| ...And All That Was Left Was Silence |
[Dec. 31st, 2020|07:14 pm]
Dr. Jón Þórsteinn Petúrsson
|
I am closing the doors here.
At the very least, it is no longer appropriate to keep using this username. This isn't a sudden development; I've been considering ditching it for most of the year. It represents something that I no longer am. It may even be that it represents something I never was anyway, and if the last 21 years have been living a lie then that is utterly unacceptable. Maybe not all of the last 21 years was fraudulent, but a fair chunk of it has been. This must not be allowed to continue.
I will not be deleting this blog outright, as there are too many references I will need to come back to. It may be that I buy a rebranding token for it and restart with an extensive rehash, but it is more likely I will start again from scratch - or I may go away completely. What is for certain is that there will be no new start until I have relocated and established some order in the Flatlands, and it has to be worth my while doing so.
To the last handful of you who were still watching to the bitter end, I bid you hail and farewell. |
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| AaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAARRRRRGGGGHHHHHHH! |
[Dec. 16th, 2020|06:36 pm]
Dr. Jón Þórsteinn Petúrsson
|
I just got a phone call from my brother. One of the small people at Matthew's nursery has tested positive for the Wu-flu, and they're all isolating for two weeks.
Christmas is officially cancelled. It is now just the 25th of December, no different from any other day.
I have not ventured more than five metres from the end of my front drive since 25th October, and it now looks like it will be March, possibly April, before there is any change in that situation.
And once President Sleepy Joe takes office in January, the last hope for the Chinese government being dragged over the coals for what they have done to us will be snuffed out as he meekly bends the knee to their demands, in a way that the Orange Man definitely would not.
I am so very sick of this shit. |
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| Still in the woods |
[Nov. 23rd, 2020|11:56 pm]
Dr. Jón Þórsteinn Petúrsson
|
Suffice to say I am not doing well at all - at anything.
However, a project I have given myself is to archive the entirety of Carl Benjamin's YouTube output under all the various "Sargon" branded channels, because he's threatening to yeet it in its entirety. While I could go off on a whole tangential rant about how that's effectively doing a Khmer Rouge-style "Year Zero" on himself, given that his predictions for how 2020 would turn out have all gone spectacularly wrong, I won't - all I'll moan about is how much food for thought is about to be thrown in the bin, including a hell of a lot I've linked to before. With over 3,000 videos to get through - and I'm just over half way - I've had to resort to some "background noise" to break the tedium, and I chose... Big Clive's Saturday Night live streams, usually around three hours at a time of him rambling about what his fans post on the chat stream. He tends to avoid politics, because he doesn't care much for any parties.
Something came up on the "Fifty milliPaul Flux-stream" first streamed a couple of weeks ago, and it's worth watching. The relevant section starts at 1:24:18 - 1:30:45.
Clive, I have to admire your optimism, because it's in extremely short supply over here.
On a marginally less morbid note, in the following stream Clive addressed one of the most important points in the Culture War: why has he taken to putting "soy face" thumbnails on his "Will is Carbonate?" videos? Fortunately, the evidence is there that he thinks it's utterly ridiculous, but he found that doing so vastly increases the number of views on that video. He had four times as many views on the carbonated Jägermeister video, with a "soy face" thumbnail, than he did for the carbonated Bailey's video, which didn't have it.
The absolute fuckin' state of it. |
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| Numb |
[Nov. 15th, 2020|05:18 pm]
Dr. Jón Þórsteinn Petúrsson
|
Today, my dad would have blown out 78 candles on his birthday cake.. if, of course, he'd made it this far. Even if he hadn't contracted cancer in his late 40s, he might not have lived this long anyway.
And yet, I can't help thinking that we, those who are still trapped on this planet, are the ones who should envy him. And my mum, and all my grandparents, and a fair few others besides.
That they no longer exist is the primary reason why I still can.
It was them, or me.
The universe made the wrong call, and I know it. |
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| DOOM |
[Nov. 5th, 2020|12:25 pm]
Dr. Jón Þórsteinn Petúrsson
|
And not the good kind, involving a BFG9000. Here is why I said what I said the other day, according to The Swamp.
So when can we expect to get back to normal? Do we just have to stick out the winter, before Health Secretary Matt Hancock's "cavalry" - a vaccine, mass testing, better treatments - arrives, and everything is fine?
Or will Covid be with us for years, even decades, to come?
"We might be back to some semblance of normality by summer time next year," says Prof Julian Hiscox, from the University of Liverpool. "But we won't be 'back to 2019' for five years," he predicts.
...
Some degree of social distancing is likely to continue even with a vaccine next year, says Prof Hiscox, but it will be "less stringent". He also believes at-risk groups may still need to "shelter" themselves, or take extra precautions, because of uncertainty about the amount of protection.
"What you might not be able to do is be an 18-year-old back from university who goes and hugs granny who is 85," he says.
But he warns that going back to normality will require a vaccine that both stops people getting sick and prevents them spreading the virus. That, he says, will take five years.
"For most people," says Prof Woolhouse, "I suspect life has changed to some degree forever, I don't think there is a going back.
"There is a 'new normal'."
In his optimistic view, that means there's sufficient immunity to make transmission rates low, so there is no "crisis", but we would still need to keep wearing face coverings, be extra careful with hand hygiene and socially distance.
REPEAT AFTER ME:
This is not "the new normal". It is not even remotely close to "normal". It is not "normal" in any way, and must never be considered as such.
"Normal" is 2019.
When the last Coronatarian restriction has been rescinded, when the last Orwellian phrase such as "social distancing" and "the new normal" has been confined to the dustbin of history, when the last cuck-muzzle has been cast to the purifying flames of Liberty, then - and only then - will we be "back to 2019", and back to normal.
Then, and only then, will the conditions return under which my life can be kickstarted.
And I hold out little hope that it will ever arrive.
Only a few days ago, I had to tell all my family that if any of them died, I could not go to the funeral - there'd be little point if I couldn't actually be inside the building to watch the proceedings; likewise, if any of them divorced and remarried, I wouldn't be at the wedding, and if any of them won a huge award, I wouldn't be at the ceremony. And I told them in no uncertain terms that if I was the one to die, they should fling my lifeless body off the nearest cliff (somewhere like Hunstanton by that time), let the sea do its work, and say no more about it. It is now not only that I have not lived a life that is worthy of a funeral in the first place, but it is no longer possible to get to that stage.
And on top of all that, America is about to elect Kamala Harris as the 47th President, by fair means or foul. I watched as much of the election coverage as I could, until about 3:30 am, on ITV - thinking that they'd be considerably less likely to be cheerleading for the Democrats, but despite the presence of the odd Trumpist, it's obvious whose side they were on. I can only speculate that it'd have been the same on Sky News as well, and I don't need to mention what the BBC thinks.
