Thursday

Nuances of a Somewhat Befuddled Mind






The need for a well deserved stroll now that the Christmas day celebration is finally over, has me plodding gently on a warming whisky fug and the sobering winters breeze, towards our nearest retail outlet just up the road in still rainy Balquhidder. Siobhan's mother has been tearfully waved off, clutching several large tins of leftover sausage rolls, three bottles of sherry and a pair of my French Rococo silver sugar tongs. For the sake of ruining a good day I pretended not to notice. Besides, the tongs were the older ones I used to clear the clinkers away from Siobhan's pet goats rear end when she last had worms. The goat that is, not Siobhan. Our secret though, eh? Distributing a discreet, but all too familiar brussel odour in the back of the little singing fella's car, she leaves us all with happy memories and her bottom set still wedged in the U-bend of the guest bathroom. A good time to clear my head of recent thoughts. The exasperated women in my household infrequently send me on a mission these days to retrieve household supplies from the local outlets. The valetudinarian element amongst them tell me that with the overcompensation of the onset of my imminent brain fog, I endeavour to become far too philosophical about the many purchases that I am requested to return. I would of course respond if I wasn't so busy redacting the nonsense previously recorded on nuclear physics and the translation of Galileo's theory, from the original Latin, into a more readable derivative of Chinese Mandarin and its correct haruspication using only the third and fifth symbology of the Ho Jiangxi provincial syntax. But then, you already knew that. Hence the reason why only the extreme intelligencia amongst you will understand why I have chosen to continue this manifest written strictly in a Sanskrit/Tamil Brahmi language. The mere ordinary IQ's out there will by now have refreshed, then activated the Google English Translation service in order to continue. Either that or I may just be a wee bit more muddled than first thought.

Anyway, after the festive feast and during the previous evenings gentlemen and brandy only discussion in the library, the need for planet greenery was raised by me as I feel it is pulling me ever closer as I ponder the needs of the many. In these advanced, heady days of the scientific world, we assign far too much of our time, worrying, disguising, camouflaging our human traits, even to the point of scenting our toilet paper and decorating it with flowers before offending it in the worst possible way prior to discarding it into a ever descending bottomless pit. If only my posterior could sigh, I'm sure it truly would. As civilised a race as we like to think we are, the Scots are not a people who like to wash their bottoms after the more private of moments. European culture does not cross the border easily here. Most modern day ideologies are robbed, beaten and handed limply back to the muddied and impoverished English from a height of fifteen or more feet from the parapet walls of civilisation. We are hardened, dyed in the wool, dedicated wipers. For generations we have put ourselves into a certain position of cleanliness with whatever was closest to hand. Even the latest government quango cannot save us as a nation. We wipe, therefore we are wipers, forever destined to wipe away our seemingly smeared history. Scrunched or folded, we continue our misguided rituals with a dedication not seen since the global banning order of the noble, but far to slippery, pages of the qur'an. Soft, fluffy, even luxurious air filled pockets of absorbent paper loveliness is something we all prefer to reach out for when the motion beckons us ever southward.

Serious discussions of the topic are frowned upon as being strictly taboo in more polite circles within Glasgow and rarely raises its ugly head within our own quasi protocol and ever conforming cultures. Instead, asking whether or not the archaic ritual of wiping has failed us, we prefer to think of it only in private mute thoughts and point the stained finger of shame in other directions. Who can ever forget the humiliation of the small ginger child with the soiled knickers in the school changing room of which we all witnessed, yet said nothing? Was it not our very own historical, yet strangely mythical biblical leader who requested us to step forward and cast the first stone at those who sat at the windows edge and let down their golden hair from the tall brick tower and rebuff the spiritual requirement to wipe? I will admit to being slightly unsure on this subject. Try as I might, I still maintain that Harry Potter's involvement in writing the bible tends to merge towards the grey after only an hour or more. However, with that cast aside, the thought of overcoming our lack of complete and utter compulsion with cleanliness is still somewhat seemingly dirty. Lavatorial moments are hard to digest. It's that old, dark fear of what lies beneath. We have a penchant for hiding our own excreta, just as Jack the Ripper had a liking for hiding bloodied kidney's beneath his pillow. It is indeed a paradox. We Scots still view the wide porcelain bidet as something of a hurdle, a strange object of which we just cannot get over, however it is time that the winds of change blew through our nations bathrooms. Therefore, the glossy abundance of leaflets I have returned with in favour of installing a bidet will not, I fear, go very far to assist them in their quest for the desired requirements in bathroom hygiene. Way too slippery for a start! As feared, our ethos of conquest and environmental destruction has distracted us from nature and our own bodies. If only I could remember what they originally dispatched me to retrieve. They may well be angry. Och well, as they say in the more informal parts of Glasgow, shit happens...

