GBBO #Bingate - Is nothing sacred anymore?!

Outrage Level: BOSS

I was in a rare good mood yesterday.* So much so that I resolved to avoid the news and it’s unceasing doomsdaymageddon BS for a single day and focus only on shiny happy nice things for a change. So, what did I do? What EVERY sensible British person does at this time of year, yup, watch the Great British Bake Off ('GBBO'). My first ever episode, in fact! I bought cake, I had a friend over, I made us tea. The evening was set to be downright delightful, like something out of a Beatrix Potter book but with less talking animals and more giggling at silly food names (“Massive spotted dick” – teehehehe).

For those who don't know, GBBO is a cooking competition set in a white tent in the beautiful grassy green of the English countryside. It's hosted by Mel and Sue, two daft women who pull funny faces and delight in terrible food jokes. The judges, Mary Berry and Paul Hollywood are so sweet and charming that their criticism gets about as vicious as, "Well that looks, er, interesting." Call a spade a spade, guys, it looks like something a virus-riddled vulture vomited up. But no, they never would, because this is GBBO gosh darn it! GBBO is light-hearted fluffy fun, it's a nationwide cake break from all that is wrong with the world.

Until last night, when doddering old lady/super-villain Diana took fellow contestant Iain's Baked Alaska ice-cream cake out of the freezer and left it on her bench to melt in to a puddle of broken dreams. Upon finding the dripping dairy disaster and realising his hopes for the show were lost, Iain slammed the ice-cream cake in to the bin and stormed off set. And who can say they'd have done differently under that amount of pressure? It's a timed competition, you can't just start over. So... how did the judges respond to what appeared to be a blatant act of sabotage? THEY. DID. NOTHING. In fact, they voted Iain off the show because he hadn't been able to produce a cake for the final round. And did they deal with Diana? Nope, not even a slap on the wrist as far as the viewers could see. 

Lady Justice lay down on her floor and she wept.

I’ll take a minute to address those of you who may be thinking, 'Jeeez, this bitch is crazy, why is she so upset about a baking competition, it's only cake for God's sake!' WELL IT'S NOT JUST CAKE! IT'S SUPPOSED TO BE THE BASTION OF ALL THAT IS GOOD AND RIGHT AND SWEET WITH THE WORLD. IT'S A BEACON OF HOPE IN AN OTHERWISE GREY AND DISASTER FILLED EXISTENCE. If I wanted to see that life is unfair and horrible, I'd be paying attention to real fucking life, okay?!? 

What the hell were the producers thinking when they included the #bingate footage but failed to have the judges comment on it? I can only assume (with my now completely cynical mind that may never trust again) that maybe the show needed a bit of a ratings boost and the producers decided to fabricate a bit of controversy to get us talking? Well GBBO, if that's the plan then why stop there? Why not make the competition more interesting by taking the bakers loved ones hostage and threatening to cut off their nipples should you come in last. And why not bring in Gordon Ramsey to start asking the bakers what the fuck they were thinking when they presented a plate full of toxic waste disguised as cake? And hey, instead of simply voting the bakers off, why not line them up and have an ex-marine kick them face first in to a puddle of bile and faeces?! This is all golden if we're changing the format of the show to make it more Twitterageous. If not, maybe sack off the controversy and stick to cakes so that we poor fools have one thing we can cling to that doesn't make us totally lose our shit on Twitter?

-----------------------------

*Why was I in a good mood? Because the lovely Eric over at Opticynicism had given me some much appreciated blog-loving. It’d be bloody lovely regardless but the fact that his blog is hilarious and waaaaaay more established than mine made it extra special. You should definitely check him out here.

Just like Hemmingway...

This weekend my boyfriend abandoned me to attend a Stag Party and illness prevented me from doing much with my days so I resolved to have a nice relax and to catch up on some housework and book-reading like the absolute girl scout that I am. Boring but Yay me and my good girl ways, right? Because I am an ADULT now. Hmm, well, it turns out, when I get the house to myself and have total freedom, I don’t exactly feel motivated to cook, clean and otherwise behave like a good little wifey. In fact, I get a bit Hemmingway… If Hemmingway wore face masks and ate too much cake, which I’m sure he did.

