Frugal

I'm delighted by the Love Food Hate Waste campaign which is being foisted on various people around the country.

Now, I'm as environmentally-friendly as the next man, assuming the next man isn't made out of uranium, petrol-fumes and lead, but I was amused by the smashing recipe for Use Up Soup, "a nutritious, cheap and filling soup that takes only minutes to make and serve."

Here it is...

• 570ml chicken stock (made from leftover chicken bones)
• 1 garlic clove, finely sliced
• 4 overripe tomatoes
• 50g green vegetables, such as runner beans, French beans, mangetout, sugar snap peas, broccoli
• 1 tbsp tomato ketchup or 1/2 tbsp tomato puree
• 1 can 400g mixed beans
• 125g leftover cooked chicken or ham
• Salt and ground black pepper
• 50g leftover soft cheese such as Brie or goat's
• 1 spring onion, finely chopped
• Virgin olive oil
• leftover bread slices, lightly toasted

Mmm. Lovely. But I'm concerned by how often the specific circumstances required to make the soup come around. It must be a bit like a transit of Venus.

INT. KITCHEN - TEATIME

CHARLES AND EDDIE ARE IN THEIR KITCHEN. THEY ARE HOMOSEXUALS, BUT THIS IS NOT RELEVANT TO THE IMAGINING, OTHER THAN TO EXPLAIN WHY THEY ARE IN THE KITCHEN TOGETHER. AND ALSO BECAUSE I RARELY USE HOMOSEXUALIST EXAMPLES. (IF YOU LIKE, CHARLES COULD BE A BLACK GENTLEMAN.)

CHARLES
Crikey, Eddie, I'm awfully peckish.

EDDIE
Me too. Shall we see what to have for tea?

CHARLES
Yes. But let's not be wasteful. Let's make that lovely Use Up Soup.

EDDIE
Do we have the ingredients?

CHARLES
We're bound to, as it is "great for making sure any odds and ends are used up from the fridge." Open the fridge, Edward, and I shall recite the ingredients... First, chicken stock, made from leftover chicken bones.

EDDIE
Yes. Got that.

CHARLES
Garlic, overripe tomatoes.

EDDIE
Overripe? How ripe is overripe? These four are a bit squashy, but I'd just call them ripe. Do they need to have mould on?

CHARLES
They'll be fine. After all, Eddie, as my old gay dad used to say, "One man's ripe tomato is another man's overripe tomato."

MUCH LATER...

CHARLES
Leftover cooked chicken or ham.

EDDIE
Phew! We nearly ate all that cooked chicken when we cooked it with the aid of our cooker. Thank goodness for your prescience, Charles.

CHARLES
Leftover soft cheese, such as Brie or goat's.

EDDIE
Well, Charles, as you know, we are homosexuals so we always have Brie and goat's cheese in the fridge. Which would you prefer?

CHARLES
I've always liked goat's.

EDDIE
Goat's it is.

CHARLES
Spring onion. Virgin olive oil.

EDDIE
Ooo, shall we have extra virgin?

CHARLES
Why not? I'm very much in the mood for a treat vis-a-vis my tea, given the length of this list of ingredients. And finally... leftover bread slices.

EDDIE
Ha! I nearly looked in the fridge. I'd better close that, actually, lest any food go off. What a terrible irony that would be.

CHARLES
The bread, Eddie. Eddie? Eddie! What's wrong? Why do you weep so?

EDDIE
Oh, Charles, we've got no leftover bread. We've been too frugal and used it all. Shall I open a new loaf?

CHARLES
No leftover bread? Are you sure?

EDDIE
Would I lie to you?

CHARLES
No! It's all ruined, you bastard! I'm going home to my two gay fathers.

CHARLES KICKS EDDIE HARD IN THE HEAD.

ENDS.

That could very easily happen. Love Food Hate Waste? Love Food Hate Waste Hate People Want Them All To Be Frustrated, more like.

Ball Of Confusion

I've been watching the Wimbledon on the television. It's all very good and everything, but I'm a bit distracted by the ladies' knickers.

And not for any saucy reason. Frankly, I'd be disappointed if you thought that. It's more to do with the balls.

I reckon it must be very difficult for the lady serving if the other player returns the ball, because then she has to leg it across the court with a big tennis ball in her pants.

