Cronkoner of Leek

Born in a cave by horned Norse demons

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It’s elemental whitefro maniac Richard “erotic glance” Simmons
Once saw him on a train platform (could be true, you don’t know). Oozes a raw animal magnetism that makes me want to sweat to his oldies by which I can only assume I meant something hilarious.
Chim chim chicken limbs! Another week of this crazy helter skelter (had to labor to convince my phone to not autocorrect that to “belted smelter”) gauntlet we call life. Life is calling will you accept the charges? The charge is MURDER! Murder most foul? Murder most fowl. Back to those chicken limbs.
And breathe.
As you might have gathered, I have nothing to say. Not a damn thing. You can show yourself out. Take a pocket full of jellybeans from the big bowl on your way. They’re there for visitors. I’m trying to watch my figure.
You’re still here?! I thought I told you to leave! Get out! I don’t care if the bus is on strike. Get out and walk, princess.
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I’d call you a worm, but Terry here would get offended. And he’s already been pretty off with me since I told his kids about the Tooth Fairy. Now they feel like they’re missing out.
If you’re still reading, you passed the test and good on you. You will now receive your reward. With my writers wand I shall weave for you a tale that will let your emotions soar like the noble kestrel and bring to mind such sorrow and tragedy as hasn’t been seen since fair Juliet cleft her bosom in twain at the slumbering frame of her beloved Ro-ro. Which was her nickname for him.
Also I got a bunch of coupons for unlicensed beauty treatments down at my gym. They will wax anything no questions asked. They can do it so cheap because they hire all these young karate students as interns.
Wax on wax off. Proper belly laughs there. See? Aren’t you glad you kept reading.
Now to the meat of our tale. It’s veally good. Veal is a meat.
For this past Yuletide as well as dropping the routine of relaying Christmases between Ireland and Canada, we instead flew to France with a decent (and occasionally indecent) portion of my dear familia.
As well as eating our way towards having a story to tell every time we went to the terlet, we generally swanned about achieving little to nothing and standing out like a D minor 3rd in Mozarts Concerto number 7.
I listened to some classical music in the week and I’m getting ideas of my station. I don’t even know if any of that crap I said is real. What the hell’s a Mozart? Is it that little stick the fancy butler waves around in the music place? When he makes the guys with musical instruments make squeak boom swoosh noises?
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Cronk no know name of thing good like you smart people. Cronk sorry. Teach Cronk to love. Cronk will cook you lima bean casserole. Cronk see on Jamie.
Cronk’s the best.
One of the most significant ways we stood out from the Frenchies was by taking part in a Christmas Day swim. Meters from the Croisette, the A1 promenade of the Cote D’Azur I and several of my kin disrobed and shuffled miserably into the grey surf like so many of our country(wo)men were doing at home and absolutely zero French. Shivering, lobster-pinkened gams are not the Cannes way of celebrating Christmas apparently.
To be fair there was one lad far over the way who got a bit nude, walked towards the water and then pissed off, but I think he was hoping the water contained someone else’s wife with whom he could adulterate. On discovering the smell was seaweed and the squawking was not female humans but vomity seagulls, he packed up right smart.
While unlike him, my folks and I shuffled around in the water for a good 20 minutes. Swim 5 strokes. Do a wee. 3 back in the other direction. Float. Spit. Check if nutcutlet number two has receded. Stub toe on rock. Little more wee. Swimming!
It was so pleasant in fact and the water so relatively warm I went back the second day for another awkward shuffle in the… spume (one of my top ten words there). On both occasions I was imbued post-float with a hearty satisfaction that I had ticked off a solid amount of accomplishment for the day, which left me the rest of my diurnal cycle for cheap rose, eating mustard flavor crisps (you haven’t been BORN until you’ve got into those bad boys) and collecting paper sweating bags of pain au chocolat from the bakery under our apartment.
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There was also some spinning logs of heaven four doors down, including one which was stacked with veal. As you may have gathered from my earlier veal joke, I’ve been thinking about it a lot.
Unsustainably delicious geography.
After achieving quite the nothing for several days we returned to bleak old Blighty where Meg and I started the laborious task of forcing ourselves through the house repository of chocolate, macaroons and several things we had bought new forgetting that we were about to go on a diet. The cruelest bite. As they say.
Before that though we had then birthday girl (she is now furious with me), my dear mater on our doorstep for New Years. She was adamant that she would not spend New Years day, her birthday waking up on our couch after over indulging on my paint-thinner margheritas so I had to walk her back to the hotel in the first minutes of the new year while both of us struggled to digest a Patron’s ransom in tequila and lime.
In other news, Meg is convinced that I peeked at her wedding dress because I knew about some feature that she had previously told me about. Well if had ever considered taking a peek, I could never do it now. Smart money is she’s booby trapped the fecker and two teeth down on the zipper to the bag it’s in, I’d find myself covered in fire-ants soaked in cat piss. She has means that one.
Cronkoner of Leek
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Maccaroner of Leek

