Tag: Food

Guest Post: 7 Reasons To Lose Some Weight

Today we are joined on the 7 Reasons sofa by Chris. Chris works as a financial blogger for moneysupermarket.com life insurance, and spends quite a lot of time writing about how losing weight and getting fit can help save you money on it. This year he decided to stop being such a hypocrite and sort his life out, and thought he’d go on about it endlessly both in real life and on people’s websites too. He’s also arguably funnier than we have ever been, which is a bit annoying.

Disclaimer: Neither of these men is Chris.

This year, I’ve lost just over 80 pounds in weight. No, no – don’t congratulate me. It’s nothing, really. However, if you really do want to do something for me, why not read my seven reasons why you should definitely lose weight?

1. No Longer Looking Like James Corden. This one is probably personal to me – I recently watched my friend’s wedding day video and it looks like he hired a really bad James Corden impersonator to be his best man. The best man’s speech looks like Smithy from Gavin and Bloody Stacey came barrelling in at the last moment and started taking the mick out of the poor groom while his mother looked on, aghast. I hate James Corden more than I probably should for exactly this reason.

2. Not Sweating Constantly From May To August. You know what’s really not attractive? Sweating. Especially when you can’t stop it from the moment the British weather goes a degree or two over its usual dank quagmire of about 10 degrees Celsius. I used to look like a Death Star with a leak; I’d take to hiding inside on warm days and peering out of the window like that guy from Rear Window – not exactly the best way to live your life, but arguably the best way to be near to your Pringles and the fridge.

3. Being Able To Look At Yourself In The Mirror. “Oh, hello there, me”, I quite often say now when I see myself in the mirror. “I didn’t see you there, what with you being so slender and lithe and flitting in and out through the trees like an ephemeral, gossamer thin slip of silk.”

Yeah, it’s probably quite strange that I have trees in my bathroom, but don’t judge me, man. It’s better than what I used to say to myself in the mirror, which was usually something like “Hey! You! *noisy breath* do you have any sausages? I really want a sausage but we don’t seem to have any…”

4. Being Able To Buy ‘Normal People’ Clothes. Thankfully, I was never quite relegated to the dark depths of the “big and tall” shop, but upon reaching the outer limits of even Asda’s generously sized clothing range, you do start to wonder whether you might be getting a bit too portly. Losing weight means you no longer have to worry about clothes not fitting, and can join the rest of the world in despairing because shops don’t stock anywhere near enough of the average sized stuff so all they ever have is for dolls or Silverback Gorillas.

5. A Better Class Of Nicknames. Big Boy. Big Man. Shrek. A Poor Man’s James Corden. Two of those are things I’ve called myself; the nicer two are indicative of the sorts of things people would refer to me as, rather than going “And what about you, Tubbo the Lardy?” Oddly, people seem to think that names like this are acceptable because you’ve not used the word Fat. True enough, it still amazes me how many perfect strangers start conversations with me by saying “Cuh, you’ve lost some weight, haven’t you?”, but that’s nicer than a fat joke wrapped in a nice coating – like an easter egg.

6. The Looks You Get When You Buy Food. So myself and my girlfriend are in a restaurant together. It’s a nice day, it’s lunchtime, and I know I’ve got food at home for my tea – I order a salad, and whilst I’m saying the words, I watch.
One…Two…Ping!
There they are. The raised eyebrows of a waiter or waitress who expected me to heavily and slimily drool the word “Burger!” through my sticky, salty lips until they brought me one and I devoured it like an Amoeba absorbs plant cells. Every bloody time. This is usually followed by the assumption that the person bringing the food normally makes; the one where they look at me and then the salad, then assumes they’ve got something for a different table.
This of course is very similar to that begging look the waiter would have if I did order a burger or similar; that look that says “Okay, but please don’t have a heart attack in here – at least not until 7 o’clock, when my shift finishes…”

7. Ego Inflation. When was the last time someone told you you looked fantastic, or said that they wish you could do what you do? Of course, if you’re Elle Macpherson’s identical twin who happens to do brain surgery, then it’s probably quite a lot, but for those of us normal human beings, a nice compliment probably doesn’t happen all that often. Lose a bit of weight though and they’ll come from all over the shop – lose enough and you’ll start doing what I do, where you deliberately don’t see someone for a few weeks, just so when you come strutting into the pub in your new jeans and crop top (shut up, I like showing off), they’re amazed. Losing weight doesn’t make you more confident, but everyone telling you how great you look sure as hell does!

October 31, 2011
7 Reasons To Revisit Movember

If you knew me or read 7 Reasons (or indeed both) this time two years ago, you will know that I was preparing my face for Movember. After a year off in 2010 – so that I didn’t scare the future mother-in-law – I have decided to have another go. In a little over a week I am going for glory. Here’s why:

1. Colour. The first thing you’ll notice from the above is that the 2009 edition of my Movember ‘tache was somewhat ginger – with assorted whispy grey bits. It wasn’t pleasant and saw me stay exclusively in my room for the final week. 730 days on though and surely the pigments have matured? I need to know.

