In a bid to counter the Camerons' baby tactic, the Labour cabinet announce the world's first mass political pregnancy

This accusation is levelled at many a womaniser (and maniniser, I suppose, although this sounds like a fragrance range created by Vin Diesel). “Oh, here comes Dave. He’s a terrible flirt, you know.”

I resent it. What is clearly meant is that the subject is an incorrigible flirt. This leaves people who are genuinely terrible at flirting nowhere to go, save over to the table with the dips, where we can pretend to be particularly interested in the wall hangings and thus avoid conversation.

My flirting has been known to level small villages. It is responsible for greater rises in nunnery entry than Hamlet. In one unfortunate case it caused all spaniels within a ten mile radius to develop alopecia. Clearly, my flirting is genuinely terrible.

To date, my most notable flirting successes have been meta-textual, which is to say I have talked about how bad I am at flirting (I imagine this is how John Motson has sex), in the hope that this will somehow be a substitute for the actual thing. Needless to say, it is not. I say successes, mind you – this technique has borne fruit precisely once, and I’m not entirely sure it was my own work. I’m claiming it, obviously, but if you too are a terrible flirt, don’t take it as advice.

Lacking a natural ending to this post, I will leave you with some of my recent attempts. Consider it a “what not to do” guide.

• “Hail recently destroyed my borage.”
• “What do I do other than robots? Um. Homoerotic bacon instruction videos?”
• “Did you know bees vibrate 30% more in winter to keep warm?”
• “Aphids recently destroyed my borage.”
• “Hello. I’m almost certain to say something moronic in the next 30 seconds, so it would probably save time if you went and got another drink now.”

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 World^TM 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.

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 ●●●●●●●.

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

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.

“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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.