Here’s what I had planned to do with my free weekend:

1. Get laundry out of machine and hang to dry on drying rack, outside if sun is out. Put another load of laundry in machine.
2. Take the boyfie’s trousers to dry cleaners because he got sick on them at that wedding we were at last month… (Wonder whether I need to explain and apologise to the laundry lady about the sick or just shrug and say, “Open bar.”)
3. Wash dishes in kitchen and clean up in there because I am not a student anymore!
4. Catch up on some reading like a proper literati, consider calling father or Godfather to discuss serious literary works that have been read.
5. Write highly intellectual blog post which gives a clear solution for peace in the Middle East or similar.

Here’s what I actually did with my free weekend:

1. Through practical experimentation and charting of emotional responses, assessed why peeing with bathroom door open is so strangely satisfying.
2. Went to supermarket for fresh produce to create healthy meals for the weekend, somehow managed to leave supermarket and return home clutching only wine and a childrens party's worth of cakes.
3. Changed in to PJs and remained looking hideous for entirety of the weekend. Improved ridiculousness of the “look” by wearing a face mask to watch TV. Enjoyed not having to hide in the bathroom with it on like when boyfriend is home. Realised that, actually, when hiding in bathroom for 10 minute face mask it probably just seems to boyfriend like I’m taking a huge and painfully difficult dump which is considerably more troubling and less attractive than just Beyoncé strutting through the house with a massive mint green face. Resolve to no longer hide in bathroom when wearing face masks.
4. Ate all the cake, drank all the wine. Felt a bit sick, pushed through it, because I AM A WARRIOR!
5. Thought about how liberating it is to be home alone drunk in the day time, like Hemmingway or Jack London. Then thought I’m probably not exactly the same as Hemmingway when I find myself singing Foreigner power ballads in to an empty wine bottle microphone (“I WANNA KNOW WHAT LOVE IIIISSSS! I WANT YOU TO SHOOOWW MMEEEE!”) and lying on floor, re-enacting Jack and Rose in water scene from Titanic ("I’ll never let go, Jack!" but then totally let go because Rose is a fucking liar).

Number of chores completed: 0.
Number of books or enlightening newspaper articles read: 0.
Sum total contribution to anything outside of the inevitable destruction of my mental well-being: 0.

Oh, I also let the stray cat that I claim to hate in for a cuddle.

Parents of the world, I salute you!

As a woman in my (very, shhh) late twenties, I am sort-of-almost-getting-there ready to have kids… at some point… in the future… when I’m a bit more ready. This may not sound like the definition of ‘broodiness’ but it’s a frog leap forward from just a few years ago when I thought babies were mini shit'n'vomit machines that destroyed otherwise delightful lives. I held on to that view for probably longer than most, but like I said, I’m over it because I’d quite like a miniature me to mould in to a happier, stronger, more intelligent version of me. Me 2.0, if you will (we can debate whether this is an acceptable reason to have children another time). That said, I don’t have any nieces or nephews or very young cousins so it’s not like I have any experience of the thing that I sort-of-almost-don’t-fucking-rush-me  want. That was, until the weekend just passed, where I got to spend my weekend with, not one, but TWO toddlers! Yep, three year old twins to be precise. I was kind of excited. I was extremely naive.

Ring-a-Roses; Like Caveman Training, only harder

Upon arrival there was already much running, screaming and giggling from boy-twin and girl-twin as they zoomed between rooms like whippets on amphetamines, but they seemed to calm down when they realised there was a scary stranger in their midst. They peaked at me coyly and referred to me in hand-cupped whispers as “that lady”. It was pretty cute and I was pretty smitten.

A long walk to the pub, an evening meal and a trip to the park were planned to be adventure enough to tire the little whipper-snappers out before bedtime [hindsight lolz]. The meal itself was pretty impressive, I expected much throwing of food, screaming and refusing to sit still but there was none of that. They sat, they ate, they chatted. I’ve behaved worse at meals myself after a few glasses of adult grape juice, if I’m being totally honest. Post civilised feeding, we ventured on to the park where the twins were pushed round on things, swung up and down on things and then quite literally ran in circles for a good ten minutes. The journey home was expected to be a quiet one… [More hindsight lolz].