Chefs Fail Safe Hangover Cure

1 large glass
1 bottle Remy Martin XO
1 Cuban Havana cigar
1 bowl of tepid water
1 cheese grater

Place feet in to bowl of warmish water. Use cheese grater (my Christmas gift from Ms Scarlet last year) to remove hard skin and stimulate blood flow back into feet when nicely soaked. Pour a quarter of a glass of brandy. Dip cigar into glass, sip, puff contentedly, savour and repeat several times until bottle is completely empty. Repeat until hangover has completely disappeared or your wife has gone to her sisters in a huff. Important note: Place cheese grater back in kitchen draw immediately after use.

53 comments:

  1. Lol, I like the line about 'if your posterior could sigh it surely would'. I will admit to a combination of stout and brussels fermenting in my stomach this evening. I've been bubbling for a few hours. As for your mother in laws choppers down the bog, that just has to be an upcoming post please?

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    1. The curse of Christmas past eh?

      I have the pleasure of recovering her teeth tomorrow Anthony, bloody woman!

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  2. I nearly forgot. I hope you washed that cheese grater before you put it back!!!!!!!!!!!!

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  3. No point son, cheese is cheese, surely, eh?

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  4. Kept her quiet on the way home.

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    1. Hahahaha... I stunned the dear into silence with my vocal gymnastics.

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  5. Helen Devries5:37 a.m. GMT+5

    I'm glad to hear of your tidiness in respect of the cheese grater.

    My thrifty aunt used squares of newspaper in lieu of more expensive loo paper.
    Endless time could be passed trying to put the squares in the right sequence in order to find out why the reporter made an excuse and left......

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    1. My dear woman, cleanliness is next to drunkenness, or so I am lead to believe in the Atheist bible, of which I cling.

      My own father used perfectly cut sections of the Daily R****d for many a year, He swore by the absorbency and insisted that no other red top was quite as up for the job as this particular rag.

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  6. We eschew the cheese grater for a swath of coarse 40-60 grit sandpaper. It seems we have been doing it wrong. Thanks for clearing that up.

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    1. Mr Earl, 40 grit sandpaper is fine for bunions and the odd corn, but nothing removes hardened skin from ones heel better than a stainless steel cheese grater. Do remember to soak first thought! At both ends...

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  7. She sent you for toilet paper. The good kind, that is strong, soft, quilted, and sings a sweet lullaby when scrunched. Pass the brandy and cigar. Keep the grater...

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    1. She did indeed send me for toilet paper, of which I obliged, just in a slightly more truculent kind of way. Just think, if I was to get it right how many times I would be collecting messages for the girls at home?

      ...there is method to my madness.

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    2. "strategically inept". my father was the master. an engineer by training, the first time mom ordered him to "do your own damn laundry", he somehow broke a knob on the washing machine. he was never ordered to do it again...

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  8. While the wqords are still fresh in my head, can I just say that I have never been made to feel so welcome by so many people all at the one time. Even your mother-in-law thinks the sun shines out of your backside yet all this time you would have us think that you are at war with her. Shame on you. I was going to compliment you on such a well dressed table but unfortunately it has to make way for the most lovely,polite,charming,gorgeous,well spoken hostess who although extreemly busy with so many people arriving made me and others feel special and very welcom in your home. Which is probably six months worth of blog posts all on its own. I even found myself seekinng the company of the houstrained goat who obviously thinks its human. A perfect day a perfect night which I was proud to be part of. I shall now sleep through until next week.

