Babkoner of Leek

About her freshwater kin, I’ll cast no aspersions,

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Or she’d poison my IrnBru, it’s Nicola “our only hope” Sturgeon!

I decided to use my opening photo reference for good rather than… well not evil but mocking nonsense as is my norm. I kinda need to keep leaders of other countries sweet right now. You already know why.

So my monthly unblogged weekend has passed and thusly my blog gland drippeth (forsooth!) with what I can only assume is hilarious anecdotes, quippery and the very height of befuddlery that I have cobbled together to call my human life.

Life bit the first! Last Saturday I woke with a start to see that my car to the airport was waiting already outside my door. Due to an alarm-setting malfunction (lack of doing the thing) I slept through to the minute I was meant to leave for the airport to head to New York, but being the canny traveler I am I leave loads of time for such foolishness and made it to the airport after taking the retrospectively merciful move to take a quick shower. The overnight humidity these past weeks has my morning plums as ripe as a doonbuggy on a Lousiana corncob. Apologies, I’ve been talking to Americans for a few days. That’s how they all talk.

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“I been bucking like a hoohaa on the 4th of July eatin’ mah backtack ‘n’ scrapple and doin’ the Charleston on a cottonpick.” – 21st President of the United States Chester A. Arthur (pictured)

After arriving at the airport and getting my newly refreshed plums pawed at by mayor of the gropetown, I was into the building and after demolishing some stale pastries I got onto my plane only to realise that the fools had bumped me like a late dinner reservation to the waft zone by the toilets. But in this case, the Bidness Class toilet! Victoire! Yes as a governmentally-acknowledged fancy boy, they planted me into a full reclining seat with all the modcons including champlane, air d’oeurves before my meal (just one more, keep it going Marky-boy, that’s my new nickname for myself BUT NO TIME FOR THAT NOW) and a really, nice… jet towel? For my neck. Oh no. I’m sorry.

My first two days in NYC, were both hot and chafy but heightened by the presence of one Ian Prince, a former Japan inmate (no really it was great(no really it was a prison of the body AND the mind (beanpaste as a dessert made to look like chocolate!? (these are just some words to have a quadruple bracket closing off my bloggy bucketlist)))).

We sauntered around like cocks of the walk, perusing the finery and giving our heart valves over to a strict and strenuous regimen of alcohol, pork and salted salt. The Americans really know how to destroy an organ legally and with utmost, albeit short-lived enjoyment. In this vein (and still in my veins) was a fresh and sugar soaked chocolate babka.

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If that specifically New York confectionary sounds familiar. Congratulations/commiserations, we are kin.

It glistened in the afternoon sun, steamed with just-baked sweetness and bounced off the disgusting New York Union Square pavement as we dropped half of it and tasted even better when we picked it back up and continued eating. It was insane. Calories easily in the thousands. Shame in the millions. I want one! (tears off t-shirt Hulk-style to reveal a flabby wrinkled torso, babka flakes suspended in my man-breast-fluff).

I regret nothing.

We continued the food tour to include the birth of New York hipsterdom in Brooklyn. As they say in New York, you can’t spell Brooklyn without… all the letters. And some education. A pen. Or a mouth. It’s a nice spot. Brooklyn!

Inspired by this brush with trendiness I also engaged in several highly trendy behaviours.  One such move (I call things I do “moves” now, it’s trendier that way) I went to watch Ferris Bueller in a park in Manhattan, swigging Cava from a communal bottle and trendily mixing up Mia Sara with Mia Farrow. Easily done, but one of these didn’t stumble upon the creepy fact that her boyfiend (no typo, typno) Woody Allen was shtupping her young  (and I mean YOUNG!) adopted daughter.

Director Allen and his wife Previn pose at premiere of "To Rome with Love" in Los Angeles

How could he… resist? And of course his appeal is. Obvious. <leaves room>

Another trendy move (it’s already passé to call it that) was to go to a house party in Harlem. As we approached the house there was a lot of shouting and policey lights in the area we were heading to but we veered hard right before anybody did any crimes to this simple country lad. Instead we had a boozey cheese sandwich party, where we discussed theatre, publishing and the complexities of the nomad life. I’m also pretty sure I straight up weed on her floor. New York rules are that New York Rules! And pee goes eeeverywhere.

In other news… Brexit. I need to stop talking about it or I’m going to get both sad and angry for the umpteenth time since the turd-gobblers that constitute 52% of the voting UK public pulled back their dribble-soaked “Britain First” bedspreads and smeared their democratic contribution to the world across the walls of their padded voting booths. And I will stop talking about it after this one spindly point. 52% of people did a dumb thing, but this thing has been coming for a while. This place is way more f’d than people thought, me included (though perhaps I should have known better and assumed worse) and if there is any positive to come from this squirt-fight liquid dumbness it is as a warning to others. US, Ireland, anybody anywhere that cares about where they live (an admittedly long list) look at what’s happened and rid yourself of complacency. Real bad stuff can happen and on recent evidence, it bloody well will.

I can hear Meg sleeptalking upstairs. “I’m not an expert!!” Might be time to give her a break on discussing this blighted land.

Creme brul-hey-that guy’s on an airplane? Naw, you should go, this ain’t getting better.

Babkoner of Leek

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Star Oscwars

In wearing unusual clothes, they were the all-star pupil,

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It’s 1970’s freak out club, Mott The “is it wrong to assume they were outed as Cosby-style pervs just because thery were famous in the 70’s” Hoople

Look at those trousers and tell me they weren’t lacing Capri-Suns with barbituates.

