Tag: Ginger

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
Russian Roulette Sunday: It’s Cake!
Hello 7 Reasons readers! It’s Marc here and today, dear readers, we would like you to make a cake. This cake.

It’s Oxfam’s Easy Lime and Ginger Cheesecake, the recipe for which comes from my local Oxfam Bookshop’s brilliant blog . The recipe calls for the use of Fairtrade Stem Ginger Cookies and, when you go to your nearest Oxfam shop to buy them, you’ll be giving money to a worthwhile cause. That’s right readers, by making and eating an ethically sourced cheesecake (unless you buy mascarpone sourced from warmongering cheesemongers) you’ll be helping a good cause in an ethical way. In fact, if we can all make and eat enough cheesecake, we can probably save the world, and I’ll be trying very hard. Here’s the achingly simple recipe as published by Oxfam Books, Petergate York:

Easy Lime and Ginger Cheesecake
- Serves 4
- Prep time: 15 min
- Chilling time: 30 min
- Basically, in 45 minutes you’re in business.
Ingredients
- 200g pack of Fairtrade stem ginger cookies, crushed
- 50g butter, melted
- 500g mascarpone cheese (they usually come in 250g tubs, so get two of these)
- 40g icing sugar, sifted
- Finely grated zest and juice of two limes
Method

1. Mix together the crushed biscuits and melted butter (I also like to add a bit of sugar to my cheesecake bases to make them a bit jazzier) and press into the bottom of an 18cm (7inch) spring-sided or loose-bottomed cake tin.

2. Place the mascarpone cheese, icing sugar, lime zest and juice in a bowl and beat together. Spread this mixture over the biscuit base.

3. Put it in the fridge and chill for 30 min! That’s really it.

That’s the entire recipe. It’s basically spreading cheese on biscuits and it’s so simple that absolutelyanyone should be able to make it. And now we’re going to demonstrate that even people with no food preparation skills, knowledge or aptitude can follow this recipe. I’m going to hand you over to my writing partner: A man whose culinary education began and ended with learning how to boil water for tea: A man who – before he moved to Kent – was known as The Fulham Poisoner: A man whose litany of culinary disasters includes failing at defrosting a chicken and the hospitalisation of a flatmate*. He’s going to make a cheesecake himself and feed it to his fiancé Claire – a renowned and accomplished maker of cakes – who will judge it on appearance, texture and taste (should she survive). Here’s Jon.

“It was only when I was standing in the queue that I realised I had been well and truly duped. The idea of making a cheesecake and then eating it had originally sounded like a good idea, which is why I had agreed. Marc had, after all, said all it required was a spare half hour. In my book, that’s a fair exchange for cake. But as I stood there I realised it had already been twenty-five since I had left home and I hadn’t even purchased the ingredients. There was no way I could make a cheesecake in five minutes. Not there. And then I got to the till. Which is when I realised this idea was also going to cost me money. Just short of £5 in fact. That’s a lot to spend just to have something to write about. I couldn’t help but think if I had managed the past year and a half writing without having to pay for the privilege, why did this have to change? I trudged home.

Having spread the ingredients in front of me and read the recipe, I realised this was the exact same cheesecake that Claire makes. And she makes it very well. Brilliant. So I’ve had to walk all the way the shops, spend the best part of a fiver on ingredients and now I am challenging my future wife by making one of her specialities. Perturbed, I carried on. Twenty minutes later I was left staring at the following creation:

Making it was something of a doddle. What was not a doddle was the washing up. I don’t know how often you zest a lime, but cleaning the zesting part of the grater is quite possibly a harder job than watching England play cricket. Still, an hour later I was done. I also had lime poisoning from licking the bowl.

The next part of this project – and that is very much what it had become – was to get Claire to profer her opinion. These are the results of the Claire survey.

On Appearance: “That looks nice.”

On Texture: “It’s nice.”

On Taste: “That was very nice”.

So there we have it. I make nice cheesecakes. I am sure your Sunday just got a whole lot better with that news.”

