Retarded Reviews: The Compass, Islington

Published by Dead Badger on 25th June, 2009.

Balls

An odd thing happened to me the other day. Two odd things, really. First, while playing pool I potted seven balls at my first visit to the table; a clear sign that something was afoot. Normally when I play pool, the words “odd” and “foot” spring to people’s minds for quite different reasons.

The main odd thing that happened, though, was when I entered the Compass pub on Chapel Market in Islington, recently reopened under new management. Hoving to at the bar, still flushed with my poolhall success, I glanced at the menu, and saw on offer a “pickled duck’s egg with star anise.” I pointed this out to my friend, more in a spirit of mockery than hunger. Duck eggs and star anise? Madness. Then (and this was the odd bit), a genial man to our right insisted that we try one. We demurred, being several pints to the good and feeling that culinary adventurism would be pushing our already pool-drained luck.

This answer did not suffice.

Bustling into action, our host (for he turned out to be the bar’s manager) fished out an egg and a knife, and thrust them under my nose (I’m not sure which was more threatening). It seemed only polite at this point to eat the thing, so I obliged, utterly failing to maintain a facial expression that conveyed both gratitude and epicurean bliss. I think I managed “politely horrified” at best.

It has to be said, though, that I don’t really like pickled eggs. I’m sure that as an example of the genre, this was a fine one. I wasn’t expecting runny yolk, either; I thought the things were routinely hard-boiled. As a result, I reacted to the sudden emergence of pale yellow goop as if an alien face-hugger had leapt from my snack. I prefer my amuse-bouches without the money shot.

Undeterred by this apparent rejection, the manager (whose name, I think, was Paul. Or Andrew. I was drunk, okay?) decided that the only way to proceed was to provide us with a smorgasbord of ridiculously nice things. Within minutes we were presented with a wooden block topped with black pudding sausage roll (which was exactly as brilliant as it sounds*), the best scotch egg in the world (their words, not mine, but entirely true), some welsh rarebit and some marinated anchovies on toast. We attempted to pay for this, but were rebuffed.

It takes a lot to distract me from anchovies, a fish I will happily eat to the brink of extinction, but the Best Scotch Egg In The WorldTM did so in some style. I have literally no idea how they managed to combine perfectly cooked pork, crispy breadcrumbs, and an egg with a yolk so soft it ought to be used to stuff mattresses, but they have. I was advised to arrive at about 4pm to obtain the freshest specimens, and I pass this advice on to you.

To sum up: go to the Compass pub in Islington. You will find things there that you want to put in your face. The trick will be working out how to stop.

*If you don’t think this sounds brilliant, there’s something wrong with you.

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MPs in black square abuse probe

Published by Dead Badger on 18th June, 2009.

Black Squares

In an unprecedented political development today, it was revealed that almost every MP in the UK has been billing the taxpayer for the purchase of numerous black squares, many of which are believed to have been misused for private business.

While members of the public are believed to broadly support the use of black squares for the concealment of MPs such as Anne Widdecombe, there was concern at what was seen as “frivolous” use of the squares by other politicians. Peter Viggers is believed to have claimed £500 for one black square (pictured), which he took to a fishmarket in an attempt to censor all mention of herring and chub. Baroness Uddin is alleged to have sellotaped black squares to several advertising hoardings featuring David Beckham after becoming distressed by his prominent lunchbox, while Lembit Opik has constructed a geodesic black-body “Genesis Device” in his garden in an apparent attempt to clone erstwhile lover Gabriela Irimia, described by a friend as “formerly cheeky.”

Many MPs have been more frugal, with Sadiq Khan purchasing a job lot of 400 off-white rhombuses on eBay with the express intention of starting a constituency surgery on tesselation. Menzies Campbell is understood to have brought his own black square (previously used for the preservation of his modesty while in flagrante delicto) when he arrived in Parliament in 1987, and has since billed only for cleaning and occasional reupholstery.

Investigations continue, and prosecutions have not been ruled out, although Inspector Basil Edworthy of the Metropolitan Police did comment:

●●●●● ●●●● ●●●●●●●. Moreover, ●●●●●●● frottage ●●●●●● will not be ●●●● ●●● a duck unless ●●●●●●●. Any MP found indulging in these activities is liable to summary ●●●●●●●.

