The thing about minced beef is despite appearing varied, in reality you can only do one thing with it. Don’t get me wrong, Bolognese, Burgers, Meat Balls and Cottage Pie are all equally flavoursome; but if you think about it, you just can’t have mince without tomato and once you’ve realize that, you’re fucked. The illusion is shattered and mince is monotonous for ever more. Think about the recipes.
Bolognese- Bit of mince beef, big old can of chopped tomato.
Cottage Pie- Get your mince nice and brown in a pan but don’t forget to add a can of chopped tomato
Meat Balls- You’d better believe those balls are getting socked in a tomato sauce
Burgers- Mince beef patty, onion, salad, bread bun, cheese, .... Hold on a sec, you better whack a slice of tomato on in that bad boy or at the very least a healthy squirt of Ketchup.
It’s all a bloody conspiracy. Mince is about as flexible as a brick and will never excite me again.
So the other day I’m sat eating my Cottage Pie and I have the tomato epiphany, decide that mince is boring and that I need to eat some chicken or something. It’s not an all together remarkable story but bare with me because mince meat is only the very tip of the iceberg. In an instant the soggy pie had launched me into a stream of spectacular new consciousness comparable to those experienced by Hawkins, Einstein or even Shakespeare. So many things out there pretend to be interesting, but like minced beef, just aren’t. Take alcohol for example, sure, whisky tastes different to beer but that doesn’t change the headache. You don’t slur your words in a different accent. Drunk is drunk. The discovery also put pay to my growing love for rap music. It turns out “Boom, boom, boom, bitch” has a sell by date. It was like an apple had fallen on my head and I'd discovered gravity. I’d discovered how to see through things that are shit. I’d been given the gift of Shit-ray goggles. CSI is a great T-V show isn’t it? WRONG!
“Oh what do we have here? A dead body with a can of Lynx shoved up its arse?”
“Pretty much boss, I recon we should listen to The Who and shine a blue light on some shit until we realize that it was the only guy we bothered interviewing in this episode. Oh yeah and he had a twin or something.”
SHIT-RAY'D Give me a knighthood, a big wig and call me Sir Isaac.
Now, on Friday, about half an hour after I finished a bowl of incredibly unsatisfactory Bolognese my friends and I went to see Robin Hood. Now I should qualify this next bit by saying just how much I was looking forward to this film. I really wanted to like it. If you had been in the car on the way to the multi-plex with us you would have been treated to at least three renditions of the song.* I love Gladiator, Russell Crowe inspires me to do great things and Ridley Scott gives me an erection. Unfortunately for Ridley, if you had joined me in the back of the Peugeot, not only would you have noticed my angelic singing voice but you would also have seen me wearing the Shit-Ray goggles. Picture a pair of Ray-Bans with bright yellow lenses and a pink nutty professor swirl. (Unfortunately for the people sat behind in the cinema me I also took along my huge Isaac Newton wig) So after an unacceptable number of adverts, the film began and sure enough under all the gloss and budget the goggles un-earthed a horrible little turd of a film.
I’m not quite sure at which moment within the two and a half hours of detritus it became apparent that the whole thing was a piece of shit but there are a number of contenders. It may have been when Maid Marian led a scantily clad band of (unnecessary) orphan children to the cliffs of Dover to do battle with the French. It may also have been when Russell Crowe opened his mouth and began speaking in an imaginary medieval accent, but having deliberating for some time I decided the worst bit was the story. Not since CSI have I seen such a formulaic piece of nonsense. It’s hard to think of a time when I've have been more disappointed. I now understand how women feel after they have sex with me. For those of you out there yet to experience that luxury the story leaves you with the same feeling you get when eating a sandwich at the beach. There are few grains of sand stuck in the bread somehow and the whole sandwich is ruined. A lot like mince you can quite happily gobble up Robin Hood without thinking too much but if you were expecting Gladiator, you'll be dialing Dominos for something tastier. Right I'm gonna stop now, because If I think about that film anymore I will never be happy again.
I think I might go and buy some chicken today, then watch Gladiator
*ROBIN HOOD ROBIN HOOD RIDING THROUGH THE GLEN, ROBIN HOOD ROBIN HOOD, WITH HIS MERRY MEN, HE TAKES FROM THE RICH, HE GIVES TO THE POOR... and so on.