There was evidence along the way that The Swamp's predictions for Democrat victories here, there and everywhere (including Texas - seriously?) were misguided, because, as we have all known for at least four years now, one side cannot say what they want without reprisals (actual violence, or loss of job, house, family, friends and everything meaningful), while the other side proudly shouts their dedication to "the right side of history" from the rooftops. The polls are skewed in one direction. But unless The Swamp has got it really wrong this time, the last bastion of Liberty is about to be extinguished. President Sleepy Joe is going to bring in a lot more Coronatarianism to the country we all thought was least likely to accept it, but if one thing's even more certain, he's going to die within the next Presidential term and if it's him in the White House, then the United States of America becomes the United States of Tumblr.
Canada will applaud in a docile, Trudeau-approved way, right up until the point where Vladimir Putin has nothing more to be scared of from the Orange Man with the very short fuse, decided there won't be reprisals, and launches an invasion on Vancouver...
This is, as they say, it.
Life, as I know it, has effectively ended.
So I'll exist for a while yet - I have to, until the end of next year, for reasons none of you want to know, and then there's my brother's 40th birthday in April 2022 which I wouldn't really want to ruin... but I will not live. I will survive, for some unspecified time, but I will not thrive. It can no longer happen. It's over.
A ghost among the ruins, a mistake that the universe is trying ever harder to correct, The Thing That Should Not Be.
Facts don't lie. |
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| It never rains but it fucking hails the size of cannonballs |
[Oct. 31st, 2020|07:42 pm]
Dr. Jón Þórsteinn Petúrsson
|
Sir Sean Connery died, to match Sir Stirling Moss in being a knighted 90-year-old leaving a doomed planet. Some would say they're better off where they are now.
Meanwhile, on the NPC BBC, there are predictions that the best case scenario is that Corona-chan's reign of terror will be over, and we can return to normality, in...
...five years.
Not five months, or six months, or nine months, as it was speculated before. Five years.
FIVE.
FUCKING.
YEARS!
So, in short, this will last at least as long as World War Two, if not longer.
Let that sink in for a minute. Or more. It's not as if we're short of thinking time.
Halloween has absolutely nothing on this existential horror. |
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| They think it's all over... |
[Oct. 30th, 2020|07:13 pm]
Dr. Jón Þórsteinn Petúrsson
|
...and It Is Now, for three of England's 1966 World Cup squad this year. Peter Bonetti and Norman Hunter in April - and now Nobby Stiles.
According to the all-knowing oracle, "Stiles died on 30 October 2020 after suffering with prostate cancer and advanced dementia." Seven and four years respectively, he lived with those. All things considered, that is a very unpleasant way to spend the last 9% of his lifespan.
Nevertheless, I wonder how long it will take for his cause of death to get changed to something else...? |
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| Dr. Jim's Cookbook Experiments, episode 3: Chicken Maryland |
[Oct. 25th, 2020|08:00 pm]
Dr. Jón Þórsteinn Petúrsson
|
We interrupt this post for an essential newsflash from the all-new liberal blog, Voithe of Portland - which is so dedicated to the eradication of "toxic masculinity" that the contributors all write in the same put-on effeminate lisp they talk with.
"Thith, like, literally evil, white thupremathitht, mithogynitht bigot from Notting-ham, England, hath been thpreading hate thpeech from hith kitchen by cooking problematic mealth. The evil bigot, who refutheth to uthe gender-neutral pronounth for xorthelf, wath theen by a good and noble Antifa informer who pothted pictureth of the bigot on thocial media, tho we know where he liveth. We hear altho, that the mealth were not even vegan, which ith, like, literally, tho triggering and we can't even. Everyone *CLAP* thould *CLAP* take *CLAP* direct *CLAP* action *CLAP* againtht *CLAP* thith *CLAP* fathitht *CLAP* now! (etc, etc, etc.)"
We further interrupt this post with another message, this time an excerpt from Rush Limbaugh's all-new radio show, For Gaaahd And Country. Remember him? He used to be the voice of Conservative-with-a-capital-C 'MURICA until The Daily Wire, The Blaze, Breitbart and so on and so forth stole his thunder. He's angry, and so are all his guests.
"Y'all see, there's this asshole in Naahtting Ham, which ah think maahght be in London, Eng-land, which is entaaahrely pahpulated bah Muz-lims, 'cuz everyone in Yurop is a gosh-darn-it-ta-heck cuck. An' he says he's pro-'Murican FREEDOM an' an-taaah-Leftist, but ah know he ain't speakin' Gaaahd's Honest Truth™. Y'all see, he wuz in the kitchen, which is where his waaaahfe should be, all the taaahme, 'cept he ain't even got a waaahfe. What are y'all, gay? A curse o' Holy Gaaaahd aaahn y'all. An' what was he makin' for dinner? So help me Gaaahd, it was... CHICKEN MARYLAND! That's a gosh-darn-it-ta-heck BLUE STATE, y'all! A place where only COMMIES and LIBRULS and other folks who have rejected GAAAAHD come from! Y'all will burn in the faaahres o' Heck, ah say (etc, etc, etc.)"
Cannons to the right of me, cannons to the left. Still, at least the oven's working. Good job, too, because the Tradcon Religious Right Wingnut was correct in one detail, i.e. what I was making in the kitchen. But before I present the evidence, here's the customary way to repeat what I was doing. Better still, this is a DOUBLE WHAMMY, because Chicken Maryland has a traditional accompaniment - Sweetcorn Fritters - which I couldn't possibly leave out. Both recipes are from Jeni Wright's Marks & Spencer All-Colour Cookery Book that's even older than I am.
You will need:
- 4 chicken portions, skinned
- "some "flour for coating
- "some" salt and black pepper
- one beaten egg
- 100 g / 4 oz dried breadcrumbs (I think you can get away with 80 g / 3 oz)
- "some" butter
- one tin of sweetcorn, drained (or about 200 g of frozen sweetcorn, boiled for about 5 minutes)
- 100 g / 4 oz more flour
- another beaten egg, not mixed with the first
Coat the chicken portions in flour seasoned with salt (not too much!) and black pepper, then dip in the (first) beaten egg. Cover with the breadcrumbs, making sure the chicken is thoroughly coated. Melt a knob of butter and two spoons of oil in a large frying pan. Put in all the chicken portions and fry gently until golden brown on all sides. Transfer to a casserole dish, cover and bake in a moderate oven (180°C / 350°F / Gas Mark 4) for about 45 minutes or until the chicken is tender when pierced with a skewer.