2. Engineering. The design I went for last time was something of a bespoke handlebar. A small handlebar for a ginger bike. I can’t honestly say that it did much for my then otherwise burgeoning sex appeal. This Movemeber I need to find out whether I can bring sexy back. I suspect I can. As long as I’m just in my pants.

3. Growth. If you think the above was precision trimmed everyday, you’d be wrong. The handlebar in question was never touched. It just grew and grew and grew. Slowly and slowly and slowly. In hindsight I actually think my follicles got bored around the second Wednesday and gave up. I need to know that can now grow something worthwhile. Something that will enable me to call myself a real man.

4. Brotherly Love. My brother is nearly two and a half years younger than me, but he can grow a beard. And a moustache. Sometimes together. Not only does this break the rules of brotherhood (a younger sibling must never make his elder look unmanly), but it also means he is better than me at something. And as all those with younger brothers can testify, this is not a pleasant or indeed acceptable situation. As such I must grow a mo this Movember to show that – normally – I don’t have facial hair out of choice, not inability.

5. Food. I like to think I’m a pretty good eater. I’ve certainly always found that I have good food to mouth coordination. Obviously there are some foods, however, that are slightly tricky to eat. Biscuits for example. Despite the speed at which I get them to my mouth, I always find a few crumbs on my t-shirt or the sofa. The crumbs that fall from the base of the biscuit, well a mo can’t do much about those, but the crumbs that fly up from the top of the biscuit as you bite into it, well they could be caught in my moustache. Perfect for a late-afternoon snack.

6. Excuse. B*Witched said ‘blame it on the weatherman’, this month I’ll blame it on the moustache. November is the kind of month when I am at my clumsy best. I am bound to knock over a plant or drop keys down a drain or accidentally steal a baby. They are not things the clean shaven version of me does. Well, apart from the plant thing. That’s just standard. Stealing babies though, is something I certainly don’t do. But, if for some strange reason I find myself charging through the North Downs will a baby, you’ll know why.

7. Massage. I know it makes me sound like a bit of a tart, but I do like a head massage. Especially when I don’t have to give myself one. Coincidentally they work wonders when I am trying to think of seven reasons. Must be a stress thing. Anyway, if the massage goes to where the hair is, maybe I’ll get a top lip massage too?*

*Oh. Apparently I won’t.

October 20, 2011
7 Reasons Weddings Aren’t Just For Girls

It is a common belief that weddings are for girls. From a young age they are brainwashed into believing it’s the one day when they are a Princess and waiting for them at the altar is their very own Prince Charming. I know, it makes your skin crawl. The thing is though, in the nine months that I have been engaged, I have come to the conclusion that maybe, just maybe, weddings are for boys too. (This post is written with apologies to men everywhere.)

Cricket Wedding Cake Topper by Louise Hunter

1. Food. You can have pretty much anything you like – within your budget of course. And because we all have more than one favourite meal, the real bonus is that you can offer two or three options on the menu. When you then bring in to the equation that there are going to be about one hundred other people eating the food that you love the opportunity of being able to get your hands on seconds, thirds, fourths, fifths and sixths isn’t so much a possibility as a certainty.

2. Speeches. Three of them. All by men. It’s the only time in life when women have no choice but to be quiet for an hour. There is a newfangled phase coming in that is seeing brides saying a few words too, but if you are lucky you’ll be at a more traditional wedding where the women stop rabbiting for a while.

3. Free Dating Service. Assuming you’re not the groom, weddings are fantastic for men. I mean, obviously they are good for the groom because you get a wife, but for other men, single men, they are also really good. Not only do you get free, limitless amounts of food and alcohol, the bride and groom will have probably made it their unofficial mission of the day to fix you up with someone. That’s why you’ll almost certainly find yourself sitting next to a single lady. Never fear if you don’t like her though, the bridesmaids are always up for it. It’s tradition. Usually under the cake table.

4. Planning. My future wife and I don’t argue, but we do have differing opinions. She’s of the opinion that there is a lot to get done for the wedding while I am of the opinion that it (whatever it is) will get done and I will get around to doing it just as soon as the cricket and rugby seasons have finished. It’s a test of resolve really. Which is pretty much what life is like really. So saying weddings are just for girls, is like saying life is just for girls. It’s not. It’s for boys too. Until they get married anyway.

5. Secrecy. With most weddings occurring on Saturdays, men are going to miss sport.* This means they have to check the scores on their mobile phones. It’s quite a thrill I assure you. Trying to do such a thing without your girlfriend, mother, new wife noticing. My cousin got married during the Beijing Olympics and while I was thankful for the eight-hour time difference, the ceremony still clashed with the 200m final. I was thankful for the whispering commentary behind me. Though the mother of the bride looked less than impressed with the news that Usain Bolt had done the business. Which is shame really. He ran jolly fast.