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Selection Policy – a Plea

Published by Dead Badger on 5th June, 2009.

I held this back because King Cricket gets first dibs on Rob Key-related things. Unfortunately Rob bided his time on an England recall for a bit longer than any of us mortals might’ve hoped, but The Day is finally here. Sort of. He played!

Sent to England cricket coach Peter Moores on May 1, 2008. A response is still awaited.

Dear Mr Moores,

I hope you will forgive my impertinence, but I am writing in the hope of convincing you to select a certain Mr RWT Key for the upcoming Test series against New Zealand. While I obviously bow to your superior knowledge on all matters technical, it seems to me that (with respect) it is a lack of vision that has prevented Mr Key from being more frequently picked in the past.

To address this, I have prepared an image that shows the true glory that Rob’s return to Test cricket would represent:

Rob Key and capybara, rampant on a field, vert

Rob Key and capybara, rampant on a field, vert

Here we can see Rob after a scintillating triple century at Lords, being borne from the scene of his triumph by his faithful steed, the capybara. The New Zealand players are difficult to make out, but I assure you that they are, to a man, weeping at the majesty of the occasion.

Now, the Australians will surely fight back with some sort of marsupial, but I hear so frequently of the importance of “momentum” in the modern game that I feel that the combined mass of Rob Key and the world’s largest rodent is not to be lightly passed up. Such a partnership would surely be unstoppable, both figuratively and literally, and I commend it to you with my whole heart and both of my trousers.

Yours etc.,

Simon C
aged 28 1/2.

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In which I force myself to write about bacon yet again…

Published by Dead Badger on 24th May, 2009.

…and find that even I’m bored of pig puns now. Anyway.

“How was the bacon?” I hear you cry, as well you might. Pretty good. Pretty damn good, I reply. We’ve tested it in a number of exacting scenarios, and it has not proved wanting.

1) The Bacon Sandwich

Arguably the purest use of bacon, this was our first pork of call. We controlled for bread style (toasted/plain), ketchup usage, and even experimented with fried onions and tomatoes. The results were conclusive, as shown in Fig. 1.

Fig. 1: % of sandwiches that were awesome

Fig. 1: % of sandwiches that were awesome

A subgroup analysis of people who “don’t like pork” showed that these people were wallies. They still reported considerable sandwich awesomeness, however, and have not been excluded from the results despite their palpable weirdness.

2) The fry-up

Yes, I split one sausage. Poor.

Yes, I split one sausage. Poor.

Somewhat unsatisfyingly, this analysis was performed with a cohort of just one, the other volunteers having buggered off as if it were a bank holiday weekend or something. Evidence is thus anecdotal, but awesomeness was still manifest and provable. As can be seen (right), in contrast to supermarket bacon, our product rendered simultaneously crispy yet succulent rashers, a combination unthinkable when frying store-bought pap. The maple taste was present but not overpowering, and the breakfast as a whole was so enjoyable that it was not until some time later that I realised I’d forgotten the mushrooms.

It should be noted at this point that the aforementioned non-pork-lover was, at the time he could have been using to eat the fry-up pictured, standing with an ill-fitting imitation tiger on his head among numerous shirtless sweaty men, being serenaded by a man who appears to be made of beef jerky. I pass no comment on his choice.

In part two we will see how our bacon performed at basic social interaction, and examine whether bacon can ever be appropriately deployed at the opera.

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Police: Nose Cancer Increase Victory

Published by Dead Badger on 13th May, 2009.

Sphinx

Today the Serious Organised Crime Agency announced a major milestone in the fight against illegal drugs, as a survey suggested that thanks to heroic interdiction efforts, street supplies of cocaine now comprise up to 95% carcinogenic adulterants. SOCA chief Gail Upinyerschnoz was quoted as saying:

This is one in the nose for the belligerent-at-parties community; soon we will have completely replaced cocaine with toxic filler chemicals and washing powder. Nothing counteracts a temporarily inflated sense of self-worth like having bits of your face amputated, so increasing the harm caused by illegal drugs is SOCA’s goal for the next five years.

Other cutting agents used to maintain the supply of cocaine include animal worming medications and cockroach powder. Although SOCA were unable to provide figures on worm prevalence in City nasal cavities, Conservative MP Gordon Latchley-Bing said, “speaking as someone who recently had a colony of bees coaxed from my sinuses, I find it commendable that SOCA’s forethought extends to protecting the populace from nasal insect infestations.”