( Part of this interlude might just appeal to readers of 'Voithe of Portland', although not too much...Collapse )
With about 15 minutes to go:
Sift the (measured) flour and salt into a mixing bowl. Make a well in the centre, put in the (second) beaten egg and gradually beat in half the milk, drawing in the flour from the sides of the bowl. Beat the mixture vigorously for a few minutes, then pour in the remaining milk and beat to remove any lumps. Mix in the sweetcorn, and add black pepper to taste. Heat two spoons of oil in a frying pan. Put in a few spoonfuls of the sweetcorn batter, well spaced, leaving room for the mixture to spread. Fry for 2 to 3 minutes on each side until risen and golden brown. Drain on absorbent kitchen paper and keep hot while cooking the remainder, adding and heating additional oil as necessary.
So, in accordance with Maryland being Clutch's home state, chant the magic incantation - "I Have The Body Of John Wilkes Booth" - and see the result...
The verdict is: I've overcooked it. The chicken was a bit dry, although the crispy coating was absolutely spot on. Some 'MURICAN (all right, not really) barbecue sauce helped lessen the effect of the over-roasting. Of course, there was no such thing as fan-assisted ovens in 1976, so I could probably have left the chicken in for only 35 minutes rather than 45. Nevertheless, it made two acceptable dinners, and there was enough sweetcorn fritter mixture to use half on one day and half on the other. I've taken the picture on day two, as the fritters came out better, and I had 'MURICAN hash browns instead of crinkle-cut chips. Although I always say, anyone who doesn't like crinkle-cut chips is a communist.
This is a recipe I've made before, but I was living in Essex so it was over 20 years ago and I can't remember if it turned out OK. Still, I know what to do better next time, and there probably will be a next time. |
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| Dr. Jim's Cookbook Experiments, episode 2: West Country Pie |
[Oct. 24th, 2020|03:48 pm]
Dr. Jón Þórsteinn Petúrsson
|
Adge Cutler, the founder of The Wurzels, would be about to turn 90 if he'd still been alive today. But he isn't - and though it's perfectly possible he'd have died anyway by now, as not everyone gets to reach such an age - our lifespans missed each other by just over five years. Adge was only 43 when he crashed his MGB on his way home from a gig in May 1974, and though it sent shockwaves through the world of Scrumpy 'n' Western, the rest of The Wurzels picked themselves up, dusted themselves down, and went on to release all their big hits (for various parameters of "hit"). You know the ones I mean - Combine Harvester, I Am A Cider Drinker, etc. But they never forgot their old bandmate, and featured a suitable tribute on one of their later albums.
And that brings us onto today's fabulous meal for three (well, three days' worth for me, anyway) from Jane Todd's Mighty Mince Cookbook, from 1980. Presenting... West Country Pie!
You will need:
- 450 g / 1 lb minced beef (even the cheap, fatty stuff will do)
- one "medium" potato, whatever that means - I used a small baking potato that would probably have been too small , realistically, for baking
- two carrots
- one onion (red, as in previous recipes, though the colour isn't specified)
- 100 g / 4 oz mushrooms
- "some" salt and pepper
- 150 ml / ¼ pint dry cider
- 225 g / 9 oz puff pastry (I used the ready-rolled stuff just so I could try this out - I'll make my own next time)
- beaten egg to glaze
Chop all the vegetables and mushrooms into suitably-sized pieces. Mix together the beef, potato, carrots, onion and mushrooms. Season well and place the mixture in a 1 litre / 1½ pint pie dish with a pie funnel placed at the centre. Pour in the cider. (Drink the rest, obviously.)
( What do you think of it so far?Collapse )
Roll out the pastry and cut away a 2.5 cm / 1" strip. Dampen the rim of the pie dish, place on the strip of pastry and brush with water. Cover with the pastry lid and flake and flute the edges. Brush with beaten egg and make a hole in the centre for the steam to escape. Decorate the top with leaves made from the pastry trimmings. Brush the leaves with egg.
( 'Leaves', you say...Collapse )
Bake in a hot oven (200°C, 425°F, Gas Mark 7) for 20 minutes. Lower the temperature (180°C, 350°F, Gas Mark 4) and bake for a further 35-40 minutes, covering the pastry with a piece of foil if it becomes too brown.
The result:
Ooooooaaaaaarrr! Proper job! (As they say in Adge's part of the country.)
The verdict:
You'll notice that it looks a bit "wet". I made it in a Pyrex casserole dish, seeing as that's what I had to hand, and I could see all the juices boiling away happily to themselves. Essentially, the meat, vegetables and mushrooms (the best of three kingdoms...) all cook in the cider - though, it would probably thicken into a cider-flavoured sauce of some kind if there was a tablespoon or two of flour added to the mix. If it was also made with swede, then it would become ever closer to being a pie with Cornish pasty filling - maybe that was the intention?
Of course, I drank the rest of the cider while the pie was baking, so I had to open another one to serve with the pie. It's a hard life, I know. So, provided I've got a decent stash of cider to hand, this is another one I know I'll make again some day. |
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| Dr. Jim's Cookbook Experiments, episode 1: Mushroom soup |
[Oct. 22nd, 2020|07:45 pm]
Dr. Jón Þórsteinn Petúrsson
|
A quiz question for you all, multiple choice. What is my favourite variety of soup? Is it...
a) mushroom?
b) lentil & bacon?
c) mulligatawny?
d) minestrone?
And of those four, the answer you'd all consider least likely is the correct one. And it's all very well, getting mushroom soup in a tin from Tesco - it's perfectly serviceable, but, just like Minecraft (a game I once knew about a year ago now... just in case you were asking), it's always best to make your own.
So, consulting Jeni Wright's venerable All Colour Cookery Book from Marks & Spencer in 1976 (which has served me well now for 24 years, when I've needed it), and armed with the ability to buy the ingredients at two days' notice which was helpful, wasn't it, Asda...
You will need, should you want to make it yourself:
- "some" butter
- one small onion (the smaller the better, I say)
- ¼ kg or ½ lb mushrooms, whichever is more
- 2 tablespoons plain flour
- 2 pints vegetable stock (Jeni says chicken stock, but this isn't a Pot Noodle we're making here)
- "some" salt and black pepper
- "some" grated nutmeg (about half a teaspoon should be fine)
- one bay leaf (or two MORE SLAV POWER)
- "¼ to ½ pint" single cream (hint: it's available in ½ pint tubs and it's best to use it all)
Finely chop the onion and mushrooms. Melt the butter in a large pan. Add the onion and mushrooms, cover the pan and fry for about 5 minutes, stirring occasionally. Stir in the four and fry for a further 2 minutes, stirring constantly (this might be difficult as it tends to clump into one large lump). Gradually add the stock and bring to the boil, stirring. Add the seasonings. Lower the heat, half cover and simmer for 20 minutes. Remove the bay leaf, adjust seasoning, and stir in the cream. Serve with a sprinkle of parsley, if you must.
