Category Archives: Masterchef

lovely fags

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…

surealism 2
bud dwyer transcript 2
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rose de st georges stella artois 1
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mean streets

What the hell happened to the BBC News last night? The coverage of that Steve Wright bastard was so sensationalist I was half expecting Kevin Whatley to give a fucking statement in character. It was unforgivably voyeuristic: over the top of a theatrically grim commentary we were treated to disturbing CCTV footage of the last moments these poor women were alive prior to being slain and posed in the shape of a cross, creepy CCTV footage of the killer stalking the streets, more CCTV footage of the shit being interrogated after being caught by the cops, before being privy to a history of his disturbed and pitiful existence, which included footage of him on TV in the 80’s slobbering over some bird. The most interesting aspect of the case, the forensics, without which he’d still be a-killing, was virtually ignored in favour of frankly comic book broadcasting… having said all that I’d have forgiven them everything if they’d dwelt more on the fact that his father was also his half brother, I still can’t get my head round that. One thing is sure though, don’t go to Ipswich.

I spent most of last night watching TV. I’d not planned to, Masterchef was one of the best to date, primarily because we witnessed the fascinating dead-eyed world of professional food criticism, and I’m intrigued by the technical proficiency of the remaining contestants, particularly the posh 18 years old (for all the right reason I hasten to add) who last night managed to make egg-yolk ravioli for crying out loud.

If ‘My Street’ on Channel 4 at 9 was anything to go by everyone who lives down your road is completely fucked up (calls to mind the lyrics of Civilisation Street by Culture Shock) though down mine they’re all on the fucking dole, no one seems to work but me. We peeked into the lives of, mainly, lonely sad men, an elderly widower, a middle-aged widower with literary aspirations, a schizophrenic ex drug smuggler and most upsetting of all an articulate 25 year old with chronic Tourette’s Syndrome called Adam.

He allowed the filmmaker to shoot him having an episode. Of course, we all know of TS, I wrote a rather pithy piece on a programme shown on TV last year on WWM (link right) but had no idea TS could get that serious. Adam was shown fitting on his sofa blasting out staccato words, largely directed at his TS, and convulsing so violently I thought he was going to snap, when this dreadful shuddering briefly ceased, he spoke softly and intelligently to camera before it kicked off again. It was harrowing and shocking stuff and I was genuinely saddened when we were informed that Adam was found dead 3 weeks later.

Jonathan Meades went some way to picking up the rest of my evening. I’m a massive fan of him and his new series Magnetic North. Meades demonstrates that he’s arguably the best broadcaster in the bloody world, his eloquence and dark wit is thrilling, his subject matter compelling and I sat there wriggling with delight at his literary commentary. It’s must see stuff, there are only two programmes in the series and it’s on BBC4 which means it’ll be repeated before the next instalment. Did you know, for example, the word ‘gargoyle’ derives from French onomatopoeic word for gargle? Miss it at your cerebral peril.

As there was no Piqued last Friday I’ve decided to reward you all with not just one Friday list but two, the first is the usual (edited for things relating to the title of Vladimir Nabokov’s seminal book, I’m sorry to say) searches over the past week and the second Piqueds all time top searches, worryingly.

Following that a youtube tune dedicated to Adam, who, when last filmed was wearing the same Motorhead hoodie that I own.

Good weekends all.

Search Terms for 7 days

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Search Terms for all days ending 2008-02-22

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bonnie

Piat D’or is the modern equivalent of Bulls Blood, Blue Nun or Black Tower, you remember the ad ‘Le French adore Le Piat D’or?’ A screaming great fat lie of such magnanimous proportions it’s miracle that Tyburn wasn’t reinstated just to behead the marketing director.

It would seem Cunt has a new ‘girl’friend, obviously, like he’s clearly done, I’m forced to ignore the fact he’s a father to a small child -or I’ll be forced to rip out the tendons in my neck and defecate upon them- and this is what he’s serving these days. No more Carling for Cunt, oh no, he now requires ‘sumfing clarssy’ to have with his Fray Bentos and Super Noodles. I saw the empty bottles in the recycle bin this morning; I did one of those ‘HA!’ noises at enormous volume and restrained myself from kicking his door in and making him eat broken Piat D’or glass from my cheerfully bloody fingers.

