Wednesday, December 06, 2006


I don't think so

’Tis the season to be jolly. So, in the spirit of Scrooge, I offer up five things everyone else seems to adore but which I hate. In my Renaissance Man way I’m covering the categories of food, drink, cinema, literature and art.

Sundried tomatoes. What the fuck. Acrid, chewy little horrors that look like Granny’s desiccated labia and taste like something dead and left to rot in a swamp. People seem to use them to give a pretentious, ooh-la-la piquancy to just about every dish these days. Would Sir like a sundried tomato liqueur with his sundried tomato porridge? Evil shit.

Lager. Flavourless, pissy and fight-provoking, this truly is a drink for the great unwashed, who would do better to bathe in it, preferably near a naked flame; or it could be used to treat people who have taken an overdose, since it usually seems to end up back on the outside of a drinker’s gastrointestinal tract. On the rare occasion I'm forced to drink it, I’m overwhelmed afterwards by feelings of dirtiness and self-hate. It is not beer.

Fight Club. One of the worst films ever made, this waste of celluloid is all the more risible for taking itself so seriously. The so-called plot twist is one of the corniest and most predictable in recent years, in the same league as the one from the also crap and overrated The Sixth Sense. If you get your rocks off watching ninety minutes’ worth of men punching each other mindlessly or, more suspiciously given that it’s a ‘lad’s film’, half-naked, sweaty and breathing heavily, then this is the flick for you.

The Secret History by Donna Tartt. You what? A tedious sub-John Fowles ‘thriller’ by an author with a name like a misspelled harlot, about a bunch of wanky students who when they’re not disappearing up their own arses are wallowing in a weird orgy of academic narcissism with their Andy Warhol-like tutor. Loved by students, schoolkids who are looking forward to being students, people who are jealous about not being students, and would-be philosophers who read far more meaning into it than it warrants, this is worth ploughing through only when you’re drunk or stoned and laughing all the way - at it, not with it (it’s ball-achingly humourless). I won’t give away the plot, but I do wish more of the characters had died. Hell, I almost wished I had died when I realised I was only halfway through it.

Jackson Pollock. I’ve produced more ‘significant’, ‘relevant’ ‘art’ in a similar vein down my toilet bowl at the end of a night’s hurling. He was a drunk, an onanist and a fraud, and his dad couldn’t even spell Pillock on the birth certificate.

And yes, Andraste did something similar a while ago on the topic of music. I’m thinking of renaming this blog The Thieving Magpie, or perhaps The Scouser.

Lager and Fight Club are two of my favourite pastimes, oh the movie was quite good too, not as ghey as Troy though. The other things I don't know as they probably cost more than £20.00 and for us unwashed that are great far too expensive, speaking of under £20.00 my Ma wants you to phone her, typical doctor type, you left something inside her from last time you were with her 9 months ago.
Oh I don't know Footie, a pint of carlsberg on a cold wintery day is rather nice, and fight club had a shirtless and velly ripped Brad Pitt's body in it. It also had Ed Norton and I'm a little bit in love with him.
I like the Secret History and felt a bit bad for Buddy when he got you know. I don't get Pollack but then I suspect few people do. Sun dried tomatoes though, they could be your cucumber, you know where you find them terribly inoffensive or LOATHE them. meh, I don't think they taste too bad.
Go with scouser.
Pollack's work is actually produced through an almost unreproducable technique, which required some art and results in a fractally consistent topology which most closely matches that found in biological systems.
And most critics of pollack don't give him credit for the palate selection.
Not to mention I hate his paintings more than ad copy.
Fight Club didn't jingle my bells and I haven't read the book. Heretofore I haven't been passionate either way about sun-dried tomatos but the granny's labia thing might well change that.

I kind of like Pollock's scribbles but am at a loss to describe why they are any more meritorious than my 4 year old daughter's "Bee on Train" (seriously).

Lager is not beer as you so rightly assert but having lived Stateside now for almost a decade all I seem to need from my brewskis is Cold and Fizzy and Intoxicating. Whenever I return to Britain now my teeth are almost knocked out by the flavour of real beer. It's the best way to have your teeth almost knocked out - it knocks the teeth out of all the other ways.

I would add glace cherries to your list for they are unnatural gobs of radiactive corn syrup which can completey ruin a cocktail or much anticipated pudding. I gather men like to watch women eat them and perhaps do clever twisty, knotty things with their tongues on the livid stalks, so we are unlikely to see their demise any time soon. All candied fruit is foul, mind you, although I wouldn't say no to watching Alan Rickman ennunciate his classicly trained lip-hovering way around a marzipan strawberry.
Glace cherries are the devil's cock rot. And Alan Rickman...I am wiping the drool off my keyboard. I may be some time.
You're all wrong, except when you're agreeing with me.

FMC and Sam, you can carry on talking dirty as long as you want.
An onanist??

Did you know that Dorothy Parker named her canary Onan?

This was because he spilled his seed.
I'm afraid that I really did like the Secret History book, but mostly because I was reading it on the beach.

The sun dried tomato thing is hilarious. I've often throught the same thing. It's one of those items that should not be used except by expert chefs (who can and do make wonderful things with grandma's labia).

I once heard that the CIA promoted Jackson Pollack's work to see who the Communists were. They were also promoting LSD use, so maybe it's the truth?
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