The result:
The verdict:
Looks good, doesn't it? It made enough for four days, so the tins could stay in the cupboard for a while. I used red onions, just in case they're any less revolting than normal brown onions, and made sure they were mostly blasted into tiny bits so I didn't notice them. The overwhelming flavour, though, was of vegetable Oxo - two pints is made with six cubes, and I think three should be the absolute maximum next time. It also meant that it didn't really need any salt.
Still, definitely one I'll go back to at some stage, and I'll see how my adjustments work. |
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| Dr. Jim's Cookbook Experiments, episode 0: Preliminaries |
[Oct. 21st, 2020|07:04 pm]
Dr. Jón Þórsteinn Petúrsson
|
About a couple of weeks ago, needing to get out the house, I went on a walk round Highfields Park, to see if I could spot a couple of patches of Japanese knotweed that had been reported there (and which people who deal with legal matters in the housing market might want to know about). I didn't see them, but somewhere near the back end of the lake, a chestnut tree saw fit to shower me with its wares. One cluster fell off the tree right in front of me, and who am I to refuse a gift of providence? I didn't have anything to pick them up with, not without an annoying amount of pain involved, but I filled my pockets with sharp, spiny goodness, took them all home and threw the larger nuts in the oven for 35 minutes.
They turned out rather well, I thought. Quite a few of the cases had several smaller nuts, but they were reduced to hard, teeth-shattering nuggets that were barely edible. The large ones, though... spot on. Unfortunately, a repeat performance next autumn is unlikely - this is one of the slightly annoying aspects of being about to move to a part of the country where trees are few and far between. Still, Iceland has it far worse on that front, so I won't complain too much. And Thetford Forest won't be all that far away...
I did also mention that I've bought a new sandwich toaster (several times), as well as some waffle plates, so the old waffle maker that I bought off Fleabay in 2006 - after the Great Norwegian Adventure - can be pensioned off. There's no need for thin, heart-shaped waffles when you can get The Full Belgian:
The waffle recipe I've so far used in the old device has really come up trumps on this one (so much that God-Emperor Trump himself will shortly be ordering the same model for the White House, Trump Tower, his private golf course and the nuclear bunker somewhere in Nebraska). You will need:
- a ladle of flour, levelled off (around 50 g);
- a shot glass of milk (around 50 ml);
- a tablespoon of oil (around 15 ml);
- one egg.
Brush the plates with oil so it doesn't stick, and this mixture should be enough to cover the plates and make two waffles. Get the waffle maker up to temperature, pour in the mixture and they'll be done in seven minutes.
For chocolate waffles, add:
- one dessert spoon of white sugar;
- one teaspoon of cocoa.
And for GOD-EMPEROR TRUMP'S GUN-WIELDIN', V8-POWERED, ALL-'MURICAN WAFFLES OF FREEDOM AND LIBERTY, add:
- one dessert spoon of brown (orange?) sugar;
- one teaspoon of cinnamon.
That's what you see above in the picture. I think it would be absolutely perfect - although a little bit more Canadian - if I added some further embellishments from a scene in Red Dwarf's third series. It's from The Last Day, never a fan favourite, but this scene is a cracker...
KRYTEN: As I was saying, sir, breakfast is served.
LISTER: Kryten, how many times have I told you? I hate all this master-servant stuff. I'm me own man, you're your own man, I'll get me own smeggin' breakfast.
KRYTEN: Very good, sir. Goodbye, waffles. Goodbye, maple syrup. Goodbye, fresh cream, so long, fresh strawberries. Bon appetit, bin!
I may loathe all that master-servant smeg as much as Lister, but there'll be no chance of that happening with me around. Mainly because I don't have a Divadroid Series 4000 mechanoid to make the waffles, but I have the next best thing, and that's good enough for me. |
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| The continuing saga of bitches not serving my dinner |
[Oct. 14th, 2020|07:29 pm]
Dr. Jón Þórsteinn Petúrsson
|
a.k.a. "The mildly pleasant, the exceptionally irritating and the possibly interesting".
Mildly pleasant was that an Amazon package (cue angry  carminalizarin noises) that was supposed to turn up next Saturday arrived this morning. Free postage, eh? Turns out it is worth the cost. (Of nowt.) And now I am the owner of a big chunky-monkey sandwich toaster with some extra waffle plates, three days before I thought I would be, and I have treated myself to toasted cheese and nasty-tinned-ham sandwiches for lunch, and a couple of rounds of waffles - which I may even post recipes for once I've done a few more experiments (and put on about a stone).
Exceptionally irritating was a message from Asda barely ten minutes after postie had delivered the sandwich toaster.
"Dear Dr. Jim, due to circumstances beyond out control, we have cancelled the order that you've been waiting eleven days for. We would tell you why, but we can't be bothered."
Is there now anyone, anyone at all, who cannot or will not understand why I keep a Disaster Box with enough tins to last me a month (if I'm careful)? It's because I never know when this is going to happen. Imagine if I'd been relying on that order to be able to eat dinner this evening - I'd be well and truly in the clarts, and I would really rather not have to fall back on a takeaway (which I've only done once this year, and only because I wanted to, not out of desperation). Fortunately, the big bully-boys of Tesco, who take so much flak from so many people because they're an easy target, were able to deal with most of that order, and had a delivery slot on Friday evening - fine by me, and I might even get my Emergency Christmas turkey drumstick this time. Although Asda have compensated me with a £10 voucher (with many apple logies for the inconweenience, but still no explanation), my confidence in their reliability has dropped sharply. I'll use it, in the end, but it can't be for anything vitally important.
Possibly interesting is that, come what may with the immense fun we're all having (in my case, spending something like 167 hours per week housebound), Christmas will be happening for the youngest member of the clan. I hope he likes "vintage" (seriously!) Stickle Bricks, especially as I found some kicking around on eBay that haven't been chewed to buggery, and the two rarest pieces of them all are in there - the concave triangle and the convex triangle! I never had those when I was barely out of nappies, and I know they existed in 1981. Yes, that is exactly the kind of thing I think about when buying presents for an age group I know next to nothing about. I'm impressed, even if nobody else is. |
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| Dinner is served, bitches! |
[Oct. 13th, 2020|06:09 pm]
Dr. Jón Þórsteinn Petúrsson
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Or is it?