On the offchance the US is freaking you out then,

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Consider how every bloody country has their arseholes e.g. Marine “plus mauvais que Papa” Le Pen.
As fun as it is to draw the correlation curve between the invention of baconaise and the rise of fascism in the land of the free(-dom fries), pretty much every country is one lunatic away from getting flushed into flag humping immigrant-bashing frenzy. The U.K., my adopted home is genuinely fomenting panic about STD-riddled foreign ladybugs, which I really thought would’ve only been an issue if you were trying to crack into an arthropod in the Biblical sense. So now we know.
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Above: an image that would give the Daily Mail writing staff a ferocious pant-corn. As they say.
No more on that guff festival. Now to matters of substance. Matters like cake.
Meg and I were in the aul sod this weekend to get down to some of the more enjoyable parts of wedding planning. Wedding trivia- this my AND Megs first wedding. Hashtag meant-to-be right?
And no, no one uses # to mean hashtag anymore. I read it in Coolguy Weekly. There was also a useful guide to help your tailor hide your pant-corn with strategic deployment of a belt and handkerchief. Confession time, I’m the editor, graphic designer and target market for Coolguy Weekly. Mommy said it would make people be my friend.
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Why did you lie to me Mommy?!
We got up on Saturday morning and hauled our sleepy bones to Gatwick (of Londons five international airports, it is by some margin the one that is most in Gatwick). As we shuffled along like cattle with coffee breath we noticed some auld lass who was chatting up these 5 surfer brahs on the moving walkway.
From the looks of things it was a heartwarming scene where some golden locked young bucks showed a little bit of chivalric attention to a lady who was getting on in years but was entertained by their youthful japery and even perhaps flirtatious tone. Hey. You know how on every one of those moving walkways there’s a recorded voice saying something like “hey, watch out turkeys, in 3 feet this thing turns into normal stationary ground so keep your head on a swivel.”
You can see where this is going.
As I looked at the lady’s face and wondered about the passing of time and how it changes us as people her face suddenly dropped out of view behind the shoulder of surfer brah number 3.
Cue pandemonium and exclamations more akin to the sinking of some ocean-going vessel “SHES GOING DOWN!” and the like. After it was clear she wasn’t going to leap up like some 11 year old Olympic gymnast (probably fed up on… monkey glands and midget pills) someone at the front screamed “push the button, where’s the button!” I stabbed at the emergency stop panel to stop any more holiday goers from stomping on her like wet boots on a welcome mat. I know guys, I’m a hero.
Hey Gandhi, ever stop a moving walkway to save a clumsy old woman? Course not. What an arsehole.
01/00/1998. File pictures of Mahatma Gandhi
He was a saucy looking fecker though
She survived, with a mere grating of red scratches down her face and with a retinue of gawkers and well wishers providing her such vital advice as “I saw you fall” Meg and sidestepped the crowd and went for our plane.
We had cakes to taste.
After arriving and checking in we boarded the red line of the LUAS and headed for the appointment. For background, the LUAS is the tram system in Dublin and is divided into the green and red lines and because we are a sham of a country, these lines do not intersect at all. As the red line takes in a few of the more salty areas of the city (and I’m talking bacon in brine salty) it is known uncharitably as the “Bread Line.”
After wandering about a little we were ushered into an apartment on the outer edges of the city where for twenty minutes we proceeded to eat about three birthdays worth of cake. With each gooey morsel more intoxicating than the last we struggled to keep it together in at least moderating our critiques to nonsense like “maybe it’s too… obvious as a cake.” The winner was never a doubt as once I took my first bite my expression changed and I immediately looked over at Meg with sugar-fueled intensity.
Her expression was neutral like some kind of confectionary-obsessed assassin and I decided she must not share my burgeoning pant-corn that was forming for the cake in question. Indeed she simply hadn’t gotten to it yet, as when she took a bite she immediately looked at me, pant-corn in situ and decision made.
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We had our cake, ate it, had your cake and ate that too. We also ate some macaroons that could have been anyone’s.
In other news the other big wedding move was our meal tasting at the venue, where we sat down and drank every single wine that we could choose for the menu and tasted every single option available for the food.
This was the starter. It was almost the bloody finisher too.
The night was very pleasant as we had all our positive memories of the venue and staff affirmed and massaged by a free wine list 16 bottles deep. We stayed nearby in Slane in the only hotel in that insanely small village and decided to taxi over and back so we could really cut loose. Two small issues emerged from this.
One was we realized we were slightly tight on cash as there is no ATM in Slane. Barely any frigging people either. 2 butcher shops. Weird place.
The second was we got utterly gouged by our taxi driver on the way to the venue. The git charged us for his journey from his house and kept rabbiting on about how he was “doing a favor” for the hotel.
These two issues meant we were slightly tight on cash for our taxi from the venue back to the hotel. I mentioned this to the co-ordinator who had agreed to call us a cab that we only had so much in Merkel-bucks on us.
Meg left for the toilet and she came up to me again just to reconfirm our limitation and then walked off to sort our transport.
Meg sat back down and we were approached a third time. “So if you just wait a few minutes, John (the general manager) will drive you home, you’re on his way.”
Megs mouth dropped open like an overhead luggage bin full of rocks. “Mark! What did you say! <grabs the co-ordinator> We’re not poor, we can afford it!”
She apologized for the suggestion and assured us it was an easy fix and not trouble for us to take the lift. Meg was, to use a Dublin phrasing – “scarleh” like a bride-to-be shaped raspberry.
All I know is I saved myself a sum in the low 10’s of Merkel-bucks. In other words… result.
Maccaroner of Leek