Sunday, 16 May 2010
Sunday, 9 May 2010
The Gap In My Teeth
First off I want to address a rather pressing issue. Having recently told a number of friends that my motto is, ‘I never trust a man unless I’ve touched his penis,’ I’d like to point out now that this does not apply to women.
The saying came into being after an intimate night in the south of Spain when a group of my (male) buddies decided that true friends could feel comfortable platonically cupping each other’s genitalia. It was an emotionally charged evening of booze, brotherhood and extreme manliness. So as you can imagine it was mortifying to discover that at least three close female friends have taken my motto in completely the wrong way; thinking that they can touch men, quite literally, Willy-nilly. Well ladies, you’ve got it all wrong!
The Moist household has been inundated with a series of crazes in recent weeks; from religiously watching How I Met You’re Mother to perfecting my salsa recipe, but three in particular have given me the most pleasure.
1. Season a housemate
When you feel a little bored there is nothing better for brightening your day than sneaking up on a housemate with a pepper grinder and seasoning their head. I managed to get MEH this morning. Tomorrow I’ll try to get him with the salt as well, the day after that.... Basil.
2. Bonsai
That’s right; in an effort to become more culturally varied I have taken up the Japanese art of growing miniature trees. I read about them the other day and so the next time I went to Tesco I bought a little pot plant and hacked half the leaves off. The Japanese say it takes years of cultivation before the mini trees are perfect, but what do they know. I managed to cut mine down to size and I only bought it a week ago.
3. Belly Scratching
Less of a hobby this, but still terrifically satisfying, nearly every day I insist my good friend Lucy comes over and scratches my belly like I’m a dog. It’s very relaxing and she gets to feel useful.
In summary I am keeping myself occupied.
After murdering someone, or taking their last Rolo, the worst thing you can do to a person is punish them for liking you. It’s something we all do, but I have a feeling I’m particularly bad. Sometimes, when I think about it, I sit and cringe at how much I take my family for granted. It’s one of those feelings that make you go bright red from embarrassment even though the event was ages ago.
“Moist, do you want to go out for dinner with Nana and Grandpa one day this week? Their getting a Chinese feast, me and dad will try to get some time after work, it will be really nice to get the family together!”
“Ah sorry, I’m pretty busy sitting around with the guys and talking about boobs this week, maybe some other time, yeah?”
It really is a grade-A shit of a thing to do, when all my family want to do is spend time with me. I did exactly the same thing to my ex girlfriend.
“Moist, do you want to make dinner and stay in with a movie tonight?”
“Um, yeah sure, but I’ll invite P-Dizzle and the guys as well, wouldn’t want it get boring.”
It haunts me to remember the look on her face as she died inside, (In fairness, dinner and a movie did get a bit boring sometimes) but it’s a sad fact of life is that once you know someone thinks you’re amazing you stop caring what they think. I am currently attempting to address the balance.
The saying came into being after an intimate night in the south of Spain when a group of my (male) buddies decided that true friends could feel comfortable platonically cupping each other’s genitalia. It was an emotionally charged evening of booze, brotherhood and extreme manliness. So as you can imagine it was mortifying to discover that at least three close female friends have taken my motto in completely the wrong way; thinking that they can touch men, quite literally, Willy-nilly. Well ladies, you’ve got it all wrong!
The Moist household has been inundated with a series of crazes in recent weeks; from religiously watching How I Met You’re Mother to perfecting my salsa recipe, but three in particular have given me the most pleasure.
1. Season a housemate
When you feel a little bored there is nothing better for brightening your day than sneaking up on a housemate with a pepper grinder and seasoning their head. I managed to get MEH this morning. Tomorrow I’ll try to get him with the salt as well, the day after that.... Basil.
2. Bonsai
That’s right; in an effort to become more culturally varied I have taken up the Japanese art of growing miniature trees. I read about them the other day and so the next time I went to Tesco I bought a little pot plant and hacked half the leaves off. The Japanese say it takes years of cultivation before the mini trees are perfect, but what do they know. I managed to cut mine down to size and I only bought it a week ago.
3. Belly Scratching
Less of a hobby this, but still terrifically satisfying, nearly every day I insist my good friend Lucy comes over and scratches my belly like I’m a dog. It’s very relaxing and she gets to feel useful.