While I have time on my hands for an unspecified number of months (or years - grrrraaaaaaarrrgh) into the future, I thought I may as well spend some of it cooking. After all, I have a ton of cookbooks on the kitchen shelf, just lying there, gathering dust and oil and whatever else floats up to where they are. Much the same allegedly happens with kitchen appliances such as sandwich toasters, waffle irons and George Foreman grills - "use it once, put it away". Well, that doesn't happen to me, because I use these appliances (and I've just ordered a new sandwich toaster as the last one was over 20 years old and the non-stick plates were utterly knackered), and I will continue to do so as long as I can get the ingredients...
...and it's in this last detail where the plan to actually use my vast array of culinary literature trips over a huge concrete bollard.
Shopping online is all very well, even if it takes over a week to arrive - my order from Asda, which will be with me tomorrow evening, was placed last Saturday. I have just amended it, adding a whole load of ingredients from a few recipes I've hauled out of the cookbooks. But not everything is available that I'll need. That fisherman's pie from The Complete Fish & Shellfish Cookbook? The main ingredient is smoked haddock, and guess what Asda don't stock online? They also don't have turkey drumsticks, which is annoying because Tesco couldn't supply one over the weekend, and I don't have all that many more chances to get hold of one for an Emergency Christmas Dinner, should the need arise. I didn't even bother looking for a block of Gruyère that's supposed to be grated on top of it - and why it has to be fancy Swiss cheese rather than good old Cheddar I have no idea.
And this brings me to another point. I am not going to starve, that's for sure, but I am pretty much reliant on having a large stash of tinned and frozen ingredients to keep me going. So why is it that so many of these recipes call for small amounts of ingredients that might get wasted, or would otherwise cost a fair amount? It's the right time of year for James Martin's Great British Winter Cookbook - but like all famous chefs, he gets a bit carried away with what he can use freely in his huge kitchen and damn the cost. There was a very nice looking risotto in there - and I'm certainly not short of rice, even though he calls for arborio rice that I don't have access to - but why must there be white wine in it? Yes, James, of course I've got a bottle of dry Sauvignon Blanc just kicking around that I can open, dribble a bit into the risotto and then have to drink the rest. Not that I mind doing so, but it's about £8 added to the cost of a single meal, which is - as my last pre-Polandball post strongly hinted - out of my range right now, and for the foreseeable future.
At least the Mighty Mince Cookbook doesn't pretend to be anything fancy, mince of all varieties is cheap and readily available, and the West Country Pie I've found in there is top of the list to be tested (though it does call for me to sacrifice a quarter of a pint of my home-made rhubarb cider; I will have to drink the rest of the bottle, what hardship - but I'd have liked to drink it all, that's why I made it!) And Jeni Wright's Marks & Spencer cookbook from 1976 also doesn't pretend to be sophisticated - from the decade of artificial preservatives and processed junk, it never could be - but there's a tempting recipe for home-made mushroom soup in there which I'm also going to take a shot at.
Maybe one day, The Complete Fish & Shellfish Cookbook will come in handy. I know it has Lobster Thermidor in there - no, I can't afford lobster, but I've always wondered if the sauce can be put towards anything else. Being French, though, even from loony-left everything-must-be-metric-even-time Revolutionary France, it's still going to involve winem I can see it. Maybe I'll twin it with James Martin's risotto. Maybe I'll save it for Christmas. We're not going to be out of the woods by then; we're not even going to have chopped down the first tree to get out of the woods. |
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| Daily Polandball, part 2 |
[Oct. 6th, 2020|10:48 pm]
Dr. Jón Þórsteinn Petúrsson
|
"Norwegians go to Sweden, Swedes go to Denmark and Danes go to Germany, and they all think they're getting a good deal." At least, that's how I heard the chain-of-booze-cruises in the northern reaches of Europe, from the Danes I used to camp with at Wacken - they always brought tons of Danish lager with them, which they'd bought in Germany.
Below the cut is... the expanded version.
( It's big, this one...Collapse ) |
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| Daily Polandball, part 1 |
[Oct. 5th, 2020|08:24 pm]
Dr. Jón Þórsteinn Petúrsson
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This one became famous for its first line... even though Belize is a mainly English-speaking country and shouldn't be using mangled Polandball English. If only the author (in 2019) knew how much more would be the fuckings within a year, and no amount of Hussar Wings can give anyone the gift of foresight. Into unfuck all the things we must.
https://www.reddit.com/r/polandball/comments/d5v0pe/booming_tourism/
(right click and select "Open in New Tab") or similar to see it in full size) |
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| Just call me Martin Walkyier |
[Oct. 3rd, 2020|10:15 pm]
Dr. Jón Þórsteinn Petúrsson
|
And no, it isn't because I've changed my political affiliation. I will explain.
*SLAV HARDBASS БЛЯДЬ*
"So, end of month, eh? ...No? Or maybe you have stumbled upon some kind of financial пиздец? Or maybe you just want to spend less money on food. Maybe you have just moved out of Babushka's basement, and you need help surviving on small budget, without having to kill yourself with these fake noodles. Well, Boris is here to help! Here is five recipes, and some tips on how to survive: like I have my whole life."
Boris - no, not that one - does look to be the master of extremely cheap Slav cooking - making potatoes, disgusting onion, doctor's sausage, rice, bay leaves and more potatoes into filling meals that can be made for pennies. It's a useful skill to have, especially when "just nipping down to the shops" is not a viable option, and must be shelved in favour of making massive monthly online shopping non-expeditions.
As Coronatarianism continues to keep us all crushed underneath an iron fist, more people are turning to online shopping and the supermarkets are struggling to cope with all the deliveries. I've made two orders this evening; Tesco will deliver on 10th October, and Asda - for which I've selected the cheapest possible delivery with all the not-totally-essential items - will deliver on 14th October. It seems there's going to have to be even more forward planning than I'd previously thought. Between the two supermarkets, I have spent £128.18, a mere £4 of which is delivery charges - and my cupboards and freezer will be stocked for a month from that date, so that'll be half way through November. I have even included such frivolities as a turkey drumstick, which will be frozen until Christmas, just in case I am forced to spend it flying solo, which is looking ever more likely. But assuming that this entire load of shopping is all on food - which it isn't, there's washing powder and cleaning products in there as well - and further assuming that this is all for the next month, which it also isn't, I can answer this question:
"Am I living below the breadline?"
