Coffee problems

There is a general tendency for any discourse taking place online to resolve in a reductio ad Hitlerum, leading to the evocation of Godwin's Law and the end of the discussion. So one must tread very carefully when making any form of broad, sweeping statements but coffee house baristas are the worst thing in history and should be rounded up and shot.

Oh OK, not the people themselves, who I am sure are all very nice and give money to the Dogs Trust and buy the Big Issue and worry about the environment. But the word needs to be expunged from the English language and the prevailing attitude that created it crushed like a BAG OF ADDERS.

A half-caf demi-frap caramel macchiato, please.
With a pube from your beard in it, yeah why not.

Self-aggrandising pricks are not a rare commodity in the United Kingdom, but until baristas came along they didn't have a union. There've always been people who gift themselves preposterously overblown titles for the job they do and there always will be, so I'm not quite sure why the concept of a barista so riles me. But it does, oh how it does.

We live in a society where people train for decades to earn the title "Doctor", and for even longer to become a specialist, at which point their title reverts to "Mr." or "Mrs.". So your GP is technically able to lord it up over your prostate specialist. Meanwhile, the muffin-shovelling beanlackey (GCSE Mathematics: "C" grade, 2006) who makes them both their morning cup o' mud is lording it up over everyone. What kind of example does this set for our children? Where will the dentists of the future be coming from, when high-fallutin' honorific titles can be yours simply by dint of a successful application to Beans Beans Beans? This is actually a particularly pressing concern, as I seem to have ground all my teeth down to a powder in a fit of uncontrollable rage.

But don't mistake this gibbering outburst of insanity to be one which is negative towards people who work in coffee shops. Theirs is a perfectly respectable job, as much as any other. And I'm sure that most of them wouldn't introduce themselves to you at a wedding by saying they are a barista. But I am equally sure that some of the bastards fucking would, and that's far too much to be able to stand.

The next step is surely to find a similarly vaunted moniker for the people who work in the kitchens at Burger King and Chicken Cottage. They, too, are providing comestible items that are uniquely different to the sort that you could make at home. Meatista? Chookista? Gristleshepherd?

It's a work in progress.

If you're still talking to me, maybe you might like to buy your Christmas cards from my Etsy Store this year? A percentage of at least some sales will almost certainly be heading a barista's way: http://www.etsy.com/shop/SadClownIllustration

On breakfast

I am fat. Some of you will already know this. For others, I'm sorry to have to disabuse you of your notion of me as a bronzed Greek god. No. I am in fact fat. I have been fat (basically the same size as I am now) for over half my life now. I think it is pretty much my natural size. Pretty much, anyway. I am naturally stocky with broad shoulders. I'm sure if I ate less then there'd be fewer fat bits.

So maybe it's just that which makes me find cereal a singularly unsatisfying and unsatisfactory breakfast food? But perhaps not - when I threw this out as a discussion topic this morning on Twitter a number of incredibly NOT fat people agreed with me. It just doesn't fill that hole that needs filling between waking up and lunchtime. God knows I've tried virtually every type of cereal going and they all come up short.

Before I get angry emails and turds from Kellogg's (sorry other cereal makers, but you're just not as good, face facts), I should point out that I think cereal is very nice and as a snack food or a light teatime food it is very good. However, being asleep is the single longest time during a day that I go without eating (20 minutes) and those toasty bits of old whatever just aren't cutting the mustard.

So, as a public service, here's a list (LIST) of breakfast foods which I have found to be far more acceptable and (more importantly) do the job of filling you up until that hog roast you've promised yourself at lunchtime.

Pork pie

Simple and classic. There's nothing like a breakfast pork pie, there really isn't. I think this is something to do with its vast reserves of calories and fat, a combination simply bound to make you feel sprightly.

Kedgeree

Yes, let's take it OLD SCHOOL, Raj style. Rice! Smoked fish! Spices! Eggs! What more could you ever possibly want?

Massive fry up

Look, it's clichéd because it bloody well works.