In summary I am keeping myself occupied.
After murdering someone, or taking their last Rolo, the worst thing you can do to a person is punish them for liking you. It’s something we all do, but I have a feeling I’m particularly bad. Sometimes, when I think about it, I sit and cringe at how much I take my family for granted. It’s one of those feelings that make you go bright red from embarrassment even though the event was ages ago.
“Moist, do you want to go out for dinner with Nana and Grandpa one day this week? Their getting a Chinese feast, me and dad will try to get some time after work, it will be really nice to get the family together!”
“Ah sorry, I’m pretty busy sitting around with the guys and talking about boobs this week, maybe some other time, yeah?”
It really is a grade-A shit of a thing to do, when all my family want to do is spend time with me. I did exactly the same thing to my ex girlfriend.
“Moist, do you want to make dinner and stay in with a movie tonight?”
“Um, yeah sure, but I’ll invite P-Dizzle and the guys as well, wouldn’t want it get boring.”
It haunts me to remember the look on her face as she died inside, (In fairness, dinner and a movie did get a bit boring sometimes) but it’s a sad fact of life is that once you know someone thinks you’re amazing you stop caring what they think. I am currently attempting to address the balance.
Friday, 7 May 2010
The Most Moist
In spite of numerous attempts to bring me down to earth recently, I have remained a Quadruple Threat. This is at least fifty percent due to the confidence boosting affects of the song Shakespeare by Akala. (Not only does he pigeon- hole himself as a “much more handsome” reincarnation of Old Bill but also claims to be as “Smart as King Arthur”.) It’s fast approaching the top 25 most played songs list in i-tunes.
The other day I took a great deal of satisfaction in watching Britain’s most significant and memorable event of the past five years. Tottenham completing their fairy tale march to fourth place in the league left me with what Blur would call a sense of enormous well being. I was glued, motionless to the screen for the entire 90 minutes, only moving after each opportunity fizzed past the post which would prompt a fit of jumping around wildly shouting, sweating and swearing. After the final whistle I was compelled to sporadically wave my middle fingers in my housemate’s faces and suggest rather too loudly, that everyone was a wanker. It was all rather exciting and left me in need of a rest.
Luckily I had the General Election to bring my heart rate right down to a grinding halt. I often claim to be up on my politics but in truth my knowledge is adequate at best. As soon as anyone mentions the economy my eyes glaze over and I start thinking about what Megan Fox’s vagina looks like. However this time, I was genuinely interested in the outcome of the glorified popularity contest. It came as a huge disappointment when, at around four thirty in the morning Dimbleby, Paxman and Co. began to realize that nothing would be even remotely decided for the foreseeable future. I went to bed, disheartened. (I did just about manage to pull myself out of the pits of depression to have a group bath with my course mates and roll around on wheelie chairs smashing into people)
I always think it’s far too simple to slag off a politician, after all their easy targets. They tend to be fairly ugly, intelligent people, lacking in charisma or in other words, geeks. Let’s face it; if they were still at school they would be getting mercilessly bullied. Instead of being negative like everyone else and blabbing on about how they are “all as bad as each other.” I think we should be praising the fact that they are all equally competent. I mean, come on, Brown, Clegg and Cameron are as clean as a nun’s bedtime reading. I had no idea who to vote for really. The three parties had roughly the same idea of right and wrong and none of the candidates ever killed anyone so you might as well pick your favourite colour.
If only there was a scandal. We could find out Clegg traffics African women into the country and sells them to the mob as sex workers. At least then we would know who not to vote for. The biggest one was when Cameron was forced to admit he smoked a joint while he was at school.... Wow.
“Oh my god! Isn’t he that boy who got a Saturday detention for taking a Danish pastry from the canteen without paying?”
It’s not like he got caught with a belt tied around his bicep, needle in arm and a hooker giving him a blowie was it? They are only human. When I heard Cameron got caught with weed at school I couldn’t help but feel sorry for his 15 year old self. There was just an image in my mind of a chubby potato headed little wanker with tears rolling down his red cheeks, as he tried to convince the head teacher he was just trying to fit in. Do we want our politicians to live the most sheltered lives possible, perhaps we should grow them in cages? Poor old Brown too. He got verbally assaulted in the street by some angry old bitch with a chip on her shoulder and a look in her eye. All he did was suggest that she might be a bit of a pain in the arse. If only he’d of punched her and made the whole choice simpler.