*Which he denies.**

**Falsely.

***As Oxfam Books, Petergate York would (and actually did) tell you themselves, remember the whole point of this recipe is that it is a Fairtrade recipe. So help the global community during this Fairtrade Fortnight (and after) by buying Fairtrade goods as much as you can.
March 6, 2011
Russian Roulette Sunday: A Recipe

Hi, Marc here. It’s Sunday and half of the 7 Reasons team is unwell. Sadly, its the half that’s writing today’s post; so I’m sorry if you’ve been clicking refresh on the homepage for the last few hours waiting expectantly for this to appear. Anyway, here it is.

A glass of mulled wine contains several of your five a day. Probably.

We’ve brought you recipes before of course. I’ve given you a recipe for SPAM on a plank, and Jon’s shown you how to remove something from the freezer. Badly. But it occurred to me that we’ve never given you a recipe for something you might conceivably like to consume. And it’s the time of year for it, so here’s my epic recipe for mulled wine that I’ve been inflicting on house-guests every winter since…well…before we had a house. Or guests. Anyway, here are the ingredients that you will need:

2 Bottles of red wine: It doesn’t matter how many people that you are going to give mulled wine too, the correct quantity is always two bottles. Don’t just use the cheapest wine that you can find as, if you do, your mulled-wine will be mulled-cheap-wine, and no one will like it. You don’t need to spend very much though, an inexpensive Aussie Shiraz-Cabernet will have enough strong fruit notes and body to support the ingredients, or a cheap Tempranillo. Just don’t use anything too light of body like a Pinot Noir or a Beaujolais, as it will be overpowered by the other ingredients.

2 Lemons (quartered).

2 Oranges (quartered).

4 Cloves.

5 Tablespoons of honey.

1 Cinnamon stick.

2 Teaspoons of ground ginger.

Put all of the ingredients into a pan. Put the pan on the hob. Turn the hob on (to a low heat). Stir constantly until the mulled-wine is near boiling point but importantly DO NOT LET THE MULLED-WINE BOIL! When it boils the alcohol escapes, and you need that in order to suffer your house-guests, (or they will need it to suffer you, in my case). While it is warming, taste frequently and add any random thing you can think of to improve the flavour. Last New Year’s Eve, I added a quartered and squeezed satsuma, half a cup of brandy, half a cup of triple sec, a big splash of orange juice and a tsunami of dark rum*. All of these things work very well in it. When everything’s in and it’s near boiling point turn the hob off and ladle your mulled-wine into cups, mugs or glasses (glasses without handles will be too hot to hold so only give those to guests you dislike). You may then drink the mulled-wine. And as you’re the person that made the delicious, warming, tasty beverage that they enjoyed so, everyone will briefly love you and will happily tolerate you for the remainder of the evening.

Right, I’m off to mull my way back to health. 7 Reasons will be back tomorrow with seven reasons…for something.

*Several hours after drinking this mulled-wine when we were cracking open the Champagne, we all realised that we were really quite drunk, and were surprised because we’d only consumed a bit of mulled-wine and three or four beers over the course of the evening. I think I’ve just solved the mystery.

December 19, 2010
7 Reasons Prince Harry Should Get Married Right Away

1. Brothers. I am going to state a well-known fact here, so bear with me. It’s important. Harry is younger than William. As an older brother myself, I like to try and set an example for my younger sibling to follow. What I don’t like, is when he goes off at his own tangent and out does me by doing it his way. Which is what he did with exams. And girls. It basically makes me feel like a loose part. The thing is though, he bloody loved it. And he’s not alone. All younger siblings like getting one over their elders. And what better way for Harry to ‘reign’ on William’s parade, by getting married now? To some girl called Bianca. From Essex.

2. Hyperbole. Unless you have been stuck on the toilet since early Tuesday morning, you will have seen the hyperbolic attention that the pending marriage between William and Kate has received. (I was very tempted to write hyperbollocks, but didn’t as my Mum might learn how to use a computer one day and read this). Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I am not very happy for them, I am. Indeed, in my role as a proud Briton and appreciator of our history I will no doubt raise a Pimm’s on the day. It’s just that so much has been spoken and yet so much of it is just nonsense. On Wednesday Jeremy Vine decided that the discerning Radio 2 listener had the ability to offer our future Queen advice. I switched off. I may be very wide of the mark, but I suspect that should Miss Middleton need advice she is far more likely to phone her Mum than download a Jeremy Vine podcast. And basically, my point is that Prince Harry should get married now, so that we don’t have to listen to all this claptrap again in five years.