Leftover takeaway/last night's dinner

Not Chinese, mind you, which tends to be full of cornflour or arrowroot and therefore have taken on many of the properties of The Blob, with the added bonus of making you bilious. Leftover curry, though, is the breakfast of champions whilst last night's pizza is the breakfast of kings.

Gin and tonic

Some people swear by beer in the morning, but they must be completely mad. Beer is an afternoon drink, unless you're babysitting. Gin and tonic is THE choice for the morning alcoholic.

Eggs

However you like them. Just get some eggs down you. The more the better. Try for a whole box.

Biscuits

Oh, now you're talking.

On chasing Gainsbourg

Ah, greetings reader. Today I'm going to let you into a little part of my world, namely what happens when I try and draw a specific person. I'm not very good at drawing specific people, because specific people have a specific look and if I'm totally and brutally honest, I'm not a good enough artist to pull that trick off.

However, I am pretty good at capturing the vibe of someone, so that's what I focus on usually. Last night I was of a mind to try and draw Serge Gainsbourg.

I really am fascinated by Serge Gainsbourg. I think he's perhaps one of the most compelling artists of the 20th Century, largely because wherever you look in the annals of music or art, there's no-one who is quite his equivalent. A national treasure in the vein of Cliff Richard on one hand, whilst also being variously decried as a pornographer, smut-peddlar, sexual deviant and communist. He's the epitome of the French artist: mad, bad and dangerous to know, as well as the archetype dirty old French bastard AND sexy sex-on-legs French Frenchman.

These are the things I needed to work on capturing, then. Effort one was as much a blind silhouette as anything, drawn absent-mindedly whilst looking at Google image search. Consequently, it's dreadful. I mean, really really bad. In it are all the elements which I would later settle on but all packaged wrong.

Number 2 is better but still not right. He looks more like Yul Brynner in Westworld. But I was starting to get the idea. The nose has to dominate, whilst other important characteristics are his eyes - which were perennially like sheep's fannies - his fish lips complete with cigarette and his rather prominent ears. Beyond that was just filler.

In 3, then, I did away with more or less everything that wasn't one of those things. And ay caramba, it bloody worked. I was satisfied. Job done.

But then I had a drink and discussed pornography on Twitter and suddenly the spirit of Gainsbourg was reborn within me. This led to number 4, which is the best one of the lot. The key to drawing well, it seems, is to drink whisky.

The end.

My idea advent calendar, day 16

December 16th: Wine

Far be it from me to criticise our supermarkets, off licences and dedicated wine merchants, but none of them have really ever grasped the motivations of the British wine consumer. Rather than lining up their bottles in sections marked by grape variety or by country of origin, all wine should be lined up in price order; left to right and from the least to the most expensive. I can't be the only person who is fed up with spending hours on their hands and knees in Sainsbury's looking for the cheapest old gut rot cooking wine they have available for my culinary purposes. Or giving as wedding presents to my enemies.

Farewell to Inky Jim

The story of Inky Jim Jinkers should be one known to every schoolboy in the land. It is a story of commitment, love and, in the end addiction. As tales go, it is both romantic and cautionary. By rights, Jim Jinkers should be as famous to British people as Sir Winston Churchill or Henry VIII.

Jim Jinkers was born in 1971 to Terry and Sheila Jinkers, both shepherds. Like many people of his generation, Inky Jim was of the last intake of school pupils to have an inkwell on their desk in the classroom. During a rainy lunch break early in 1977, a friend of Jinkers' made Jim a fateful dare - I dare you to drink that ink.

From that day, he was hooked. By the end, he was drinking up to 12 bottles of ink a day, but in the early stages (as is so often the case) it seemed like his ink drinking habit was manageable, sociable. The odd blue wee aside, Jim did not start to show any ill effects until his final year at university in 1992, when all his teeth fell out. A graduate position at Parker Pens in Newhaven, East Sussex, did little to help his condition. Now a helpless addict, Jim was dismissed after 18 months when he was caught mainlining ink cartridges during tea breaks.

