I’ve tried to follow a healthy diet, but there are some foods I cannot get past my gullet…

Brown Anything
“Substitute regular pasta and rice with the wholemeal variety!” squeaks the skinny fitness guru on TV. “It will make your heart and rectum happy!”
Have you eaten wholemeal pasta? It puts the ‘rough’ into roughage, that’s for sure! Rather than sucking up silky strings of spaghetti, the wholemeal version feels like your lips are being sandblasted. It has a crunch that should not be there. It’s brown.

I travelled the length and breadth of Italy and didn’t see a single shred of brown pasta anywhere. I guess the Mafia destroyed the Italian wholemeal industry after a ‘healthy’ lasagna made a Don a bit too regular. Well done, chaps!

Brown rice is even worse. Health nut vegans coming to dinner? Out of brown rice? Simply get your hamster to shred a cardboard box and serve the chewy shards with tofu. Your pasty party guests never notice the difference!

Raw Food
My granny swore by raw food during World War II. Having spent her rations on silk stockings and liquor, she often had nothing left for cooking fuel. So she would ‘dig for victory’ and unearth a few turnips to chew on while the Luftwaffe bombed seven bells out of her. That was the wartime spirit! And everyone was as fit as an ox! Not like kids today, mutter, mutter, etc.

Granny was wrong. Most people from World War II are now shriveled, white-haired and have false teeth (probably from all that raw turnip chewing). The epitome of health and vitality? I think not!

Bacteria
Seen those TV adverts for probiotic yogurt? The advert seems to think that having billions of crawling bacteria in your pudding is a good thing.
This is what bacteria look like:

Can you imagine that swimming around your yogurt pot?

I’d like to know what makes these wiggly critters so good for me. Would they make me taller? Whiten my teeth? Put more smart thoughts in my brain? I doubt it. I don’t know about you but I don’t want any bacteria in my body, thank you very much.

Smells Funny
I should eat more green vegetables. But they smell funny. That tempting clump of broccoli smells good at the supermarket, but as soon as I get it home it starts to give off a strange cabbagey aroma. Boiling it turns the aroma into a toxic stink. Dinner guests move outside and eyes begin to water. Suddenly a Chinese take-out is looking favourable.

Did you know the world’s stinkiest fruit is the durian? Imagine a main sewer blockage on a hot day and you’re about there. In many Asian countries you can’t take a durian for a ride on a bus or to a movie because they are banned from many public places (sadly, this ban does not extend to sweaty tourists).

If you can get over the rotting flesh smell, the durian is the sweetest and most delicious fruit ever tasted. Apparently. Next dinner party, I’ll give it a try. It might mask the smell of broccoli.

I feel quite queasy now. I wonder though – maybe there is sales potential in the eco-nut health market for brown rice and broccoli yogurt…?

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1. Cheese was invented by the ancient Egyptians hundreds of years ago. But it wasn’t for eating! They used the melted gloop to block the orifices of mummified pharaohs so their insides didn’t seep out.

2. Gouda and Edam has holes in it. But how did the holes get there? Simple – little grubs on strings. Once the wiggly critters have chomped the required amount of holes, the cheese maker simply tugs the string to remove them. What a fun job those little guys have!

3. The World Record for eating cheese is held by Bagwan Amijaad, a doctor from Mumbai. He managed to consume a staggering six Baby-Bels in one minute – without vomiting! Well done Bagwan!

4. The Romans brought cheese to the Empire after Mark Anthony visited Egypt and claimed he had “consumed the finest delicacy, a gift from Hera, discovered right up an old king’s bunghole.”

5. If cheese was a country, it would have to move to Jupiter as it would be too big to fit on Earth. Although it would sink as Jupiter is made from gas. Ok, half of it would fit on Venus, the other half could go to Mars and the rest of it… Hang on. Assuming cheese is the same density as H20 and the total circumference of Mars is…
Look, there’s a lot of fucking cheese around, all right?

6. What is cheese made of? That’s easy. Milk, curds, whey, cream, cheese and sometimes pieces of goat (called goats’ cheese, obviously).

7. Cheese is so highly prized in Italy, it is illegal to dump it, throw it or fornicate with it. The last cheese-related hanging was of the notorious ‘Fondue Fuck Party Four’ in Milan in 1937. The criminals were hung, drawn, cubed and served with a delicious gorgonzola melt.