No wonder they make that massive grunt. I'd be browned off, too, if I were faced with a bit of a run with a ball in my pants.

It's not so bad for the chaps, of course, but it's still got to be a bit constricting having one in their pocket.

I think if I were a tennis player, I'd probably be tempted to put the first service into the net on purpose, just so I could free up my pocket for whatever knick-knacks I had in there. My mobile, or whatever. But that would be risky.

So I've come up with a smashing new idea. The Ball Thigh Bracelet. This is a heavy metal band which players wear on their thigh. How it would work is that tennis balls would now contain a powerful magnet. The spare ball would then adhere to the outer thigh until pressed into service.

And, as both players would wear the Ball Thigh Bracelet, neither would be at a disadvantage.

The only problem I could see would be if the ball in play veered a bit close to the opponent's thigh adhering inadvertantly. But that's not something I would be concerned about. These are highly-paid professionals, who should be able to move their thighs if required. Moving a thigh is probably the least one could expect of a tennis player.

I think it's the only practical solution until tennis players evolve little pouches like kangaroos, i.e. for ages.

Five Things People Think Work But In Fact Don't

1) Crossing fingers when lying
No defence in law. It turns out.

2) Dog whistles
They just lick them. They'd rather bark anyway, I suspect.

3) Anti-ageing cream
You might as well have anti-gravity cream.

4) The internet
Michael Jackson dies and Twitter follows suit.

5) Anything other than fools or horses.

Gnat's Entertainment

I wonder what simile gnats use when referring to something of notable tightness.

EXT. GNATS' CAR PARK - DAY

TWO GNATS ARE SITTING IN A CAR, TALKING.

MARTIN (gnat, early 30s):
Goodness, Terence, that parking space is a tight as, erm, my chuff.

TERENCE (gnat, late 30s):
I really wouldn't know, Martin.

MARTIN:
OK, Terence, it's as tight as your chuff.

TERENCE:
Martin...

MARTIN:
Argh! All right, Terence, fair enough. It's as tight as, I don't know, a chuff. Anyone's chuff.

TERENCE:
Martin, I'm beginning to feel a little uncomfortable. Can we stop talking about chuffs?

MARTIN:
I'm sorry, Terence, I'm just trying to think of something that's quite tight, so that I can adequately express the area in which I am expected to park.

TERENCE:
I appreciate that, Martin. But I'm just disturbed that you would immediately think of a chuff, that's all.

MARTIN:
What would you have thought of?

TERENCE:
I don't know... an earhole. I'd have probably just said it was a bit tight and left it at that.

MARTIN:
You know your problem, Terence, you've no poetry in your soul.

TERENCE:
Yes, well, if by that you mean I'm not constantly thinking about chuffs, then I'm happy to be prosaic.

MARTIN:
Bugger. Somebody's taken our parking space.

END

If These Walls Could Talk, They'd Say, 'Put Something On Me, I'm Freezing'

I've been doing a bit of wallpapering in the bedroom. It's not the most fun I've ever had. But it has confirmed the decision I took some time ago not to become a professional painter and decorator.

That said, I've come up with some smashing ideas which might make the whole sordid business a bit easier.

1. Perforated rolls of wallpaper. It's tremendously hard to cut wallpaper in a straight line, especially when it's a bit soggy owing to the wallpaper paste the manufacturers insist that one splaps on liberally and then leave on for eight minutes.

So perforated wallpaper, just like toilet rolls, would be ace. Sploink it on the wall, give it a bit of a brush and then tear it off at the top and bottom. Of course, this would mean that walls would have to be standard sizes, but that's not my problem.

2. Velcro wallpaper. Stripping walls is a tremendous mither. So, my idea is a backing paper flocked with Velcro which one would glue to the wall. And then one would buy wallpaper flocked with the corresponding Velcro. Goes up easy, comes down in one. I'm not sure how you recycle Velcro, though. Are there Velcro bins in the car park at Tesco? It must be tricky to empty them.

3. Abolish windows, light switches and corners. I admit this might be one of the trickier things to pull off but I don't see why we can't think big.

All these ideas will definitely work.

