Cheese

Saturday night was one of immense cheese. We went to a Eurovision party at a private club in Soho. It was a hoot. Everyone had to represent one of the competing finalists. Names were drawn from a hat so that all was done fairly. I still felt sorry for the poor devils who had to find some way of dressing up to represent Bosnia & Herzegovina and Azerbaijan.

I drew Germany. Fairly easy - or so I thought. Sadly, the only things that I (or anyone else I asked) could come up with were

a) Hitler - not so great from a European diversity point of view
b) Lederhosen - not so great for travelling on the tube and who the hell owns them anyway?

I was a bit stumped really. Then we had the inspiration to see who was actually singing for Germany. They were a bunch of glammed up scrubbers who’d been runners-up in German Idol a few years back. They were called ‘No Angels’, which fitted me perfectly so I donned horns and some bat wings.

The event was brilliant and everyone really made an effort. Sadly, the spirit of true competition has gone out of Eurovision and it’s now just a huge eastern European love-fest with all of the old Soviet block countries voting for each other. However, Ukraine’s entry was absolutely fabulous – a well-sexy chick with a rocking bod and big hair. I’m stunned she didn’t do better. Russia romped home with the gongs and we’re all convinced it was because there was ice-skating involved on stage.

No-one felt like ending on such a dud note (UK came bottom!) so we partied on a little more and then some of us decided to continue, in celebration of the art form that is song. We went to the White Swan in east London. It’s er… well… a gay club for chavs. I’ve never danced so close to so much man-made fibre, the resulting static charge building up in the place was bordering on catastrophic. There was also the usual ‘gentlemens’ club reaction to the music of whipping shirts off and dancing like crazy. I kept fully clothed but marvelled at the full range of tattoos on offer whilst slugging back another few pints of Stella. Yikes…scary yet kinda sexy.

Sushi

OK. I’m not really a meme person – not because I don’t like them, but because I just don’t seem to get sent them very often. This one concerns a subject close to my heart – books.


1. Pick up the nearest book.

2. Open to page 123.

3. Locate the fifth sentence.

4. Post the next three sentences on your blog and in so doing...

5. Tag five people, and acknowledge who tagged me.


“In the afternoon of the day before I was scheduled to leave Switzerland, Karl came sneaking around, knowing that my father would be at the factory. He pressed his lips against mine in a long kiss, right there in my room with my teddy bears and dolls.
“I’m sad I won’t be able to see you any more, Yuriko. Won’t you stay? For me?” Karl’s eyes were burning – and also calm. There could be little doubt that my departure and my mother’s death freed him from any regret or guilt he may have felt.”

This is from Grotesque by Natsuo Kirino. It’s set in Japan and involves lots of death and subversion amongst Tokyo prostitutes. As you can probably imagine it’s a cheery and sunny novel… I’m only part way through it at the moment – it’s fairly grisly. Do I like it? Not sure yet. I'll let you all know.

Thanks to BuffaloVoid for this and I’m tagging the following:

::Monty::Matterdays::Scott In Iowa::Smoking Loon::Canberra Biker::

Achin’ for Bacon

In a random sidetrack ramble away from cake, I feel the need to discuss how I’ve neglected to mention a very important part of my life. Cake, we all know, is a joy to behold and should be indulged at every available opportunity. However, I’ve never discussed my extreme passion for bacon.

Why is it so good?

I’ve been spurred into this post by my Friday breakfast. After polishing off my bacon muffin with brown sauce, I sat in a blissed out trance for a few minutes until my pork-product high wore off. Colleagues commented on my glassy-eyed coma, finding it highly entertaining. Sometimes, like on hangover days, only bacon will do. It has some kind of magical properties and there’s nothing better than sitting back, fully satiated on bacon, your chin shining with grease, to slurp on a cup of strong tea and let the over-exertions of the night before ebb away.

TOH likes his bacon really crispy. When it’s cooked TOH-style it shatters into a billion piggy crumbs when you bite into it. I prefer mine to be lightly cooked, so it’s still super meaty.

I think I must have some kind of pork problem. I also love party food, which often contains porcine ingredients – sausage rolls for example. Pork pies are highly desirable objects at a party for me and I can cram handfuls of mini sausages into my face at every visit to the buffet.

I wish I liked healthy stuff. Things would be so much easier if I were addicted to cress.