On the walk home I watched as my boyfriend picked up and swung round boy-twin and I felt a pang of nostalgia for when my Dad used to swing me around too. I wanted a go! Not being swung round, I’m in my (very, shhh) late twenties, for God’s sake. I wanted to be the swing. So I got involved with picking up, swinging round, throwing up in the air and, after a paltry 5 minutes, I was exhausted. The twins, however, did not share my exhaustion.

    -    “AGAIN! AGAIN!”
    -    “I can’t, boy-twin, I’m too tired, my arms are going to fall off.”
    -    “No.” [No further explanation, just “No” and an accusatory frown]
    -    “Yes, they are, look.” [Waves arms around as if somehow demonstrating tiredness through the medium of mime]
    -    “Noooo.” [Accusatory frown]

So I kept going until I was at much more serious risk of a dislocated shoulder. It was the frown that got me, on that bloody adorable face! Seriously, it was like what angels would look like if they wore Batman t-shirts. (I sure as hell hope my future kids are fuck-ugly so they can’t control me like that.)

Playing dead to get a few seconds rest

Once home, the demon seeds, I mean children, were still full of beans despite the adults all needing serious naps. When the time came for them to be put into their PJs they had to be caught and grappled in to a state of nudity in a scene that closely resembled a pig wrestling competition and made me genuinely nervous about ending up on a register! And once nude, the children thought it would be hilarious to curl up and contort themselves in to solid shapes like dead spiders (MADE OF IRON!) and refuse to be clothed. All the time giggling while farting like pros, gleefully filing the room with toxic tear-inducing gases as we wrestled them back in to clothes. Honestly, it was kind of hilarious, but the idea of doing that twice a day – Yikes.

When they finally went to sleep I was full of unaskably stupid questions. Like how come the human race had not died out? It’d been one day… barely a day, in fact! Half a day! …and I felt like I needed a week long retreat at a spa hotel. Am I just really, excessively precious?!? How have more parents not dropped dead of exhaustion, leaving their offspring to escape in to the wild and grow up feral? Is that how Peter Pan’s Lost Boys got lost? Are there parent training classes you can go to where you’re limits are tested, pushed and exceeded prior to being given a baby? Is it the cuteness that keeps you going when you’re running on empty? Or is there some inherent strength that comes from knowing that these are YOUR babies and if they want to be picked up and swung round, then by God, they will be picked up and swung round even if it means losing an actual arm?

My head is spinning with the mission impossible that seems to be everyday parenthood and I just wanted to write this post as a way to say to any parents out there: ‘High five!' Seriously, high five for all the nights you probably fall asleep with your face on a plate of food or pile of Lego. High five for all the days you keep going when all you want to do is lie down and smoke a joint. You guys are like marathon runners, but better, because you do it every day and you don’t shit yourselves in the street. (I presume). So high five parents, high five for keeping the species going… unlike those lazy bastard pandas.

CLICK-BAIT COULD BE KILLING YOU! Click here to find out how…

Hello my fellow rage-monkeys,

Today we’re going to talk about click-bait. Don’t know what click-bait is? Click-bait is when writers and marketers use desperate and underhand methods to get you to view their content (like this title does – forgive me). Don’t get me wrong, click-bait is not always bad. There’s harmless heart-string plucking click-bait from sites like Upworthy.com. You know, like, when you see an ad or video in your Facebook feed titled, ‘This homeless alcoholic found a kitten in a tiara, what happens next will ASTOUND YOU.’ Meh, what harm does it do? Other than lie to you, of course, because you might chuckle or crease up and “Awwww” at the video but I doubt you’ll rock back on your chair and clutch your head, screaming, “HOLY SHIT! THAT WAS ASTOUNDING!” But ultimately, your day and emotional well-being will remain unchanged.

