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!
Christmas shopping in town. One of the most stressful situations known to man.
The trouble with Christmas shopping is that it has to be done, yet the longer you leave it, the more traumatic it becomes. Shopping in November is upsetting; early December, terrifying; while leaving it until Christmas Eve is enough to drive a man to murder.
That is why I decided to do all mine this week. Most of which took place on a cold, Monday afternoon in Bath.
Every single person in town that day found a way to piss me off. Every single person. First of all the shop assistants. I must have a look about me which says “Shop lifter”, because upon entering a shop and examining an item, someone working within the store would appear, as if by magic, asking if they could help me. What they were really saying was “Get your hands off that DVD! I know what you’re up to!” I half expected Tubbs from The League of Gentlemen to jump out from behind a cupboard shouting “Don’t touch the precious things!”
A random pair of shoes left in the street. That's one Christmas present sorted.
Then there are the charity muggers or chuggers as some people call them. I have heard other C-words used in their direction too. I make it perfectly clear I don’t wish to engage in conversation with these people, by politely walking a safe distance from them. Why is it then that they proceed to chase me up the high street, past WHSmith, to have a “quick two minute chat” They don’t want a chat. They want my bank account details so they can send five pounds a month to help blind cats. Seriously, how can my money help a cat which can’t see? They’re not exactly going to buy it a guide dog. I have nothing against charity, in fact I made a donation to one that same day. It was for breast cancer – a much more worthy cause than one which helps short-sighted felines get a pair of contact lenses.
The other set of people to ‘grind my gears’, are the shoppers themselves – arrogant, selfish people who live in their own little world where only they exist. Herds of mothers who walk side-by-side, four pushchairs taking up the entire pavement, causing me to walk into the road and nearly get run over by a Morrisson’s lorry. Has nobody taught them such etiquette as single-file walking? We were always told to do that in school when using the corridors. No running either. Or bubble gum.
So annoyed was I by my fellow-shoppers, that I misread the sign
People who walk out of shops, straight onto the street, oblivious to whoever they may crash into also annoy me. I hope one day both they and the pushchair wielding mothers collide. It’ll be a messy scene with lots of blood.
Luckily I got most of the Christmas shopping done. The rest online, courtesy of Play.com and Amazon. This should be on its way in the next day or two, unless the postman nicks it.
No work today. I had a training course to go to. It was a bit of a disaster in all honesty. The course was fine. It was everything that happened before and after which gave me a headache.
First of all, the outward bus journey. I boarded the bus. It was full of students. There were no seats left and loads of people standing. It was like a cattle transporter and I was a cow.
As I stood, clinging onto a bus rail for dear life as the X39 sped down the Keynsham bypass, I overheard some stupidly posh and annoying students discussing life. I have nothing against students. Using an excuse borrowed from a racist Daily Mail reader, “some of my best friends are students” However this particular bunch of college-goers was very annoying…
“How old is Tarquin?” one asked their friend, who responded “I dunno. I guess we should ask people”. Quite frankly, I couldn’t give a shiny turd how old their posh friend was. I doubt anybody else on the bus did either. Another removed their iPod earphones to join in the drivel “I think I’ll change my birth date on Facebook every month – that way I can get presents throughout the year”, before breaking into an eruption of laughter and snorts.
I considered praying for a fatal bus crash. There would be broken, severed limbs everywhere. OK, I would be dead too, but I wouldn’t have to listen to their shit.
The bus didn’t crash. Instead it stopped outside a college. The bus emptied. I stayed onboard. When I did get off it started to rain. I had to make the rest of the journey on foot. I got wet. A great start to the day – already I was wet, pissed off and had wished death upon a group of teenagers.
The course went well.
Home time. The route to the centre where my training took place was hard to find. Therefore in the morning, I walked along an embankment, next to a busy road. This was mainly due to the fact it was raining and I didn’t have the time or patience to work out a safer course. Coming back however, I found the footpath – down some steps behind Tesco. Then I became lost. After walking for ages down a small lane, being careful to look out for drug addicts and chavs who would no doubt try to steal my iPhone and rape me, I found my way back onto the main road. Trouble was, it wasn’t the main road I was on this morning. I was lost in Bristol. All I wanted to do was go home, crawl into a ball and cry. Eventually, thanks to the GPS on my phone, I did find my way home, which is where I am blogging from now. Oh, and in case you were wondering, there were students on the bus ride back, but no annoying ones, so I did not have to force the driver to crash into the river.
More tea/coffee shops – but more problems
As a regular Bathonian who partakes of light refreshment, I would comment that more and more tea and coffee houses are opening up.
Unfortunately for older people some of these now require their customers to mount steep stairs whereas those establishments at lower levels often serve coffee in what seems to be buckets (mainly used by younger people and those who like to walk about with plastic beakers).
In one particular establishment after two flights of stairs and surrounded by blue walls lacking ambience, the service was provided by young girls. They were dressed in what appeared to be traditional dress from the front – but was more like hospital gowns from the rear showing lots of leg and short skirts.
With the prices being charged surely it would cost little to get the dresses right?
Gotta love the letters page in the Bath Chronicle.
Has anyone seen that advert for a new gadget designed for those who can’t wash themselves properly? The TV ad asks the question “You wouldn’t brush your teeth without a brush, why treat your skin differently?”
What a load of crap. There are so many reasons why this is total bollocks. For starters, your skin is made of skin and not teeth. You don’t eat with your skin. Best of all, face cloths have already been invented!
Brushing your teeth and washing your face are two totally different things! Whatever next…
You wouldn’t walk down the street without shoes on your feet. Why let your ears go uncovered?
You wouldn’t eat a bowl of Corn Flakes without milk. Why eat a packet of crisps dry?
You wouldn’t drive a car without wheels. Why not chop off your cats feet and attach it to a skateboard?
It’s enough to make the ‘More Ties’ advert win an Oscar.
The Acme Face Brush – for those too stupid to use soap and water
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.