The definition, as I heard it, is "if you are spending less that £5 per person per day on food, then you are living below the breadline." And that's not new - I must have heard that around 2005 or so, when I was still in regular contact with that section of society we call "students". Throwing that at the Bank of England's inflation calculator, £5 in 2005 equates to £7.52 in 2019. Maybe, due to the economic catastrophe we're told we're about to have (as if there's someone behind the scenes, pulling strings to try to make it happen, so they can say "I told you so!"), that figure for 2020 will come down slightly. But if I put it at a round £7.50 per day, then I'm not just below the breadline, I'm massively under it. £128.18 divided by 31 days (for October) makes £4.13 a day, and knowing what I've bought really doesn't seem like I'm slumming it. If I made a few cuts, along the lines of what Boris suggests, then I could get by on half the amount per day that defines the breadline. I would go as far as to say that £7.50 per day on food is outright extravagant, and even if I wasn't in any kind of multi-year financial пиздец, I doubt I'd be able to spend that amount on food per day even if I could.
And the reason I mentioned Martin Walkyier in the title is because he's always worn his life of grinding (and some would say, self-imposed) poverty as a badge of honour, as if that's the sole way to "keep it real" and not be a sell-out. Get him drunk enough, which isn't difficult, and you'll soon be regaled with the tale of him sharing a flat with one of the other members of Skyclad (before they'd fallen out), there was 57p left in the electricity meter (and being one of those coin-operated meters for poor people means they were charged more for it), and the two of them were sharing a tin of cold baked beans for dinner... it's almost the real-life version of the "Four Yorkshiremen" sketch that predates Monty Python by two years.
Meanwhile, I leave you with more of Boris' cooking tips for Slavs with nowhere near enough rubles (or, in his case, euros - he lives in Estonia, which is NOT SLAV COUNTRY БЛЯДЬ...). Try them if you dare, though what he does with those mushrooms in the second video does look tempting when when is not end of month...
Stay cheeki breeki! |
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| Wednesday evening moan |
[Sep. 30th, 2020|07:55 pm]
Dr. Jón Þórsteinn Petúrsson
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( GahCollapse ) |
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| These are the days of our lives... |
[Aug. 20th, 2020|09:29 pm]
Dr. Jón Þórsteinn Petúrsson
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...and I have had exactly 15,000 days on this planet. Aren't you all glad you knew that?
Anyway... right now, I am keeping a minimal online presence. I do not promise to read everything here, let alone respond to it, likely as not it will be late September before I emerge again, and I'll be keeping it to one post a month. I may say nothing of note, or I may have something to report, I have no idea right now.
The Doomsday Clock will remain firmly jammed at three minutes to midnight until both of the following conditions have been met:
- Operation Fly By Night is complete, and I am living somewhere outside of Nottingham, and any other big city that you might care to mention, preferably somewhere in the flatlands between Cambridge, Peterborough and Norwich. This is something I am actively trying to achieve, but it is not entirely in my hands, and will be a slow process.
- Corona-chan must be kicked into touch, and all such restrictions on our lives - lockdowns, quarantines, mandatory use of Chinese hijabs - must be rescinded. There are those out there, such as one of our former Prime Ministers, who had implied that this may never happen, possibly because there's a vested interest in keeping it that way. That is not acceptable. Life must return to how it was in November 2019 (or, preferably, better). Everyone repeat after me: THIS IS NOT "THE NEW NORMAL". IT IS NOT "NORMAL" IN ANY WAY, AND MUST NEVER BE CONSIDERED AS SUCH.
With these two conditions met, whenever that may be (before the end of 2021, if I'm really lucky...?), the hands will be able to move as far as five minutes to midnight, but no further. Seeking some kind of gainful employment out in the Fens, and keeping it long enough that I actually get paid, and don't develop any instant conflicts with any of the other staff, is the final hurdle towards breaking out of the five-minute window.
I am under no delusions that this isn't a multi-year project from here on - and it needs no further comment. |
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| A brief reminder to everyone |
[Aug. 10th, 2020|09:35 pm]
Dr. Jón Þórsteinn Petúrsson
|
"Hurr hurr hurr u r a fagot u still live with ur mum in the basement hurr hurr hurr derp de derp"
- a standard and not-at-all overused insult from a standard retard on the internet
Exactly 25 years ago today, the above possibility was taken away from me (and my brother), permanently.
And I don't mean the basement was filled in. |
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| Dr. Jim's Garage, Part Three |
[Aug. 9th, 2020|10:33 pm]
Dr. Jón Þórsteinn Petúrsson
|
It's only going to be a short one, this, with two further entries. One has already been seen under the "chod" tag, the other hasn't. Neither will be USDM or JDM models, which will probably have to be in Part Four... if there ever is a Part Four.
Parts One and Two are... in those links.
( A brief stop by the unitCollapse ) |
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| "A cavalcade of crap" |
[Jul. 31st, 2020|08:54 pm]
Dr. Jón Þórsteinn Petúrsson
|
We interrupt today's thrilling lack of any better news to report that all my contributions to the comp.sys.sinclair Crap Games Competition are now listed on ZXDB and hence can be accessed from Spectrum Computing! (And maybe World of Spectrum one day...)
Corona Capers (128K Spectrum, 2020) - the money shot
D.N.A. Dilemma (48K Spectrum, 2020) - a piece of Corona Capers that was discarded in favour of something marginally less awful
Complex Maths... WITH DRAGONS! (1K/4K ZX80, 2020)
Casio MG-777 Games (48K Spectrum, 2020) - v1.0 of Game I originally programmed in 2004
Super Mario Fruit Machine (128K Spectrum, 2004)
Advanced Horseshoe Magnet Simulator (16K ZX81, 2004) - inspired by someone on WOS ripping the piss out of Codemasters
Noughts and Crosses (2K ZX80, 2004) - won't fit into 1K, but I wasn't programming with any intention of running it on a real machine where this would have been useful...
Jackpot 3 (16K Spectrum, 2004) - originally written in 1989, submitted for CSSCGC in 2004 |
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| Once around the sun... |
[Jul. 27th, 2020|11:01 pm]
Dr. Jón Þórsteinn Petúrsson
|
...plus another 40 times, and I suppose it's a sign of the times that the best (or least depressing) way I could think to spend it was watching HubNut's 20-part series about the restoration of a Reliant Fox from this time last year.
Friday, at least, I fired up the barbecue for the last time ever, used up the last bit of charcoal that was still remaining from last year's (far more important) shenanigans, while some time in the not-too-distant future I'll be doing a taste test of Lidl's own-brand ales (and ginger beer) to see if they're any good.
Meanwhile, an update on Operation Fly By Night will be forthcoming; an update on the state of the world, and the last few things I still enjoy in this world, is probably best left unspoken (or, rather, unshouted).
