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I’m still in a foul mood.

My disposition wasn’t helped by Masterchef last night either. Out of the three finalists there were two I wouldn’t have minded winning, the wiry 18 year old posho whose talents were without exception (pssst, she should’ve won, she’ll get her chance, she’s a wee lassie) or the jowl heavy ‘single father of two’ (Christ didn’t they wheel that out at any opportunity) Belfast fellow who, for some reason, I kept expecting to say ‘it’s got spunk in it’ when introducing his sauce-heavy comfort food.

I didn’t have anything against the winner, apart from his ‘Dancing in the Moonlight’ haircut but, without any good reason, resented his being able to jack in his ££££ job as a barrister in order to engage in an early evening TV cook-off. Obviously his gamble paid off, Masterchef has enjoyed unprecedented viewing figures this time round and I’m sure bubble locks will fulfil his dream of owning and running a beach side eatery which may well enjoy Michelin star status within 5 years, the cunt.

Myfwt has maintained her new status as a non-smoker, which is of course great (for her). In order to show support for this wilful, I mean, commendable, act of tenacity I’m having to smoke surreptitiously, as if my habit is like some dreadful sexual deviancy that I wish to shield from my loved ones for fear of serious reprisals. Subsequently, last night, I had one tab, one, leaning so far out of my kitchen window it was only my toes preventing me plunging to my death. Furthermore, to ensure the smoke went out of the room and didn’t blow back in I forced the delicious fumes from my face with such ferocity I could’ve powered Cornwall. It was like being 15 again and living with my parents.

Having a close relationship with a person who has just quit requires Ghandi-level diplomacy. This isn’t surprising, even David Bowie said giving up smoking is harder than giving up smack, but that is of small comfort to both parties when one is looking at the other as if they’ve just done a shit in a cot for blinking too quickly. Any misdemeanour -this can include sitting loudly or having hair- on the part of the person brave enough to maintain their loyalty to Messrs. B&H in the face of the newly manumitted fumier must be counted with profuse and fawning regret or punishment, nay death, will be swift. This may require the smoker to act out some sort of penance of their own volition, don’t wait to be asked, calmly push the broken wine glass into your liver smiling gratefully. Anything to save the other testicle.

The weekend beckons culminating in Mothers day on Mothers day. I have minor plans before that, some unresolved but the important thing is that I don’t have to be in this fucking office for a couple of days.

Right, the (edited) Friday list followed by an unapologetic offing from a band I loved years ago before going right off them. The singer couldn’t sing (though lyrically there is some merit) the drummer was useless but somehow they managed to pull this off. It’s 10 minutes long and stunning. There I’ve said it. I expect condemnation for this but please give it a shot (bear in mind the song comprises of two very different halves). The video is effective too, mainly because you can’t see the band themselves. Note ‘The Wall’ footage…

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drucks

I’m in a foul mood this morning; everything was going swimmingly until I switched on my fucking PC. First off I couldn’t access my emails, accessing ones emails at work is more important than breathing, then after con+alt+del 3 times my cunting mouse stopped working. This device was crushed underfoot like its namesake. When I finally did get things going (a full 30 minutes after I’d arrived) I noticed I was all hungover and anxious. Two days off the pop here I come. Two days sleeplessness to follow…

Needless to say my insomnia problems didn’t get a look in last night, I went to bed just after 1am following a gorgeous night with Myfwt. It began with a pair of ales with Frank before I went off in search of eggs/milk./flour etc.. You would’ve thought that those heathen cockmeisters Tesco would’ve pre-empted a rush on these ingredients, it being pancake day and them being the greediest grubbiest toilet chain of comestibles in the history of food stores, but no, the useless fuckwits had sold out of everything. Costcutter on the other hand *shudder* was resplendent with all the items so after much faffing I returned home to prepare supper.

During Masterchef (which I wrote about on Watch With Mothers yesterday, link right) I made fucking pancakes that caused Myfwt to utter ‘genuis’ after she’d eaten. My intention was to cook savoury pancakes and then have the ol’ lemon and sugar fellows after, but the savoury ones were so action packed we couldn’t eat another morsel. Get your pencils out, here comes a recipe… Obviously cook the pancake, I made quite dense ones but don’t over do it, and then fill with the following: rocket salad (half a packet, obviously it’s better to make it from scratch but I wanted to watch Horizon wot waz all about drugs –more on that later) with sliced cherry tomato, fresh prawns, griddled salmon steaks (which I cooked until crispy and then flaked into the salad) and then tossed the lot with aioli and seasoning. What’s particularly wonderful about this dish is that you can wrap the filling in torn off bits of pancake and shovel it into your maw like a fucking pig.

Horizon let itself down in three key ways. It did a bloody good job facing up to all the hysteria surrounding drugs perpetuated by the media, which must stand as the epitome of hypocrisy if you’ve ever been around people that do, but then just let it wander in and trample all over the fucking good it was doing. Firstly, the phrase ‘binge drinking’ its utter bollocks, a red-top buzz word, shouldn’t have been used. Period.

Secondly Leah Betts wasn’t mentioned, she should’ve been as soon as ‘E’ was heralded as a safe (let’s not beat about the bush here, the stuff is virtually harmless) drug with 0 known deaths you can guarantee all the fat middle-aged ignoramuses up and down the country would be having aneurysms about it. ‘What about Leah, WHAT ABOUT LEAH?!’ (Explode) Christ, I can hear them screaming from here…

Ironically Betts died at the hands of the media (she died because her brain swelled up after drinking too much water following sensationalised misinformation about E and de-hydration which was perpetuated by press and TV) and the same bunch of tools gave her father a soapbox from which to spout endless streams of pathetically ignorant guff.

Finally, the fucking music. A sitar and swirly distorted guitars do nothing to put me off taking drugs, quite the opposite actually. During the show, as I was being told how harmful doing shit was, I smoked two joints and drunk 2 thirds of a bottle of wine, I noticed Myfwt wasn’t holding back either. I went on to smoke another 3 joints, drink the rest of the bottle and start another.

Thank Horizon for the hangover.