I write this as I taxi across the Heathrow tarmac, listening to overly optimistic sentiments about me surviving a 500 mile-an-hour slam into the Alps if only I keep my phone’s 3G off.

Air travel has long since lost all sense of adventure and discovery for me and now compares unfavourably to my time spent on the terlet (see my last blog post for discussion of the term). On the toilet at least, I’m losing weight. Plane journeys merely swell me up with a mixture of fluids pooling in my feet, full fat mayo on the sandwiches and swiss-watch predictable gusts from my own airborn fart-factory.

The pilot’s talking. My arse apparently can tell where I am and is attempting to respond.

We have new people in work, fresh-faced and clean-limbed, strutting their youth around the office like I’m sure I never did and making me rain tears down upon my handheld mirror as I wonder what ever happened to the little boy who dreamed of winning the lotto and giving his single-parent mother a competitively-priced loan.

Actor Jim Carrey as Ebenezer Scrooge

Me: Aged 6.

That’s not a joke by the way. I told my mother that. It’s among a great many things my family has never forgotten about, including how once I brought shame upon myself by being excited to see a girl I liked (about the only female in 40 miles who had no direct blood relation to me and wasn’t my teacher) and how I pointed out to my grandmother’s ailing friend that they over-focused their conversation on what I termed “body function problems.”

If you’ve ever met an Irish person over 60, you know I was bloody right too.

So my place of work is awash with new ideas and recently-opened tins of elbow grease and I have reacted by hopping the first plane out to Turkey. Little known fact, but Turkey is also the name of something that tastes slightly too dry to be a chicken and is a very PC insult. I am also very partial to watching youtube videos of wild turkeys stressing out north american varieties of panicky-moron with the fear they will rub them with their crimson throat-scrotum. Throatum.

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Ick festival.

There are certain security concerns related to my current destination. The increasingly authoritarian and religiously demagogic president is increasing pressure on the domestic terrorists/freedomfighters in Kurdistan while Daesh (aka ISIS) are increasing the frequency and aggression of bombings and gun attacks across the nation. So this is a really good time for me to practice my good-guy smile in the plane toilet for those super-virile and nice-penised blokes in the Turkish border security. You guys are the best.

Meg and I have entered the spiralling slide of pain and anxiety that is the post-Christmas diet. There was some hint of the pain to come in the joy I experienced, shucking out a bag of greasy ribs into my microwaveable mini-trough with a song in my increasingly clotted heart that told me, “there’s another week of all-fruit breakfasts there, you delicious bastards.”

Now that I am perpetually hungry, I have just eaten the ever-loving feck out of my tepid portion of aerosludge, accompanied by a meagrely portioned water biscuit. The water biscuit is notable for being less palatable that the individual components of it’s port-manteau name. I hate you waterbiscuit and hope your only son runs away to join a white supremacists. Or the circus. Or a white supremacist-themed circus.

AKA the US Republican Presidential nominees, am I right guys? <snick snack snark>

Attempting to lose weight also means a lot more time spent by me cooking our meals instead of ordering in or eating out. Or meating-out. None of that. The loss of free time is doubly so for Meg as she has to clean up after my increasingly audacious and multi-potted meals.

This made it difficult to find the time to finish off the original Star Wars trilogy in preparation for the 6\10 MOVIE OF A GENERATION. Meg was suitably confused when mid-00’s talent-vacuum Hayden Christensen turned up at the end of Jedi as a ghost to smirk at Luke and say a last goodbye to his acting career and a nervous hello to being an infomercial host for anatomically-correct companion-dolls in his own likeness.

I do like a hyphen don’t I? Don’t answer.

In order to provide you, my loyal reader with value for money and fulfil my mission statement (to inform, invigorate and irrigate) I enclose below the as-yet unannounced results of the first ever Star Oscwars.

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Just think, in a year’s time we can say, has it really been a year?

  • Finn, won the most subtle allusion to an inflammatory racial term award with “droid, please”
  • BB8 won the JarJar Binks commemorative award for most obvious attempt to engineer a must-have Christmas toy.
  • Mark Hamill scooped the gong for resentfully phoning it in for the ca$h monay, whch was closely contested by Alec Guiness’s lingering hatred of his own involvement.
  • Finally, forget about all I just said as every award ever goes to Skellig Michael, pride of Kerry, that stony island at the end which makes every other landmass whimper in the admission of their own inadequacy.

Take that Malta.

Hey! Look at that. My dumbass joke awards are more racially balanced than the real Oscars.

Really been staring at this colourless water biscuit for a while. Jesus, Mary and Joseph it’s starting to look pretty good. I’m gonna say I didn’t eat it but we both know what really happened.

Maybe they got more on this plane somewhere? Whaddya mean I need to sit down!?

Hey air bitches!? Heres the 411. Give me all your waterbiscuits or I’m taking this plane and everyone on it to Manchester for a proper cholestrotamity kebab. On naan, shove your bloody pitta.

I’m not myself. 7.5 pounds dropped and counting (with indeterminate amount of that being turd-mass and the ass-gas that I am irrigating this cabin with.) Sorry to have to inform you of my invigorated colon. I didn’t want to, but the reasons are all clearly there in my mission statement.

Fart.

Star Oscwar of Leek