Tehroner of Leek

In terms of public life, his record could have been cleaner

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It’s court-appointed boner-owner Anthony “well done dummy” Weiner

Ah lads. This shitshow is going all Brexit on us isn’t it?

An FYI about the turdcicle above, he’s under investigation for sending pictures of his… surname to underage girls while calling himself “Carlos Danger,” after having been disgraced as a congressman twice for sending pictures of his bulge to random women. His wife at the time worked for Hil-dog and now the world is heaving chunks over the side of the boat as the polls level and Duncan’s horses eat each other.

Incidentally, I was going to use a far more insulting image but I’m trying to use less copyrighted material in case anyone litigious ever reads this. That said I wouldn’t want you to miss out on the hot nonsense I got when searching for said insulting photos. Here are the top 5 tabloid headlines I encountered-

  1. Stick A Fork In Weiner
  2. Weiner: I’ll Stick It Out
  3. Weiner’s Rise And Fall
  4. Weiner’s Second Coming
  5. Beat It

So how does one distract oneself from the noise of toilets being flushed on our collective bonces? Well I went some places. And now will say some things about the places I went.

For those among you with less than cascading waterfalls of interest in my travels, well I’m sorry but it’s this or I start sexting Donald Trump with pictures of seal’s penises. Actually I might do that too.

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Steady on guys, I meant the arf arf kind. But as you’re so insistent I’ll tweet him and see if he’s up for it. Nothing ventured like.

So I left you with me in the Islamic Republic of Iran. A note on the name, it’s a bit on the nose, but naming your country is half the attraction of any revolution. When I took over Den-Mark, no one noticed my subtle rebranding of their country. But they’ll certainly find out the bad news when a portrait of my fuzzy arse is on the 10 Krone coin.

Incidentally why would our ancestors have evolved such hairy arses? Where is the advantage that I’m not seeing? It’s like sitting on a wig! I digress.

After arriving into my hotel from the airport I hoarsely got my room number off the receptionist and hobbled up to my room passing a who’s who of international arseholery. All the sycophanting burblers of international governments have been into Iran since the dropping of sanctions, including my own MP Phil Hammond who since the post-Brexit purge has been wedged into the Chancellor position. Apparently named by his colleagues “Box Office Phil.” Entirely sarcastically.

