Friday, 28 January 2011

The Alcoholic Dr Pepper

I don't know about you but I love Dr Pepper. I also love alcohol, but unfortunately Dr Pepper plus alcohol tastes like swill, so here's a cocktail I love that tastes almost identical to the real thing, yet contains no Dr Pepper. It's called the alcoholic Dr Pepper.

You will need the following ingredients.

 Pour some coke and some beer in equal measure into a glass. Top off to taste with Amaretto (I personally like Disaronno but it doesn't matter) and enjoy the cool taste of Dr Pepper with the cruel best friend that is intoxication.

Thursday, 27 January 2011

Romantic Dinner for One

Thursday is my favourite day. It's not the end of the week, but there's only one day left, so you can kick back a little. I did so with a Spanish omlette, some boiled potatoes, a salad, a bottle of white wine and redtube.

Wednesday, 26 January 2011

The Eddie Murphy Theory

Nowadays, when people hear the name Eddie Murphy, reactions tend to be neutral, perhaps bordering on negative. Unless you mention him in front of my mother, who will spurt a sentence full of swear words and synonyms of "idiotic".

However, there was a time when he was funny. Screw that, there was a time when he was the funniest, edgiest comedian around and he maintained this title right until 1996 when he was offered $16m to make this.

"Every bad decision I've made has been based on money. I grew up in the projects and you don't turn down money there. You take it, because you never know when it's all going to end. I made Cop III because they offered me $15 million. That $15 million was worth having Roger Ebert's thumb up my ass."

Now he's the only one laughing, because he gets paid millions to fart in fat suits, but today - the 27th January 2011 - let us remember him for the comic genius he was.

RIP, the Talented Mr Murphy. 

Tuesday, 25 January 2011

Crime and Punishment

It's hard to defend drinking. Whereas obviously immoral acts such as having an affair or beating the youngest/most retarded kids in the neighbourhood when they attempt to knock on your front door and run away slower than the others are easy to get away with, the punishments for heavy drinking tend to arrive swiftly and frequently.

The most obvious punishment for me is mormon girls, and the fact that you have no chance whatsoever unless you stop drinking, stop smoking and pretend to believe in a load of old shit. Even then, you have to marry them to get to the goods, which is incredibly unfair as they are SO FUCKING HOT.

Then there's the hangover. I'm immune to them, thankfully, so you can all suck it and nurse your hangovers while I play Mario.

Thirdly, the worst punishment of all. Like many forms of torture, this relies mainly on humiliation. Since your brain function tends to be inhibited by the ingestion of grotesque amounts of alcohol (intentionally, obviously, as I've yet to meet anyone who drinks Long Island Ice Teas for pleasure), there is a tendency to do things which are fucking regrettable.

I now present to you a story, through the medium of jpeg.

Tuesday, 18 January 2011

You know what they call a Quarter Pounder with cheese in France?

I don't believe in horoscopes, destiny, palm reading or any other stupid Gypsy shit. That said, I don't believe in myself either as there's a chance I've got it all wrong: God might exist, smoking might actually cause lung cancer and Waterworld might be a masterpiece.

Even you, Kev.
This is why, when on Halloween destiny seemed to pull my hair and shout in my ear to grab my attention, I decided to give it a chance. I was dressed as Vince Vega from Pulp Fiction, with my friend dressed as Mia Wallace. In the queue outside the club, I seem to remember laughing at another girl dressed as Mia in a fat suit but she mistook my mockery for flirtation and smiled back. I realised then that this could be a sign and that I should pursue it, but given that I'm a shallow bastard, I spent all my money on drinks before I could stomach making my way over to her.

I don't remember what happened next but all of a sudden my friends had gone and I was sitting on a sofa with a plump Mia Wallace on my lap biting my face. Maybe she was hungry, I don't know, but it hurt and made my lips red like Lindsay Lohan's asshole. I realised then that the night was going to end badly if I didn't leave very quickly, so I told her I had to leave. She asked for my number but I told her I didn't know it and pretended to be too drunk to use my phone (not hard, as I pretty much was). However, I gave her my (real) name, assuming nothing would come of it.

The next day, I had a facebook message from the girl. I looked at her pictures and felt deeply disappointed in myself and destiny as a concept. In a way, I was right. Fuck Waterworld. The only good bit in the film is when that bitch and her daughter give Kevin Costner lip and he shaves their heads as punishment. No arguing, no warning, just straight for the barber scissors. I like his style.

The message unsurprisingly raised the possibility of us meeting up for dinner in London, a city in which neither of us lived and an activity I would rather sow up my anus and eat a kilo of Fibre Bran than partake in. I thought about my options:

1) Suicide
The final solution was a shade too far. While it nailed the point home and printing her email as a suicide note would have been a laugh, I felt I still had unfinished business.

2) Pretending to be gay
Unfortunately, I'd been bafflingly eager the night before. In  a way, it was professionalism and dedication to the concept of destiny, much like straight guys participating in gay porn. They get paid more so they guzzle down the viagra, pretend they're bumming a woman and hope to God their closeted fathers won't stumble across "Three's cum-pany".

3) "Hi. I feel like an asshole saying this after everything, but on Satuday I was on a break from my girlfriend. Today we decided to give things another chance and I really think that's the best plan. I don't think it's a good idea to meet up soon. You're very pretty but I want to make things work this time. Sorry."