Lovely night last night, Myfwt came back home and unlike the previous evening I succeeded in making supper, which we ate with a friend, who was on Masterchef. I can’t really go on about this too much without breaking cover but I will say the person in question handled themselves in the face of the two presenters in a manner that can only be described as exemplary, said friend maintained their nonchalance and wit and refused to subscribe to the hysteria of television. Jolly good show I say.

Following that a conversation began that was intense enough for us both to imbibe without impunity, indeed, it was helping the flow of conversation. Feeling relatively guilt free from recent bouts of abstinence I rather enjoyed myself. Off the pop tonight, back on tomorrow.

Yesterday day was fairly dreadful, I was feeling all cross about the previous evening and if that wasn’t enough I was forced to ride to the bike hospital in Sunbury. It was a stunning afternoon, this almost worked against me as for some of the journey I was taking the exact same route as I did on Sunday which I found a tad depressing, and there were fucking police everywhere. Still I managed to pull a few stops out… I began to re-evaluate my recent decision to flog the Black Bitch and get a new one, there’s nothing wrong with her, at least nothing that can’t be cured by a new service and she’s unique in so far I’ve spent money on a few bolt on goodies to make her look right pretty.

I arrived at the hospice for the mechanically weak and was informed that in addition to the service I’d need new brake pads, which I was expecting, and new tyres, which I fucking wasn’t. I knew the back was on its last legs but had completely failed to notice a bald centimetre line in the front… Blast. Bike tyres aren’t like the ‘firty pand a cornar’ shit you get on cars. They’re mixed compound, sticky on the outside and slightly harder in the middle, and made to a much higher standard; they’re also fucking expensive. A set of tyres and I won’t get much change from £250. To add insult to injury they leant me a bike. Last time they let me loose on a brand new Speed Triple, no such luck this time. I plodded back to work on a brand new Triumph Bonneville, for those of you that know anything at all about bikes ‘brand new’ and ‘Triumph Bonneville’ is an oxymoron.

I have an original Bonnie (as us bikers call them, it’s the later T140v, US spec, lovely stuff if not particularly reliable) it rests these days at my folks where it’s adored by my dad. The new Bonnie was million miles away from that. For a start it’s much slower, it’s quieter than a Tinker’s whisper and handles like a Parkinson’s patient going down a cobbled road in a shopping trolley. I. Fucking. hate. It.

I’m so embarrassed to be seen on it I took the bus into work today. Christ I miss my Black Bitch, when I see her tomorrow, on Valentines day appropriately, she’ll be all gorgeous and new-like… I can’t sell her. I love her way too much.

Perhaps I’ll buy her a fucking bottle of Piat D’or.

More from Stiff, this is fucking acersz


halifux

Trying to think of anything that was good about yesterday. No, it was all bad, pretty much from the moment I woke up to the time I finally went off to sleep.

Work was its usual mundane self, saved momentarily by doing P in the morning, the afternoon rattled past punctuated with abundant quantities of coffee and cigarettes. The only thing I was looking forward to doing in the evening was seeing Myfwt, making some supper and watching Masterchef. Oddly, being resigned to the fact that I wasn’t drinking, indeed, it wasn’t even an option, even the usual watered down gloom that arrives with abstinence was sitting grumpily outside of the cortex.

There was one other thing I had to do. I had to write a piece before Wednesday and it was something I wasn’t able to do at work. I’m amazed I can write P at work frankly because I’m used to silence when I write, P is done on a needs/must basis so I’ve no option, anything else outside of the occasional piece for friends is easier done at home. I began my task in earnest when I arrived back, later than usual. Coincidentally Myfwt wasn’t feeling too good and had decided to come straight back instead of popping by the gym. So engrossed in the whole article I failed to take full heed of ‘not feeling well’. When will I ever learn?

Before she arrived I’d been pondering the article. Pondering is done either with a cigarette or by wandering to the kitchen and wandering back (a ‘wander-ponder’ if you will) with a cup of tea or, in this case, Teriyaki peanuts, which are more more-ish than they have any right to be. I ate over half a packet completely by accident.

