white walls, heavy beams and bits of dark wood plastered on to the front of them. Midgets once resided over this place, all the celings were under 6" high with extended beams interspersed to make menace for the unsuspecting tall person not intending to keep his head in tact.

The Thai menu was spectacular, bound in some wooden relief carving of jungle and elephants. The pages of the menu, printed opaque plastic with what looked like the Singapore Airways ladies watermarked on to them. They had tried to apply the bullshit fine-dining jargon to their menu and got it all horribly wrong, words like sensational, graceful and elegant that were all used to describe dishes and ingredients should have been replaced with devastating, disgraceful and diabolical. Senstational chicken fried gracefully in ginger and pepper, elegantly sprinkled with cashew nuts - no explanation required.

The food was some of the worst ever to pass my lips and the restaurant was overflowing - mind you, this was a restaurant in an old Tudor style 2nd bedroom, it would be unreasonable really to expect something other than a Bangkok Fawlty Towers sputter. The look of glee on the faces of the unfortunate punters as they received their bowls of slosh and plates of piquant sweepings said something about the mentality of the local population. Where they get there renowned arrogance from I'll never know.

I'm not sure if it was the town, the hipflask of cognac or the joint but it was one of those experiences that creeps in sideways, userps reality and like a virus with no antidote takes over and makes you the subject of it's story to be told. A fresh perpective, no matter how warped has value, I'm sure of that the only thing is that I am still searching for the meaning in this one - all I can do is laugh.

I feel good today, yesterday was a mighty day out, a good use of a day. Just had a breakfast of German Smoked Ham, Emmenthal, egg and croissant. Laundry needs to be done and the house needs to be cleaned - so i'll be reporting on the state of the underground, lack of ettiquette on the underground and in public generally, you can probably look forward to some uncalled for bad language and verbal abuse toward office pedants, twats and scum alike.

It's mother's day in South Africa and it's Kizzies birthday tomorrow so I'll make a few phonecalls later on.

I thought this deserved to move one level up, from comment to blog entry...

Here at the White House we have pretty neat food most of the time - good fatty hambugers and never a trace of broccoli. Your rage is perverted and misdirected. America needs food police -but not like you - we need highminded kitchen soldiers who will rid our Great Nation of salad and couscous and other towelhead abominations. Fat and additives have made us what we are. Ask Jerry Springer - he knows that a thin nation will never be truly righteous. Mend your ways, false prophet!


You're right, I'll mend my pinko-homo ways.

Why you ask, do I sometimes seethe with rage and violence? Fly into a blatantly biased rant bombarding the likes of cheffie with enough insults to last both him and his mother a lifetime.

I have just returned from lunch - if you can fucking call it that! Today's lunch was:

Tuesday
Soup Knorr Tomato
Main Dishes Fried Scampi, Tatare Sauce & Lemon
Battered Chicken served with Saute of Spanish Vegetables & Knorr Salsa
Tortellini Ricotta Braised in Tuscany Bean Sauce

Call Order Sirloin Steak with Bernaise sauce
Selection of Omelettes

Now, allow me to walk you through this...

Knorr tomato soup -

For fuck's sake, is it really that difficult to bash up a decent soup. Don't give me the internal marketing mouthfull, I don't want to hear it, you start giving me that, and i'll start wishing I was completely deaf. And what about the health option, I wonder just how much MSG is in a serving of Knorr tomato soup. To top it all off, Knorr tomato soup tastes like shit, full stop, the only people who would find this vile watery, fabricated and processed piss tasty are probably the same breed of half-life that will tell you baked beans are actually enjoyable. Fuck off.

Fried Scampi, Tatare Sauce & Lemon -

Why not tell the truth? Deep fat fried scampi with Hellman's mayonnaise tartare sauce. Now, let's break that down.

The fat in the deep fat frier tastes of everything that is fried in it, so, your fish tastes like chicken and your chicken like fish. Scampi looks rather like a langoustine to me. Now, if you have ever had langoustine, you would be drooling right now, slathering and mopping up your own mess of saliva from your chin. Live and twitching langoustine, the way to anyone's heart, rib cage or no rib cage. You are expecting this to be a fresh bite to eat, something that has not been fucked with at all, the best food has not been fucked with, leave it as it is, cook it as it is, don't put your half-life human mark on it.

A vein in my left eye is twitching. Right on the edge of the eye-lid. It feels as big as a house, as vile as a lump of deep fat fried scampi welded to my eye, characteristic of the congealing and offensive lardy tumour that it is. Food abuse stresses me out. How we came to make things so difficult I'll never know.

Now when ever you get something, that started (or ended) life looking like the picture above (to the left) and turns out on a plate looking like this, don't eat it. What this is, is all the shit and fish maw, fish meal and other squidge that is scraped up from the floor of the fish-monger's, pounded into a little mould (God help that mould if I ever find it, that, and the mould for the baked bean) rolled in something that is masquerading as bread crumbs and served.

If there is so much as a flake of scampi in that breaded fish tumour, I'll eat plate of them, and then expect to writhe around in pain, bleeding internally waiting for a slow death. No doubt the MSG soup would have completely removed the lining from my stomach, de-priming it for a lardy-fish onslaught. Death by scampi.