The other day I took a great deal of satisfaction in watching Britain’s most significant and memorable event of the past five years. Tottenham completing their fairy tale march to fourth place in the league left me with what Blur would call a sense of enormous well being. I was glued, motionless to the screen for the entire 90 minutes, only moving after each opportunity fizzed past the post which would prompt a fit of jumping around wildly shouting, sweating and swearing. After the final whistle I was compelled to sporadically wave my middle fingers in my housemate’s faces and suggest rather too loudly, that everyone was a wanker. It was all rather exciting and left me in need of a rest.
Luckily I had the General Election to bring my heart rate right down to a grinding halt. I often claim to be up on my politics but in truth my knowledge is adequate at best. As soon as anyone mentions the economy my eyes glaze over and I start thinking about what Megan Fox’s vagina looks like. However this time, I was genuinely interested in the outcome of the glorified popularity contest. It came as a huge disappointment when, at around four thirty in the morning Dimbleby, Paxman and Co. began to realize that nothing would be even remotely decided for the foreseeable future. I went to bed, disheartened. (I did just about manage to pull myself out of the pits of depression to have a group bath with my course mates and roll around on wheelie chairs smashing into people)
I always think it’s far too simple to slag off a politician, after all their easy targets. They tend to be fairly ugly, intelligent people, lacking in charisma or in other words, geeks. Let’s face it; if they were still at school they would be getting mercilessly bullied. Instead of being negative like everyone else and blabbing on about how they are “all as bad as each other.” I think we should be praising the fact that they are all equally competent. I mean, come on, Brown, Clegg and Cameron are as clean as a nun’s bedtime reading. I had no idea who to vote for really. The three parties had roughly the same idea of right and wrong and none of the candidates ever killed anyone so you might as well pick your favourite colour.
If only there was a scandal. We could find out Clegg traffics African women into the country and sells them to the mob as sex workers. At least then we would know who not to vote for. The biggest one was when Cameron was forced to admit he smoked a joint while he was at school.... Wow.
“Oh my god! Isn’t he that boy who got a Saturday detention for taking a Danish pastry from the canteen without paying?”
It’s not like he got caught with a belt tied around his bicep, needle in arm and a hooker giving him a blowie was it? They are only human. When I heard Cameron got caught with weed at school I couldn’t help but feel sorry for his 15 year old self. There was just an image in my mind of a chubby potato headed little wanker with tears rolling down his red cheeks, as he tried to convince the head teacher he was just trying to fit in. Do we want our politicians to live the most sheltered lives possible, perhaps we should grow them in cages? Poor old Brown too. He got verbally assaulted in the street by some angry old bitch with a chip on her shoulder and a look in her eye. All he did was suggest that she might be a bit of a pain in the arse. If only he’d of punched her and made the whole choice simpler.
Wednesday, 5 May 2010
Last Of A Dying Breed
Not so long ago I was plunged headlong into a crisis of confidence. My friend Potty Mouth came to stay and she informed me that my recent blogs have been shit. Valuing her opinion above everyone else’s* I decided to take onboard her advice and mix things up a bit, after all, she did have a point; I can’t just carry on blabbing on about wanking and drinking. Things have stagnated
It was after a brief period of contemplation that I realized it wasn’t just my blog that was boring. I had become some kind of post-dissertation zombie. I’d cut out every hobby in order to “work,” and in doing so become a walking, talking food bin that resided predominantly in the library and the pub.
The facts were disturbing and I became very concerned that I may never get a fast car or a hot, super horny wife with the ability to produce the three sons I so badly crave. (Maximus, Antony Soprano III and Isambard) It was a very bleak time.
I lay about listening to my usual selection of rock and roll, folk and Dub-Step (also Kate Bush but you can’t really categorize her) and became increasingly stale. Then I actually listened to the lyrics and all became clear.