AWW HELL NO

Then there’s another kind of click-bait. The rage-inducing kind. This is the kind I hate, because it makes me fucking angry… See, I’m livid right now. This kind of click-bait is intended to upset you, to tell you that the world is a horrible, hate-filled place and boy should you lose your shit about it right. now. I’m talking about articles about say, some Z-list celebrity calling Robin Williams “selfish” for committing suicide. It provokes anger that someone could be so judgemental without having a single-fucking-iota of insight in to Robin’s personal struggles and at the same time contributing to the already overflowing sea of ignorance surrounding mental health issues, especially in men. Ya see kids, for some whey-protein-brained thunder-cunts, it’s still considered unmanly to be depressed, to feel incapable of carrying on, ‘Men should be strong and selfless alphas… Like War Machine.’

Do you see what I did there; I went off on a rage-induced rant, because click-bait made me angry about something that really, I shouldn’t even have known about. I did the same thing when I found out Westborough Baptist Church plans to picket Robin’s funeral because he sometimes played gay/gay-friendly characters. That rant went like this: SERIOUSLY! JUST FUCK OFF YOU UNGODLY SCUM-SUCKING CAVE-DWELLING INBRED MEDIA-WHORE FUCKTARDS!

Then I thought, whose day was ruined here? Whose emotional well-being was disrupted? Yep, MINE. And maybe yours too if you had a similar (but probably less profane) reaction to these stories. And why? Because some media fucknuts decided to make it “news”. Some asshole saying something assholey does not need to be news, but it sure does sell more than dweeby so-called “proper news.” If a website can create a title that upsets and angers us it makes us more likely to click through to the article and, by default, increase their site traffic. This means they can report back to their evil advertisement overlords that they get ‘X number of unique visitors each month’ and ‘Y numbers of clicks per minute’.  So they’re peddling hate for monetary gain, wouldn't that make them kind of like Satan's little helpers? Yes kids, yes it would.

So I guess what I’m trying to say is this: Maybe the next time you see a headline that makes you jerk forward with your best AWW-HELL-NO face on, ask yourself, ‘Is this really something I need to see? And if you do, ‘Does the injustice justify the rage?’ For articles about terrorism, war, miscarriages of justice, media and political corruption, etc then the answers should probably be ‘Yes Pleb, of course, you derp!’ But for articles about barely-even-famous-anymore folks saying douchey things, maybe they should be No. The less we read this tripe, the less they’ll produce because it will no longer be financial viable. So instead of clicking, why not carry on living your awesome life? After all, the Twitterati will respond to Twitter douchery with counter-vitriol and politicians and the police can deal with douche groups in their local community – and all that can be achieved without assholes being given a global stage for their assholery and upsetting our otherwise beautiful days.

Story Time: ‘The Girl With All The Gifts’ by M. R. Carey

Like spreadsheets and paperwork for your imagination

The low-down: The front cover claims this is "the most original thriller you will read this year." I counter-claim "YOUR FACE IS MADE OF LIES!!!"

[Warning: Spoilers a plenty]

Review: Marketing People! I’ve had it up to here with you! I feel suckered and lied to, how can an industry be so unscrupulous??? What am I going to find out next, that there’s no such thing as Russian talking meerkats?!?!?

These scum-bags pretty much repeatedly kick you in the face with the message that this is not your average zombie novel. Well, let’s explore that for a second shall we?

What a typical zombie story looks like: Flat, clichéd characters forced to trek through zombie-infested territory, with little hopes of survival.

What this story looks like: Flat, clichéd characters forced to trek through zombie-infested territory with little hopes of survival but with the added twist of a sort-of-but-not-totally-batshit-feral little zombie girl along for the ride.

Hey Scum Bags - ONE ORIGINAL ELEMENT IN A SEA OF CLICHÉS DOES NOT AN ORIGINAL STORY MAKETH!!!!!!!!!!

It starts out well, there’s these kids on this army base and they're kept in cells and have to get strapped in to wheelchairs by soldiers before sitting in otherwise normal school classes so at this stage you’re all, ‘WTF?’ Then there’s this mad scientist cow who experiments on the kids too and you’re like, ‘WOAH! NOT COOL!’ Between the teachers, the students, the scientists and the soldiers there's an interesting range of characters and relationships to be explored. But at this point I sigh big because if the book had just stayed here in army-base-wtf-world it could have been quite fascinating. But, shoot forward just a few pages and we’re out in zombie-land with a rag-tag bunch of walking clichés.

