Yes, I know it was fun, and you have a spell simmering, but it is too bloody cold for lingering, the Great Conjunction has been and gone and there's some serious cooking to crack on with. Here's a classic recipe from Stanislav, the Young Polish Plumber:
A FEAST OF JAMIE
Try
and have right good fucking English Christmas round here. Watch
Jamie Bloke on telly and copy everything just right. For soup is
surprise a la Jamie. Go in garden pull up handful of weeds from
ground, is ok leave some dirt on weeds, is organic soup, innit, go
back in house and kick oven for good luck and get half kilo of garlic
and smash up with dirty old brick. Have a break and pick nose for a
minute, tell cockney joke about My Old Mum.
Mmmm, smell all that lovely garlic. And then get some red hot chilli and smash with brick, not too much, just enough. And then get ten pounds per litre olive oil off Sainsbury shop and pour some in jug. Assemble all ingredients and season all up with half pound of cayenne pepper and half pound of vindaloo curry powder off Sainsburys. Take weeds and oil and garlic and chilli and anything else you got lying about and throw in machine and give good fucking blitzing for minute or two till is right sloppy - everything, weeds, garlic, oil and curry powder is one delicious and appetising grey-green mixture. Wipe finger on arse of jeans and stick in soup. Mmmm, is fucking miasma of friendly flavour and texture, 'Strewth, fair leaps up from bowl and tickle under fucking chin, eh.? Pour in bowls and serve cold with handful of weed ripped up and thrown on top. Mmmm, is delicious and is guarantee family will go mad for it. Can make six month in advance and store in garage with coal. Season to taste.
Mmmm, smell all that lovely garlic. And then get some red hot chilli and smash with brick, not too much, just enough. And then get ten pounds per litre olive oil off Sainsbury shop and pour some in jug. Assemble all ingredients and season all up with half pound of cayenne pepper and half pound of vindaloo curry powder off Sainsburys. Take weeds and oil and garlic and chilli and anything else you got lying about and throw in machine and give good fucking blitzing for minute or two till is right sloppy - everything, weeds, garlic, oil and curry powder is one delicious and appetising grey-green mixture. Wipe finger on arse of jeans and stick in soup. Mmmm, is fucking miasma of friendly flavour and texture, 'Strewth, fair leaps up from bowl and tickle under fucking chin, eh.? Pour in bowls and serve cold with handful of weed ripped up and thrown on top. Mmmm, is delicious and is guarantee family will go mad for it. Can make six month in advance and store in garage with coal. Season to taste.
Next
up is turkey. Jamie Bloke says go down local turkey farm and kill
bastard with own hands. Is right organic. Meaningful, like in fucking
Guardian. First chase after turkey in mud and shit and grab bastard
by legs. Mrs get one end and stan get other end and twist like fuck,
pulling like tug of war, knack is to twist and pull just right and
snap turkey neck.
Often bastard break free and bite and fucking
squawk and shit and run around and is back to square peg one.
Stanislav make rugby tackle on fucking turkey and bastard still won’t
stop still and get killed. Go back in van and get biggest in set of
Stilson wrench and chase turkey bastard all around, land blow on bird
now and again but often is just fall on arse in mud and turkey shit.
Go back in van and start up engine.
Not
much damage in the end, is just bumper and headlight and radiator all
smash up but turkey is good and fucking dead, crush between van and
wall; not bite no other bastard. Pay farmer hundred quid for turkey
and hundred quid for wall and hundred quid for field all ploughed-up
and hundred quid for not phone cops and hundred quid for RSPCA.
Fuck me, thought plumbers was bad. But five hundred quid for smelly
old turkey about ten years old and made from leather and most is all
fucking claws and feathers and shit. And have to pay cousin small
fortune to fix up van with iffy parts off eBay. Still, organic make
better citizen, like Mr Blunkett wants. Only not take turn with Mr
Hoggart off Guardian and fuck other bloke Mrs and get kid. Too fucking
organic for most folk.
Anyway,
get turkey up on table and splash liberally with white spirit off
Sainsbury or petrol from Sainsbury garage will do if not got any
spirit and set on fire until feathers is all burn off. Is best open
windows. If no spirit and no gas is best cover with grated firelighter
and light from other room. No need for too fussy. Is Christmas and
feather, like run out of money, is Xmas custom. Rub both hand
vigorously down jeans and slap dead turkey on breast and stroke,
going, mmmm just look at that, mmmm, just look at that. Only
lightly season - put few handful of black pepper and couple of kilo of
rock salt up turkey jacksie and pound or two of ripped up weeds from
garden, hedge clippings from summer will do, and few tube of
squeeze garlic paste off Sainsburys. Not bother with pull insides
out. All adds to great organic flavour.
Now
is best part. Go in garden with wheelbarrow. If poor and not got
garden, never mind, go down park, is open at Christmas, full of wino
and incognito crack prostitute from Cabinet and children shoot and
stab each other but never mind, is Christmas, eh, in prosperous,
cautious, prudent Britain. Anyway, make plenty shovel of dirt in
barrow and mix in smooth paste with couple of gallon of water from
pond and season with several kilo of garlic smash with brick and few
jar of strawberry jam from Sainsburys. Is good friends, garlic and
strawberry, reassures Jamie. Make delicious mix of flavour on top of
dead turkey.