About 15 mins before the article was complete Myfwt arrived home looking a little fragile. My mind still scribbling away I ushered her in, she had a couple of peanuts and I finished off the bag and the article at almost the same moment. Right, time to cook… Christ. I then realised that I was feeling utterly sick. I’d gorged myself on so many peanuts I forgotten myself. I announced my self induced malaise to Myfwt who was looking all wane and pail and lovely and refused to cook her the dinner I’d offered to make, indeed, been banging on about all day. This didn’t go down well. Evening ruined.

For the last few weeks I’ve been trying to find out how much I owe the fucking cunts that are the Halifax. I took a loan out a few years back and I’ve been paying it back monthly. Yesterday morning I called them with my account details, what have you. After being asked a series of baffling questions I was informed I’d ‘failed security’ and they fucking hung up on me. Of course, I called them back, the same procedure started, I failed security again (the questions went from, ‘what day do you pay us back a month’ and ‘how much do us pay us back annually’ to ‘what was the colour of the APR on the 3rd March 2003 and how many Howard’s does it take to change a (energy efficient) light bulb’). The last time I called them back (the time after they’d hung up on me again for swearing) they told me just to go into a branch with my passport and they’d tell me directly. Fucking cunts the lot of them.

Oh, Curb Your Enthusiasm was actually shit last night, the worse one I’ve seen, and I couldn’t sleep after.

Masterchef was shit too.

Bollocks.


booze n’ pooze

Masterchef last night was one of the best ever. Usually it’s possible to get a jolly good idea who is going to win, but on occasion it’s too close to call.

Last night was one of those editions, it wasn’t so much about food, it’s presentation, use of flavours and wotnot, it boiled down to raw emotion that had one of the fucking judges crying like a baby over a trifle. The winner was based on food being something of enormous enjoyment, not just the way it looks, but the way it makes you feel when you eat it. The dead cert to win, an excellent chef who pretty much didn’t put a foot wrong was pipped at the post, to my astonishment and sheer delight, by a woman who made food that evoked passion on the basis it that it come screaming from the heart.

Next week one of my friends is appearing it in, I’ll advise accordingly, you lucky, lucky, erm, folk.

Right, two days off the pop. Last time I did two days without booze I was in hospital with a kidney stone scraping it’s way to freedom via my inner guts. Drinking wasn’t an option, besides I was tanked to the amygdalae on sweet Morphine and to be honest, the last thing on my mind. Mentally I feel less soporific and docile but more alert, aggressive, even. Physically, I’m still finding sleeping hard, though it’s not as bad as it was and my back isn’t aching as much either. Oh, I done a plop last night which was a hymn to symmetry, usually they’re like pig slurry, and would’ve been the jewel in the crown of the Bristol stool scale if it was wasn’t now magnanimously heading torpedo-like to the North Sea, goodbye my darling, goodbye.

The weekend is gentle; few well deserved drinks with Frank, dinner with Myfwt and a Saturday of bloody shopping. Late afternoon I’m getting my hair cut which Myfwt is paying for as it’s she who is objecting to my wild locks (she has a point I suppose) and the evening is beautifully vague. Sunday, biking off to see my niece who’ve I’ve not seen since Christmas. Christ, them Monday happens again.

The Friday list (getting more and more edited on account of nasty entries) followed by a tune Swineshead reminded me of yesterday, it’s acer.

Nice weekends all.

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coffeeless

Something amused me yesterday, I’ll give you gist of this tale because it came from a tabloid and it was all writted funni. Essentially, a load of tourists travelling by ‘luxury coach’ had reported thefts from their suitcases, perfume (Collagen by Jordan / Git by Piddy) jewellery (Elizabeth Duke I shouldn’t wonder) etc., but what was baffling was that the goods were disappearing in between journeys. The tourists would load all their luggage in the hold of the coach, which was subsequently locked, and by the time they’d arrived at their destination, shit was missing. Transpires that one of the travellers, instead of loading his suitcase with Just For Men and Viagra et al was, instead, packing a dwarf. Once the journey was under way the dwarf would get out the suitcase, rifle through everyone’s luggage, help himself to whatever he wanted, get back in the suitcase and waited to be collected by his accomplice. There is something rather Victorian about all of this I pondered as I nibbled at my pain o chocolate and ordered more fucking Darjeeling.