3. Journalism. It’s a headline writer’s dream. You probably haven’t realised this yet, what with Wills’ wedding overshadowing absolutely everything, and not caring and all, but Harry rhymes with marry. That’s right! We can expect to see Happy Harry to Marry (Daily Mail), A Harriage Made In Heaven (Daily Star), and Son of Murdered Diana to Wed (Daily Express). And now that there are civil partnerships his options aren’t limited to marrying a Carrie, he can marry a Barry or a Larry too. Or a Keith.

4. Tradition. Over the past century or so, royal standards have eroded to the point where it’s now commonplace for royals to marry commoners. That’s right; the likes of you. William is marrying one as well. But there’s still hope. Harry can turn back the tide of decay by choosing to have a proper royal marriage to a girl that he’s related to. And that will be a return to the grand royal tradition, to the days when the many crowned heads of Europe would assemble for important gatherings at which there would be several hundred attendees, but only one face, and the only way to distinguish between any of them would be their facial hair and – in the case of the Kaiser – his pointy helmet and his propensity to invade the drawing room.

Where's Willhelm?

5. Hair. Let’s face it, His Royal Highness, Prince Henry Charles Albert David of Wales has a ginger bonce. Given the family propensity for hair loss – and we have no reason to assume that this will skip a generation, none whatsoever – he’s likely to be both balding and ginger soon. He needs to marry at once in order to avoid looking like a cross between Patsy Palmer and Prince Edward in his wedding pictures, because there is nothing in Photoshop that can rescue that. Nothing.

6. Divorce. Whenever anyone gets divorced, it’s sad. Even if there is much jubilation from both parties. To think that once these two people loved each other so much that they wanted to make that vision of spending the rest of their lives together a reality. Or they met in Las Vegas. Either way, come the final separation, there is sadness. I defy anyone who says otherwise. Unfortunately, for whatever reason (again, probably seven) the incumbent Royal Family have a history of unhappy marriages. So much so that they have employed a designer to add a little sparkle to their divorce papers. Because it will almost certainly happen again. Though I think it is unlikely to be William and Kate. I suspect, if you walked into any betting shop, you would find the odds on Prince Harry getting divorced to be much shorter than those of his brother. And while I hope it doesn’t happen, it may. And if it does Prince Harry may wish to find someone else to spend his time with. Which leads me nicely onto the point of this reason. If Prince Harry marries right now, he has more time in the future if it goes wrong.

7. It’s The Economy, Stupid. In case you haven’t noticed, Britain is in a recession. And it isn’t going well. To cut costs, we’re going to share the defence of the realm with the French (which is actually a good idea…for a sitcom. Or for Germany) and, if the recession hits any harder we’ll have to take more drastic action: Swingeing health cuts or selling the Queen or something. But wait! According to esteemed financial publication, The Sun, the forthcoming wedding of Wills and Kate will boost the economy by a billion pounds. That’s right. A billion pounds. So if Harry gets married sharpish, that’ll be two billion pounds into the nation’s coffers. And if we can get them breeding, in twenty or thirty years time, with the resultant glut of royal weddings, Britain will once again become one of the most prosperous nations on the planet.*

*And we can all start wearing top hats again.**

**Except in the cinema.

November 19, 2010
7 Reasons That James Blunt Must Be Stopped

You may agree with Dave Cameron; you may follow Nick Thing; you may be a supporter of Mad Elliband; you may be a devotee of that Scottish man with a name like a fish. It doesn’t matter, because there’s one cause that everyone must unite behind: Stopping James Blunt. And be in no doubt whatsoever, James Blunt must be stopped. Here are seven reasons why.

1. Ubiquity. He’s bloody everywhere. On everything. I can’t turn on my television or my radio at the moment without James Blunt being on it. I can’t visit websites – though I’m aware I’m now partially responsible for this – or open newspapers (yes, newspapers, those paper things from the past that existed before this screen in front of you with these words on. He’s in them too) without seeing or hearing him. James Blunt has – in the last fortnight – achieved total, absolute, all-permeating multi-platform media omnipresence. He’s in a magazine somewhere near me right now. And near you. In fact he’s in all of the magazines. Everywhere. All over the place. Being James Blunt.