Let's Meet the Team:
  1. Jane Everywoman, the try-hard-to-be-badass-but-actually-kinda-lame heroine who’s not perfect but who’s doing her best, gawd dammit!
  2. Captain Army Archetype, solider hell bent on survival cos aint no-one gonna die on his watch. Says ‘shit’ a lot, you know, like all manly soldier men do.
  3. Mad-scientist woman, will stop at nothing to be generally villainy in the name of science. Also pretty incompetent to boot because if you've cut a dozen kids brains open and not found anything useful then maybe it’s time to admit you suck at science and just put the scalpel down?
  4. Corporal Cannon-Fodder, the pissy pants young soldier with a heart of gold and a sad barely-passes-for-back-story back-story. You know why you’re here, kid. Go get eaten already.
  5. Then there’s Melanie, the girl, you know, with all the gifts? She’s actually okay and not all cliché and boring. So that's something. Although her "gifts" extend as far as 'can have conversations' and 'can manage to not bite people when she tries really, really hard.' So similar to that of any normal toddler, basically.

Each character has a back-story of pretty much one thing that happened to them ever and nothing else, so there are wanted men on Crime Watch that are easier to relate to than these walking, talking bits of cardboard! Apart from Melanie (ironically) none of the characters seemed like real people and I found it really hard to give a shit about any of them, in fact, by about halfway through the book I was hoping for a swift massacre.

The book also makes zero sense, often making tenuous leaps in a matter of pages from something like, 'We have to avoid the cities, that's where all the zombies are!' to 'We have no choice but to go directly through London’ you know, THE UKs LARGEST CITY? So basically a Homer Simpson level-of-lazy attempt at building some drama there then? Yeah, pretty much.

Then there’s the 'Hungries,' the books super-original word for ‘zombies’ because, you know, this is totally not your average zombie novel? These supposed death monsters can be outwitted by simply being veeerrrry quiet and walking really slowly... oh and some super deodorant called E-blocker rubbed in to your pits and your junk. Some creepy little kiddy zombies show up towards the end and they actually seem pretty dangerous and interesting but they turn up so late in the book that you'll already be too numb from boredom to really appreciate them.

I'm not sure HOW exactly but I've read some rave reviews for this book so if you want to go ahead and tell me how wrong I am, do feel free. I just- Eurgh- I don't know, if you're really in to zombies and stuff then this might be a must read for you, but if you're looking for something fresh and interesting, this ain't it. If you a want heart-warming zombie story then save yourself some time and watch Warm Bodies on dvd instead. Or if you want a truly original gothic novel then check out ‘Let The Right One In’ by John Ajvide Lindqvist. That shit’s incredible.

Verdict: Meh.

Happy Four-Legged Asshole Day

"I left you a present..."

Why do people like cats? Seriously, what’s the deal with that? Dogs will love you more than your own mother could, but cats? Nope. To a cat you're just a big fleshy tin-opener. I've had a cat for barely a week and I hate it. Ok, by ‘had a cat’ I mean, ‘a stray showed up at our house a few times and I fed it and called it Atticat Finch’, but that’s pretty much the same thing, right? I mean, that’s how those indolent groin-licking little brats operate whether they’re part of the family or not, they just turn up when they want some food. So I fed it, evidently because I am so desperate for love that I've turned in to a total schmuck. And how did that homeless bastard repay my kindness? HE TOOK A MASSIVE SHIT IN MY VEGETABLE PATCH! Yeah, just yesterday, right on the potatoes... On the eve of World Cat Day no less!

So to repay that gesture I think I'll personally be celebrating World Cat Day by sitting in my garden with a supersoaker, a cigar and a sign that reads "Bring it!” And if he so much as gets on the garden fence I swear to God I'm going to lock eyes and I'm going to speak to him really slow and husky and menacing, and I'm going to say:

‘I know what you're thinking, punk. You're thinking "Has she filled that supersoaker with water or with lemonade, because lemonade would totally fuck my fur up?" Now to tell you the truth I forgot myself in all this excitement. But being this is a Hydrostorm Water Blaster, the most powerful supersoaker in the world and will drench your fur clean off, you've gotta ask yourself a question: "Do I feel lucky?" Well... do ya... punk?’

