When it comes to the whole ‘America v Canada’ thing, I always thought the Canadians were the clever ones. After all, the Yanks voted for Donald Trump – and, yes, I am more than aware that 51% of my fellow-Brits voted to leave the European Union.
I may have to reconsider whether Canadians really are clever, having read this story online today.
According to the report, Canadians are contracting salmonella and falling ill, after… get this… cooking frozen chicken nuggets in the microwave.
Just to clarify – for fans of ‘TOWIE’ and the 51%ers – you CANNOT cook frozen, raw chicken in the microwave – however tasty the breadcrumb batter looks frozen solid. It even states on the packaging, to heat the nuggets in an OVEN.
See, by comparison, the Trump thing doesn’t seem so daft now, does it?
If he’s being “cooked” in the microwave, the uncle will be having the last laugh!
Poor Foghorn Leghorn – he never stood a chance
The whole chicken in microwave story reminded me of a time in my early-twenties. I was still living at home. I must have been writing my blog, under its original name – Sparkster.net. Heaven knows why I didn’t blog about this…
Anyway, I’m still a young whipper-snapper. My brother is an even younger teenage whipper-snapper.
As far as teenagers go, he was relatively ok. Not as goody-two-shoes as me, but there’s very little trouble you can get into, if you spend the majority of your teenage years, locked in your bedroom, playing Donkey Kong Country and Crash Bandicoot.
The only problem I had with my brother, was the behaviour of some of his friends.
Now, I am sure they have all grown into very kind, caring, respectable young men. However, at the time, they had a habit of winding me up…
I would be in the kitchen, making a sandwich or perhaps just getting a packet of crisps – maybe even preparing a crisp sandwich, if I was feeling adventurous.
While in the kitchen, my brother’s friends would march in from outside, before proceeding to search the cupboards, fridge and freezer, like the police carrying out a drugs raid.
Luckily for my mum, they were not searching for drugs. Unluckily for me, they were searching for food. Food, which I would have probably wanted to eat.
My brother’s associates would perform this search, without permission from my mum, or even acknowledging me, despite the fact I was stood, staring flabbergasted, in the middle of the kitchen. Why, oh why, didn’t someone buy my brother a PlayStation and a lock for his bedroom back then…
This blatant food theft would get to me, as it happened frequently over many months – I would like to say years, but fear that I would be exaggerating.
One particularly bad day, one of the food thieves – let’s just call him “Friend A” – was raiding the fridge, when he pulled out a large chicken drumstick, covered in barbacue sauce. I was horrified. Not at the cheek of the food theft – I had sadly become used to that – but the fact the chicken was raw!
For someone who has always been over-the-top, to the brink of OCD, when it comes to food hygiene, I was mortified. What made things worse, was Friend A started eating the chicken. The raw chicken.
He ate the rare poultry, as if he was an animal on a David Attenborough documentary, about life on the Serengeti. Except this wasn’t the plains of famine-stricken Africa. It was a kitchen in middle-class suburban England. Plus, I am yet to see a hyena, eating a gazelle, marinated in Heinz BBQ Sauce.
I allowed Friend A to eat the chicken. Maybe I should have said something, although it wouldn’t have made any difference.
My next worry was that Friend A might be sick on our carpet – or the stairs! I also had a vomit phobia and if he was sick on the stairs, I would be trapped – unable to pass the scene of the incident, until the entire area had been sterilised and cleaned using the acid of a Facehugger, from the film Alien.
Luckily, there was no puking in our house, and as Friend A returned for more of my food, across the days that followed, I can only assume he had an iron stomach and had not fallen foul of the fowl – sorry!
Wow. I can really digress when I get going. This was only meant to be a short post about stupid Canadians. It’s nearly 1am – I’ve been writing for an hour and a half!
This afternoon, someone in the office decided to prepare themselves a lunch, comprising of a foul smelling cheese.
Despite the unpleasant odour, it’s probably a delicacy and far more expensive than Dairylea.
I couldn’t help but overhear someone on the Service Desk, shout out asking “Who’s boiling sewage?”.
Set to be spotted on all the beaches this summer. All British beaches. Nobody will be able to afford to travel abroad.
Guess what? After being off work since January, due to a mix of sickness and annual leave, following my leg break, I am returning to the office tomorrow.
That’s two entire months off work. Some people have said that breaking a major limb is a rather extreme measure to take, to avoid the inevitable ribbing, from colleagues, about Leeds United’s spying scandal. I feel it was a necessary step to take – not that I was in any position to be taking steps, at the time of the fracture!
NOTE FOR MY EMPLOYERS: For the purpose of clarity (and retaining my job), the above paragraph is a joke. My leg did break. It was the single-most painful experience of my entire life. Would I inflict such trauma on myself, all for the love of a second tier football club? Would I feck.
In preparation for my return, I have been getting things ready – clothes, food, drink, nunchucks (again, please refer to the above note) etc. This involved removing the contents of my work bag. Considering I only use this bag for work and I have been off since January, I was intrigued (and slightly scared) about what I might find.
Here is what I discovered in the treasure trove…
- A scarf, gloves & woolly hat. It’s easy to forget that the weather was somewhat cooler, at the time of my fracture.
- ID badge and Smartcard. The ID badge is used to get me into the building and stops the security team from kicking my arse, when I am unable to prove that I am not Osama bin Laden. The smartcard is used to get me into the computer and stops my colleagues from kicking my arse, for finding another excuse to shirk doing my job for another two months.
- Various supermarket shopping bags. At five pence a bag, they’re worth their weight in gold. I’ve been carrying around a small fortune!
- An unopened yoghurt. By far the most disturbing discovery from my ‘bag of wonders’ – and the inspiration behind today’s blog. Sadly, the yoghurt is worth considerably less than the shopping bags – unless it is required for scientific research. The yoghurt in question is a Muller Corner Chocolate Banana Muesli Yoghurt. Sounds delicious. It’s not. One spoon of this would probably kill you. The use by date was 21st January. However, what made my discovery even more worrying, was the fact my uneaten breakfast had been festering in my bag, without any means of refrigeration. The yoghurt is now in the bin. If anyone does wish to take it for a science experiment, use in a nasty chemical weapons attack, or a tastier and healthier alternative to a Pot Noodle, our bin day is this Friday. Help yourself.
About Me
So you stumbled across my blog. No doubt after searching for something bizarre on Google. Before you hit that 'Back Button', why not stay and have a read for a few minutes?
If you are after a website which gives advice on how to hack an iPhone X, download the latest Steven Seagal movie, or view nudy ladies, you've come to the wrong place and may now press 'Back'.
However, if you would like a lifestyle blog, written by a 30-something chap, living in Bath (England), feast your eyes on this.
You won't discover how to copy PlayStation 4 games. What you will find is a blog, covering life in the West Country, the highs and lows of supporting two unsuccessful football teams, while sharing a house with a wife and rabbit.
All written by a man, somewhere on the sanity-scale between normal and eccentric.