6. Hats. It’s odd, women spend months agonising over what to wear and which hat to don, then, come the wedding they hardly keep it on. The hat that is. Most of them usually manage to keep their clothes on. The hats form a source of hilarity though. Especially for the men. If you didn’t laugh at the woman who looked like she was wearing a satellite dish and got it lodged in the church door, you will do by the time you get to wear it. Hats are always passed around by men. They are always tried on. Photos are always taken. It’s strange, go to House of Fraser and try on a lot of hats and people think you’re weird. Try a load on at a wedding though and people think you’re cool and funny. They’re a fickle bunch.

7. Wife. You get one! A real-life, flesh and bones wife! Wives are cool so I’m told. They cook nice food, they iron your shirts, they let you watch sport. And they do it for the rest of your lives together. Which, assuming she doesn’t catch you watching Baywatch, could be for a very long time indeed. Funky.

*Except at mine which has been deliberately organised for a date before the start of the Olympics, before the start of Wimbledon, after the England rugby team have been on their summer tour and in-between Test Matches. It does though clash with Euro 2012. But you can’t have everything.**

**I will keep you updated throughout my speech though. Don’t worry.

NB: This post is dedicated to my future wife (and not just because she helped me think of some of the reasons). It’s because, you know, I love her and stuff.

October 19, 2011
Guest Post: 7 Reasons There Is No Such Thing As A Free Lunch

It has, I think you’ll agree, been too long. Too long since Dr Simon Percy Jennifer Best sat on the 7 Reasons sofa and shared with us thoughts from the deepest sanctums of his mind. Today that changes. Because he’s back. He needs no further introduction so we’ll leave you in his capable hands. We’re off to the pub for lunch. He’s paying.

‘Free Lunch’ by The Ethicurean

“There’s no such thing as a free lunch” is one of those glib phrases that people trot out and everyone accepts without investigation in to its accuracy. Now you don’t need to, because here I give seven reasons as to why there really is no such thing as a free lunch.

1. Potential Suitors. Often on a date, especially in these enlightened times, people will spilt the bill. But there might be a rare occasion when you’re taken out for a meal and the other person offers to pay. “Great,” you think. “A free lunch!” Wrong. The chances are that they will want something in return, a walk along the beach, a goodnight kiss, your hand in marriage. Would you swap any of these for a spaghetti carbonara? No. Nor would I.

2. Aged Relatives. Imagine the scene. You’re an impoverished student and your Great Aunt Doris* rings you up and invites you round for Sunday lunch. “Great,” you say to yourself. “A change from tinned tuna and beans on toast, and a free lunch!” Wrong. You arrive and while the smell of roast beef is wafting through the house, Great Aunt Doris will ask you for help with something relatively straight forward, changing a light bulb for example…. By the time you’re able to escape several hours later you’ve cut the grass, creosoted the fence, put out the bins, cleaned out the guttering and regrouted the bathroom. You’ve saved her several hundred pounds and given vast quantities of labour in return for a bit of overcooked beef and soggy Yorkshire puddings.

3. Business Lunches. We’ve all been there. Arranging a meeting and your colleague/client says, “why don’t we meet over lunch, we can get it on expenses”. “Excellent,” you think. “A day that I don’t have to pay for an over-priced sandwich and get a free lunch!” Wrong. Okay, you can get to see people and impress your colleagues, but it requires you to talk to people and costs valuable time. There is a surefire rule that applies to meetings: not only do they cost valuable time, but you invariably leave them with more work to do than at the start. Is the free lunch worth it when you have to stay in work late and buy an expensive Chinese takeaway for dinner so you don’t collapse with starvation before you get home?

The same applies to conferences where, although the lunch is free, the cost is to your soul. It dies around the same time as the first speaker puts up his fourteenth powerpoint slide.

4. Friends With Children. There is a stage in many people’s lives where you are single, but have friends who are married with kids. You probably get to see these friends less often. Then, when summer starts they ring you, “come round for a barbecue, we’ve still got lots of wine left over from Timmy’s christening so there’s no need for you to bring anything”. You’re free, you want to see them and excited at the prospect of free food AND drink. Well, calm your excitement. This invitation is just a thinly veiled ruse by the parents to neck as much chardonnay as they can while their hyperactive children, thrilled by the novelty of a new adult, begs you to play with them. As for the free lunch? Not a bit of it. Okay, you get plenty of grilled chicken and salad and a couple of glasses of wine. Cost to you: a dry cleaning bill for your grass stained trousers, a new hat after your panama is used as a Frisbee and a large chiropractors bill having been rugby tackled by “little” Jamie, who is nine years old but already the size and weight of Brian Moore.

5. Parents Of Your Future Spouse. Picture the scene. You’ve been with your girlfriend/boyfriend/partner for a respectable length of time. Then one day they say to you, “my parents have invited us for lunch on Sunday” Cue you breaking out into a cold sweat about what to take them. Your partner reassures you that their mother doesn’t need flowers, and their father doesn’t need a bottle of Scotch. “Phew,” you think. “A free lunch!” Wrong. You’re on to a loser here. If it goes badly and you’re (even inadvertently) rude about them/their house/their food/their dog or, perhaps worse, you’re too friendly and don’t give your partner enough attention, then you pay by having to buy them presents in recompense. If it goes really well it will progress your relationship to the stage where it costs you a hefty amount for an engagement ring or your life if you find yourself married to them.