Yesterday was unremarkable, save one bollock twisting episode of disappointment. I mentioned yesterday that I had a hangover; I didn’t say that the office coffee machine died on the previous day. I’d forgotten about this so when I got into work, and on discovering there was no coffee, I nearly broke down. Extraordinarily, on the point of abject despair a courier arrived with a brand new machine. I don’t have luck like this I moaned softly to myself, brushing tears of joy from my red raw eyes. The machine was gently unpacked from it’s housing and glittering components blinked in the light, we birthed utensils and filters and instructions… a colleague ripped open a fresh foil wrap of coffee and begun in earnest to assemble the unit. I filled the shining glass coffee pot with water and poured it into machine…which then all pissed uselessly out of the bottom of it, all over my trousers and boots. I stood, dazed, watching the water exit from the broken fucked bastard unit. Fighting back my tears I returned to my desk, my brain pounding in my skull.

I didn’t drink last night, Myfwt and I drunk cups of tea and watched Masterchef and had an early night in preparation for the weekend. It’s a lovely day today and my mind is ensconced in the evenings entertainment, Gee and I are off to Brixton to see popular beat combo Korn at the Academy. Shortly you will get the opportunity to see some of their efforts, but before that, the (edited for very unpleasent searches) Friday list and a deep need for you all to have bloody lovely weekends.

rolex 2
https://piqued.wordpress.com/category/mon 1
Deaf bike 1
the flumps 1
black pennis 2
amy winehouse wallpaper 2
the idler magazine pete doherty 2
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what is a musophobe 2
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Gairls 2
Tom and Eileen Lonergan : BBC NEWS 2
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two pints of lager and a packet of crisp 2
surealism 2
“Sebastian Horsley” 2
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psychopath focus magazine 1


fooker

Fucking Masterchef, since it’s been on I’ve been more obsessed with food and cooking than ever. I’d never really got into it before, despite one of my friends being on it last year (I think she got in the quarter finals too, perhaps she’ll read this and post a comment?) I’d always found the two presenters, a chirpy cockney barrow boy type and a doe eyed misery guts from down under (I think), a bit too much for my palate. Even the shape of the formers head annoyed me.

This time round I’m addicted, the presenters command a genuine respect from the contestants, which adds an element of menace to proceedings. Indeed, the pressure of this alone can force some talented cooks to utterly balls up dishes they’ve been making for years –one poor lady ended up making a veritable biscuit instead of a soufflé. It was her speciality dish.

The effect all this has had on me is to experiment. Last night for instance I ended up making a watercress sauce. Even saying ‘watercress sauce’ deserves a punch in the mouth, but no, there I was sautéing onions, wilting the watercress before blending the two together with seasoning, lemon and crème fraîche and plopping over fishcakes if you please, it was a sensation.

Yesterday was fairly uneventful save a close call with death on my way into work, a few pints with Frank in the evening and of course, supper. Myfwt went to bed quite early leaving me to watch Chris Langham getting a good grilling from Dr. Pam. It was tough going, I’m not sure if he’s sorry for what he did, or just sorry for himself. What was clear from the off was that he’d spent a great deal of time thinking about what he was going to say when certain, inevitable questions were asked. The tears were genuine enough, and I’m fairly sure he’s not a threat to children, but there was something about his evangelising ‘I know who I am through all this’ which struck me as a bit, well, US talk show -if not entirely insincere, to me it characterises the mind of a desperate, tortured man.

Following this I soothed myself by watching the snooker, this was my undoing. Along with Masterchef my interest has gone for virtually nothing to mild addiction. I’m bloody hooked. It’s cathartic and intensely gripping in one motion, it’s the tampering of universal physics by humans which exalts the players into gods warring with one another. Unfortunately last nights coverage went onto 2.10 am, I didn’t know this when I began watching it sometime after 11pm and, being unable to resist its charms I watched the whole fucking programme sipping wine and gently smoking the odd joint. Of course, today I’m feeling a tad ragged, but able to deal with my day.

Please do check my latest post on Watch With Mothers (link right, it’s the ‘Emily I by Scrabbel’ one). It seems that a person can’t be tongue in cheek anymore without a bunch of brainless arseholes taking psychotic offence; naturally, I’ve responded my usual calm and measured manner. Feel free to join it, it’s free, and hey, it’s fun.

You may have to use this youtube link to recover.