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.


The meal at the end of the world

If it was the last night of the world, of my life, of your life, of all this, of everything, what would you dine on? What feast of the tastiest morsels of an interrupted lifetime of eating delicious things would pass your lips one last time?


And now, from the manufacturers of whites, blacks and coconuts: a whole new race!

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, after decades of research and years of trials, the manufacturers of whites, blacks, coloureds, coconuts, Indians, plurals, tricamerals, old-style liberals, diehard Nats, Oranians, black diamonds — basically of anyone you know or have ever known — have invented a whole new race which, with immediate effect, replaces all races that have gone before, rendering them null and void.


I could of danced all night but not of begged for more

Should anybody under 25 be reading this, here is the lesson you should of been taught at school, using the title’ve a famous song from My Fair Lady, which as you know came out a year or so before that other great musical, The Sound Have Music.


Saving face and surrendering in Spa Wars

There’s a white gown and silly white towelling slippers in the locker. I change into them, feeling as foolish as an Earthling who has strolled into an experimental chamber on Battlestar Gallactica by mistake. One wrong move and humanoids will come in, tie me up and inject me with something luminous green that turns me into jelly. I am very grumpy and ready to run.

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