Showing posts with label far out. Show all posts
Showing posts with label far out. Show all posts

Wednesday, June 19, 2024

Laying Down Smoke

 



A sister flies in from the Old Country, so whaddya do? Climb in the rig and strike out for the Metrosprawl. Once there, fire up the Weber Thesis, enjoy some of the right stuff and apply beer can chicken to the grill when the coals have done their thing.

It's not hard. Brush the chick with olive oil and season with salt and pepper. Admire your handiwork as you insert a can of beer into the bird's crevice, maybe drink some beer while you're at it, and then place the thing on the grill over indirect heat. So important, indirect heat.

Then cover the grill and let heat do its magic for 1 hour, 15 minutes, turning the chick around at half point so that the breast faces the coals. Take it out. Let it rest. Then fall upon your scoff like a warrior, job well done.

But of course you know all this, beer can chicken, a go-to here in the States. In the UK? Maybe not so much. Speaking of which, this sister's in the process of relocating to Reading, not far from London, where house prices are nosebleed high. Well done her, but how do the Brits afford it? They can't, not really, at least not most of them, and the same thing's not far off here too. Solution?

Easy. Our Beloved Rulers at Black Rock et al own everything and rent it back to us, at extreme profit. And guess what, you won't be able to afford meat anymore, much less chicken, and half the country will vote for it because Climate Change. Then wonder why they're only allowed to eat bugs as they glory in their tiny 1500 USD pcm studio apartment. 

I won't bang on, 

LSP

Monday, March 4, 2024

You Miserable Offender!

 



No, not you, long-suffering readers of this shallow and frivolous mind blog, but this suit. Here's the story. Back in the far-off, halcyon days of London in the early mid '90s I found myself in a strange in between kind of space, neither here nor there, sort of thing.


Behave Yourself And Stop Shrinking

Then Cardinal Hume, may he rest in peace, stepped in with a pastoral placement which involved working as a PA for an exalted personage. This meant getting a couple of suits from a famous tailoring street beginning with S and ending in e. So I went with a made-to-measure option at one of the shops on the fabled row of tailors.

Great result and on expenses to boot. Flash forward to today. After many, many years of loyal and faithful service the wretched suits decided they wouldn't fit anymore. You'll note, ahem, that a bad workman blames his tools but, this in mind, I gave the miserable offenders another go this morning and...


Traitor! Must get That Fireplace Working...

They fit. Whoa, it seems serious Lenten fasting has both spiritual and practical benefits, almost as though the two go hand in hand. In the meanwhile, I file this exciting tale of sartorial splendour under "anything else I care to think of."

Cheers,

LSP