Fool-proof Search Engine Optimisation

I've been guilty of a bit of hyperbole. Last year, when this blog was in its salad days, I drew a lovely little cartoon. This one, in fact.

I must admit, it made me chuckle at the time. I might even have hooted. But after I'd patiently filled in all the colours and that I became a bit bored with it.

Then I realised, "No, Bandage! There's an unspecified number of people out there who might chuckle upon first exposure to this cartoon. It might even enhance your reputation as a tremendous chap."

So I posted the cartoon. But in a moment of hubris, I suggested "I think this might be the funniest cartoon ever."

Let's have another look at it.


See. It's all right, isn't it? I doubt you've been troubled by rib crackage. You're probably bored by it already. And I don't think it would travel particularly well.

But every day there's a trickle of visitors to this blog who have come, drawn by Google's promise of "the funniest cartoon ever" and they're mostly from America. I can only imagine their disappointment. And here I am, imagining it...

EXT. PRAIRIE FARM - DAY

SUN SCORCHES THE VAST FIELD OF CORN. JOE, A LEATHERY-SKINNED FARMER, TENDS THE LAND. IT'S BACK-BREAKING, UNRELENTING WORK.
HE'S SINGING "THE OLD RUGGED CROSS."

JUNIOR (O.O.V.):
Pa! Pa! Come quick!

JOE:
Land o' goshen! What is it, son?

JUNIOR:
Pa! I've found it! Come quick!

JOE DROPS HIS TOOLS AND RUNS TO HIS SON.

JOE:
What is it?

JUNIOR:
It's back at the house.

THEY BEGIN TO RUN. WE SEE THEM FROM ABOVE, ANTS IN A SEA OF GOLD.

INT. FARMHOUSE - DAY
PANTING, JOE AND JUNIOR BURST INTO THE LIVING ROOM. A COMPUTER SITS IN THE CORNER, ITS SCREEN SWITCHED OFF.

JOE:
Is it true, son? Have you found it? Have you found the funniest cartoon ever?

JUNIOR:
Yup, pa.

JOE:
And have you seen it?

JUNIOR:
No, pa. I wanted to see it with you.

JOE AND JUNIOR EMBRACE.

JOE:
You're the best, son. Now, let's take a look-see.

THEY WALK TO THE COMPUTER. JUNIOR SWITCHES THE SCREEN ON.

GRAHAM BANDAGE'S LOVELY WORLD APPEARS. IN THE CENTRE OF THE SCREEN IS THE SHEEP CARTOON.

JOE:
You utter tit.

ENDS

I blame myself. And Google. But mostly Google.

They're All The Same

THE devil has been elected to the European Parliament.

B. Elzebub, 7,685, was returned as one of the North West's representatives in last Thursday's poll, after a collapse in the Labour vote.

Mr Elzebub, of the BNP (Burn Negroes Party), has reinvented himself in recent years, losing the cloven-hoofed look and toning down his ruddy complexion. And he has repositioned the party, too, in an attempt to make it more electable.

In 2006, he told the Daily Telegraph: "There's been a lot of nonsense spoken about the BNP, as if all we're interested in is burning negroes. And, I have to admit, in the past some of our more zealous members have been a little enthusiastic.

"But we have many other policies - about recycling, taxation, national service - all aimed at bringing respect back to British streets.

"And it's not just negroes we're interested in burning in the very flames of Hell these days. It's all sinners, especially the pikeys, Jews and Muslims. And the sodomites."

Voters in Milltown and Piechester explained to reporters why they turned to the BNP in the Euro poll.

One man, who did not want to be named, said: "I wanted to make a protest vote to scare the Government and I'm exceptionally stupid."

A woman, who did not want to be named, found it difficult to believe that Mr Elzebub was the devil, Satan, Lord of the Flies, and Lucifer, cast out of heaven by God for refusal to serve.

She said: "I don't think so, love. The devil's got cloven hooves, and red skin. This fella's in a suit."

Another woman, who did not want to be named, said: "I don't really agree with the BNP, but I do like the policies on recycling. And burning negroes."

Mr Elzebub's biggest problem when he arrives in Brussels is where he and his reanimated corpse colleague, Adolf Hitler, who was elected in Yorkshire, are going to sit.