6. Single Friends. I, like lots of people, have single friends who are, lets face it, what can charitably be described as “hard work”** When your friend that fits that description sends you an innocuous text message saying, “let’s meet for lunch, my treat,” you may think that means a free lunch and a pleasant afternoon. That text message notification should actually be an alarm bell, as what it actually means is an afternoon where you spend hours counselling them about their life, their job, their latest (failed) relationship, clothes and the price of garden furniture. This involves you consuming the annual output of a medium sized French vineyard to cope. They join you in polishing off several bottles, then when the bill comes they say, “I’ll pay for the food, can you get the wine?”. Free lunch? Not a bit of it. There’s a very real prospect that you will need to remortagage your house to pay your credit card bill that month.

7. Yourself. Clearly the only safe person to have lunch with is yourself, you would be paying so obviously it wouldn’t be a free lunch, but it’s likely it will be cheaper than the other options.

*If you don’t have a Great Aunt Doris then you can imagine my Great Aunt Doris.

** I don’t rule out the possibility that I am, for some of my friends ‘hard work’.

October 15, 2011
Guest Post: 7 Reasons To Grow A Beard This Winter

The full beard, like many types of groomed facial hair, is a beautiful thing. But it’s also one that appears to fallen by the wayside of popular fashion. That is not a trend that Tommy George of www.idealo.co.uk wants to see continue. Here are seven reasons why.

Canada's Adam Kleeberger Keeps His Face Warm During The Rugby World Cup

1. Cost. Razors are expensive. Hair grows for free. You do the math(s). Nowadays, sixteen bladed, all singing, all dancing razor blades that not only scratch your face off but also sing the national anthem of Tonga are all the rage. However, they are REALLY expensive. Expensive enough that if a chap were to stop buying razor blades for an entire month, he could afford a whole set of Lego. Now would you rather have a sore face and no distraction or look cool AND have a ton of bricks to play with?

2. Competition. Men love a competition. Particularly competitions to judge who is most manly. In the animal kingdom, lions, tigers and bears fight and kill for this privilege – all you have to do is grow the best beard amongst your rosy-chopped and clean-shaven peers. All of the bragging rights in the pub – and with it all of the women – will be yours. Sort of like Rasputin, but with an even more mythical effect.

3. Fish Fingers. For gentleman of a more distinguished grey persuasion, it is possible that after several hard months of beard growing, people will mistake you for Captain Birdseye (particularly if you should choose to wear a naval uniform and wink a lot.). Upon realising this, total strangers will offer you the delicious fishy snacks out of pure courtesy. Another saving – and fish fingers don’t come cheap.

4. Fear. No man really likes children. Children are loud, small and, most importantly, banned from the pub – if you’re pub isn’t a swanky gastro-pub with tablecloths and disinfectant in the lager that is. So what better way to scare off little Jonny than to grow an enormous, terrifying beard and mutter under your breath? There is a reason children always cry when sitting on Santa Claus’ knee at Christmas. Use it to your advantage. Or alternatively buy a clown suit.

5. Loss. You will find after your beard advances past a stubbly stage and beyond the echelons of bumfluff, that one can grow quite attached to the looming dark mass upon ones cheeks and become used to the endless compliments that one receives on its behalf. So, when the beard is finally hacked off, the flow of niceties dries up and eventually a feeling of longing for the first follicles of re-growth. They say it is better to have loved and lost – but where beards are concerned, the loss can be simply avoided. With a beard, love and never lose!

6. Food. Beards are a useful source of food. Eating off the beard of a rival (which you may have to do if your rival has read reason two) will give you those much needed calories due to the left over food that can be stored up over a period of time. Either intentionally or not. The smart man with the beard will never go hungry. Whats better than a twelve ounce, juicy, tender, sirloin steak? Finding a twelve ounce, juicy, sirloin steak in your beard two hours later! That’s what.

7. Stroking. Dogs, cats, parrots and, to a lesser extent, crocodiles and tarantulas, all like to be stroked. It is surprising in this age of instant gratification that humans haven’t followed down a similar path to chin tickling heaven. Well children, let me let you in on a little secret, being stroked is great! However, the opportunities for being stroked are considerably limited, but when one arises it is always prudent to be in possession of a long, sleek elegant beard. Then, who knows where the night will take you!

So, gentleman, cast aside your razors and join us in our quest for a simpler, hairier life.