Go
back in house and prepare turkey for oven by putting in big fuck off
dish and pour over tasty and flavoursome mud crust. Get
brother-in-law, Waldemar, away from Christmas with Clarkson Video - Oh,
this car go so fast my hair catch fucking fire, Oh, this car so slow
get overtake by fucking glacier; Oh, Birmingham is shithole; Oh,
you might think I am fat useless repetitive overpaid BBC cunt. But
you’d be wrong. Waldemar help shove turkeybastard in oven, kick door with
foot and weld-up tight with gear from van and roast at five hundred
Celsius, Gas Mark 20, for several days. Maybe a week. Maybe
fortnight. Remove when cooked.
Unfortunately,
family say not eating that shit, Stan. You can be organic as fuck,
we is off down McDonald, get decent, honest fucking mechanically
reclaim turkey burger made of eyeball, foreskin, arsehole, beak and
fucking feather and come with salty, powdered chip with large Coke and
apple pie to incinerate fucking gob, complete with have nice day
greeting off poor fucking miserable pimply bastard wish he was fucking
dead, roasting in Hell, rather than togged-up in stripey shirt and
cap on head. Even with howling smelly regiment of spoiled little
bastards all having birthday party and poor old cripple mopping
fucking floor, McDonald is better. Fuck this organic shit. Is not fit
for decent person. Only for cockney ponce on fucking TV.
Must
admit Turkey en croute with dock leaf and Bisto sorbet not best ever
family Christmas dinner. Maybe next year take advice from fish and
chip bloke in Cornwall. Dig big fucking hole in garden, throw in
firelighter and stick and coal and roast alive some poor fucking crab
and lobster and eat with fingers. Dance about singing I do like to be
beside the seaside.
Always
assume of course that there is fucking Christmas next year and not
all in fucking NewLabour workhouse, nation of fucking homeless,
vagrant dossers, line up for free soup off Salvation Army U Like.
Economic miracle, Phase 2.
........................................................
Musical Interlude - not a carol
11 comments:
Magnificent. Good cheer and healing times to you, Mrs I, and to all on here for this Christmas and 2021. Let us keep the faith and do the small things well.
Hello, mr anthony, nice to meet you and thank you for dropping in. And excellent good cheer to you. When you say, "small things", you are referring to the sprouts?
The government message is, I think, if I have it right, stay inside. That's it. Oh, okay, venture out during the hours of daylight, briefly. But, really, stay inside. It is an infestation of vampires we're dealing with, right?
A peaceful Christmas to you mrs I and all fellow Ishmaelites and a well deserved rest for the Editor mr Verge.
Hears hoping for a more sensible new year, less ruin from the fat turk and Handcock.
Yes, peace for us all please. God that would be good, in the bleak midwinter.
Beast wishes Mrs I, and all fellow travelers.
Cold cream of asparagus soup with melba toast (we always go retro at Christmas - on New Years it will be prawn cocktail with radioactive sauce) and grilled NZ salmon. Its our summer Down Here, but not too hot at the moment. To think that only a year ago all we had to worry about was bushfires.
Thanks mr Inmate, and what mr Mike said, with or without the typo!
cheers
v./
Good luck and a better year than last to all Ishmaelites. Here's hoping. Great stuff from Stanislav, btw. Brought a smile to my face.
Amen to that, Mr inmate. Merry Giule to all Ishmalians.
Beast wishes to all Ishmaelians, as mr mike says. No doubt he'll have a chilled glass or two of something white and delicious to enhance his chilled asparagus soup. I hope there's a few more courses, because asparagus soup sounds like slim pickings. Me, I've got friends cooking up a storm with five courses, starting off with lobster soup. One day, remind me to tell you about the 12 course Christmas dinner that mr ishmael and I enjoyed one Christmas in Amsterdam.
To be unaccustomedly serious for a moment, I want to echo mr inmate's good wishes for Editor mr verge. Without his encouragement, I would not have been bringing you the Sunday Ishmael each week, and without his hard work, there would have been no anthology, with two more volumes in the works. A toast to mr verge - raise your glasses, Ishmaelites!
Yes, best wishes, everyone, and a double helping to the noble mr v.
Looks like Bojo didn't flinch at the end, mr mike. It is still a Treaty though and so the silent worm-like tentacles will still be there mooching about beneath the surface and the sappers will be under the corners for eternity. All things considered, probably as good as it was going to get after the "incompetence" of the May administration.
Merry Christmas, war is over.
Merry Christmas Mrs I and to all contributors let us hope for a more productive period in 2021 rather than the fiasco which continues.
Thoroughly enjoyed the recently published work which Mr V
collated and look forward to the next volume.
Now, must get to work on the turkey with these invaluable tips from the plumber.
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