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Sunday, August 29, 2010
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Memorable Quotes: Apocalypse Now (Baker's Edition)
Kurtz: Cake. Cake has a face, and you must be a friend to cake. Cake and icing are your friends. If they are not, then they are enemies to be feared.
Kilgore: I'll eat this whole fuckin' truffle!
Willard: Gregg's. Shit, I'm still only in Gregg's. Every time I think I'm gonna wake up back in Waitrose dessert and pastries department. Oh man, the yeast rose so fast in Waitrose you needed wings to stay above it.
Willard: When I was back home after my first shift, it was worse. I hardly said a word to my wife, until I said "yes" to a Pineapple Upside Down Cake with cherries and sugar.
Kurtz: We train young men to sell inedible bakewell tarts to people, but their managers won't let them write 'fuck' in the icing because it's obscene.
Willard: How many eclairs had I already eaten? There were those six that I knew about for sure. Close enough to smear their chocolate topping on my face. But this time, it was a traditional Mediterranean Baklava, a phyllo dough pastry sweetened with syrup.
Kurtz: Did they say why, Willard, why they want to terminate my management of this bakery?
Willard: I was sent on a classified mission, sir.
Kurtz: It's no longer classified, is it? Did they tell you?
Willard: They told me that you had gone totally insane, and that your recipes were unhealthy.
Kurtz: Are my recipes unhealthy?
Willard: I don't see any recipe at all, sir.
Kurtz: I expected someone like you. What did you expect? Are you a baker?
Willard: I'm a pastry chef.
Kurtz: You're neither. You're a seven year old girl, using an Easy-Bake oven, to make tasteless cupcakes.
Kilgore: Charlie don't bake!
(credit/blame for last one goes to Alex)
Kilgore: I'll eat this whole fuckin' truffle!
Willard: Gregg's. Shit, I'm still only in Gregg's. Every time I think I'm gonna wake up back in Waitrose dessert and pastries department. Oh man, the yeast rose so fast in Waitrose you needed wings to stay above it.
Willard: When I was back home after my first shift, it was worse. I hardly said a word to my wife, until I said "yes" to a Pineapple Upside Down Cake with cherries and sugar.
Kurtz: We train young men to sell inedible bakewell tarts to people, but their managers won't let them write 'fuck' in the icing because it's obscene.
Willard: How many eclairs had I already eaten? There were those six that I knew about for sure. Close enough to smear their chocolate topping on my face. But this time, it was a traditional Mediterranean Baklava, a phyllo dough pastry sweetened with syrup.
Kurtz: Did they say why, Willard, why they want to terminate my management of this bakery?
Willard: I was sent on a classified mission, sir.
Kurtz: It's no longer classified, is it? Did they tell you?
Willard: They told me that you had gone totally insane, and that your recipes were unhealthy.
Kurtz: Are my recipes unhealthy?
Willard: I don't see any recipe at all, sir.
Kurtz: I expected someone like you. What did you expect? Are you a baker?
Willard: I'm a pastry chef.
Kurtz: You're neither. You're a seven year old girl, using an Easy-Bake oven, to make tasteless cupcakes.
Kilgore: Charlie don't bake!
(credit/blame for last one goes to Alex)
Monday, March 15, 2010
Ads on my TV
Nescafe Ad
A bootleg Indiana Jones seeks out what appears to be the distilled spiritual essence of coffee, in the heart of a generic South American jungle. Securing it within his sacred Nescafe jar, he proceeds to a vast cavern full of identical such jars, adding it to the collection. Unfortunately from a distance, the jars look more than a little like they're filled to bursting with luminous yellow weewee. My theory: This man is actually a tramp in the final stages of a fatal alcoholic delirium, fancying himself an intrepid adventurer when all he's doing is wandering out into the local woods, filling discarded coffee jars with his own foetid urine, then hoarding his noisome treasure in the damp cave he calls his home. Here he will surely expire in the near future, to be found in some months' time like a Celtic king entombed with all his worldly posessions. But y'know, with piss.
Lynx Ad
Lynx adverts are infantile and retarded at the best of times, and they need to be; their target demographic consists of priapismic 14 year olds with unrealistic ideas about women. But this latest campaign is just face-palmingly awful.