September 17, 2011
7 Reasons The Zoo Is My Habitat

Last week I did something I hadn’t done since I was a boy. I went to the zoo. I’m not going to lie, I immediately felt at home. Here’s why:

Zoolympics Challlenge 1: Stick Your Head Through A Set Of Shark Dentures And Look Sexy

1. Playground. As I may have expressed before, I am a boy trapped in a man’s body. Though whose it is, I am yet to establish. I have never grown up and I don’t intend to. I like being silly. Silly is good. I also like swinging from things while being silly. I saw monkeys at the zoo. They were being silly. And swinging. And picking their noses. It looked awesome. Well, maybe not the picking the nose bit. That made me a little bit sick. But the silliness and the swinging was definitely for me. I want to do that.

2. Sleep. Generally, after I’ve had a day of being silly and swinging around the clothes line, I like to have a sleep. Unfortunately I am prevented in this pursuit by one of two things. Either Claire arrives home or, as sometimes happens, Claire is already at home. Such appearances from my future wife make it very hard to sleep when there are important things to do such as make dinner, plan weddings* or – and the notion still makes me shiver – talk. At the zoo, there was silliness, swinging and sleeping. A whole lot of sleeping.

3. Talk. As previously indicated, I’m not a big fan of talking. I absolutely loathe small-talk. And, as for big-talk, I would rather do a naked lap of St. Andrews. (The football ground, not the golf course. My embarrassment does not need enhancing by the cold Scottish winds). It’s not that I’m uninterested in what you have to say, it’s more that The Tremeloes said Silence Is Golden and I have never stopped listening to them. The thing I noticed at the zoo was that animals don’t talk. Not even a little bit. They make weird noises occasionally – which is nice – but there’s no talking. And no animals asking other animals to talk to them either. Which means more time for silliness, swinging and sleeping. They’ve got it sorted.

4. Feeding. Some of the animals are fed upwards of four times a day. And I’m not talking about snacks here, I am talking proper meals. Four proper meals. Each day. That’s my kind of feeding.

5. Chores. With the exception of the ants who seemingly work all day and all night carrying bits of leaf over logs, non of the animals at the zoo have to work. Or go to school. Or get the shopping in. Or iron their trousers. (In fact, many of the animals I saw were naked). Animals, from what I have seen, don’t do any of the boring stuff at all. They’ve never had to write essays on Pride & Prejudice. They’ve never had to stand in a queue at the bank. They’ve never experienced an episode of Time Team. Their work-life balance is perfect. No work, all life. And life, as I’m sure we can all agree, is for living. It is not for spending in Barclays.

6. Vanity. It’s an alarming statistic, but if I was to walk down the entire length of Regent Street ten times in a row, only on seven of those would someone stop and take a photo of me. For someone who fancies themselves quite as much as I do and does their very best to live up to the meaning of their name – Gift Of God – it’s rather upsetting when someone just walks past without even so much as a raise of the eyebrow. In the zoo though, everyone would be taking photos of me. I’d probably even appear on postcards and desktop backgrounds and t-shirts. And that is the way it should be.

7. Olympic Qualities. As I was walking around the zoo I was challenged to a number of Olympic contests. The Zoolympics they called it. A name that made me chuckle uncontrollably for at least twenty-two seconds. From what I experienced the Zoolympics were designed to belittle me. In less than three hours I discovered that my reaction time was slower than the Blue Dart Frog, my wingspan was shorter than the Wandering Albatros and my backside wasn’t as stripy as Okapi. Which all leads me to believe that if I want to win Gold at anything, anytime soon, I need to move to the zoo to be pumped full of whichever Performance Enhancing Drugs the zookeepers have access to. I felt stupid being outwitted by a frog. Really, really stupid. But at least I beat my Dad.

*You do only have one wedding don’t you? It’s just that having booked both the church and the reception venue there is apparently so much still to do. How? I would like to know how?

September 7, 2011
Guest Post: 7 Reasons I Am Most Probably Half-Greek

We’ve never really mentioned publicly our gratitude those of you who submit guest posts. Mainly because the vast majority of them give writing a bad name. One lady who hops, skips and jumps her way to the other end of the spectrum though, is Things To Do In Manchester supremo, Liz Gregory. Regular 7 Reasons readers will remember with great fondness Liz’s previous posts about dolphin’s embodying the devil and mince pies. So you, like us, will be delighted to see her back on the 7 Reasons sofa today. Though it has to be said she looks like she’s having a bit of an κρίση ταυτότητας. And if that sounds greek to you, that’s because it is. Here’s Liz:

Having recently returned to rain-drenched Britain after a week in Kefalonia, I have decided that I am not in fact a pasty-faced Mancunian but indeed something far more exotic. I realise now that I am at least half Greek, and can offer the following evidence to any doubters (including, perhaps reasonably, family members).

1. The Weather. In Greece, it is sunny. Always. In fact, I would go so far as to say that the temperatures in Greece are actually just silly. Such heat makes any kind of strenuous activity impossible, and forces one to spend the entire day lying quietly by the pool, drinking cold beer in a frosted glass, and occasionally having a quick frolic in the water to cool off. I found, to my surprise, that I was good – no, make that very good – at doing this; I would even say I was something of a natural.