If you think you may have a cockroach in your nose, contact your local dealer.

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Swine Fever! – Rotation

Published by Dead Badger on 10th May, 2009.

Our bacon has been curing for a whole day; it’s time for the turn and rub. This is a highly technical procedure, so Sam and I have prepared an educational video to walk you through it.

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Swine Fever! – Pork Scratchings

Published by Dead Badger on 9th May, 2009.

Today something beautiful took place in Kentish Town. An immaculate confection; the plugging of a hole in the universe. In short, the Dunollie Bacon Project is go. Equipped with the charcuterie bible, 2kg of curing salts, 500ml of maple syrup and a large chunk of pig we set forth, pausing only to document the moment:

Photographing meat on the balcony is not weird

Photographing meat on the balcony is not weird.

While some would argue that it’s unusual to emerge onto one’s patio at lunchtime bearing a plate of completely raw meat, delicately arrange it on the table, photograph it and then go back inside, this is flaccid thinking and should be rejected by all those of independent thought.

Pork being sensuously massaged

Sam gets his watches second-hand from Flava Flav

The process itself is almost anticlimactically simple. First, get your belly and ensure that the nipples are intact (picture). If your belly lacks nipples, halve an olive – green by preference – and attach as appropriate; a cocktail stick will suffice.

You are now ready to dredge the belly in curing salt. Spread 1/4 to 1/2 cup of salt on a baking tray, and press the belly firmly down. Flip the belly, and press down again, ensuring that all crevices are well filled. Then simply put it in a ziploc bag, pour in 1/2 a cup of maple syrup, seal the bag and splodge it round a bit, and put it in the fridge.

It’s fair to say this didn’t satisfy my need for porcine ceremony. The bacon really only needs turning once a day, but I’ve been checking it rather more regularly than that.

Bacon in the fridge

Eggs are best kept at an angle of 8.5 degrees

The first eight times I looked, all seemed well; but then only an hour had passed. The ninth time I was worried that something had gone terribly wrong, a luminous red protrusion of hideous dimensions having developed upon the bacon. On closer inspection, however, it turned out to be a tomato that had rolled on to the bag from the shelf above.

Inspections 10 through 13 were uneventful, although at this point I had started poking the bacon in the hope of provoking some sort of reaction. It appears that even at such a young age, our bacon is one of life’s stoics. Perhaps it anticipates its fate.

Reasoning that my bacon and I needed to maintain distance (it’s never a good idea to rush things), I went in to town, only to find my nose pressed to the butcher’s window, ogling the remaining pork bellies therein. He chased me away with a cleaver, and I trudged home to complete inspections 14 to 21, in which I attempted to talk to the bacon like a carnicultural Prince Charles.

It did not reply.

Come back mid-week to see how Sam and I expertly massage the bag, as it were.

Incidentally, I realise I forgot to credit the person who inspired this: Tim Hayward, whose excellently demented article in the Guardian on home-made bacon has been curing in my brain for about a year.

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Swine Fever! or, the Dunollie Bacon Project

Published by Dead Badger on 4th May, 2009.

Makin' Bacon

Never let an opportunity for a tasteless joke pass you by, as I said to the man with no tongue recently. So it is that in these times of porcine woe, my housemates and I have decided to make bacon, and dub the project Swine Fever!

Sam objects, arguing that this makes us a hostage to fortune; what if innumerable people die of swine flu? We will be left with insensitive bacon, he reasons. He’s right to worry; callous charcuterie is itself a major health risk, and in 1932 a particularly blunt pastrami condemned the world to years of war by informing Hitler that he was a schmuck with a shit moustache. The rest, of course, is History Channel™.

However, iconoclasts such as we can ill afford such introspection. We could no more make timid bacon than we could scrub the entertaining mould from our shower curtain. Transgressing the boundaries is what we do, and if the boundaries of charcuterial naming are next, then so be it. I also believe that naming our foodstuff after a viral pandemic will limit the amount of it we are asked to give away.

