And now, a word from our sponsor...

This blog is brought to you by the good old British weather. No, really - it was born on a wet, windy Sunday morning, had the sun been shining it might still be no more than a half-formed aspiration. You see, I'd planned to go biking with some friends - which I see as doing my bit for the environment: y'know, pumping out large amounts of burnt hydrocarbons, and cutting a swathe through the flying insect population of southern Scotland (no doubt somewhere sparrows will be starving because their dinner's splattered all over my leathers).

But the weather, it seemed, had other ideas and, not being one of those bikers who particularly enjoys getting soaked and blown into the path of oncoming traffic, I was left with no option but to make good on a promise I'd made Art-Girl the day before: if the biking was called off I'd start a blog. You see, for some reason best known to herself, Art-Girl finds my writing mildly amusing (here's a tip guys: if you wanna get into a girl's knickers you need neither Donald Trump's bank balance nor Linford Christie's lunchbox, all you need is Woody Allen's sense of humour...though there's always a risk he'll sue you for copyright violation if he finds out you're using it). Anyway, for some months Art-Girl had been suggesting I start blogging and now, thanks to that most capricious manifestation of the Random - the British weather, I have.

This blog does exactly what it says on the tin. Here you'll find my meditations, observations and rants on all sorts of things - some utterly trivial, some deadly serious. You'll find wit (just maybe), wisdom (unlikely, but anything's possible), derision (almost certainly) and mockery (guaranteed) - sometimes all in one sentence. You may find your favourite sacred cows not just mocked but stunned, slaughtered, butchered and served up medium-rare with a nice merlot. You may well find some robust language or other cause for offence. Well, if anything you read here offends you in any way I cordially invite you to stop reading and bugger off! That's what 'grown-ups' do in free societies - if they don't like it they don't read it or watch it. Freedom of expression is an absolute and I'm under no obligation to make sure I don't offend you (whoever you are). I won't mock your race, sex, age, disability or sexuality (well, not unless you're into something really pervy) but all else is fair game.

Now, if you still want to read this blog just come this way...

Friday, 18 June 2010

Haute cuisine...or maybe not

Your humble scribe has just had a shock to the system, food wise that is. I was browsing the office tuckshop for something tasty to supplement my Tesco's soggy cardboard sarnie when my eyes lit upon the box of crisps in the bottom of the cupboard that serves as our local branch of Fortnum & Mason's. 

I should explain at this point that my office possesses no canteen - subsidised or otherwise - so, being of a self-reliant turn, and desirous of building a retail empire to rival WalMart, my colleagues and I started a tuckshop. In the interests of a healthy workforce we stock only 100% natural, organic wholefoods such as Tunnock's Tea Cakes, Irn Bru (full fat, of course) and Bountys (hmm? guess what I'm having with my afternoon cup of Earl Grey...). Oh, c'mon you didn't really think we cater for the lentil-munching hordes did you? If you're desperate for sustainable high-fibre, ethically-killed, Venezualan peace tofu you'lll have to put on your Birkenstocks (or fire up your G-Wiz, assuming your last two mile journey hasn't completely drained its battery) and patronise some other retailer. (In case Art-Girl's getting worried that I'm once again channeling the spirit of Jeremy Clarkson I will say, in my defence, that we run this tuckshop as a co-operative - so any capitalist exploitation of the proletariat is being done by the proles to themselves for their own benefit).

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah - a shock to the system. My eyes had happened on the box of crisps and I noticed it was overflowing with Quavers and Wotsits. Thereby making a nice change from Walkers Crisps that taste like they've been cooked not in vegetable oil but Castrol GTX. Hurrah! I immediately blagged a bag of Wotsits and headed for my desk, a happy man. But something about the bag in my hand didn't seem quite right and, after a moment, it dawned on me: it was the wrong colour for Wotsits. So, I looked more closely: hmm? Wotsits sure enough, but bearing an additional word above the product name in sneakily small letters: baked. Baked?! Baked Wotists?! FFS!! A devious attempt to con the poor unsuspecting gourmand into eating 'health' food. Well, uh uh, no way Jose. Baked Wotsits are a crime against deep-fried savoury snacks and the people (starting with you my loyal reader) need to be warned.

I returned the dodgy Wotsits fothwith and grabbed a bag of Quavers instead. You can't go wrong with them: lovely artifical cheese and a nice coating of oil left on your fingers. Mmmmm! Bon appetit!

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