"Women bore easily", sez the slogan, a very laddish proclamation that doesn't really jive with the hero of the piece's appearance. He's a hipster blowjob in skinny jeans and faux spectacles, and sporting the kind of physique that makes David Bowie look like Conan the Barbarian. Yeah he's a real MAN alright, which is why has hidden robot helpers to frantically change his hairstyle and clothing in order to completely emascualate himself by desperately pandering to the rapidly shifting tastes of his supernaturally fickle date. All this in downright psychopathic and single-minded pursuit of eleven seconds of frantic thrusting followed by two hours of meek apology.
Clearly they're angling for a bit of manufactured controversy here as well, and with such an excruciatingly insulting tag line, they'll probably get it, as they reason that any publicity is good publicity, even if it's people decrying it as offensive. Hell, I'm writing about it and I'm a hugely popular Internet journalist with a circulation of well over two people including my mum and the ghost of my deceased cat. So I guess their clever plan worked, but I'll say this; Lynx smells of failure, and no amount of magic robot arms will distract your prospective bedmate from the fact that you could only afford £2.99 to deaden her nose to the odour of your armpits and ballsack.
Thrush Cream Ad
I didn't catch the product name for this one. It's always fun to watch advertisers try to dance around the gory reality of the female menstrual cycle (which was invented by Tom Savini), and indeed any similar product that in the course of its duties comes into contact with our various manky crevices, be they tampons, french letters or good old bog paper.
This particular advert is a self-consciously low-fi cartoon, euphemistic to a fault, and of course great pains are taken to avoid directly mentioning the fact that it's a cream you daub on your lady-junk, because that would be an admission of the existence of the whole unsavoury process. This would never do, because it seems we're still very prudish about some things.
I for one think this is a sorry state of affairs, the human body is a beautiful thing, and should be richly celebrated. I wait for the day when our dinnertime TV ad breaks are awash with horrifyingly detailed depictions of blood-spluttering minge and fist-sized chunks of beige-brown effluence being wiped out of diahorreah-addled hairy arse cracks, like an obscene harvest reaped by a power shovel from the tortured bowels of lower Hell. All in HD.
Actually on second thoughts...
A bootleg Indiana Jones seeks out what appears to be the distilled spiritual essence of coffee, in the heart of a generic South American jungle. Securing it within his sacred Nescafe jar, he proceeds to a vast cavern full of identical such jars, adding it to the collection. Unfortunately from a distance, the jars look more than a little like they're filled to bursting with luminous yellow weewee. My theory: This man is actually a tramp in the final stages of a fatal alcoholic delirium, fancying himself an intrepid adventurer when all he's doing is wandering out into the local woods, filling discarded coffee jars with his own foetid urine, then hoarding his noisome treasure in the damp cave he calls his home. Here he will surely expire in the near future, to be found in some months' time like a Celtic king entombed with all his worldly posessions. But y'know, with piss.
Lynx Ad
Lynx adverts are infantile and retarded at the best of times, and they need to be; their target demographic consists of priapismic 14 year olds with unrealistic ideas about women. But this latest campaign is just face-palmingly awful.
"Women bore easily", sez the slogan, a very laddish proclamation that doesn't really jive with the hero of the piece's appearance. He's a hipster blowjob in skinny jeans and faux spectacles, and sporting the kind of physique that makes David Bowie look like Conan the Barbarian. Yeah he's a real MAN alright, which is why has hidden robot helpers to frantically change his hairstyle and clothing in order to completely emascualate himself by desperately pandering to the rapidly shifting tastes of his supernaturally fickle date. All this in downright psychopathic and single-minded pursuit of eleven seconds of frantic thrusting followed by two hours of meek apology.
Clearly they're angling for a bit of manufactured controversy here as well, and with such an excruciatingly insulting tag line, they'll probably get it, as they reason that any publicity is good publicity, even if it's people decrying it as offensive. Hell, I'm writing about it and I'm a hugely popular Internet journalist with a circulation of well over two people including my mum and the ghost of my deceased cat. So I guess their clever plan worked, but I'll say this; Lynx smells of failure, and no amount of magic robot arms will distract your prospective bedmate from the fact that you could only afford £2.99 to deaden her nose to the odour of your armpits and ballsack.
Thrush Cream Ad
I didn't catch the product name for this one. It's always fun to watch advertisers try to dance around the gory reality of the female menstrual cycle (which was invented by Tom Savini), and indeed any similar product that in the course of its duties comes into contact with our various manky crevices, be they tampons, french letters or good old bog paper.
