Dolly Parton to die?

I’ve just been checking my stats and I’ve found a particularly disturbing search query that found it’s way to my site. The query was “Dolly Parton dies in August 2006“. Oh dear!

Perhaps this is someone that has had a premonition of her imminent demise, or maybe this is a statement of intent from some nefarious Dolly-stalker. You never know.

Either way, if she pegs it this month then you’ll know where to start the investigation – over at Webcrawler. Keep an eye out for that bloke in the bushes Dolly!

Squab for dinner




Squab

Originally uploaded by rutty.

It’s about time I blogged about my recent holiday and as I’ve uploaded my holiday pics last night I figured it was a good time to start.

My first entry will be the most important one. It’s concerning a little, baby pigeon. During part of our trip we stayed with some friends in Carlisle and for some reason they ended up with the a little baby pigeon sitting under their bush by their front door. It wasn’t supposed to be there, so we had to assume that it was lost and had been seperated from it’s parents.

Normally I hate pigeons. They crap all over my car and make an unholy racket first thing in the morning. I’ve eaten pigeon before (in France, nice it was too) but I couldn’t just leave this little blighter to it’s own devices. One of the local cats was bravely stalking it so I chased that little bugger off so that my little squab could remain uneaten for the time being.

Clearly, this thing was toast if it remained where it was, so I donned a very manly pair of pink marigolds and picked it up. It squeaked a lot while I moved it to a more safe location within a collection of bushes around the corner, as you can see in the photo.

We left it some food, bread soaked in milk, but it didn’t seem to know what to do with it. No doubt mum was still feeding it.

Unfortunately we had to leave Carlisle the next day and I have no idea if the poor thing is alive or dead. I suspect the latter, but hope that it’s eaten some food, avoided the patrolling cats and grown big and strong so that it can fly like the glorious bird that it is and deposit it’s faecal matter on people’s newly polished cars.

British Culture: The Friday Night Kebab

There are many fine aspects to British culture. We have a rich history littered with wonderful authors, genius composers and world-famous artists. So, I figured that I’d write a little about what makes Britain great. This may or may not turn into a series depending on my levels of procrastination.

Friday nights are important to us Brits. We spend all week working hard down t’ pit and we love to let our hair down in the local drinking establishments. This involves attempting to consume our entire body weight in alcoholic beverages followed by a doner kebab and a taxi home.

I’m about to launch into some entirely unofficial rules regarding the purchase and consumption of that most maligned form of evening eatage – the kebab.

Preparation

Before purchasing your kebab it’s imperative that you get yourself into the correct level of intoxication. This involves going out and getting really pissed. This is the British “pissed” not the US-version – we like to be very drunk when eating our kebabs and not intensely annoyed.

This stage is actually very important. Unless your are drunk, the more drunk the better, then your kebab will taste absolutely disgusting. I can personally attest to the disgusting nature of the kebab if consumed whilst not under the influence. Under no circumstances should this be tried without having imbibed large quantities of hop-based liquid products.

Additionally you should be a large party of males. It’s not unusually for a female to enjoy the delights of the kebab, but it’s more normal for a group of five or more males, a “pack” if you will, to engage in this sort of activity.

Purchase

There are many places in British towns and cities in which the traditional doner kebab can be purchased. These are normally located close to a taxi rank and within staggering distance of a cluster of bars and clubs. You should attempt to locate one that has the most impressive array of lit, orange signage. You get extra points if the name is particularly inventive, although “Barry’s Kebab Shop” will do at a push.

Many British Kebab shops have extended their fare into other areas, such as pizza, burgers and sushi. Possibly. Do not be diverted by these tasty alternatives – you are here for the doner kebab.

You must order the large doner with hot chili sauce. This is the only option that properly fits the description of “Friday Night Kebab”. The chicken variant is too close to resembling food to be considered and the garlic sauce is too tasty. The proper British doner kebab contains “meat”. You must have the hot chili sauce, the hotter the better.

Insist on the “salad”. It’s mostly cabbage, but it’s essential for the full experience. Order your kebab “open” so that you consume your delicious purchase immediately.

Consumption

This next bit is important. The instant you step outside with your newly-purchased kebab you must immediately deposit the majority of the “salad” onto the pavement outside. You should probably say something along the lines “this shit isn’t even fit for rabbits” or some-such. Insert even more fruity language if you desire.

