Thursday, September 24, 2009
Of all secrets, the ones I hate the most are secret recipes. Like anyone could give a flying fuck about them! "Oh no, Philomena, I can't give you the recipe for my fudge, it's a family secret". It is not a secret though, is it? A secret would be if you could make fudge out of hay. The fact is, that Philomena's recipe will be a minor variation on sugar, butter, condensed milk, syrup and vanilla. Yawny, cunty, hole.
But I can almost forgive those old crones making the song and dance about their cooking. It's something to do, while their spines crumble and the grave approaches. What I can't fucking forgive is companies, who have a lot of money and make boring things, being all secretive about what it is that they make. Heinz, for example only allow a handful of people to know their recipes for the various tinned and bottled things that they make. What happens to the indoctrinated people if they tell anyone? Do they get shot? Jesus!
Having secret recipes does not even deter competitors - there are millions of other companies making baked beans and ketchup and selling masses of the stuff, without needing to bleat on "secret" this and "secret" that, and they taste enough like the real thing to be OK enough that you'd buy them, but not so good that they can charge quite as much as the original. Heinz should just think to themselves: "Imitation is the highest flattery", and then just get on with inventing more things to put inside metal tubes. And if the competitors did get hold of the recipe, what would actually happen? Would Heinz go bust? I don't think so. People like the Heinz labels and the thought of the beans, or whatever, just as much as the taste - they'd still buy their stuff.
On a more personal level, as someone who loves Heinz baked beans, I can tell you for free, that if one of the Keepers of the Heinz Secret sidled up to me and said "Noreen, this, this recipe here, this is how you make Heinz baked beans. Do you see? It's got a pinch of cinnamon in it, a fucking pinch of cinnamon and that, that, Noreen, that is the difference between the Heinz baked bean and the Tesco's value one". Do you know what I would say? I would say: "I really can't imagine ever being arsed to boil dried white beans and piss around with all those sugars and tomatoes and whatnot, in order to recreate what I can just go out and buy and get from a green can, or a close approximation in a different coloured can. Thank you for the secret recipe, but I won't be making it myself". So just stop having secrets and carry on boiling pulses and pounding tomatoes and whipping eggs. Thank you.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
An Open Letter To My Hole
I cannot think of anyone at all that I even want to write a closed letter to. The only possible candidate, would be the man with the massive poodle that attacked me today. If I were to write to him, it would be a very closed letter, made with letters cut out of a newspaper and it would say: "Your dog is a sub standard cunt with wool instead of hair. Now fuck off and get it put down". So more of a threat than a letter really, and I wouldn't bother signing it, like you would an ordinary closed letter, and I'd probably get one of the children to put it in an envelope and lick it shut, to avoid my DNA getting on it and leaving myself open for identification and conviction for a criminal offence.
So really, to sum it up, all letters are for cunts. But I've been put under a lot of pressure from my fans to expand my repertoire into the epistolary genre. So here it is. My first open letter.
Dear My Hole,
Just a quick note to say thank you for being so accommodating, in every sense of the word. Special thanks for enduring the indignities of travel that I sometimes subject you to. You are very long suffering, since you have no control whatsoever over what is fed into you, you just have to fucking well get on with it. I really appreciate the fact that you did not get piles when I was pregnant, so I could be a really smug bitch in the labour ward, harping on about my immaculate starfish. I promise never to get you bleached, that would be gross, and I'm worried about the stinging, to be honest with you, as I would feel that as well. Anyway - you're a great hole, and I thought it was about time I let you know that.
Monday, September 21, 2009
People, Who See Large Creatures
In England, now they are not allowed to go hunting, more and more people have free time to spot large cats, or great big fucking tigers, or misshapen beasts, lumbering around moors and streets and fens: "It is a creature that has escaped from a zoo or a private menagerie", they say. Or :"In the early twentieth century there was a secret lion breeding programme in North Hertfordshire. The anti-viivsectionists got in and let all the lion foetuses out into the wild and now they are all grown up and roaming the place", "Yes, little Ethan's rabbit was ripped apart by something with jaws at least as big as a crocodile and it only ate the spleen". Jesus Christ!
I have a special face I do for people talking about oversized zoo creatures, pit pattering around large fields. I put my tongue down towards my chin, behind my lower lip, then I screw my whole face up and make flapping, fliddy, mong movements with my hands, and then I make a low, intermittent moaning spazzy sound with my mouth, to just show how fucking stupid this sort of nonsense is. I would rather have those charlatans that film themselves in black and white, screaming and pretending to see ghosts in country pubs, than people exaggerating, about their pets going out at night for a shite. Just fucking stop it, please, now. That is all.
Wednesday, September 02, 2009
I no longer like WH Smith
I generally ignore WH Smith and think of it as a kind of dustbin of a shop, that has taken up where Woolworths left off, until I am at a station or an airport, in which case WH Smith or Boots the Chemists are the only places you can buy a bottle of water for the journey. Airport WH Smiths are hideous places, with enormous coiled queues and staff who have been briefed to flog the most mindless objects, to the customers.
"Would you like a five pack of Twix bars? They are on special"
Let me think, there. I'm about to go on an aeroplane. What would I like least to sit on my lap, in a hot metal tube, for an hour? That's right, a multipack of chocolate. Oh, and I'm flying to Paris, where they make very nice chocolate indeed, so a five pack of chavvy cocoa fat, gluey caramel and low quality biscuit, wouldn't really be what I was after.
Once or twice I have been offered a kilo bar of Cadbury's Dairy milk on a special offer. A kilo. Of the most quick- melting chocolate known to man, in a dirty great big, shitty, old box, the size of a painting. They aren't keen on extra weight in the old cabin baggage. If I had a kilo to spare in my case, and I never, ever do, I'd be as likely to stuff it with diamonds or heroin as Dairy Milk.
What people do want on a plane, is something to read. Very often there'll be a film or whatnot as an entertainment for plane passengers, most people have some kind of an iThing to listen to and drinks and food etc are generally provided unless you are fucking cheap and flying on a trashline. But reading matter - you'd need to bring it yourself, and a plane ride is a good time to try out a new book. Those terrible inflight magazines are moronic as fuck and there's only so many paeans to terrible seafood restaurants and pictures of turtles, one can take during a flight. I'm not a great reader myself, but even I am tempted by the idea of a good old murder book to read or anything off the best seller list really.
But what do WH Smith try and force on to their pre flight customer? Hard Backed Books. Hard Backed Books. On a fucking plane. I'm at a loss to know who buys the fuckers on dry land - they cost seven times as much as normal books, and take up loads of space, but on a plane? Jesus. No, I don't want half a stone of reinforced literature. Where will I put it? It won't fucking fit in that flap pocket thing on the back of the seat in front, will it? And if it does, where am I to put my legs? And actually, I don't really ever want to read an overweight version of Valentine Warner's tedious, sloany musings about how to use seasonal produce, or a book about Austrian Churches, or an awful chicklit novel called "The day Mr Right Fell Down the Chimney" with squiggly writing and pictures of cartoon shoes all over it. Just fuck away off WH Smith, and stick your massive bars of chocolate and enormous heavy books up your hole.
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