This particular advert is a self-consciously low-fi cartoon, euphemistic to a fault, and of course great pains are taken to avoid directly mentioning the fact that it's a cream you daub on your lady-junk, because that would be an admission of the existence of the whole unsavoury process. This would never do, because it seems we're still very prudish about some things.
I for one think this is a sorry state of affairs, the human body is a beautiful thing, and should be richly celebrated. I wait for the day when our dinnertime TV ad breaks are awash with horrifyingly detailed depictions of blood-spluttering minge and fist-sized chunks of beige-brown effluence being wiped out of diahorreah-addled hairy arse cracks, like an obscene harvest reaped by a power shovel from the tortured bowels of lower Hell. All in HD.
Actually on second thoughts...
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Seven Deadly Underground Sins
1 - Playing a Game of Personal Space Invaders
Like all mass transit systems, the Underground gets crammed during the time known as Rush Hour, which is a mystical period lasting roughly from around the time of the first train until the last one.
This makes it a great place to hang out if you like unwanted physical contact with strangers of questionable sanity or personal hygiene. The majority, of course, do their best to avoid grinding against their fellow passengers, although well-fit girls iz welcome to ignore this rule, innit.
But there are certain individuals (twats) who for whatever reason (they're twats) will assume extremely close proximity to my person even on an uncrowded carriage where there's ample space elsewhere.
For me, this usually takes the shape of a bloke who stands at point blank range with his back to me, then slowly reverses into my face until I am able to discern individual flakes of dandruff.
I have learned to be prepared for such encounters, and when this happens I like to 'read' a chunky book with the sharp end pointing at the offender, so that as they inch closer, it slowly works its way into the spinal column. Once sufficient discomfort is inflicted, he'll usually move away, and won't really have any right to complain, as I was just standing there reading, minding my business. Psychopaths may wish to enhance their passive aggression with a bookmark made out of a Stanley blade.
2 - Premature Entraination
This is the practice of frantically bum-rushing the train as soon as the doors open, heedless of people trying to get off. Before you consider doing this, try to remember three things:
1: people aren't ghosts and you can't walk through them,
2: the doors have JUST opened and aren't going to suddenly crush you, and
3: Fuck you.
3 - Blocking the Escalator
Usually a symptom of cluelessness, being German, or just common douchebaggery, but whatever the reason, some people just can't help but cock-block commuters from getting where they want to go. It happens anywhere there's a flow of people, from ticket barriers to station entrances. But I am choosing to direct the microscope of hatred at the most virulent strain of this behaviour - the dreaded Lovecraftean horror known only as The Stander on the Left.
Now, London Underground's escalators are well equipped with signs explaining that you're meant to stand on the right side so that people in a hurry can scuttle down the left. For the illiterate, there are frequent audio announcements to the effect of "stand on the arsing RIGHT, genius", so there is really no justification for such ignorance. Conversely, there is every justification for barging past, over, and in some cases through these pests.
My approach is a combo of polite words and savage violence. Utter a cordial "excuse me", after which the subject has a grace period of 4 miliseconds to get out of the way before you huff and batter your way past them like a physically aroused Boris Johnson.
Of course, this works best if you're a seven foot tall, perpetually laughing barbarian like what I am, but what to do if you're a skinny little hipster type with bollock-hugging jeans, ironic haircut and thick-rimmed pretend glasses that you don't actually need?
Well, I hate you, but even you can emerge victorious if you're on the way down the escalator. The moment you see your victim, increase speed, build momentum and be sure to stomp loudly on the metal steps so they can hear their swiftly approaching doom bearing down on them like nemesis. You might reconsider this tactic if the person is a small child. Don't. That's the next generation of escalator-blocking scum right there, you know what you have to do!
You'd be amazed how unreasonable the father was when I explained this to him.
4 - Pressing the Door Button
Doing this just marks you out as a newbie who hasn't twigged that the doors open by themselves. Expect to be excluded from all the cool trains.
5 - Charging At Closing Train Doors
Horrified at the prospect of waiting another two minutes until the next train, some Kamikaze commuters mimic Indiana Jones and make a lunge for the door, though you don't see Indiana Jones getting hilariously wedged in and immediately losing his temper. The driver, who takes his laughs wherever he can get them, will enjoy a few seconds' fun crushing the victim in the door before reluctantly releasing them and chalking up another kill.
