The Daily Linguini

Chef's block

pastamasta — Thu, 28 Feb 2008 10:23:00 +0000

Why is it that when I'm cooking an evening meal I can think of a hundred new ideas to try out, but when I'm making my daughter's school lunch my imagination shuts down? It's either:

- roast chicken sandwiches
- ham sandwiches
- cheese sandwiches
- roast chicken and pickle sandwiches
- ham and cheese sandwiches
- ham and pickle sandwiches
- ham and pickle and cheese sandwiches (really pushing the boat out)

She REALLY likes sandwiches, okay?

Don't look at me like that. I put some fruit and veg in as well.

Twee geniusness

pastamasta — Wed, 30 Jan 2008 14:51:00 +0000

This week (okay, month) I have mostly been zombified, goggle-boxed and otherwise utterly addicted to the sheer geniosity that is Super Mario Galaxy for the Nintendo Wii.

(1) If you are the proud owner of this game, I salute you, and draw your attention to several excellent rehabilitation facilities which to my certain knowledge are only a Google search away.

(2) If you own a Wii but have not yet made the foray into the latest conceptually-stunning universe of the world's best-loved pixellated Japanese-accented Italian plumber, please do so at your earliest opportunity, and then once you have resurfaced several sleepless weeks later, refer to (1).

(3) If you do not own a Wii, you are either very sensible, or have been living in an isolated cave in Borneo for the last 12 months. If you have no great attachment to your social life and need giraffesquely minimal amounts of sleep, I highly recommend buying one.

Festooned Tasmanian giraffes

pastamasta — Mon, 10 Dec 2007 16:12:00 +0000

Have been spending the odd few minutes (well, OK, about seven hours) over the last few days engrossed in an enjoyable new online pastime - it's called Just Three Words, and it's hosted on the ballooning behemoth of byte-based social networking that is Facebook. If you've already signed up to the aforementioned globe-devouring website, give it a try. (If you haven't, then congratulations! you're one of a dwindling minority of web-enabled citizens who still retain some smidgeon of control over their private data!) It's particularly well-suited to bloggers, as it is of a creative-writing nature. Be prepared for a deluge of hilarity, mirth, addiction and excessive surrealism.

Sautéed wardrobe kidney, anyone?

The sausage of doom

pastamasta — Fri, 23 Nov 2007 11:45:00 +0000

The release a few weeks ago of the results from a major international cancer study included the following terrifying snippet:

"...in particular, researchers say people should stop eating processed meats, such as ham, bacon and salami..."

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Me, live without salami??

Inconceivable!!!

Simplicity

pastamasta — Fri, 23 Nov 2007 09:10:00 +0000

I am finding myself thinking more and more, recently, that the simplest things in life are often the best:

I enjoy fresh ricotta and spinach tortelloni with a straightforward tomato-and-herb sauce more than a ten-quid bowlful of fettuccine alle vongole from a fancy restaurant
taking my kids to the park for a runabout and a splash in the puddles is more fun than schlepping them out to some franchised play area with padded floors
the humble English cottage pie has become my favourite comfort food
a good game of Scrabble beats an hour of impressive graphics on the Playstation hands-down
wearing jeans and a shirt fits my self-image better than office clothing
Yoda's hermitic exile is somehow more pure and noble than Darth Vader's overt power and luxury
sorry about that, my colleague and I were just having a discussion about Yoda for no particular reason, and it seemed relevant in a really, really tenuous kind of way
a plain, hardish mattress is a million times more comfortable to sleep on than one of those heat-activated, body-shape-moulding, high-tech gel mattresses
scootching up all together on the sofa and reading silly limericks to the kids is just about the best thing ever

I still tend to use overcomplicated language, though. Dunno if I'll ever get over that one - I'm just too much of a sesquipedalianismophile. (Oo, neologism!) And you'll never stop me spreading Marmite all the way to the edges of my toast.

Death in the kitchen

pastamasta — Fri, 16 Nov 2007 12:37:00 +0000

Saw a dead cockroach by a bin this morning, and came up with this. It's crap, but it amuses me with its crapness, so here it is.

The cockroach stops in his tracks, faced suddenly with the crumbling, soggy morsel of biscuit in the trap, the sweet-smelling cage, the beckoning irresistible final womb. He has heard the stories, just like everyone else. The young ones whisper them in the corridors, chittering to the thrillfear fascination of someone else's gruesome death. Too close. He is the someone now, the other they'll talk about tomorrow, sideways-glancing in half-excitement. His legs lurch forward, involuntary, jerking, stick-like, why can't I just stop? The heady hydrocarbon scent drags him forward relentlessly by the scruff of his genes. His mandibles lovingly crack the crumbs, siphoning the death-in-life into him. A slow, smooth blossoming of pain in his abdomen. Numbness. Inevitability. The black insect-mother calling him home. He curls up tightly, finally, almost egg-shaped, as if to say, I am reborn.