8. Cheese has influenced popular music! The Beatles’ Yesterday was originally called Curds and Whey and was a charming ballard about the cheese making process. Then Paul McCartney spoiled it by turning it into romantic drivel.
From Public Enemy’s hard-hitting Wendsleydale Ghetto Riotz to Guns ‘N’ Roses’ sensational Hot Hard Cheddar Love, cheese has rocked the music world!

9. Some things called cheese aren’t really cheese! A Big Cheese means an important boss, cheesed off means a bit annoyed, and knob cheese isn’t really cheese at all! Unless you’re an ancient Egyptian.

10. Monterey Jack got its name from American cheese maker Arnold Pomeroy. He developed his beloved creamy-but-salty cheese using a ‘special ingredient’. Unfortunately the secret went to his grave as Arnold was hung in Milan in 1924 for undisclosed cheese-related crimes.

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As sure as day follows night, painkillers follow parties. One drink is never enough, is it? If only medical boffins spent more time researching an effective hangover cure. I’d go on a charity run for that. Until the miracle cure is discovered, try these cures to escape from hangover hell.

1. Force down a fry-up. The traditional English breakfast of eggs, bacon, lard and jam is a must for the morning after. The weight of the grease will hold down your boozy stomach contents and prevent them from coming back up. The favourite cure of hungover truckers and schoolchildren.

2. Jogging. This may seem like an unusual hangover cure, but after six minutes of pounding the pavement you’ll be chucking up in the hedges and ridding your system of that nasty booze. Onlookers will assume you are an unfit runner and never guess your shameful secret. Also, it may discourage them from taking up the ridiculous sport.

3. Spend the day riding a Rollercoaster. This method has the same effect as #2, but with an added shot of adrenaline. Nothing sobers up a groggy brain like the impending fear of death as you hurtle towards the ground at 200mph.

4. Eat corn-based snacks – they contain no nutrition but will act like cheesy sponges in your stomach and soak up the bilious booze. Try not to throw up after eating them, as fluorescent orange vomit is not easy to remove from beige carpets, curtains or household pets.

5. Stay in bed and feel sorry for yourself. Or feel anything else that takes your fancy, it may take your mind off your headache.

6. You feel like death, so assume you are going to die and make a will. When you realize how few assets you possess and that your life amounts to nothing, you’ll soon sober up and vow to lead a teetotal and productive life (at least until Friday night).

7. If you cannot avoid going to work, blame your condition on food poisoning. Moan loudly about the odd-tasting sweet ‘n’ sour chicken balls you ate at that greasy Chinese restaurant after Bible study. The boss will never suspect your pallor is due to a mojito-soaked binge at the strip club.

8. Keep drinking, especially if your hangover occurs during a weekday. Remain inebriated until the weekend, when you can stay in bed and give your hangover the full attention it deserves.

9. If you cannot face work, call your boss and pretend a close relative has died. Keep a list of all beloved relatives (real or fictional) and remember to strike them off the list so they cannot ‘die’ again. I once made that mistake and Uncle Bob dropped dead twice in one month. Try explaining that miracle to your boss. Unless your boss is the Pope.

10. Your body is dehydrated after all that liquor, so drink plenty of water. In fact, hydrate from the outside in and spend the day in the hot tub (remember, you bought a hot tub to go green? Now you can use it when you are green!) Invite your hungover friends over and have a post-party party.

Those boffins require funds to research a breakthrough hangover treatment, so I am going to organize my own Run for the Hangover Cure. Well, maybe more of a walk.
Perhaps a pub crawl…?

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After this weekend I will never visit a fancy restaurant again!

Last weekend I went to a smart restaurant for dinner. I eagerly scanned the menu, only to recoil in horror and confusion. The menu was all in foreign! There were some words I understood, like fried and with, but the dish descriptions were alien to me. The waiter sneered as I pretended to study the menu. He knew I had no clue, the bastard. Panicking, I picked the cheapest dish and hoped it didn’t have tentacles.

If you are intending to visit a fancy restaurant this weekend, here’s a few translations you need to know. Unless you like dining dangerously.

Starters is not called Starters any more. It’s First Dish, Amuse-Bouche or whatever the pretentious phrase is this week. Soup is no longer soup, it’s bisque. It isn’t cream of mushroom, it’s organic shiitake bisque with crème fraiche emulsion . If you are unfamiliar with those ingredients, who knows what could arrive on your plate? A shit biscuit covered in cream paint?