2. He’s Becoming Weirder. Remember when Tom Cruise seemed normal? No? Well some of us have long memories and he did once. Before he split up with Penelope Cruz; before he started jumping up and down on Oprah’s sofa; before he began espousing odd birthing techniques, Tom Cruise didn’t seem all that weird. But he does now. And the same thing is happening to James Blunt. He used to look and seem relatively at one with the world, but the more I see him, and the more I see him respond to external stimuli (interviews, conversation etc) by grinning inanely and then grinning inanely some more, the more he reminds me of Tom Cruise. Which is the slippery slope to weirdness.

3. His Hair. Have you seen his hair? I’m about to skirt the accepted boundaries of heterosexuality right here and right now, but I don’t care; because James Blunt’s hair used to be lovely. Absolutely fucking lovely. A dark, lustrous, bounteous, luxuriant barnet; a follicular paragon; a mane to rival the legendary tresses of both Samson and Aniston, but have you seen it recently? When he appeared on Have I Got News For You (and Never Mind The Buzzcocks and Daybreak and The One Show and BBC Breakfast and T4 and Something For The Weekend and London Tonight and The Graham Norton Show) it looked like he’d painted a brillo pad orange and stuck it down to his head. I don’t know how this is happening to his hair or why it’s happening; but what if it’s catching? What if it happens to my hair?! Or yours?

Seriously. What has happened here and is it contagious?

4. The Bath. And then last night it all became even stranger. Because, when I was listening to a politics programme on BBC Radio 5Live in the bath (on a rare occasion that it wasn’t full of champagne and dancing girls), they announced that they were about to interview James Blunt. Oh God, I thought. I’m trapped. I’ve just put on my facial mud (for MEN) and now I’m going to be stuck in the bath for twenty minutes listening to James Blunt…again. And I was. And I couldn’t even put my head under the water to cover my ears or to drown myself because of the mud. So I had to listen. And listen I did. I listened to James Blunt recount the time that he disobeyed orders from his commanders in Kosovo and didn’t attack the Russians, thus averting a massive East-West conflict. That’s right, James Blunt saved us from World War III. And while, at the bottom of my heart, I knew that not having a third world war was probably a good and desirable thing, I couldn’t help thinking that if we’d had a third world war, James Blunt would never have been allowed to leave the army and we’d never have had to listen to his music, and he wouldn’t be bloody everywhere; all over the place; even in my bath.

5. The Song. And sure enough, as I lay there unable to escape from James Blunt: Saviour of the World, they played the song. The same song that I’ve heard everywhere, every time that James Blunt has appeared over the last fortnight: You’re Beautiful. The one James Blunt song that I know, apparently the one James Blunt song that everyone knows. There are others, sure, but can you name them? No, and I can’t either. I, a musical man with an enviable collection of music; a man for whom music has been a passion for his entire life. A man who owns all four Electrelane studio albums, and has most of the Os Mutantes albums on original vinyl. I can’t name more than one James Blunt song and neither can anyone else except his fans, and even they can’t do it with any certainty. And having heard it sodding everywhere for the past fortnight (even the Sesame Street version) it came as a blessed relief later on, to turn the television, the computer and the radio off knowing that I would escape from it. And then my wife started humming the bloody thing (having presumably absorbed it through some sort of osmosis) and, while I couldn’t help but agree with her sentiments, it was still the same damned song…again. But off key.

6. Then There’s His Name. James Blunt’s name is James Blunt. That’s right: James Blunt. And you might think to a humourist, that it would offer all manner of potential, but it doesn’t. Quite the opposite, in fact. Because it rhymes with the one word in the English language that you can never, ever use without losing the sympathy of your reader. If he were called James Bluck, James Block, James Blank, James Blick, James Blit, James Bliss, James Blits, or James Brance I might conceivably be able to make fun of him in rhyme. But I can’t. Because his name is Blunt. And do know what’s really annoying about it? It isn’t even his real name. He changed it. His original name is Blount: Pronounced Blunt.

