Sunday, 28 February 2016

Those wonderful days (part 1)

It's all coming back to me now, with its nauseating odour and chemical-crammed contents, all to be found in a foil sachet which looked like something astronauts took with them whenever they went on another mission in space.

I am talking about that wonderful culinary creation of the seventies - Vesta boil-in-the-bag curry - which was a regular Saturday night feature back when I was growing up.

Sold in dehydrated form, this beef curry was about as good as it got if you were looking for exotic food to eat in, when you couldn't be bothered to get off your arse and get a takeaway from your local Indian restaurant.

I can still see the powder being poured into the saucepan, before water was added, to create before my eyes that wonderful stodge, which was as curry-like as your imagination could make it seem.

Vesta ruled the kitchen back then, when this was all that was needed to give us some much needed feel-good factor, in a time when life was grim and all was not wonderful in the garden.

This magnificent meal could have ruled for a thousand years, if it had not been knocked of its perch by that other example of haute cuisine, the Pot Noodle. Another dehydrated dog's dinner, this time brought to life by pouring boiling water directly over the chemicals which were contained in a plastic pot. After a good stir, before one's eyes came to life another Saturday night classic, to be consumed in one's favourite armchair, whilst watching Bruce Forsyth's Generation Game on BBC1.

But how many times, as we got halfway through eating our Pot Noodle, were we alarmed to find that no matter how hard we had mixed in the boiling water, there always remained lumps of powder concealed in the plastic pot? End of Pot Noodle, we said, as we put the uneaten remains in the bin, knowing that a starving dog would think twice about eating this rubbish.

Oh what fun we had mixing powder with water on a Saturday night, in the name of cooking. Fun these foods were to prepare, but unfunny is the fact that we actually ate this stuff.

Still, the chemicals never did me any harm, but for a decent curry these days, nothing can beat a chicken vindaloo from your local indian restaurant.

Tuesday, 23 February 2016

Celebrity arseholes

So Jude Law has decreed that children of migrants currently cluttering up the Calais countryside should be transported to the UK, where they should be housed and watered at the expense of the British tax-payer. This is the latest example of a celebrity talking through his arse. This brainless fuck-wit should poke his nose out of politics, and concentrate on doing what he does best - making shit films.

But Law is just the most recent of celebrity vermin, who fail to see things as they should be seen.

We all remember Cilla Black and the very unfunny Ronnie Corbett showing no sympathy for the victims, when it was revealed that Rolf Harris had been diddling kiddies for years. Their only thoughts were for "poor Rolf" - as though the bearded scumbag was suffering as much as the children he molested. Black is now dead and Ronnie Corbett - who made his name milking the success of Ronnie Barker - mercifully no longer appears on our screens.

The world of entertainment is full of ponces, faggots and would-be politicians, who live on a different planet to ours. The likes of Jude Law are dangerous and the Ronnie Corbetts of this world are clearly deluded.

Rolf Harris is due back up before the judge very soon, to answer further accusations of kiddie-diddling offences. If this c**t was half decent, he would have hung himself in his cell months ago, instead of being a burden to British tax-payers.

Law's pleas should fall on deaf ears. In Britain the priority should be the pensioners who struggle to live from day to day. Migrant offspring, with no grasp of English, are certainly NOT what the UK needs right now. Neither does the UK need celebrities like Law spouting drivel to boost his image.


Turkey & Jesus

When I had filled my plate with turkey, potatoes and beans, and the old man had taken his place at the head of the table, I realised that if Buck had some expensive wine in his collection, there was no likelihood that any of it was going to make it to the table.

And then, just as I started to dissect my turkey, Buck asked us all to pray, and thank Jesus for putting the food on our plates and the water in our glasses. When the prayer was over, I realised why religion had never been quite my thing, and why Tony looked so depressed. But starting to feel hungry, and not overly concerned about Tony's problems, I stabbed my fork violently into my turkey, and watched with delight as my potatoes shot off my plate and onto Nancy's dress.

Dave Cooper is in need of a drink, but with Buck in charge, only water is on offer - together with Jesus!

What is Dave doing in Florida and why is his friend, Tony, looking so miserable? Find out now in Destroying Buck - an ebook for kindle by Luke Ryman

Saturday, 13 February 2016

Welcome to...

A man pushes his bicycle through a disease-infested puddle and another wanders hopelessly along a disused railway line, looking somewhat pissed orf with life. But at least the sun is shining and those jolly kind chaps from feed-a-fuckin' refugee are on their way with tomato soup and bread rolls. Yes, for in one's lowest moment, nothing beats soup and bread to help blow away those migrant blues.

And where is this shite-hole on earth to be found? Is it in some corner of Africa? Is it in Iraq? Is it in Bangladesh? Mais non, mes amis!  This hovel of a homeland is to be found in Calais, a town only a ninety minute ferry ride away from Dover, in dear old Blighty.

What 'o me old chums, not the very same Dover which that little bugger Adolf Hitler wanted to get his hands on all of those years ago? Yes, THAT Dover, whose white cliffs stand tall over the Channel, protecting this little corner of England.

But where is all of this heading, old chap, if I could be so rude as to enquire? Well, there them migrant buggers, with their Adidas tracksuits and terrible table manners, would just love to hop on one of those ferry things and take a ride to Dover. And once there, they would be awfully grateful if the British government would play the white man, and give them asylum, free housing, free food, free education, free internet access and free...

GOOD GOD, NO!!! I hear you all cry, from the comfort of your armchairs.

And who is resposible for this bloody can of worms? Well, that little shite-bag of a Syrian president has got a lot to answer for, but the finger of blame can also be firmly pointed at Francois Hollande and Angela Merkel, who, between them, are rapidly turning Europe into a right old bucket of cow shit.

So it's no wonder that David Cameron and his chums want to get our bums out of Europe, before it's too late. The trouble is, within the ranks of the Tory party, there are certain members who think we should stick with Europe, pull down our barriers and lay out the buns and lemonade for the migrants, who we'll pay to come over to England.

Tonight they're lining up for food in centres run by do-gooders, in Calais, and tomorrow they could be in Kent!

If Hollande had half a brain in his fucked-up head, he would be better off sending this lot packing before turning his attention to the good citizens of Calais, who have all had enough of this. Local residents are afraid to go outside, shops and bars are closing every day and unemployment is soaring through the clouds, as the migrants battle with police, intimidate anyone and everyone and who are desperately trying to get to our shores.

So let's fuck Europe me old chums, before it fucks us. Let's burn that ghastly cow Merkel alive and let's hope that those poor old buggers in Calais may one day get their town back.