Perhaps the greatest tragedy of Jim Jinkers' short life, however, was that his ink drinking drove many women away. Jinkers' lot was a lonely one, and after the death of his father in 2001, he found himself living alone and with no-one to reign in his baser drives. By 2005 Jim was bathing in ink and waking up with a shot glass of Quink on his bedside table.

Now heavily in debt and farting brown clouds, Jim Jinkers found himself on the street for the last 12 months of his life, rooting through bins for discarded ballpoint pens and licking free newspapers at the recycling dump. His growing ink blindness was what finally accounted for him, accidentally drinking a bottle of India Ink rather than his favoured water soluable brands, which turned his colon into a Rorschach Test.

There is much that we can learn from the sad, short life of Jim Jinkers. Chief amongst these lessons, surely, is that you should not drink ink.

"Inky" Jim Jinkers, 19th January 1971 - 19th November 2009.

Genito-urinary medicine clinic

The other day, as I am prone to do, I had a brilliant idea. I was watching some tennis after lunch, but mainly having a little post-prandial nappins because I am getting old. I was awoken by a familiar foe: my own bladder. It was full of urine which I needed to expel.

Having a full bladder is no fun. Things are very tightly packed inside your cavities, so a big melon of a bladder pushes on your other squishy bits and makes you very uncomfortable. Surely humans should have evolved their way out of this problem by now?

So, instead I hitched my cart to the Intelligent Design wagon, in as much as I am very intelligent and have designed a solution. It is simple: put the bladder in the scrotum. Please admire my diagrams (click the picture for a bigger version).
It is probably worth pointing out at this stage that this is only applicable to male genito-urinary medicine. Ladies, I'm afraid you'll have to figure out your own solution. However, with all the additional bits you have rattling round in there, I'm guessing a full bladder is probably the least of your worries.

Anyway, as you can see from Figure 1, the current urinary system is fairly elegant and, most importantly, it works. But does it work smart? The answer is no. Ergonomic design principles have been disregarded, as well as your most tender assets - your cobblers - reduced to hanging exposed where any passing child or slighted woman may kick them. So, to Figure 2. As you can see, I have moved the bladder to the scrotal sac. This will free up vital space in your peritoneal cavity for that extra sausage or a slice of pie. Also, the wrinkled skin of the scrotum will allow the bladder to inflate to a good 3 or 4 litre capacity - rather than its current meek single unit - giving the busy male extra time between wees. NOT TO MENTION the additional bonus of a huge package.

Obviously, this change is not without its difficulties. The testes would have to grow accustomed to the rather darker surroundings of the renal system. Perhaps more troublesome would be man's pesky old enemy, gravity. With the bladder lower than the urethra, evacuation could prove problematic, although a spirited squeeze - akin to that of a bagpipe player - should resolve any really stubborn dregs.

The issue which needs to be most urgently addressed, however, is that I have just noticed that the bladder isn't technically connected to the urethra in any way. There's a chance that Figure 2 won't work. No, it won't. Bugger.

As you were.

Vinegar review

Everyone loves vinegar, it is a savoury delight with almost three known uses. However, if you're like me, you will be baffled by the array of vinegars you can find in your local store's vinegar aisle. Further complicating matters, upmarket stores such as Oil & Vinegar sell speciality vinegars galore, when all a lot of us want is a cooling vinegary sip at the end of the day.

Continuing in this site's proud vein of public service, I have decided to review all the vinegars you may be confronted with in your daily life, so as to make at least one vital part of every day as trouble-free as possible.

Sarson's Malt Vinegar

The undisputed market leader for all your chip needs, Sarsons boast that 5.5 million litres of their vinegar is sloshed onto the nation's chips every year. How would it stand up to our three-point test, though?