I eat, therefore I am

pastamasta — Tue, 06 Nov 2007 11:19:00 +0000

Have just bought two tickets to the BBC Good Food Show... and am now salivating like a toothless hound at the thought of all the yummy goodies with which I'll undoubtedly be burdening my yacht-sized recyclable carrier bags three weeks from now. Last time I went, I purchased (amongst other things) several yards of extra-mature cheese, a pint or two of pâté, and at least a megawatt of single malt whiskey, which left me with a nice big hole in my wallet but a very, very happy stomach. I doubt that this year will be any different. (However, note to self: avoid the dried satay broad beans. Smell delicious, melt in your mouth, turn to lead in your guts.)

Still not dead

pastamasta — Fri, 26 Oct 2007 10:07:00 +0000

Well, I've been simmering gently for long enough, so I suppose I should add a pinch of pepper just to keep the flavour going...

My daughter has now started primary school, which is a Momentous Event and has thrown our carefully-crafted daily routines into chaos. She herself loves being at school, although the morning drop-offs are still a bit of a nightmare as she's quite clingy - it's rather upsetting sometimes. Still, it's improving, and once she's in the classroom she has a whale of a time. We've already been invaded by her classmates; our house is regularly overrun by small girls chatting loudly about the relative merits of Dora the Explorer and the Wonderpets, and engaging in a neverending competition to see who can wear the greatest number of pink fashion accessories. At such times, the sensible male must retreat gracefully, so my two year-old son and I generally disappear into the conservatory to play with his trains (he gets to play with the green train, which is apparently better than the other trains, because "those trains are smelly").

The weather is waxing Baltic again, so I've just spent the monthly small fortune on bottled propane, only to discover that our boiler has packed up and consequently we have no central heating. Aargh. I foresee a call to the local repair extortionists. With Christmas coming up and a service due on both cars, this is no laughing matter. All donations to the usual Swiss bank account, please (note that we no longer accept cowrie shells, shiny stones, chickens or she-goats as legal tender).

Surviviam

pastamasta — Thu, 30 Aug 2007 13:10:00 +0000

Still alive, just hibernating. Zzzzzzz.

Deprived

pastamasta — Mon, 18 Jun 2007 13:10:00 +0000

The Missus, who knows well my predilection for exotic edible goods (and the havoc it plays with our kitchen cupboards), surprised me yesterday by presenting me with a Father's Day hamper of delicious comestibles. This basket of joy included, amongst other things:

"Patum Peperium" Gentleman's Relish (if you've never tried it, your life has been a howling void of gastronomic deprivation)
caramelised onion marmalade (the definitive condiment for a good sausage)
Mirin rice cooking wine (essential for quality Japanese cuisine)
fat green olives stuffed with anchovies (a personal favourite)
Leroy's Hot Mustard (no idea how she got this, I thought you could only buy it in South Africa)
Fentiman's Victorian Lemonade (none of that sugary fizzy crap, thankyou)
dark chocolate-coated ginger nuggets ('nuff said, really)

And I haven't been able to eat one bloody bite, because for the past five days I haven't moved more than ten feet from a toilet, on account of a vicious bout of gastroenteritis. Thanks, karma, your hilarious sense of irony bites me on the arse once again.

It was much like being, I would imagine, a eunuch who unexpectedly finds himself in the Playboy Mansion.

Funny five minutes

pastamasta — Thu, 31 May 2007 08:33:00 +0000

Have you ever been a situation where you know you shouldn't be laughing, but you just can't help yourself? And the fact that you shouldn't be laughing makes the fact that you are laughing even funnier than the thing you were originally laughing at, so you end up laughing harder? And your brain becomes more humour-sensitive, so that people's reactions to your laughter are funnier than they would otherwise be? Yes, I know you have.

This is what I did yesterday in a very serious meeting with some very serious people.

Not good.

I was fine until one of the very seriously-besuited gentlemen started yabbering on about "leveraging intellectual capital" and "thinking beyond the paradigm", which is the sort of talk that usually makes my fists itch. But he was saying it in this really earnest way, as if he believed every word of his presentation with every fibre of his pinstripe-clad being, and was trying to convey his message of hope to us infidels with the zeal of a missionary. His hands were waving about like an Italian football manager. At one point I swear there was a tiny tear in the corner of his eye. And this situation was just getting funnier and funnier, and I started smiling, which just made him even more earnest and heartfelt and made him use phrases like "team execution" and "emotional buy-in".