2. My Wardrobe. I essentially wear the same clothes all year round, and am the proud owner of approximately 1,297 pretty much identical little dresses with flowers on them (or sometimes, a daring stripe). Imagine my delight to find that in Greece, such items can actually be worn ON THEIR OWN, without the addition of cardigans, thick tights and leggings (sometimes all at once) – a truly liberating feeling.

3. The Tan. For reasons hitherto beyond my comprehension, I have skin that tans exceptionally easily; this is now easily explained by my new-found Greek heritage. I have returned from my holiday a most pleasing colour, which looks all the more striking when cunningly accessorised with an obviously non-Greek husband who appears to have come back paler than when he went.

4. The Food – Part One. My favourite crisps in the whole wide world (and I am quite a connoisseur if I do say so myself) are Walkers Sensations. In Greece, these are called Lays Sensations. I like this name better, and am therefore obviously both a/ Greek and b/ the owner of a very mature sense of humour.

5. The Food – Part Two. One of the best bits of being on ANY holiday is that you are forced to eat out every night, and are thereby released from the drudgery of trying to think up exciting new ways with the excess of whatever item is dominating the vegetable box this week. Greek food is particularly rewarding, offering meaty goodness at every turn and merrily deep-frying any passing vegetable until all its nutrients are safely neutralised. I am clearly cut out for this kind of diet, as I have come back weighing less than I did before, despite eating a kilo of bread before every meal and consuming three cows and a lamb during the course of my stay.

6. The Alcohol. I am not really one for drinking spirits in the UK, preferring to up my 5-a-day fruit and vegetable quota by having wine instead. However, I enjoy both Ouzo and *whispers* Metaxa Brandy, and only a properly Greek person could say that.

7. My Promising Fluency In The Greek Language. Obviously, the Greek language does itself no favours by using silly squiggles and shapes instead of proper letters, but despite such obstacles I found myself in full possession of an almost entire vocabulary after just a few days. I can say: hello, good morning, good evening, goodbye, please, cheers, how are you, and very well thank you; what more, frankly, does one need? By the way, all the haters on Twitter who suggested I should learn the useful phrase “more please” were roundly ignored.

So there you go; incontrovertible proof of my inherent Greek-ness. Now all I have to do is sort the maths out, as I’m fairly sure I’m half Spanish and half Italian as well…

August 20, 2011
7 Reasons Not To Keep Twiglets In The Kitchen

Sometimes I have good ideas; sometimes I have brilliant ideas; sometimes I have ideas so utterly fantastic and ground-breakingly innovative that people actually gasp in wonderment and prostrate themselves on the floor in front of me. And much of that sentence is true. Earlier this week, however, I had a bad idea – one that seemed good at the time – but turned out to be a bad one, a stinker, a shocker; possibly, in fact, the worst idea I have had since I decided to ride my bicycle no-handed on a beach side path with a passenger on the back and the bottom of a cliff immediately to my left. I decided – as there were two 200g tubs of Twiglets in the house (it had been my wife’s birthday) that I should keep them in the kitchen, out of harms way, where I wouldn’t just sit and munch them, as I had been expressly instructed not to eat them all. Here are seven reasons not to keep your Twiglets in the kitchen.

A plate! What divine and decadent luxury.

1. Measuring Them Seems Easy. You will fill your hand with Twiglets every time you go to the kitchen. It’s simple: The Twiglets are a long way away from you in a room you’re not going to visit very often, so having a handful of them every time you’re passing will mean that you will consume a negligible amount. It won’t even register that they’ve gone. Unless, that is, you have enormous hands. A fact you will conveniently forget.

2. It Makes Them More Tempting. Is there a temptation greater than forbidden fruit? A philosophical question that has been asked throughout the ages, and now there is an answer. Yes. It’s forbidden Twiglets. It’s like the prohibition era or being told not to tie your younger brother to a lamp post. The more restrictions that are placed on doing something, the more glamorous and fascinating it becomes. You may be sitting in the living room ostensibly watching a film, but your increasing fixation will cause your every pore and sinew to be strained, consumed as you are with longing and desire for the Twiglets.

3. You’ll Become Devious. In the grip of Twiglet-fever, you’ll begin to make excuses to visit the kitchen: “Oh, I seem to have run out of beer,” you’ll say, before popping back to the kitchen for more beer (and Twiglets). A few minutes after having returned, your lust for those Twiglets will rear its head again and you’ll down another beer: “Oh, I seem to have run out again”, you’ll announce blithely as you head once more to the kitchen. This is a pattern that will repeat itself during the course of the evening until eventually you will find that you feel bloated and rather tipsy. Not much room left in my stomach, you’ll think to yourself and with abject brilliance you’ll decide that this is because the beer is taking up too much of it and that now is the time to switch to shorts. But it turns out that drinking a beer for every handful of Twiglets is rather sensible when compared to drinking a whisky for every handful. You’ll find that you’re soon going to the kitchen for Twiglets three times as frequently as you were before but it’s taking you four times as long to get there. And the kitchen door’s suddenly become really complicated.