Take a large bite from your kebab. Allow the juices to run down your chin onto your shirt. It helps if the shirt is expensive and a little sweaty. Chew and swallow. Within a few seconds you’ll notice a burning sensation in your mouth and throat – this is entirely normal and should be expected. Ignore the pain and continue to consume your delicious kebab.

Make a comment to your mates about how bloody gorgeous this is. Once again you may insert extra swear words where necessary.

You will not finish your kebab. When you have reached the required pain threshold for your body to realise what is going on you must immediately dispose of your kebab. It’s OK to give it to a local tramp or leave it on a wall somewhere for them to find it. Putting it into a bin merely makes it more difficult for them to find food.

After the main course

It is now time for you to head home. Hail a Hackney Carriage to carry you to your abode. Try not to vomit within your taxi, as the driver may become irate and insist on you paying for the extensive cleaning of the interior. Admire all the other Kebab shops on the way.

Once you arrive home it’s normal to vomit into one of your neighbour’s hedges or garden. Perhaps you’ll find the pavement more convenient for this activity. Go immediately to bed, making as much noise as possible on the way. It’s important to let your neighbours know that you’ve been having a good time.

Epilogue

I hope you’ve found this introduction to British culture of interest. The pointers found here may also be used on a Saturday night, or even (to a lesser degree) on any evening. Kebab shops are always open after the bar shuts.

Originally posted on Newsvine

Get well soon

Backs can be a bitch. I can relate very closely to this at the moment because my girlfriend was admitted into hospital yesterday with a severely displaced disk in her back. She was in an immense amount of pain and couldn’t even bend over far enough to put her shoes on.

When I spoke to her this morning she’d just been administered a large dose of Morphine and about head off into the land of the fairies, hopefully somewhere pain-free. She’s having an MRI scan before having a discussion about whether surgery might be necessary. Hopefully not, but if they do they’ll remove the disk then fuse the two vertebrae together – not the most pleasant of experiences I’m sure but at least it should provide a big improvement in what is proving to be a chronic back problem.

So, hope you’re feeling much better soon sweetheart.

Not dead yet

Bugger me, it’s been quiet on here for a bit eh?

Well, I’ve got a few things to stick up here soon but I need to upload some photos onto Flickr first. I’ve been away again with my lovely girlfriend and I’m sure that there are one or two nice photos of our trip that I’d like to share.

In the meantime there’s plenty of other things on the internet to be reading. Carry on.

The statues

There are two statues in a park; one of a nude man and one of a nude woman. They had been facing each other across a pathway for a hundred years, when one day an angel comes down from the sky and, with a single gesture, brings the two to life.

The angel tells them, “As a reward for being so patient through a hundred blazing summers and dismal winters, you have been given life for thirty minutes to do what you’ve wished to do the most.”

He looks at her, she looks at him, and they go running off together behind the shrubbery.

The angel waits patiently as the bushes rustle and giggling ensues. After fifteen minutes, the two return, out of breath and laughing.

The angel tells them, “Um, you have fifteen minutes left.”

The male statue asks the woman statue, “Would you like to do it again?”

“Oh ,yes let’s,” she replies! “But let’s change positions. This time, I’ll hold the pigeon down, and you shit on its head.”

Jolly nice weather we’re having




The Beach

Originally uploaded by rutty.

The British love nothing better than commenting on the weather. It’s what we do best, other than lose at football and drink beer. We have a spectacularly mediocre weather cycle – in the summer it’s usually cloudy, perhaps some drizzle. Usually the same in the winter but with extra drizzle.

In fact, the UK has three types of weather: it’s either raining, just rained or about to rain.

However, this summer has been very different. We’ve seen the sort of weather to make this green and pleasant land more like our close Mediterranean neighbours – it’s been sunny. And bloody hot!

We are not used to such scorching temperatures, unless we’re a regular visitor to Florida. People are having to water their weeds in their gardens to maintain that wild-flower look that is so popular. Cardigans and mittens have been put in storage. People are showing their knees in public – I’m even wearing shorts to work along with sock-less sandals. There’s not a cloud in the sky for us to bemoan.

I’m not sure if this is the best summer we’ve had since the oft-remembered 1977, but it must be getting near to it. Our summer is usually relegated to a weekend in June but this year has seen some of the best, uninterrupted sunshine that I can ever remember in this country.

Sod the hosepipe bans and threats of a drought – get out there and enjoy it. And don’t forget your suntan lotion.

(Note, the picture is actually of the beach in Toronto – I couldn’t be arsed actually venturing out and taking another one of the local weather. Article originally written on Newsvine).