So I got a very serious attack of the gigglesnorts.

I tried swallowing huge gulps of the brackish water stagnating in the polystyrene cup next to my chair, which nearly drowned me, which in turn was (of course) highly amusing. I tried covering my face with both hands and pretending to be coughing, which only made a sort of chicken-being-decapitated "kerHAAARRG" noise, which only made things worse. In desperation, I tried thinking about Margaret Thatcher on the toilet, which is a technique usually guaranteed to sober up any normal man under any circumstances, even if it does necessitate a month of therapy afterwards. No use; the fact that I was desperate enough to use the Maggie-on-the-bog trick was, frankly, hilarious.

It took me a full, agonising minute to calm down properly, and apologise to the other participants. Inexplicably, I have not been invited to attend the follow-up meeting next week.

P.S. What exactly is a gigglesnort, and which emergency service should I call if I run into one? Discuss.

Sic biscuitus disintegrat

pastamasta — Mon, 16 Apr 2007 15:13:00 +0000

Many aeons ago, when the giant lizards still roamed the plains and Bjorn Borg was considered a fashion icon, I wrote this about the wondrous gastronomic delight that is the speculoos de Bruge, and more specifically about the ease with which this paragon of biscuitty excellence can be purchased in England's green and pleasant land, to wit, bugger all (for comparison see e.g. nailing gelatine products to ceilings, herding of felines etc).

However.

A chance visit to the local supermarket took place a few lunchtimes ago, in a hasty attempt to buy a birthday card for The Missus before I ran out of lunchtimes and would be forced to buy one from the office canteen's Greetings Card Rack of Desperation. In passing Aisle 24 (Confectionery, Baked Goods) I espied a packet of "Rombout's Coffee Biscuits", which looked unexpectedly familiar. In fact, almost identical to the legendary speculoos. Even better, the official product is imported from Belgium and therefore commands the sort of price per biscuit one would associate with Grade A narcotics, yet the items on the shelf sported an attractive yellow price tag from this spring's "99 Pence" collection. With this in mind I bought a packet, and can happily report (much to the delight of my bank manager and much to the irritation of my wife) that they are, indeed, a more than passable imitation of the hallowed Biscuits of the Gods.

I now have no space left in my kitchen cupboards. Or in my office desk drawer.

Molar musings

pastamasta — Mon, 26 Mar 2007 14:51:00 +0000

My lower lip is wobbling about in a most alarming manner, reminiscent of Rowan Atkinson at his rubber-faced best. This is because my new dentist has been stabbing me in the face with a very large syringe, ostensibly for the purpose of administering an anaesthetic. I have always secretly suspected that dentists borrow most of their equipment from the local S&M boutique, but in this particular case I would guess that the syringe needle was nicked from the bull elephant enclosure at some nearby zoo, given its terrifying size and apparent ability to penetrate bone. The man is clearly capable, although his manner is brusque at best - he left a mere 30 seconds between the insertion of the Needle of Doom and turning on the drill (which he affectionately calls "The Pulveriser"), with the nonchalant instruction, "Hold up your left hand if this hurts, okay mate?" Well, actually, no, not okay mate, because believe me, if the anaesthetic hasn't kicked in properly by the time you insert your whirring implements of agony into my mouth, you will first be instantly deafened in one ear by my tortured screaming, before my left fist will be giving you some impromptu dental work. Luckily, the enormous amount of elephant tranquilliser in the syringe had done its work, and I didn't feel a thing, beyond a strange, fleeting desire to shag the large grey leather sofa in the waiting room afterwards. I now have a new, shiny filling to show for my troubles, plus a banging headache, and can't eat anything for four hours. Damn, I was really looking forward to a pint of Ribena and a big bag of sweets.

I reckon we should all have our teeth removed shortly after puberty and replaced with durable ceramic teeth, so we'd never have to worry about tooth decay again. Also, I'm sure there'd be a market for customised teeth - you know, serrated teeth, spiky teeth, novelty revolving teeth, teeth with "I LUV MY MUM" tattooed on them, teeth in the shape of your pet dog, teeth with tiny LEDs built in so you can find your keys in the dark, teeth with tiny MP3 players built in so you could literally carry a tune in your head, electric teeth with drill heads so you could eat concrete, fluorescent teeth for fundamentalist ministers and used car salesmen - that sort of thing. I would love to start up a business along these lines, but I am essentially a pacifist (except for really wanting to cause grievous bodily harm to George W. Bush, the guy who invented the Crazy Frog, all fundamentalists and most used car salesmen. So, yeah, essentially a pacifist) and I wouldn't be able to square my code of ethics with all the pain and suffering I would cause. [sigh] Back to the part-time astronaut job it is, then, I suppose...