4. Your Hand Will Become Brown. Your hand is dark brown. In fact, your hand is exactly the same shade of brown as a Twiglet. Your chin is also brown as, in fact, is just about everything you have touched. This is bad, as you will make this discovery while using the toilet. On leaving the bathroom, you head back to the kitchen to wash your hands and to stock up on Twiglets.

5. It Will Make You A Bad Person. The Twiglets will make you tell untruths. If they were right there in the living room with you, you wouldn’t be in their thrall, gripped by a seemingly insatiable Twiglet-mania, but they aren’t and you are. “Have you been eating the Twiglets?” “No!” “Are you sure?” “Yes.” The Twiglets have made you fib. If the Twiglets were in the living room and everything were out in the open and you were in a relationship based on complete Twiglet-candour you wouldn’t have to resort to lying about them but they aren’t and you’re not. You’re a big, fat liar with a brown hand. “Fancy a glass of wine, darling?” You enquire as you head toward the kitchen, pants blazing merrily away behind you.

6. It Will Upset Your Children. Eventually, as is usual, you’ll hear your baby begin to stir. “I’ll go”, you’ll will shock your wife by saying, as you head to the baby’s room (via the kitchen). It turns out that he’s not hungry and he doesn’t need changing; he just wants to play. As you play with your teething baby – who is going through that stage where he just wants to suck everything – he will grab your fingers for the umpteenth time that week and shove them into his mouth. Slowly, the delighted expression on his face will change. The new face is a little difficult to describe: Try to imagine Geoffrey Boycott sucking a lemon-flavoured wasp. Now try to forget that. Difficult, isn’t it? Then he will begin to scream inconsolably and loudly for a very long time. After a while, your wife will appear: “What’s up with him?” she’ll enquire. “I don’t know”, you’ll state, “he won’t stop crying. Would you like a turn?”. Handing the baby to your wife, you’ll head back to the kitchen for Twiglets.

7. It Has Consequences. The next morning you won’t feel so good, you’ll have brown hands, the mother of all hangovers, an angry wife, a wary baby, unaccountably slippery kitchen door-knobs, a higher salt content than most seas and, most irritatingly of all, no Twiglets left. If only you’d kept them in the living room.

August 18, 2011
7 Reasons Not To Wear A Bee

Something odd happened in Hunan province the other day. Two men wore bees. Why? No one is quite sure. What we do know is that it is a jolly silly thing to do. Here’s why:

Marc went to extremes not to have to deal with yet more rubbish guest post submissions

1. Fashion. Hardly the outfit retail buyers want to see buzzing down the catwalk is it? It makes some of the outfits Naomi Campbell wears look quite normal. And that comes from a man who has always thought they’d look stupid on me. Naomi Campbell’s outfits I mean, not bees. Bees wouldn’t look stupid on me. They’d probably make me look like a high-street honey.*

2. Survival. What I haven’t worked out here is how you survive. Once the bees are on, how do you eat and drink? It’s not like a nine to five job. The bees don’t turn up, do their eight hour shift and then fly back to their hive for the evening. Once they are on, they stay on. Which is why there are two, bee-covered, thirsty men walking around China and no one is able to help them. They have got to be regretting that chat in the underground pub the authorities didn’t know existed until about now. (It’s disguised as a fake Apple store).

3. Mass Murder. As I am sure we both know, bees die once they sting.** So what happens if you make a sudden movement? In all likelihood the bees are going to get angry. And angry bees sting. Before you know it you are going to be standing atop a mountain of dead bees. It’s not a great look and you’d probably have to answer to some little madam from the NSPCBee***.

4. Ambition. Wearing bees can not be the pinnacle of achievement. For insects that sting you, they are relatively friendly when you consider other buzzy, stingy things like wasps and hornets. To only want to wear bees is a bit like only wanting to play cricket against Bangladesh. Or baseball for the Baltimore Orioles. There is so much more to achieve. Which worries me significantly. A man who tries to wear hornets is a man who should only do so in downtown Paris.

5. Sitting Down. Oooh, tingly.

6. Modesty. As an item of clothing goes, bees are hardly reliable. I can easily foresee the embarrassment now. There you are, walking down the road covered in your bee onesie only for the Queen Bee to die. Then what happens? Yep, you guessed it, all the other bees fly off. Leaving you completely starkers on a zebra crossing. Not a pretty sight. Especially as you didn’t ‘honey’ comb your hair.****

7. Car Mechanics. Not only would being covered in bees hinder your ability to do your job properly (I expect – though Kwik-Fit weren’t covered in bees and yet still failed to fix the squeaky wheel on my skateboard), you’d also get constant heckling. “Oi mate! Who put a bee in your bonnet?!”***** It’s probably not worth the hassle.

*Sorry. I’m not proud of that.