Having pledged our commitment to the cause, though, it didn’t take long for schisms to emerge, the first being the eternal question: streaky or back? I argue that streaky is bacon’s natural form, the majestically even distribution of fat providing the ideal combination of heavenly flavour and artery-clogging terror. Contrarian that he is, Sam again objects, claiming that back bacon, its arid expanses of chewy, tasteless flesh tagged with an insulting vestigial reminder of streaky heaven, is the superior option. This is because he is unable to think about things objectively.

I will be documenting our Bacon’s Progress as it moves from the Fridge of Curing to the Celestial Pan. The journey will be long and painstaking, and yea though our bacon may walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, I believe absolution awaits. Oh, and lots of godawful pig-related puns, as if you hadn’t had enough of those recently.

The world may have swine flu, but we have the cure.

Eh? Eh? Geddit?

Yeah.

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Don’t put them there!

Published by Dead Badger on 1st May, 2009.

Fuck nose sausages

I know, I know, another google search post. But (and I shit you not) someone recently reached this site by searching for the phrase:

“fuck nose sausages”

Yes, “fuck nose sausages.” Thank you, mystery person. It warms my chipolatas to know that there is someone out there who:

  1. Put sausages in his nose;
  2. Became enraged by said sausages, and then, rather than simply removing them;
  3. Went on the internet to vent his frustration with them, and still found it necessary to check that he was unique.

I’m assuming, of course, that he is using fuck as a transitive verb. The possibility that it’s an adjectival modifier (”Steve has a great fuck nose, don’t you think?”) is too bewildering to contemplate.

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Dead Badger Removal: The Facts

Published by Dead Badger on 27th April, 2009.

Dead Badger

It has come to my attention that an increasing number of people arrive here looking for guidance on how to legally remove a dead badger, only to leave disappointed. Never let it be said that I don’t respond to popular demand; here is what you need to know.

Enacted in 1916 as an emergency war measure, the Meles Meles (Deceased) Act was rushed through the Commons with only twelve MPs in attendance, sandwiched between a debate on the restriction of access to string for the under-fives and a motion on the proper labelling of ham. Both proposals were rejected, leaving only the badgery filling to be scraped off the legislative highway.

But I digress.

As with any roadkill, the very first item of business is to shave the badger. Starting with the off-side foreleg, shave against the lie of the fur with firm, even strokes, working your way anti-clockwise around the badger until you reach the snout. If the badger is lying prone*, you can now shave straight down the dorsal stripe. This will be of great help with stage five, in which we attach the aqualung.

For the moment, however, stand back and admire your work – there can be few sights more majestic than a freshly shaven badger. You may notice passers-by stopping to stare; this is well-deserved recognition for performing your civic duty.

You are now ready to distress the badger. Many people feel this stage to be gratuitous, arguing that a badger that has breathed its last is beyond the words of mortal man. This is a grave error; an undistressed dead badger will turn rancid, and may bolt. By this stage you should have formed a good working relationship with your badger, but you must put these feelings to one side and draw from your innermost core of rage. This will not be easy for either of you.

Equipped with an edging hoe and approaching from upwind, circle the badger (this time clockwise), scattering beef suet evenly around the perimeter. Fix the badger with a stern gaze (do not worry if it appears oblivious), and insult its mother, who surely was the sluttiest badger in the sett. Did its sister not openly cavort with the vole, yea, and the ferret too? Go for the jugular, both literal and metaphorical: using the hoe with short stabbing motions, question the badger’s rhetoric. Its prose is forced, and of stilted meter; its grasp of fiscal policy is shallow and facile; it abuses the fallacy of composition.

Tears may be flowing freely at this point: yours or the badger’s, it matters not. While giving off (among other things) an air of apparent stoicism, no badger is unmoved by criticism of its debating skills. Upon reaching your client, genuflect to the north and rub lightly first with unsalted butter, then with winter-grade motor oil, ensuring of course that the ears are well tended.

A badger prepared in this way can last for up to 9 months in the refrigerator, or approximately two weeks in a well ventilated cupboard. Of course, the above steps are all optional, and indeed not mentioned in the legislation at all: you can, if you wish, skip straight to the final stage:

Place badger in bin.

Badger in bin

*Ever since a badger killing spree in the 70s in which a lawyer used a Renault to run over and collect innumerable supine badgers, they have lain in something of a legal Laguna. Members of the public encountering a badger that has expired in a supine position are advised to turn it over and treat as if prone.

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