He said: "Ideally, we'd sit with our colleagues in the other nationalist/Jew-hating parties. Although obviously we wouldn't talk to them as foreigners are stinky.

"Unfortunately, the Conservatives are already sitting with them."

Gordon Brown is still Prime Minister.

Haute Couture. I Said Haute Couture

I'm delighted to see young Louise Isles break through the glass ceiling and become Britain's first deaf model. I did not know that deaf people had a hard time doing modelling, but apparently that is the case.

I could understand it if they had no ears, limiting their ability to model spectacles and earrings. Otherwise I'm not entirely sure how impaired-hearing would be a difficulty.

The only thing I can think of is that the bright lights of the catwalks temporarily blind models. They probably employ a man or lady with a megaphone to stand at the end of the catwalk shouting "You're at the end of the catwalk! Do that thing where you dip your shoulder a bit, do a pout and then walk back." I can see how that would be a problem for people who are on the Mutt and Jeff side.

But, damn it, is this not the 21st century? Can we really not find a technological solution for this.
Of course we can! And here it is...
A whopping great sign.

Volunteers will sit at the end of the catwalk holding the above signs, in high visibility white on red. When a deaf model reaches the end of the catwalk, they will hold up the signs, allowing her or him to dip her or his shoulder a bit, do a pout and then walk back.

I know what you're thinking. What about deaf-blind models? In that case, I recommend that they make the end of catwalks bobbly, as they do with road crossings.

Frankly, I don't know how the fashion industry has bumbled on without me for so long, nor how the number deaf-blind catwalk model fatalities has been so low.

You Can't Eat The Venetian Blinds

I drove through Liverpool's Chinatown today and saw a number of Chinese tourists there. I wonder how much at home they felt. "Goodness me," did they think (in Mandarin or Cantonese)? "This is just like home. Specifically that really weird road back home where every shop is a restaurant."

Liverpool's Chinatown is the oldest in Europe and there are tons of them around the world. Apparently if the occupants of every Chinatown jumped up and down at once, there would be a mild ripple on the world's oceans. The insignificance of this result probably explains why nobody has ever tackled the logistical nightmare of bringing it about.

But this is beside the point. What I want to know is why it is that the Chinese area in cities is known as Chinatown, but the Italian area isn't known as Italytown. Italian areas are uniformly called Little Italy, but Chinese areas are never called Little China*. Did Mao tell the UN it'd all kick off if anybody dared to call these outposts "Little?" If that's the case, it's entirely understandable, but it's still a tremendous mystery.

I bet David Carradine would have known.

*Apart from in that film. You know the one.

Agony

Dear Aunty Graham,
I'm a hairy-eyebrowed frizzy-headed virgin from Blackburn (the Scottish one, not the one in Lancashire). The local boys throw eggs at my house and call me mean names like "Hairy-eyebrowed frizzy-headed virgin" and "Poo-face." How can I stop myself being a figure of fun?
Yours,
SB

Dear SB,
Hmm, tricky. You do actually sound a bit of a fright, to be honest. I imagine you're probably also socially awkward and a bit gauche. Virgins with, shall we say, unconventional looks often are.
Do you have any talents?
Yours,
Aunty Graham

Dear Aunty Graham,
I can peel an orange in my pocket and eat a Mars Bar in two bites. Is that the sort of thing you're looking for? And I like to sing. In fact, I have the voice of an angel. But a spud-faced angel with weird hair.
Yours,
SB

Dear SB,
Ah, now that we can work with (not the orange or Mars Bar things). What you need to do is get yourself on Britain's Got Talent. Turn up at the auditions, look rubbish, really rubbish, so the judges will be sneery, even big-hearted Amanda Holden. Then sing quite well. That's what'll get you through. Essentially, your selling point is "talented freak" - like a unicycling dog. If it goes a bit too well and they start to take you too seriously, go mad at the end. Thrust your crotch about a bit. If necessary, flirt with Piers Morgan.
Yours,
Aunty Graham

Dear Aunty Graham,
I am NOT flirting with that arsehole. I'm a virgin, not a moron with a dickhead fetish.
Yours,
SB

Dear SB,
Just hold your nose and do it. Let me know how you get on.
Yours,
Aunty Graham.

She never wrote back. I blame myself. I think I'd better get out of the agony aunt game.