How about panko encrusted scallops with tamarind drizzle ? Anything with a panko encrustation should be examined by a doctor. I don’t know what a tamarind is, or that it causes drizzle (or indeed any sort of damp weather).

The next danger dish is carpaccio. The description sounds innocent enough – warmed winter salad with organic carpaccio . Carpaccio must be like some kind of goats’ cheese, right? No.
Carpaccio is RAW MEAT. Just-dead. No flame has touched its bloody mass.
You end up with raw beef and cooked salad. The chef must have some serious issues.
Perhaps stick with the bread rolls for now.

Now for the main course, sorry, Dish Principal, Fourth Course or whatever the hell we’re up to by now. Attempting to impress your fellow diners, you order boneless grain-fed Cornish Rock with a compliment of seared potato shards and a blemish of spiced Peruvian tomato reduction . Your friends are not impressed when waiter serves you chicken and chips with a dollop of ketchup.

Those dastardly chefs can’t even leave simple Italian food alone. For years I avoided pizza topped with pomodoro, assuming it was some kind of chewy squid. Pomodoro means tomato. Why don’t they just say tomato? And calamaretti is not like spaghetti; it’s some kind of chewy squid.

Sometimes you recognize all the ingredients – except one. Roast (ok) pork (ok) with apple sauce (ok) and seared Ulluco. Uh-oh. Ulluco sounds like it may still have eyes attached. Pan-seared halibut sounds familiar, but unfortunately that psychotic chef has coated it in rocambole jus . Some poor rocambole (which I imagine is some sort of shrew) has been squeezed all over a nice bit of fish. Time for another bread roll.

Thank goodness for dessert! You won’t find any raw cow or crusty crustations in that. Probably.

Although you are reasonably safe ordering anything from the dessert menu, don’t expect your expectations to match what is plonked in front of you.

Four things are guaranteed:

- Your dessert will be six times smaller than expected.

- There will be a single strawberry and two blueberries somewhere on the plate.

- The plate will be coated with a squiggle of unidentifiable brown sauce (probably chocolate and rocambole jus).

- Your dessert will cost six times more than expected.

If you are invited to a fancy restaurant this weekend, be prepared. Be prepared to face three courses of embarrassment, indigestible food and disappointment. Or tell your host you refuse to eat there as you contracted food poisoning after your last visit. Their carpaccio was suspiciously warm.

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I’m starting a campaign to ban apples. They may look delicious as they line up neatly in the grocery store, like a troupe of polished red soldiers on display. But they are EVIL! Apples have enjoyed world domination for too long, denying the rightful king of fruits – the banana – its crown.

Easily the best fruit ever, the banana is sunny yellow, full of goodness and loved by cute monkeys and Oriental sex performers everywhere. Watch out Granny Smith, I’m on to you!

Apples have been causing trouble since the beginning of time. Recall the trouble Eve got into when she nibbled on one of those little green bastards. One bite of a Golden Delicious and feminism is set back 10,000 years.

If only Eve had been tempted by a big luscious banana, that useless specimen Adam would have been told to Fig Off in no time.

Not content with messing it up for the ladies, the apple tried to halt the onset of human enlightenment by attempting to kill great scientist Sir Isaac Newton. According to what I read in a history book (I think), Sir Issac was innocently sitting under a tree inventing time travel, a cure for piles and a way to stop colours running in the washing machine (which he also had just invented).

A mercenary Cox’s Pippin sent to snuff out the boffin failed in its assassination attempt, causing only concussion. Newton was nursed back to health by Florence Nightingale, but the only thing he could recall was the Law of Gravity. This was of no use to anyone because gravity had already been invented.

The apple has found other ways to control us. Did you know the apple is the biggest threat to our youth? It has cleverly let poor little cannabis take the fall for that, the dastardly fruit it is.

Think about it. As a rite of passage, every 12-year-old must get drunk at the local park by chugging back a litre of cheap booze. To the young palette, beer tastes like battery acid. Pocket money won’t stretch to whiskey. What is cheap, sweet and will get you pissed and vomiting by the swings in no time? CIDER. Once hooked on this fruity poison, it’s downhill all the way to a life of alcoholic misery and self loathing.

Apple – It’s the Gateway Fruit. I think George Bush and Gordon Brown need to be told their war on drugs needs diverting to the orchards. Burn them! And the orchards.