How does your humble narrator deal with such ratcheting up of pressure by comparisons with world leaders? By falling into a deep but short sleep apparently.

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Intercontinental jetlag pre-meeting sleep is not the best sleep.

The following day I awoke, a bit more kill-me-now than zap-biff-pow but nothing that endless rounds of figgy cake couldn’t fix. The Iranians are a decidedly good looking bunch but how they avoid swelling up like Violet Beuregarde is beyond me. The next two days were a relentless march of meetings upon meetings, with a constant vein of low quality but mercifully plentiful coffee throughout. Most of the coffee in Iran came in single all-purpose sachets of instant coffee, creamer (I hardly know her… I’m sorry) and sugar (I hardly know, oh no that one doesn’t work does it?)

The food on offer was a mix of Iranian (delicious meaty savoury slops), local neighbour foods (the Lebanese have cracked this whole food thing lads) and a single portion of 4/10 lasagna.

Some observations from my 48 hours in Iran-

  • The people are easy-going, friendly as feck and from my limited sampling a damn sight more worldy than the chickenheads that populate most other countries (eat it without salt The Phillipines… and everyone else)
  • Though for sure they have rich and poor like every country I got the feeling that people are pretty much on a similar level without the weird Wetherspoon-populating serfdom that exists in the UK.
  • Traffic is the sticky icky icky (as Snoop Dogg would say) that binds Tehran together as a city. Everyone mentions it and everyone’s plans are subject to it like being teabagged by your violent carbon monoxide producing cellmate. You just gotta let it happen and wear comfortable underpants, because you could be sitting them in for a long time.

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Always better to have the rule be comfortable underwear everywhere because otherwise stuff like this happens. Behold, the DingALingSling. Then forget it immediately.

Once I found the monstrosity above there was no way it wasn’t making it into the blog. My whole trip to Iran was an excuse to get this photo in. Not entirely.

I finished my trip to Iran piling back into another taxi off to the airport after shelling out a wad of freedombucks to the hotel as they still can’t take international bank cards. After plopping into my ample seat I drifted between sleep, reading and rewatching Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy (a solid piece of tobacco stained John Hurt misery). As we approached UK airspace I heard the familiar jangle of the drinks cart.

“Would you like a drink sir?”

“What do you have?”

“Full bar sir.”

“Umm.. Huh. I don’t really know how to respond to you at this stage.”

Heroically, I forwent. Also it was 10am.

My time at home was brief because I was right back on a plane to Athens the next morning where after getting a taxi to the hotel, my cab was rear ended in front of police as we pulled up to the hotel. It was a dramatic entrance for sure, a bit of peril does wonders for sleepy MFers who haven’t had a proper kip in a week.

Athens was a much briefer lap but one highlight was dancing on stage with the Greek band flinging colleagues hither and thither like some mad cathartic Fight Club. Finally on Friday night I got to sleep ten coma-like hours which still only returned me to the stage of staring at people inertly as they walked slowly up to me in an empty foyer and then exploding with motion like an epileptic firework when they spoke to me. It was a few more nights before I was once again, the 8/10 ballbag you know and lo… that you know.

In other news, we also went to North Wales this weekend past, my first time driving on a motorway. Everyone who has ever driven should be chased off a cliff with a pike. Including me. That is all.

Tehroner of Leek

Ayatoner of Leek

If he was the one flying the planes, we’d have to get pre-flight beery,

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It’s scarey leery aero-capitalist Michael “FitzTrump”O’Leary

Micky O’Lah hasn’t been in the news lately but he might have been on our tube. He sat with a vigour that Meg and I felt three seats down the line. A vigour that suggested, “I am an entitled arsehole who has planes.” Then he charged us €20 for what he called “a mid-trip rump-massage.” Boom!

Oh yeah, a Ryanair joke, because in my head it’s 2006.

So this past week I was high on the transport hog and was spread across several countries. It didn’t do a lot for my normally youthful visage (at one point I was able to pinch the bags under my eyes and waggle them around like tiny grey face-scrotes) but it did allow me to renew my love affair with the tiny pellets of honeyed pastry called baklava. That stuff would make you spend a night with Jabba himself.

So Iran, Iran so far away… better not be gay. Because along with an exposed female noggin and going twenty minutes without delicious cakes it’s bally-well illegal in Iran.