7. And This Is The Worst Part. He seems like a nice guy. A man who, despite being everywhere with his one song irritating the hell out of you, me and all those other people standing about and clogging the pavements, actually seems to have substance. A man who has a mind of his own and is no mere vacuous, avaricious, chancer like many contemporary popular musicians. A man who has served his country in combat and has come out of the experience intact and has forged a successful post-army life for himself; sadly in contrast to many ex-servicemen who often don’t get the support that they deserve and that we owe them. A man who goes back and performs concerts for the troops and is a vociferous advocate of, and fundraiser for, Médecins Sans Frontières. And that makes criticism of him hard. And it probably makes me look like a bit of a count. But please, for the love of god, James. Stop. Enough. We all know we’re beautiful and we need a break now.

November 15, 2010
7 Reasons I Can’t Converse With The Cat

No doubt you will have read the title of this piece and automatically assumed it was going to be Marc talking about Horatio Pyewackett Caractacus Fearns. Sadly, it’s not. It’s me. Jon. And I’m talking about next door’s cat. Ginger. Though that might not be his real name. He might not even be a he. But anyway, this story starts on Tuesday morning. I have just finished writing Tuesday’s 7 Reasons post and I am walking into the garden with the day’s laundry. I pass Ginger on the way. Two minutes later I am attacking the washing line. Suddenly there is a ‘meow’ from behind me. It’s Ginger. He wants to talk. I don’t.

1. How To Address A Cat. ‘Hello Cat,’ seems somewhat rude. I don’t start interaction with a person by saying, ‘Hello Person’ or ‘Hello Human’. Unless he actually is called Hugh Mann, in which case I probably would. But given that I don’t know any Hugh Mann’s, I don’t. So basically, what I’m trying to say, is that addressing a cat as ‘Cat’ is rude. And I would also feel a prat.

2. The Neighbours. I don’t know what it’s like where you live, but in Kent, our neighbours live next door. And I note that they are in. Either that or Jeremy Kyle has popped round to open the windows. I can’t help but feel that if I can hear Jeremy, then he can hear me. And the last thing I want is for Jez Kyle to hear me talking with the cat he is supposed to be looking after. No, actually that’s the second last thing I want. The last thing I want is for the neighbours to hear me talking to their cat.

3. Subject Matter. Even if I could bring myself to indulge in a little reparte with the ginger one, I am not at all sure what one should reparte about. Whiskers? The location of Felix? How to trap a dog in a bucket? Some of these things I don’t even know much about. Though I do think giving the bucket holes for legs is the way to go.

4. Other Cats. Two months ago, I unbeknowingly moved into a cat hotspot. Which, I am delighted to say, sounds a lot more disturbing than the RSPCA would initially think. I just mean there are a lot of cats around. And by a lot, I mean at least seventy-three thousand. I imagine that Ginger has been sent out by his other feline mates to track down some unsuspecting humanoid who will gladly entertain them with stories of cat food in Tesco before they go off and have a scratch for the rest of the day. I am not that humanoid.

5. Commitment. Just say I do talk with the cat. Then what? Is he/she going to expect it to be a daily occurrence? Will he/she expect us to go for walks together? Will he/she start leaving me Snickers bars outside and expect me to return the favour with dead mice? When he/she goes a bit grey, will I be expected to re-dye their hair? Am I going to have to read a eulogy at their funeral?

6. Bullying. Whenever I find myself in a situation of awkward silence, I generally find myself making some stupid joke. Sometimes this stupid joke comes at the expense of whoever I am locked in awkward silence with. Sometimes this stupid joke is not seen as a joke. Sometimes this stupid joke is seen as an insult. Sometimes they walk off. Sometimes they slap me. Ginger is, as his/her name suggests, ginger. We are locked in awkward silence. Cats have claws. I can do the maths.

7. Language. This is a hypothetical situation as we have already established a conversation with the cat is not going to happen, but just suppose it was going to. On whose terms would the conversation take place? Would the cat reply to me in English or would I have to speak Catlish? Neither of us really own this garden so it’s not as if either of us could claim home advantage and insist on their own language. Yes, I hang up the garden owner’s laundry, but the cat keeps the garden owner’s soil warm by rolling all over it. We’re equals. And maybe that’s the way it should end? I go in and have a cup of tea. The cat has a scratch. Probably.

September 2, 2010