By this stage, I'm wondering if it's worth going into the tartare sauce. Oh shit, i've started. The tartare is there to mask the flavor of the pounded fish meal nugget. The lemon, as mentioned on the menu, is a fucking lemon wedge, as if mentioning a brightly colored garnish on the menu makes the meal any more enticing or viable.

Battered Chicken served with Sauté of Spanish Vegetables & Knorr Salsa -

This is going to hurt. I had better take a break before I launch into a tyrade as to why people must die, I could kill someone, cheffie, when I am made to even endure reading that on a menu. Seriously, I'm off for a soothing and refreshing cup of tea.

OK, let's take this one nice and easy, treat it with the respect it deserves, like George W holding a nuke at a kiddies party demading a ride on the bouncy castle. This one probably has a thesis or some other academic/scientific research in it. Research into the downfall of man, man and his stupidity, like Arnold Schwarzenegger is a gold mine for cringe-worthy sayings, so this dish can reveal many twisted and perverted recesses of the human mind.

Battered chicken - my God, I should batter the fucking idiot who's idea that was, LART would do well here (Loser Attitude Re-adjustment Tool) namely a baseball-bat heavily embellished with nine-inch nails. I'd dip that chef in tempura batter and crispify him in boiling oil, serve him with his own bloody wedge of lemon.

Battered chicken, can you even imagine what that looks like. Those chickens live a life drenched in their own piss and shit, they can't walk, because they are pumped so full of growth hormones that their legs can't carry them. They have burn-marks on their legs and bodies, from the piss that eventually turns into ammonia. They go through what can only be described as a concentration camp for chickens, scooped up and tossed into a drum that has rubber hands on the inside, those hands literally thrash the feathers off the bird. By way of this spine splintering process, we end up with chicken.

What do we do with it? "Hey, I'm a chef-fie, I do this great thing with chicken, I batter it."

Kill me now, just take me now. This wondrous dish is served with spanish vegetables, sauted - what spanish vegetables, this is a good excuse to use all the red peppers and zucchini in the kitchen. Last week you would find the very same spanish vegetables, prepared and served in the same way in a chinese stir-fry, only last week they were chinese vegetables. I make me sick. I'm not going to go on, there's an MSG salsa that goes along with battered chicken, I don't feel so good.

I don't need to tell you that I didn't eat. I safely went to the pudding altar and doused my anger in sticky toffee pudding and tetra-pack custard. Ah, old comforts, simple un-fucked with basics.

Monday Tuesday is here. Bank holiday weekends are evil in that they leave you wanting more. More sleep, more drink, more sofa, more time to do nothing, more drink. I spent a great deal of the weekend battling Far Cry and managed to get a fair bit done, it's a much longer game than some.

Phil came home with a DVD player and the 1st & 2nd series of Spaced. It's very funny, everyday typical situations woven with the bizarre and spliced with the surreal. I can recommend it to anyone who hasn't seen it.

He also came back with a superp selection of Belgian beers. Some we have had before, and new variations on favorites. They seem to be getting stronger, we have discovered the 'Triple' range, between 8.5 and 9% alcohol. There is no nasty feeling or hangover, as it is all brewed properly, unlike the processed shite most people know as lager.

It's bank holiday Monday. Time to clean the house and remove bottles from the flat. Tor has called and asked me round to dinner later. In the meantime it continues to rain down, in sporadic episodes of pissing to dribbling, perfect.

I went to play golf today, not a full round, 9 holes. We went to the Chiswick course near Hammersmith. I was surprised by the whole golf thing, apart from being eyed out by the parky and told to tuck our shirts in, despite them being 'hang out' style shirts, God, it brought back memories, instantatiously of being barked at by some crazed Irish Christian Brother paedophile drunken bastard with a leather strap foaming at the mouth yelling 'you boy, I'll get you if it's the last thing I do, bow to Mecca.

I had a good game, in that less than 50% of it was entirely crap. I played two very good holes, one of them was even on par. Phil and Jonathan took me out on the mini course to see if it would be too much of an embarasment to take me on the big boys golf course. I have quite a swing, seemingly.

Sais the man who likes to pee on melty stuff - the piss artist

Bechrist - it's aw food,food, food, nae mention o' drink. There's an auld scotch word for that - its Pampy. Hiv ye never heard of the starvin' wean that comes intae the boozer an' sez tae his faither "Daddy, Daddy - don't buy whisky - buy bread!" To which the wise faither retorts - "Shut up ye stupid wee shite, ye ken full well ye cannie drink bread. So it's in Gods Ordinance as far as ah'm concerned. Ye cannie live by food alone.

I have heard, and I don't know why it's so, what with all their salmon, venison, fresh langoustine, potato scones, mealie pudding and haggis, that the Scotts eat the biggest load of shite on earth.

Just come back from the game at Highbury, Arsenal v Birmingham - the final result was a draw 0 - 0. Since Arsenal have already won the Premiership, I can understand if they don't batter the opponents.