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    1. Pointless for me to respond Anthony, you will be asleep until next Christmas due to the glut of alcohol you imbibed during the evening. The goat sends her regards.

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  9. Duntocher Brian12:21 p.m. GMT+5

    I must compliment you on clearing the way for much posterior sighing. I passed the sighing stage around midnight and went on to a distinctive whispering during my taking in of the night stars while walking in the garden. Not a stray cat in sight.

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    1. You and half the world in general Brian, a terrible downside to the humble brussel sprout and sage and onion stuffing. Thanks for the fruit basket, I only saw the card this morning.

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  10. The tins of leftover sausage rolls would go a long way towards drying my tears. That's a fact.

    Being sent on a mission to retrieve household supplies is a far cry from your old line of work. Where's the thrill in that? Probably doesn't pay as well, either.

    Speaking of Scotland…here's an interesting article about Grangemouth that was on the landing page of the New York Times this morning. There's nothing in it about lavatory habits, I'm afraid.

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    1. One can have thrills sir, one just does not always advertise the fact. Sausage rolls on the other hand, one can have their fill rather too quickly during the preparation.

      The drama at Grangemouth actually unfolded last month, it was greeted as good news for Scotland's independence as it ensures our richest resource would keep us from holding on too much longer to England and its national debt. Don't always believe what you read in the papers sir...

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  11. Just as kids do in front of a superb dessert, I left the best bite for the end of the meal: that’s why I’ve been a bit late to stop by your blog, Chef. So first and formost, I must tell you that you’ve been one of the highlights of my virtual 2013 year. Your have been lost, very much missed and finally, happily found. I wish you and yours a very nice Christmas Holiday and a wonderful 2014.

    And now about bidets… I’ve always asked myself why bidets have never been popular in Burdishland. I am a proud owner of one and they’re very useful not just to keep your behind clean as a new pin at any moment of the day, but also to keep your cans of beer cool.

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    1. Dear lady, I do have a bidet in my rear storm porch as it happens. It isn't connected, but it does make a rather nice planter for the geraniums during the seeding process.

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  12. Oh dear, why are mothers in law sometimes so annoying, dear Chef?

    Even if you're blessed with the most wonderful, kind, understanding mother-in-law (like my third one, that lived many, many kilometers away), there's bound to be a few things that get on your nerves from time to time. Wise decision to use your diplomat skills and common sense to avoid uncomfortable situations with her and your lovely wife Siobhan (what a beautiful name!). That says a lot about you.

    I’m sorry for being a bit late to wish you and yours a Happy Christmas, but I wish you a very nice Boxing Day and wonderful Christmas Holidays with a favorite tune.

    Yes, it's a bit corny but I've always loved that song. ;)

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    1. There is an old saying that goes: Always look at the mother before marrying the daughter. I am happy to say that it is in actual fact a lot of tripe.

      The Moody Blues eh? We are indeed on the same wavelength my dear.

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    2. That's very nice to hear, Chef. There's nothing like the good ol' Burdish bands. I love them!

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  13. Apostasy runs down your twisted face and bleeds through to the very depths of your soul. But the fearful, and unbelieving, and the abominable, and murderers, and whoremongers, and sorcerers, and idolaters, and all liars, shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone: which is the second death. There was a certain rich man, which was clothed in purple and fine linen, and fared sumptuously every day. Behold, all souls are mine; as the soul of the father, so also the soul of the son is mine: the soul that sinneth, it shall die. And the tongue is a fire, a world of iniquity: so is the tongue among our members, that it defileth the whole body, and setteth on fire the course of nature; and it is set on fire of hell.

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    1. Uh-huh, uh-huh, go on... I'm fascinated.

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  14. Dear Chef, just an additional comment to make sure you and yours are safe after the storm that has been flooding Burdishland, blowing strong winds and leaving many homes without power these days.

    I hope all your visitors affected by it are safe and sound too and flocking to the Boxing Day sales. :)

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    1. My guests are very wet indeed, although only on the inside thankfully. The dulling sense that follows decent wine and champagne will see us through until mid Feb by all accounts.