All my favourite music is about two things. Love or Drugs, sometimes both and neither are particularly conducive to a good mood. Let’s not be harsh, they have their ups but there is always that horrible crash of a come down eventually. No wonder I was frittering my days away with cigarettes and alcohol, if The Stones and The Kinks harp on about being depressed through your headphones then eventually it’s going to take its toll. It’s kind of like subliminal advertising, if you keep walking past a big red block with a giant golden M printed on it eventually you’ll get a Maccy D’s and If I kept listening to Johnny Cash my loved ones would all surly die and I’d turn into an alcoholic. Things needed to change, and fast. There were five weeks of uni left and I wasn’t about to spend them feeling like Morrissey.
I took radical action. (A lot like the feminists I’m meant to be writing an essay about at the moment.) I created a new playlist. On it was the finest selection of Rap, Crunk and Hip Hop I could muster from my.... huge selection. The hope was that the relentless arrogance of rappers would rub off on me and instead of worrying about love and drink I would become far more concerned with praising myself and shooting people from other neighbourhoods.
It worked a treat and after a few days of listening to Jay-z, Ludacris, and Eminem my confidence grew immeasurably. I have started rolling around referring to myself as the Triple Threat. It’s my ghetto acronym because I’m good looking, funny and awesome at sex. That’s three threats. I could even upgrade it to a Quadruple if I include my newly acquired awesome taste in music as a threat, which I think I will.
I genuinely challenge all of you to trade in your rock for rap and join me. It is impossible to feel in anyway negative. Since I converted I have become convinced that I was born in Harlem and that I have an incredible talent for basketball. I also have a strange craving to wear all my most valuable possessions around my neck or on my fingers.
It’s decided, I will continue to listen to rap and Crunk indefinitely.
Elton John counts as Gangster Rap doesn’t it?
*Everyone else has carried on fully loving my writing and saying how amazing I am.
It was after a brief period of contemplation that I realized it wasn’t just my blog that was boring. I had become some kind of post-dissertation zombie. I’d cut out every hobby in order to “work,” and in doing so become a walking, talking food bin that resided predominantly in the library and the pub.
The facts were disturbing and I became very concerned that I may never get a fast car or a hot, super horny wife with the ability to produce the three sons I so badly crave. (Maximus, Antony Soprano III and Isambard) It was a very bleak time.
I lay about listening to my usual selection of rock and roll, folk and Dub-Step (also Kate Bush but you can’t really categorize her) and became increasingly stale. Then I actually listened to the lyrics and all became clear.
All my favourite music is about two things. Love or Drugs, sometimes both and neither are particularly conducive to a good mood. Let’s not be harsh, they have their ups but there is always that horrible crash of a come down eventually. No wonder I was frittering my days away with cigarettes and alcohol, if The Stones and The Kinks harp on about being depressed through your headphones then eventually it’s going to take its toll. It’s kind of like subliminal advertising, if you keep walking past a big red block with a giant golden M printed on it eventually you’ll get a Maccy D’s and If I kept listening to Johnny Cash my loved ones would all surly die and I’d turn into an alcoholic. Things needed to change, and fast. There were five weeks of uni left and I wasn’t about to spend them feeling like Morrissey.
I took radical action. (A lot like the feminists I’m meant to be writing an essay about at the moment.) I created a new playlist. On it was the finest selection of Rap, Crunk and Hip Hop I could muster from my.... huge selection. The hope was that the relentless arrogance of rappers would rub off on me and instead of worrying about love and drink I would become far more concerned with praising myself and shooting people from other neighbourhoods.
It worked a treat and after a few days of listening to Jay-z, Ludacris, and Eminem my confidence grew immeasurably. I have started rolling around referring to myself as the Triple Threat. It’s my ghetto acronym because I’m good looking, funny and awesome at sex. That’s three threats. I could even upgrade it to a Quadruple if I include my newly acquired awesome taste in music as a threat, which I think I will.
I genuinely challenge all of you to trade in your rock for rap and join me. It is impossible to feel in anyway negative. Since I converted I have become convinced that I was born in Harlem and that I have an incredible talent for basketball. I also have a strange craving to wear all my most valuable possessions around my neck or on my fingers.
It’s decided, I will continue to listen to rap and Crunk indefinitely.
Elton John counts as Gangster Rap doesn’t it?
*Everyone else has carried on fully loving my writing and saying how amazing I am.
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