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When you’re so cool you’re chilli-hot hey bru

Hipsters are cool, but are they hot? The right hat, worn at the right angle, up above a five o-clock shadow face – like I’m so cool I don’t always feel the urge to shave dude – and just 12 cms, give or take, above the jargon-spouting lip that sips the Vida E latte ‘cos like all the other coffee places are s**t bru and like they don’t chirp hey. How cool is a hipster? Really? It’s cool to conform, to copy the uniform? Nah.


Laboring under a misspelled apprehension about Americanisms

We cringe when we see or hear them. We have hot flushes. We come out in pimples. We sweat at the brow and our hearts pound. There are subs who have died of Americanisms, one too many causing them to clutch their breasts and fall to the floor gasping.


It was Daisy de Melker, in the kitchen, with a knife

RACK of lamb is the spurned lover seeking revenge, which is not to say it is a dish best served cold. Neither should rack of lamb be served overly hot for that matter. Unlike revenge, it is a dish best served warm, just as its colour should be neither a virulent red nor a tired […]


Feeling peaky with a devilish Beef and Ale Pie

At least, if you do drink beer of one kind or another, you’ll be better off than the disdainful frown and roll of the eyes you’ll get if you’re offered a drink in a pub and your reply is, “Yes please, I’ll have a glass of sauvignon blanc.” This is worse than admitting to rogering sheep or complaining that the tradition of Page 3 girls is demeaning to women.


Mayhem on a plate

I would love to spot somebody like Dylan or a disinterred Hemingway or a Charles Bukovski in such a restaurant and sit quietly nearby, watching their faces, as such delights were set before them. Their BS antenna would be up quicker than a priest’s cassock on spotting a choirboy, and they’d be out of there in search of something honest, preferably involving a bar stool and plenty of Jack’s.


The hills are alive with the sound of sequels

SEQUELS are bad clones of an original movie, with few exceptions. As a general rule of thumb, if a film title is followed by a “2” and a “:”, like Babe 2: You’re Bacon, run a mile. Which is what most sensible Americans did this week on hearing that two film companies want to make a sequel to It’s a Wonderful Life, the 1946 Frank Capra classic that’s been a Christmas season favourite ever since.


In the pink with pears and Grenadine

In the kitchen, pink is what you want in your lamb or beef, not pork or chicken. Pink is what you get if you include beetroot in a pan of vegetables and roast them. Everything else from the potatoes and onions to the carrots and courgettes will have turned a luscious crimson. It’s a worthwhile effect, and needs no fake food colouring.


Read. Digest. Think.

Now everything is the new everything else, and there’s no end in sight, and that’s the problem with an out-of-control cliché. It’s off and running, which of course is itself a cliché, but then again “no end in sight” is one too, as is “of course”, so we’re all doomed.


Taking communion with Karoo lamb pie

Raindrops on roses, cream-coloured ponies, crisp apple strudel, schnitzel with noodles. Who drew up that bucket list? What was Julie Andrews on? Were those really snowflakes that were staying on her nose and eyelashes or some other white substance?


Curse of the alien roadhog

I enjoy single-malt whisky as much as I don’t enjoy being pushed off the road, and I am prepared to attempt to drink BMW drivers under the counter any day, just as long as it is on their tab. Having said that, obviously I would be ineligible to drink in the hallowed portals of a Beamer Lodge.

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