Such victims will usually be helped on board by good samaritans pulling the doors apart, and you could see this as an example of the essential decency of the average Londoner. However, you'd be wrong. It is an example of moral weakness. If you're not actively pushing the bastard back out again, you're part of the problem.
6 - Staging 'Tubestock'
Busking is now regulated on the Underground, and instead of being turfed out by the Tube's knuckleheads, performers go through an audition process (Charing X Factor! Bam!) and have to stick to designated busking areas. These are deeply magical, and will transform the busker into a farm animal if they stray outside the protective circle. Consequently, the modern Underground musician is relatively listenable and unobtrusive. Fair play to them.
However, there remain a hard core of dedicated musical annoyances who flaut the rules, plying their trade on the trains themselves. By default, these are the ones too crap or insane to pass the proper vetting process, and their MO is to move through the train, playing one song per carriage per station, cajoling innocent passengers to drop coin into their Cafe Nero cup so that they'll go away.
I recently had an encounter with an American hippy student type who, having apparently time-travelled from some far-off age when hippies were relevant, boarded my very-crowded train, lightly injured several passengers while removing his huge guitar from its case, then proceeded to play a wearisome protest song - upon which, wonderfully, everyone stuck their earphones in. A unanimous fuck-you moment that made me proud to be English, though I was a bit gutted when he didn't actually ask anyone for money. Aww, the trust fund baby with the white-bloke dreadlocks just wanted to give the gift of music!
7 - Being Me
I flatten people on the escalator, stab them with books, push them off trains, crush the spirits of young musicians, and worse. Take my advice - if you see me on a train, wait for the next one.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Happy 2010, and now for some pirates
I'm just sitting in my girlfriend's flat eating her crisps and waiting for her to get off work and watching News 24 when I see a story ripe with potential for awesomeness - a British couple currently held hostage by Somalian pirates were set to be rescued by special forces, but the operation has been called off due to Whitehall 'bungling'. This pisses me off, the SAS (or Commandos, both are brilliant) are all set to jump out of helicopters or maybe show up in jeeps with machine guns welded to them, then this real-life A Team episode in the making gets nixed just because some empty suit (probably named Daniel or Miles) in Whitehall fails to fill in the correct form or something. I despair at this incompetance, and am entirely sure that the world would be a better place if our special forces were just allowed to do whatever they fancied. Can you seriously imagine any situation that couldn't readily be solved by the SAS bursting in like Regan and Carter off The Sweeney and bashing heads together until everything is sorted out? If you can, send a SAE to You're Wrong.
Pirates in general would have a much harder time plying their vile trade if the Navy had license to go and sink their ships as in the good old days of the 18th century. Not only would it make the area safer for commercial shipping and stupid rich people to sail their yachts, but imagine the morale boost the nation would recieve from the knowledge that our sailors are tearing it up on the seven seas and beating up pirates like Master & Commander but with fuckoff great Gatling guns.
On the note of rich yachtsmen; I hope this couple will be alright, but if you happen to be the sort of person with the means to own a boat, surely there are more placid places to be sailing around in your million quid luxury yacht with 'VICTIM' stencilled down the side in MS Comic Sans? Like for instance, the places without BLOODTHIRSTY PIRATES in them? Say what you like about renting a pedal boat for an afternoon at Blackpool, at least the worst that can happen there is getting your 99 Flake shat in by a divebombing seagull. Pirates are violent dickheads, but some people are just thick.
Pirates in general would have a much harder time plying their vile trade if the Navy had license to go and sink their ships as in the good old days of the 18th century. Not only would it make the area safer for commercial shipping and stupid rich people to sail their yachts, but imagine the morale boost the nation would recieve from the knowledge that our sailors are tearing it up on the seven seas and beating up pirates like Master & Commander but with fuckoff great Gatling guns.
On the note of rich yachtsmen; I hope this couple will be alright, but if you happen to be the sort of person with the means to own a boat, surely there are more placid places to be sailing around in your million quid luxury yacht with 'VICTIM' stencilled down the side in MS Comic Sans? Like for instance, the places without BLOODTHIRSTY PIRATES in them? Say what you like about renting a pedal boat for an afternoon at Blackpool, at least the worst that can happen there is getting your 99 Flake shat in by a divebombing seagull. Pirates are violent dickheads, but some people are just thick.
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