THE CHIP TEST: Sarson's plays its trump card here. A fine chip vinegar, redolent with vinegar flavour and a vinegary nose. Our score: 10/10

THE SALAD DRESSING TEST: Malt vinegar is generally thought to be too full-bodied to make a good salad dressing, and this is no exception. Upon my Sarson's Vinaigrette making contact with my carefully prepared leafy salad, all the leaves melted down to a small pellet of cud. And then the bowl caught fire. 2/10

THE PINT OF VINEGAR TEST: Drinking a pint of Sarson's - long famous as part of the initiation ceremony for new cBeebies presenters - is an exciting experience, although not for the newcomer. The malty goodness warms the palate as the acetic acid works on your teeth. This superior flavour is particularly welcomed during the vomiting stage. 8/10

Our total for Sarson's: 20/30 a high watermark for its rivals.

NOTES: Sarson's also provide a light version of their vinegar, which fared a little worse on the chip test but a little better with the salad, plus being more forgiving for any freshman pint drinkers. Also in their range is a pickling-strength product. This absolutely marmalised the chips, atomised the salad and created a strong sense of malaise during the pint test.

Dufrais Wine Vinegar

A common sight on supermarket shelves, Dufrais lead the UK speciality vinegar market, shifting 1.5 million units per year. Most common are the white wine, red wine and cider varieties. So as to factor in all of their different qualities, we mixed them together in a big bucket.

CHIPS: A sophisticated and different twist, wicider vinegar on the chip provides a hearty fruit flavour and a growing sense of one's elevation up the class ladder. 5/10

SALAD: The speciality vinegar's trump card. A deliciously fragrant addition to a pile of old green bits. 10/10

PINT: The subtler flavour, compared to malt varieties, is initially welcomed by the careworn and bleeding palate, but the vomit from the wicider vinegar was particularly harsh and melted our toilet. 3/10

OVERALL: 18/30

Supermarket own-brands

For all of the choice of malt or fruit vinegars, one must also remember that for every name brand there will be another dozen supermarkets'-own varieties (I included the leftover vinegar from a chip shop's jar of pickled eggs within this test). Again, the mixing bucket came out for this one.

CHIP: Brutal 1/10

SALAD: Ruinous 2/10

PINT: Oh god 0/10

OVERALL: 3/30 - best avoided


Del Cristo Balsamic Vinegar

The king of the vinegars, Balsamic has undergone a huge growth in popularity in the past decade, with every household in the UK now owning at least 400 bottles. The range, as is so often the case, is enormous. For this test, we forewent the bucket and instead settled on the top of the range Del Cristo, retailing at £96.57 for 100 ml.

CHIP: A delightful, sweet and richly bodied sensation. Delicious. 10/10

SALAD: Another area in which balsamic vinegar excels, Del Cristo made a salad so good an angel proposed to me. 10/10

PINT: Although balsamic vinegar is a little thicker and sweeter than standard vinegars, a pint of Del Cristo (£548.77) slipped down a treat. Not only was the vomit limited to some spirited belching, the palate was suitably tickled by the sensation to suggest an accompaniment of some Nice 'n' Spicy Nik Naks, which made me puke like a horse. 9/10

OVERALL: 29/30 - a real winner

CONCLUSION: if you are looking for a really nice vinegar which is both flavoursome and versatile, look no further than Del Cristo Balsamic Vinegar!

Warning: do not attempt to drink a pint of vinegar without adult supervision.

Beer

Today, at some point, I will go into a nice pub* and drink delicious beer. Proper beer, made by men with beards and hops in their underwear. My favourite thing about the modern world is that appreciating good beer is no longer a slightly fusty and risible pursuit liable to make you a social pariah. Of course, market forces have responded to this, making good ale more and more readily available.

Eleven years ago, when I was 18, I went into a pub and got a pint of Marston's Pedigree. The two men stood at the bar, who were probably about the age I am now, snickered away to themselves at the throwback spotty teen, drinking real ale. I like to think that now they realise that I was, as ever, right - a prophet without honour in my own country - as they enjoy pint after delicious pint of foamy real ale. If they aren't, I like to think they have AIDS. Plain and simple, crippling, AIDS. It helps me sleep at night.

I'm not one to make sweeping comments about society based on such observations, but I think it's safe to assume that society is now healing itself and everything is going to be alright, all thanks to real ale.

* Anyone reading this who knows me is welcome to come along and hold my hand, of course.