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  15. Husband, left to his own devices, managed our French renovation project (him being French 'n'all. He blames the plumber for advising him that no-one installs bidets anymore. I was not consulted, or I would have suggested that the lazy-arsed plumber didn't feel like making one more hole through a thick granite wall. Top of the list of disappointments, as well as quite high on the list of "why I don't own a gun". BTW, in dog training circles we say "Sit Happens!"

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    1. Bidets are the new fridge freezers it would seem. I believe I will continue to wipe for the time being. Old habits and all...

      'Sit happens' is very witty my dear.

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  16. i'm confused, sugar...or maybe hungover ... or maybe still drunk ... or maybe, just staying mellow as i wait for my birthday! :) xoxoxoxoxo

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    1. Happy 40th my dear woman..... welcome to the confused club.

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  17. For some reason the 'Daily Record' kept coming to mind when reading this....

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    1. Of course... what else could it be used for?

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  18. Hmmm........bidet's hey?

    Don't mean a thing in this neck of the woods. You're lucky if you have a flusher as opposed to a long drop. Especially when out in the bush. Such occasion calls for the use of a hammer instead. Wipe poo with finger, hit finger with hammer, sharp intake of air as said finger is raised to mouth in pain.

    Pretty self explanatory. A multi tasking tool if ever there was one.

    xxx

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  19. A multi tasking tool indeed, bit of a bugger to attach to a Swiss army knife however.

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    1. If it's a knife you're wanting, pangas are de rigueur amongst the locals.

      Size matters.

      xxx

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    2. I bet my lots knives are bigger than your lots knives!

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  20. :0

    It was the only comment I could add since I was late to the conversation. :)

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    1. There are no time limits in blogland Hope, my dear. One just turns up without so much as a second thought.

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  21. Smallie hitch is that the indigenous are not "my" lot.

    But that's just semantics, right?

    What's the bet?

    xxx

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    1. Your lot, my lot, our lot, it matters little when you have the biggest knife at the fight...surely? You can be on my side, one of my lot, against the other lot. I'm confused...

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  22. I'll bet your posterior can do a lot more than sigh... especially after brussell sprouts. Not my favourite veggie at all. I've never used a bidet, as they aren't fashionable over here in the Colonies either, and my paper is plain and unscented. My posterior is rather sensitive and takes great affront to perfumes.

    Ramble on, dear Chef... the twisty turny routes you take are ones I love to follow along. xoxo

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    1. I've had my moments over the last few days, Pony my dear. Luckily we back onto open fields and windy meadows, where a little more ozone escaping mostly goes unnoticed. Unless you are a green lamb of course.

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  23. Once I stopped concentrating on understanding everything and just relax into your free-falling, allusive language (and therefore, understood it) I really enjoyed this.

    On a practical level I think the way we shit is an abomination, and Thomas Crapper has a lot to answer for.

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    1. Ah Looby, at last your butter is beginning to reach the four corners of the bread. The choice of adumbrate nuances is simply a trait used by sociopaths when telling the truth to people who choose not to see what is often clearly written before the very eye.

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  24. We Septics are quite flummoxed by the bidet, though we are a sorry lot of religious rabble rousers and social cast-offs in the country... i do remember slumming around Paris one time, i was staying in a flea bag hotel with the toilet down the hall but for some reason i had my own private bidet, in typical Septic style i mainly used it to pish in when i was to pissed to make it down the hall and ash in while i skinned up in my room reading trashy French novels...

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    1. Bidets, perfect for chilling the champagne while you are busy in the bedroom...

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  25. The image above certainly has me tempted. Remy Martin Cognac...my favourite cognac...and in years past I've been known to enjoy a cigar or three...and offer no apologies for doing so!

    The garden hose works well...it's a fine substitute!

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    1. Pardon me while I chuckle here Lee. The garden hose indeed!

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  26. Ack, still eating lunch, but I'm pleased the cheese grater came in handy.
    If ever the Telegraph comes into my house it is recycled in the bathroom... a bidet would be useful for washing away the ink.
    Sxxxxx

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    1. With such pert buttocks Scarlet my dear, I am assuming that just the problems page would suffice.

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Thank you, the chef is currently preparing an answer for you in the kitchen. Do help yourself to more bread.