Which is where I am as I write this.

“Why am I here?” you’re probably asking, especially those with an existentially curious bent. As with many of the strange and wonderful places I’ve been to over the past two years, this is a work venture. But of course.

gorgeous-fantasy-worldWhere I work, in your mind (probably)

I got the all clear for this trip only on the previous Tuesday as my Visa still hung in the ether until the crucial final step of getting it daubed into my increasingly ragged passport got sorted by some tremendous fellows in a non-descript house in Kensington. I decided to just rock up to the consulate, emailing people as I went, trying to sort it out with the only thing I knew for sure being they decidedly DID NOT process Visas the day I was there.

Incidentally, why are they called Visas? Why doesn’t Mastercard get any love? That’s not a 2006 joke. Just a bad one.

I was instructed to chill my gills in the waiting room under the withering glower power of the Ayatollah whose portrait makes him look a bit like Sean Connery but after he accepted he was bald and really started owning it.

God he’s magnificent. Connery. And maybe the Ayatollah too.

After some Irish charm (and a lot more effectively a phone call from the European Commission) they sent me on my way, utterly credentialed but now admittedly wondering how my irreverant (and irrelevant) humor would go down with the real-world cast of Argo.

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Not to be seen by anyone under 15. Or anyone. I’m glad he’s not allowed do movies now.

Just Affleck, John Goodman get’s a free pass on everything after The Big Lebowski.  And not Casey Affleck. He’s a dote.

Last Sunday afternoon I trundled off to Heathrow airport with the ringing endorsements of “be careful,””don’t do anything fucking stupid” and “I’m not going over there to dig you out of the shit” from my various family members.

I also studiously avoided any intoxicating beverages in the airport as I didn’t want there to be any reason for the Iranian Revolutionary guard (great bunch of lads) to decide my blood required some inspection and would be more conveniently located for this purpose outside my body.

The flight was a bit grim being as it was Iran Air. The Iranians can sure do a hell of a foil pouch of unseasoned chicken and rice, but their passengers would be mucho obliged if they soaked up some of the sloshy piddle that made the toilets a one and done occurrance.

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The rest of the flight was spent imagining the above scene and arranging my napkins into a rudimentary adult diaper.

I landed in Tehran Ayatollah Khomeni airport in the wee (so much wee) small hours of the morning, with a terrible desire to see someone holding my name mispelled on an A4 piece of white paper. There was no such someone.

After walking up and down a bit some harried looking chap started flaking it towards me and held out some crumpled text. I have always felt more of a Martin Cole if I’m honest and never have I been happier to be recognised as such. We wandered around the car park for twenty minutes, as he jabbed at the button in his hand listening for a beep that wasn’t forthcoming. Parking lines in Iran as well as traffic signals are really more suggestions than anything to be taken seriously. Which brings me to… Shambling to and fro around through the chaotic car salad, the thought occurred to me that maybe he’ll bring me somewhere that isn’t my hotel. Maybe I’ll be… Taken!?

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Even Liam Neeson couldn’t get into a decent car chase if he was stuck in what I was soon to learn was the “famous” Tehran all-day gridlock.

Apparently there isn’t a great black market for the out of shape, pasty brillo-pad body type that is now my category should I ever have to classify myself in some grim human brochure.

If you haven’t seen me lately, don’t worry I’m probably still in the back of some lads car on Axis of Evil boulevard. The traffic was easily the worst thing about Tehran, in fact it was the only substantive negative I encountered in my time there.

Food was delicious, people are sound out and most everyone was perfectly happy to ignore any stupidity or insensitvity I might have expressed. Assuming I acted like myself at any point over the two days.

A choice bit of Iranian trivia: to piss off the British, they renamed the street that fronts on to the British Embassy as….

Bobby Sands Street.

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Beeeeeoootiful

Top level mischief I hope you agree. Some more from the Islamic Republic next week.

In other news, Meg has been taken down with a bad case of sore chompers and can’t sleep lying down without her gum swelling up and throbbing like rude emergency dinghy. Downside is she is only able to eat about a half a cup of porridge before quietly weeping.

Other downside is as she is having to sleep on the couch to keep upright, I have started sleeping in a blanket fort like nature definitely never intended.

There are no upsides.

Ayatoner of Leek

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