**The place to correct me for such factual inaccuracies is in the comments section below. I thank you.

***Sorry. I’m not proud of that either.

****Nor that.

*****That’s quite good isn’t it? Oh, okay. Sorry.

July 21, 2011
Guest Post: 7 Reasons Why A Barbecue Is Better Than A Microwave

Given the weather we have had so far this year, the chances are you’ve already had a barbecue. If you haven’t though – and you still insist on taking your microwave to the park for a picnic – then you really need to pay attention. Sitting on the sofa this week is Robert Plastow. A man who has important things to share about nuclear attacks and leather. Yes, we know, you like him already. Here’s Robert:

This isn’t Robert. This is a Beefeater 900 Series Classic 3 Burner Gas Barbecue. But you knew that.

1. Friends. Having friends over to hang around your microwave for a few beers isn’t as thrilling as having a BBQ party. For one, you’d need quite a big kitchen and quite a big microwave. Even then the anticipation of fervent hunger wouldn’t be as satisfyingly met by the nonchalant ding of a microwave as it would be by the crackle and hiss of mesmerising flames as they lick the dripping fat from a perfectly cooked burger. It might be quicker but microwave cooking is about as sociable as J.D Salinger impersonating a hermit crab in an underground bunker with the lights off.

2. Outdoors. Unlike a barbecue, you can’t take a microwave to the beach or to the park. Barbecues can be portable, which means that if the sun is shining you can be cooking over a mini fire and dining al fresco wherever you are. The great outdoors becomes your friend as every landscape becomes a potential dining table where you can feast upon the bounty of nature in both body and mind. Meanwhile, back at home your microwave sits in the kitchen like a dormant robot awaiting the signal for the rise of the machines and the ensuing mechanical apocalypse. (If you have been taking a microwave to the park for a picnic recently, you should talk about it with someone who knows you well and who you feel comfortable around. Ask someone whose opinion you value and see if they think you need to be referred to a therapist.)

3. We Are Man. Sitting by a fire and cooking flesh brings out the masculine caveman instinct, whereas sitting by a microwave probably gives you ball cancer. There’s no medical evidence to support this claim but I challenge any man to happily sit naked on top of a microwave whilst it nukes a spud for 10 minutes straight. Whereas BBQs are different. Men throughout the ages have been more than happy to hang around a fire whilst perpetuating an overused stereotype of primitive masculinity attached to carnivorism. Grunting and farting as they proudly cook another creature’s flesh, it’s easy to see why men prefer to assert their dominance over fire and beast alike rather than frying their nuts in accurately timed bouts of microwave radiation.

4. Aussie, Aussie, Aussie. Microwaves could destroy Australia, while barbecues make it what it is. You can’t throw another shrimp on the microwave. Not unless you want it to rot along with all the other detritus that has been lost in the sands of time behind your beeping radiation cupboard. Australians would lose their entire culture if microwaves replaced barbecues. They wouldn’t survive the cultural upheaval and havoc that newer phrases would wreak on their well-established parlance. Can you see an Aussie saying “reheat another plate of leftovers in the wavey mate”?. Australia, in its very being, is itself an argument for the prevalence of barbecues over microwaves. Would you deny the culture and population of an entire country for the sake of a conveniently cooked ready-meal?

5. The World Of Leather. A microwave ‘leatherises’ meat. Try cooking a steak in the microwave and see what happens. Seriously. Go and spend a good chunk of money on a really nice fillet steak and put it in your microwave set to max power for 5 mins and watch it shrivel into a poor impersonation of a mummified chihuahua. Alternatively, season and lightly oil it, then flame grill it to perfection over the glowing grill of your beloved gas barbecue. If you eat the one from the microwave you’ll be confined to the smallest room in the house whilst your barbecuing friends will be drinking all your beer.

6. Nuclear Attack. A microwave destroys the nutritional value of food, whereas barbecues lock it in behind walls of chargrilled deliciousness. Microwaving is not called ‘nuking’ your food without reason. When nuking, you are heating your food through a process of molecular friction, which destroys the delicate molecules of vitamins and phytonutirents. And that’s SCIENCE. Read it and weep. You might as well take something really healthy, sniff it and then eat warm cardboard – it is pretty much the same experience you will get from microwaving your food. I challenge any microwave fan to a scurvy cook-off. You try living off of microwaved food alone for 3 months while I’ll take my vitamins barbecue style. Whoever gets scurvy first, loses.

7. Active Pursuits. Microwaves are the tools of the obese and lazy living dead. Get up off your fat bum and barbecue something before the last vitamin in your radiated body gives up and dies. Get outside, breathe in the air, enjoy the sunshine with all its energy giving vitamin D and use your fat covered muscles to drag your grill out of the shed before they waste away. Barbecuing takes time and has to be done outdoors which means you get the benefits of both exercise and of being in your evolutionary home: nature. You remember nature don’t you microwave fans? Or are you too removed from it in your automated, mechanized matrix of sloth to only recall images of the outside world when beamed to you through the pixels of an electrified screen? Get outside and barbecue now!

May 28, 2011