I have at least heard from Lennard for the first time in around a year, maybe more, so that's something. And talking of those much younger than me, I've found out (via the Spectrum Computing forums) that I share a birthday with John Connolly, the host of this year's comp.sys.sinclair Crap Games Competition - I'd hope he had a better day, because he's turned 18 and even under the current circumstances (and the trials and tribulations of being a teenager in the era of mass social media) that should be something to celebrate. And as it looks increasingly likely that I might be hosting next year's competition myself, that would make an interesting factoid for two or three hardcore nerds with terrible teeth and even worse dress sense.
Only 1,651 days to go until I outlive my mum, and 3,515 days until I outlive both parents. Will I make it? Will Corona-chan intervene sometime this year? Will I have a terrible accident, or a terrible "accident"? Or will I blow out 100 candles on my birthday cake exactly 59 years from now? Place your bets like an episode of Banzai. |
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| Dr. Jim's Garage, Part Two |
[Jul. 15th, 2020|11:58 pm]
Dr. Jón Þórsteinn Petúrsson
|
I figured I should get round to writing the follow-up to Dr. Jim's Garage, Part One at some stage, in which I add a few "non-exotic" cars to the theoretical hoard I'd like to preserve. What has sparked me to do so, though, is one of those "exotics" of the past which are haram under the rules: Big Car has made a video about the Jensen Interceptor. And that, were it not for its "money no object" status, would be in the garage in an instant. I also said "no Aston Martins" last time, which rules out the 1977-90 V8 Vantage (as driven to a beer festival by James May in one of his early Top Gear appearances, the same episode he dropped a Toyota Hilux from the top of a block of flats during demolition), and as I ruled out the Jaguar E-Type, I'd also have to overlook its successor, the OMFG CONTROVERSIAL XJ-S, a shape which I'd say has aged very gracefully considering the *autistic screeching* which greeted its arrival in 1975, and which I can barely believe I forgot to give a mention to last time.
One car which was included last time was the Lancia Gamma Coupé; HubNut has just reviewed a couple of Gamma Berlinas that were sitting in a field, like you do. And though I thought the Coupé was much better looking, his video showed a couple of tricks of the Berlina's bootlid that I'd never known about - and, from the side, it does look a hint like a Citroën CX, which did make it into Garage Part One.
So on with Part two, and a reminder: "You can't always explain why you like something... you just do."
( Garage Days RevisitedCollapse ) |
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| Just call me Sherlock |
[Jun. 13th, 2020|10:34 pm]
Dr. Jón Þórsteinn Petúrsson
|
I found it. It took 20-something years, but I found it... again. "What's that film featuring Christopher Lloyd playing a character who has poor circulation that's causing his fingers to fall off?"
The answer is: Things To Do In Denver When You're Dead.
I thought, for some time, I may have been misled and that it was Christopher Walken who played this character. He's in it as well... as a Mr. Big crime lord who's been paralysed from the neck down, much in the same way Christopher Reeve was in real life. Hence the (very tasteless) joke:
"What's the opposite of Christopher Reeve? Christopher Walken."
So I may not be fast, but I get there in the end. |
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| So It Begins, or should that be: It Began A Long Time Ago While We Looked The Other Way |
[Jun. 9th, 2020|01:55 pm]
Dr. Jón Þórsteinn Petúrsson
|
I suspect that 90-something% of those I once called friends at any stage since I first started university in 1997 are absolutely, totally, opposed to the citizens of the United States of America being able to own guns. And it seems to come from an ideological standpoint: it is "liberal" and "tolerant" and "on the right side of history" to be anti-gun, simply because anyone who is pro-gun and a member of the NRA is inevitably portrayed as a Bible-wielding, pickup-truck-driving, sister-fucking redneck. TV Tropes calls that "Eagleland Type Two", summed up in the following cartoon:
...and all this while the site contains a virtue-signalling caption, you know of which I mean, on its front page. The truth has never been as simple as the above, and a vastly increased number of Americans are suddenly finding themselves as Second Amendment Advocates - a great example being lifelong Democrat voter, gun control advocate and serial fence-sitter, Tim Pool. "I'll tell you what... unashamed, I am 2A all the way." And he is now the owner of an AR-15, the (automatic-fire-disabled) rifle that the anti-gun lobby demonise the most. Séamus Coughlin of Freedom Toons fame has always been pro-NRA, and his explanation of what gun control achieves, whether or not that was the intention in the first place, is that it rolls out the red carpet for tyranny to occur.
The chief argument of the anti-gun lobby, other than the standard "you're all rascists / facists (sic both times) / Nazis / white supremacists etc etc etc", is that nobody needs a gun because the police, the law enforcement sector of the state, are there to protect the people. Of course, when the police step out of line for a moment, or are perceived to have stepped out of line, they are vilified - unless their intended target when they step out of line is an acceptable target, of course. That is, you'll notice, an America-centric argument.
This, on the other hand, is what happens when the right of the people to defend themselves is surrendered, and the police can no longer cope with the demands of their job. Spin forwards to 3:11...
No, your eyes do not deceive you, that is the Metropolitan Police running in fear from the violent, angry mob who it is their job to control. Unfortunately, the job description of the police all around the UK these days seems to be to protect against saying naughty words on social media that might trigger the gatekeepers of the Overton Window. Only yesterday I saw seven officers with a battering ram on Lower Road (i.e. just into Beeston, the other end of the university campus) forcing entry into what I'd assumed to be a student house. What was going on there? Is there a drug dealer or a robber living there, or was it someone who had dared to write "I'm not at all fond of Islam, and here are my reasons" on Twitter? I have this dreadful sense of foreboding that it was the latter. After all, a thoughtcriminal is unlikely to resist arrest anywhere near as much as a drug dealer or a robber, both of whom would be amongst the few people in this country who are armed, because it makes little difference to them if a charge of gun ownership is added to the list of crimes they intend to commit with it against those who are unable to fight back, and - in London, at least - against a police force who have just publicly displayed their utter impotence.
And all this at a time when I am making another determined attempt to sort my life out once and for all. Once again, I must now reconsider whethere or not there is any point in doing so, both short and long term. I ask for very little in this world, I don't need a big house or vast riches, I just want to be left the fuck alone to live life the way I see fit. The chances of that are steadily being eroded. Maybe those chances are looking increasingly like the cliffs of the Holderness coast, retreating inland and destroying houses perched ever more precariously on the cliff top, while we were all looking at the basalt cliffs of Kilt Rock and marvelling at their resilience.
It's time to move the Doomsday Clock.
It is three minutes to midnight.