An evil force depends on the apple for its survival – the wasp. This hideous killing machine sustains its powers by gorging on apples then proceeds to make our lives a misery by attacking our homes, barbeques and poolside sex parties. With the onset of global warming, the wasp is getting bigger – did you know scientists predict (maybe) that by 2030, wasps will be the size of herons? Can you imagine that flying into your open car window?

The only way to avoid the insect invasion is by destroying all apple trees and replacing them with banana plantations, which will attract cute wildlife like monkeys and Oriental sex performers.

It’s time to take action and oust the apple. I’m off to the supermarket now to chain myself to the fruit counter and demand this dangerous product be removed from the shelves – for the sake of the children.

Vive La Banana!!

Support my anti-apple campaign over at Humor-Blogs.com

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A bright orange roof and gaudy neon sign signaled the arrival of our latest neighbourhood eatery – Hooters. I imagine a lot of women sighed in despair as the restaurant opened its doors to the crowds of excitable young men. The prospect of being served sizzling wings by a girl in tangerine hotpants isn’t my idea of fun. Yet I can’t help glancing longingly through the windows every time I drive by…

OK, I admit, I want to be a Hooters girl! I don’t really want to be a waitress – I tried it once, but my lack of balancing, pouring and social skills meant that career lasted one night only. No, it’s because all the girls who work at Hooters are pretty.

They have skinny legs, shiny hair and white-toothed smiles. Their orange hotpants don’t make their butt look like two bouncing pumpkins.

If I was a Hooters girl I could use my female assets to hide my lack of waitressing skills. It wouldn’t matter if I dropped the salsa or poured hot gravy into the slightly bulging lap of my diner – he would be too busy trying to get a glimpse down my t-shirt to notice. And then he’d leave me a big tip! Now that’s job satisfaction.

However, I think I’ve left it too late to pursue my dream. Most waitresses at the restaurant are students, so I’m probably 10 years to late to be a Hooters girl. Although I was probably 10 years too late 10 years ago.

Come to think of it, there’s never been a period in my life when I haven’t looked dorky, awkward or lumpy in the wrong places. I’m just not Hooters girl material.

I wonder if other Hooters wannabes have landed their dream job, only to be greeted by screams of horror as crowds rush to the door to escape the sight of their wobbly orange-peel thighs.

On the other hand I probably look as good as it’s going to get, so why not try? If I land the job I’ll let you all know. You could all come in and ask to be served by that cute waitress with the matching colour hair and hotpants, no, she’s not a freaky old hag, she’s just, erm, womanly.

Would you mind doing that for me? Just don’t order anything with hot gravy and you’ll be fine.

Mind you, there is another place where I can wear hotpants, serve men beer and get lots of tips. And the place is so dark I could easily hide my dorkyness. Although I don’t think I could manage that pole…

Hotpants are tight and wings are hot over at Humor-Blogs.com

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I love pizza but despair at the concoctions available at my local pizza joint. Italians had it all figured out years ago. Tomato sauce, mozzarella and a scattering of basil, that’s it. It’s worked for centuries so why mess with it?

May Jupiter whack you with thunderbolts if you put any of this stuff on my pie.

Pineapple – Brutal wars have erupted over the contentious issue of fruit on pizza. Possibly. Some crazy people think tomato is a fruit but they are wrong – ever seen a tomato flavour Gummy Worm?

Chunks of tropical fruit should be dangling from pink cocktails, not nestling in melted mozzarella.

Fig, Goat’s Cheese & Prosciutto – Why can’t they just call what it is – ‘Fig and Pig’? Goat’s cheese refuses to melt so burning chunks of it fall into your lap. Even worse than pineapple, fig is full of seeds that stick between your teeth for weeks. The fancy word ‘Prosciutto’ is used to fool vegetarians who think it is some kind of onion.

Non-Italian Cheeses – Was the quaint English town of Cheddar previously a suburb of Rome? Does Monterey Jack originate from the ripe udders of buffalo grazing on the plains of Vesuvius? Do ruddy-cheeked Neopolitan maidens lovingly shred dried-up curds into handy resealable plastic pouches? No.

Donair – If you’re not familiar with this delightful delicacy, Donair meat is slivers of elderly sheep that has been grilled by a lukewarm radiator for several weeks. A pizza shop owner (probably on drugs) tossed this gruesome gristle on a pizza and defiled the dish forever. The Italian Mafia should send him a horse’s head for his sins.

