Swine Fever! or, the Dunollie Bacon Project

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 Channelâ„¢.

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?


Don’t put them there!

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.

Dead Badger Removal: The Facts

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.

Stupid posters (again)

It seems plenty of other people are finding the freaky Met poster campaign disturbing. Firstly, there’s another one I hadn’t seen, if anything even dafter than the first:

Met bin poster

Hurray, everybody! Let’s start poking through our neighbours’ rubbish and reporting things we don’t understand! It’ll be a blast (boom boom (boom boom)).

The internet being the internet, however, people are having great fun changing the message, and a man called James Holden has set up a utility to do it for you, so even people who don’t have Photoshop can get in on the fun. Below is my best effort:

CCTV aliens poster

Only the elderly man was spared

It seems a bit pointless, however, as the unpronounceable qwghlm on Flickr has already made the best one possible.

Inept Ontology, or, The Modern-day Pinocchio

Hewn before the knowing of Time from some antipodean proto-tree, the Australian Cricket Captain is a beast not of flesh, nor of myth. Born without language or love, he knows but one desire: to execute his skills. And yet, and yet; the latest of this kind feels an alien hunger stirring within his gnarled breast.

The lamentations of the English still fulfil him, yes, but unexercised mental muscles twinge when someone hands him a baby to sign. This baby could be launched into the second tier with but a flick of his combat-attuned arms, of this he has no doubt. He could crush it utterly without even using the second PowerPlay, and yet, and yet; somehow this baby is exuding more than an all-encompassing slime. It oozes not just baby food, but confidence; the confidence born not only of the knowledge that all of this will be wiped up by someone else, but of knowing its place in the world. Society embraces this baby with a familiarity the Australian Cricket Captain has never known, no matter how sticky he has been. Without even developing an outswinger, the baby has penetrated the Captain’s forward defensive, and scattered the prehistoric stumps of his soul.

The Australian Cricket Captain hands the baby back to its mother, and trudges back to the pavilion, a broken man.

All of which is to say, if Ricky Ponting is paying websites to put up this bizarre bit of taxonomy on barely cricket-related pages, it smacks of overcompensating (click image for full size):

Ricky Ponting, human being

I want to be a real boy!