Also, I looked into ways of buying a cylinder of carbon monoxide. Just for dire emergencies, you understand. |
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| Lessons from the past |
[Jun. 7th, 2020|07:49 pm]
Dr. Jón Þórsteinn Petúrsson
|
In an attempt to (a) distract myself from another alarming slide towards the Despair Event Horizon, and (b) reduce the pile of unwatched DVDs and Blu-Rays I have piled up on the mantelpiece, I've killed two gargoyles with one well-aimed crossbow bolt. So I've watched two films directed by every teenygoth's favourite director, Tim Burton - Edward Scissorhands, which I've had on my "to watch" pile for about 20-25 years, and Sleepy Hollow, which I previously owned and watched once on VHS, round about 2003-04 (mainly because I remember who I watched it with). Both contain some wise words which bear repeating.
The titular characters of Edward Scissorhands is barely given to big speeches, and only 169 words fall from his mouth in the entire film. The first three of those 169 hit home as if the crossbow bolt had bounced off its target and returned fire. I can relate... rather too well:
"I'm not finished."
(And just to clear up any confusion, "not finished" equals "incomplete" in this sense, rather than "not giving up". Watch the film for the full details.)
Meanwhile, the plague upon 21st Century life that is social media is awash with people of a supposedly "liberal" persuasion, falling over themselves with gestures of submission, deference and self-abasement, without bothering to research what the organisation they so willingly prostrate themselves before actually stands for (see also: Guevara, Ernesto) - and woe betide anyone who fails to fall in line, for they will be cursed with the Mark Of The Beast called "white thupremathy" (at least, that's what it sounds like from here). Sleepy Hollow, released in 1999, was based on Washington Irving's The Legend Of Sleepy Hollow, originally published in 1820. Who would have thought that exactly two centuries later, this next line would sum up the current clusterfuck quite so accurately. It was lifted directly from the original text and dropped into the film at exactly 1 hour, 17 minutes and 16 seconds, for anyone who wants to verify its authenticity.
"Villainy wears many masks, none so dangerous as the mask of virtue."
Bullseye. |
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| Dr. Jim's Garage, Part One |
[May. 25th, 2020|10:40 am]
Dr. Jón Þórsteinn Petúrsson
|
Despite the potential for it all to be thrown down the plughole at some stage in the future, ThemTube is still a fine repository of automotive videos filmed by people with possibly uninteresting cars that would otherwise be forgotten. There are episodes and clips of Old Top Gear, and there's the likes of HubNut.
Something I've been meaning to do for ages (and by that, I mean around 12 years) was assemble the Ultimate Long List of "cars I'd have in a dream garage", provided I had somewhere to store them (I don't), the money to buy them (none of that either) and the expertise to maintain them (surely you jest). It was sparked off my going to the museum of Prince Rainier's car collection in Monaco, followed by Ystafell Motor Museum in Iceland a year later. Amongst Prince Rainier's collection were crazy-expensive exotics such as a Bugatti EB110 and a 1989 Ferrari F1 car once driven by Nigel Mansell, but also some very ordinary cars for ordinary people, which Prince Rainier was not. Ystafell had rather more of the "everyday cars", amongst some restoration projects.
So, if I was to put together my "dream garage", it'd be far more geared towards the Ystafell collection and so I'll rule out any kind of exotics - no Ferraris, no Lamborghinis, no Aston Martins, and both the 1961-68 Jaguar E-type MkI and the 1980-92 Bentley Mulsanne, both of which would be in the money-no-object garage, will be sent packing.
Brian Sewell once said, with his exceptionally posh accent: "You can't always explain why you like something... you just do." And this is the entire basis for my choices, some of which will be... off the wall.
( Enter the Garage...Collapse )
I'll have to go back and think more extensively about Garage Part Two, because I haven't touched on any American or Japanese models yet, and there are bound to be some - as well as more from the Eurocrats that I'd forgotten. There will be nothing Chinese, though, that I guarantee. |
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| Cabin fever? |
[May. 16th, 2020|08:40 pm]
Dr. Jón Þórsteinn Petúrsson
|
12 days is all I lasted in quarantine second time round. But in my defence, I'd just bought some CD cabinets off eBay that appear once in a pink striped moon with yellow dots, and had to go to northwest London to pick them up. Of course, a quick trip to the local Tesco (by which I mean the one in Long Eaton...) later, and now I am supplied to the point where it is pretty much certain that I can survive and thrive until July, without crossing the end of my front drive. It's 40 days away.
Which means, it's 66 days until I rack up another year... which, this time, I will be forced to do solo. Still, it's not as if 41 is anything to shout about. A tenth of the way through the decade of descent... |
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| Do not read... if you're in Lancashire |
[May. 13th, 2020|10:42 pm]
Dr. Jón Þórsteinn Petúrsson
|
The Lancashire Hotpots have a problem with the way Ikea does... just about everything, apparently.
They don't want a bookcase called Billy (I have three of them...), or a table called Sven (never seen one of those). "Nice hot dogs, though..."
So they have been to the café afterwards, then! In that case, I rescind the title, and even the people of Lancashire can indulge in something that the company they fear most has done for us... we can now make our own Swedish-style meatballs, with the cream sauce that usually comes from a packet!
I recommend putting the mince through the mincer again, which is the required technique to get a Turkish köfte kebab exactly right.
 |
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| Who won the bloody war anyway? |
[May. 8th, 2020|08:38 pm]
Dr. Jón Þórsteinn Petúrsson
|
We've had it drilled into us that it's the 75th anniversary of VE Day today. It came, it went, my grandad's entire life would fit into the gap between them and now with more than two years of spare change. I am told that Berlin - though not the rest of Germany - has been "celebrating" the day as well, as a form of "liberation" - i.e. "Germany was saved from itself". Looking at the Germans under the stewardship of Mutti Merkel, I would say they are long overdue a repeat performance - but the chances of that happening are extremely slim.
Given the current circumstances, I find myself wondering what kind of horrifically twisted dystopian nightmare The War could have created, after it was all over. Rationing didn't end until 1955, but what if it had never ended at all, even in the following time of plenty when Harold Macmillan told us we'd never had it so good? What if 1946 had seen the blackouts and the A.R.P. continuing when the threat of air raids had completely vanished? What if the Home Guard still existed, and service was mandatory? What if this was done, all in the name of continued safety?
I remind you of the words of C.S. Lewis:
"Of all tyrannies, a tyranny sincerely exercised for the good of its victims may be the most oppressive. It would be better to live under robber barons than under omnipotent moral busybodies. The robber baron's cruelty may sometimes sleep, his cupidity may at some point be satiated; but those who torment us for our own good will torment us without end for they do so with the approval of their own conscience. They may be more likely to go to Heaven yet at the same time likelier to make a Hell of earth. This very kindness stings with intolerable insult. To be 'cured' against one's will and cured of states which we may not regard as a disease is to be put on a level of those who have not yet reached the age of reason or those who never will; to be classed with infants, imbeciles, and domestic animals." |
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