Mind you, he’d probably stick it on the spit and grill that too.

Hamburger – I assume this was inspired by a horrific crash involving a pizza delivery guy and a Burger King truck. I can’t quite comprehend how this pizza works. Are greasy burgers strewn atop the pizza along with lettuce and a bun? Or hidden underneath a mountain of molten cheddar like some monstrous Cheeseburger of Satan? Are there pickles?

Why stop there? Why not add fries, fish sticks, cheesecake and slap another pizza on top? Oh, the horror! The Roman Gods must be glaring down from their Pantheon in rage at these culinary catastrophes.

Actually, this post has made me feel quite hungry. Maybe for the purpose of research I may nibble the edge of that Donair pizza, just to make absolutely sure it tastes as bad as it looks.

*nyom, nyom, nyom*

Hmm, maybe just a bit more…

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Are fish vegetables? Or am I a big hypocrite?

I used to be a vegetarian. I was fourteen and needed to piss off my parents. So I took the advice of my hero Morrissey, jumped on the ‘Meat Is Murder’ bandwagon and abandoned burgers. My mother estimated my latest teenage fad would last about a week.

Six years on my veggie convictions were still going strong. I’d tuck into my tofu stew and complain loudly about the dead flesh my dinner companions were shoveling into their faces. I didn’t get invited to many dinner parties.

Fish Sticks
One evening as I was sitting at a beachside grill, a waiter brought out a massive plate of barbequed fish. The sweet, delicate smell wafted to my table. Suddenly my plate of soggy lentils and green stuff lost its appeal. I began pining for the taste of juicy barbequed prawns, fluffy salmon steak and salty mussels. Hell, even fish sticks would do.

I was determined not to give in to my secret craving. But my resolve crumbled at a wedding buffet. I found myself loitering by a plate of shimmering pink smoked salmon. No-one would notice if I just tasted a tiny flake. The fish was dead and too sliced up to save. So I ate some. Nothing bad happened. I wasn’t struck by lightening. Morrissey didn’t appear and slap my salmon-filled face. The Earth didn’t explode because Tiggy nibbled one little fishy.

Slug Assassin
Now the world was literally my oyster. Sushi for breakfast, tuna for lunch and prawn curry for supper. The world’s fish stocks were beginning to dwindle.

How could I justify my fish fanaticism? Using my own special logic, I figured that even being vegetarian had its environmental downside. How many slugs had been ruthlessly murdered in order to produce those vegetables? Carrots were living things too, but I was happy to rip them out the ground and devour them.

Anyway, fish are stupid. They’d only get eaten by other fish. If there was such a thing as reincarnation, I was simply helping them up the chain by eating them. Next time they might come back as a chicken and they’d thank me for it. A succulent, tender chicken. Mmmm.

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I arrived early, dangling my party pass at a group of tourists on a brewery tour. They must have thought I was a local celeb attending an exclusive bash. I felt very hip.

I rushed towards the loud music and aroma of sweet, fresh brew. Huge illuminated cases of icy beer filled every corner. “Try our new beer!” beamed a bikini-clad blonde as she thrust her hand into the ice and pulled out a chilled bottle. Forget the feminist implications of this sexist PR tactic, I thought, this chick has free booze.

Cheesy Things
A large buffet table groaning with crudités, nachos and unidentifiable cheesy things was beckoning. Ignoring the more nutritious offerings, I dived straight into the chips and cheesy things. It was plentiful and free.

Two hours and five beers later I was still going strong. Beer tasted so much sweeter when it was free. But the bikini-clad girl’s smile had turned to a grimace. She was probably wishing everyone would go home. All right, she had to stand next to a freezer in her undies all night, but the beer wouldn’t open itself, would it?

Five hours and an unknown number of beers later I was struggling. I couldn’t leave – there were still bottles in the case, swimming amongst the melting ice cubes. Bikini girl was nowhere to be seen. The buffet was empty except for the crudités.

Grease
I chewed on a raw carrot but my stomach required grease to hold down the beer. I had to pee for the eighth time in an hour. My hazy brain reminded me I had work in the morning. I would leave, but I couldn’t stand up. The carrot was threatening a comeback. I never wanted to see another bottle of beer again. I had learned my lesson.

Annoyingly, I’ve just been invited to an exclusive party at a cocktail bar. I don’t want to appear ungrateful so I will just pop my head round the door and say hello. Maybe just one little drink…

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