Then I'm going to take a long drag on my cigar, casually blow out a smoke ring and then glare at him real sinister like as I whisper, ‘Your move, asshole.’

How Not To Run A Restaurant - A Simpleton’s Guide

This weekend I took my boyfriend away for his birthday because I am lovely that way. I took him for a fancy French meal on Saturday night so for Sunday lunch I found something a little more reasonably priced because what am I, made of money?! I did my research and found a three course Sunday lunch at a hotel restaurant which, because I am an actual saint, will remain nameless. The service, food and atmosphere were so excruciatingly bad that I wish I’d told my boyfriend I was taking him for a Faulty Towers experience lunch because at least then it might have seemed funny. (For all of you lucky enough to be too young to know what Faulty Towers is - trust me, it's a good reference, ask your parents.)

If I was the kind of person who enjoyed lambasting restaurants on Trip Advisor I’d be wringing my hands with glee right now, but I’m not. I do however think that if you are running a restaurant and looking confused as hell as to why no-one wants to come through your doors and those unfortunates who do tend to flee crying and retching afterwards, maybe you can learn something from my horrible experience. So without further ado, here is my guide on how not to run a restaurant based on everything that was wrong with yesterdays dining experience at The God Damn You Are So Lucky I Am Not Meaner Hotel and Restaurant.

Profiteroles... Totally a real thing!

1. If your menu includes '-of the Day' specials, maybe prep your waiting staff so that they have some idea of what these dishes actually are. That way, they don't have to look dumbstruck and scratch their heads like monkeys being arse-probed by aliens when asked, "What is the soup du jour?"

2. Did you store the prosciutto starter next to some roadkill in the fridge? Well don't. It tasted funkier than that one time I licked a frog to see if it would get me high. (Spoiler alert - it did not).

3. If you are serving Sunday roasts, don't cook the meat the day (or week) before and then reheat it to order. I think trying to swallow a whole, live, kicking, screaming cow would be less of a choking hazard than your so-called "beef". 

4. Obscure butter-overkill beige mash which could have been swede (...or carrot... or parsnip) - Did you jizz in that? I bet you did, you fucker. Well the jokes on you because I didn't dare touch it.

5. If you have ‘Profiteroles’ on the dessert menu maybe let your waitress know that yes, this is a real thing, it is quite common and it is pronounced "Prof-it-er-roles," not "Parf-? Prof-? Em, sorry, what does that say?" [Facepalm]

6. Also, profiteroles have cream in them; they do not need to be served with four dessert spoons full of clotted cream just haphazardly slapped on the side of the plate like dairy diarrhoea. It looks gross and who the hell do you think is eating that much cream?!

7. The sticky toffee pudding with custard - did you put cold custard on a cold dessert and then microwave the whole thing? It came with a thick film on top, like a school dinner from the 1990's. What is up with that? In future, instead of dessert, just give all customers trophies and medals for getting this far without sobbing and screaming, "WHAT IS THIS UNHOLY GRUEL, DEMON?!" 

8. Restaurant on the 4th floor, toilets on the 1st floor - REALLY?!?! That's just bad planning, given your terrible "food" I bet there are nightclub bathrooms that see less upchuck than your elevator.

How eating here made me feel

9. Teach your waitresses basic waiting on etiquette. For example, when I ask for the bill, a good waitress does not plonk it down in front of me and then stand by the table waiting to be paid that second. And when I look at them expectantly waiting from them to go away and let me take my time over paying, a good waitress does not stare back at me stupefied like they've just dropped acid and I've turned in to a giant singing vagina.

10. Michael Bublé and other God awful miscellaneous 'lounge music' does not make this place feel upmarket and classy, it makes it feel like Satan's waiting room. I would let an animal piss in my actual ear before I would listen to that music again.