Baloney

pastamasta — Tue, 13 Mar 2007 13:34:00 +0000

Have recently developed an inexplicable addiction to salami. Well, to be honest I've always liked the stuff, but at the moment I just can't seem to get enough of it. The other day in the supermarket I found myself in Cured Meats, staring fixedly at the fridge shelves, salivating uncontrollably, whilst my two children tugged with increasing urgency at my trouser legs. I ended up buying three different varieties, upon which I have subsequently been snacking voraciously, with nary a slice of Emmenthal or a crusty baguette for an accompaniment.

I suspect I am pregnant.

Incidentally, the word "baloney" is apparently derived either from mortadella di Bologna (an Italian fine salami) or from "polony" (referring to a similar although rather more garlicky Polish sausage). Either way, I would probably try some if I saw it in a shop. At this rate I may have to allocate myself a monthly salami budget.

Hangover

pastamasta — Fri, 23 Feb 2007 11:34:00 +0000

Stomach: Morning, guys.
Liver: Wstfgl.
Brain: Aargh. Is it morning already??
Stomach: I'm hungry.
Brain: Okay, hang on a sec.
Bladder: Hey, legs! I'm a bit full, any chance of a quick toilet trip?
Right leg: Sure. I need a stretch, anyway. Come on, Lefty.
Left leg: No. Aargh. Lefty want more sleep. SLEEEEP.
Liver: Stop shouting, you guys, I'm in pain.
Pancreas: Me too.
Bladder: Well if Lefty will sort himself out, I won't need to shout, okay?
Left leg: Lefty sorry. Lefty move now.
Intracranial membrane: Slowly please, guys, I'm not too comfy either.
Inner ears: We don't feel good.
Stomach: Will you lot shut up and get Bladder to the bathroom so I can get something to eat?
Right leg: Relax, mate. Here we go.
Hands: All clear, chaps...
Penis: That tickles.
Bladder: AAAAAHHHHH. Much better.
Stomach: Right, now can I please get some food?
Brain: Whaddaya want, for crying out loud?
Stomach: A nice big fry-up sounds about right.
Liver: Aw, bloody hell.
Arteries: No, dude, we're clogged enough as it is! Give us a break, will you?
Stomach: It's Brain's fault. He thought that bottle of single malt looked soooo inviting, didn't he?
Brain: Why do you guys always pick on me?
Pancreas: Well you're in charge, who else are we gonna blame?
Brain: Shut up.
Left leg: Lefty sleep now?
Right leg: No.
Stomach: I'm fucking HUNGRY.
Brain + Liver + Pancreas: OKAY, DAMN IT.
Inner ears: Why is the room wobbling?
Brain: Legs - to the kitchen, please.
Right leg: Right. Quick, march!
Eyes: WATCH THE STAIRS!!!
Left leg: Lefty slipped. Lefty ouch.
Right leg: Sorry about that, guys.
Bum: That bloody hurt.
Brain: Okay, let's rustle something up, team.
Hands: Found some toast, Stomach, will that do?
Stomach: Better than nothing, I suppose. Why can't I have that fry-up though?
Arteries: Oh for Pete's sake...
Stomach: Fine, fine, toast it is.
Hands: Here's some jam.
Eyes: That jam looks dodgy.
Stomach: I gotta eat something.
Brain: Just try the jam, will you?
Eyes: Fine. Just don't say we didn't warn you.
Hands: Chocks away...
Mouth: Awumrmrmrmrmrm.
Tongue: That tasted weird.
Eyes: What's that green stuff in the jar?
Brain: Aw, shit.
Stomach: I don't feel so hot.
Inner ears: Okay, now the room is really wobbling.
Pancreas: Now look what you've done, Brain.
Brain: How is this my fault???
Stomach: AAAUUUWWWWWRRRRRGGGHHHH!!!
Left leg: Lefty feel warm.
Nose: Nobody ever thinks about my feelings. It's so terribly, terribly depressing.

Things that piss me off, Issue 9

pastamasta — Mon, 12 Feb 2007 10:15:00 +0000

Companies who use annoying spelling for eye-catching purposes. The ubiquitous "Kwik-Save" supermarket chain, the tyre specialists "Kwik-Fit", the pub franchise "Brewer's Fayre", and countless others are guilty of this beyond-heinous linguistic tomfoolery. On what basis do they believe it will entice us to use their services rather than a competitor's? Personally, I prefer to buy my tyres, pub meals and frozen peas from intelligent people who know how to use a spell-checker. "Phones-4-U", for fuck's sake. Perhaps they should invest in a dictionary, instead of in those equally annoying TV adverts with the bizarre hand-movements which look like the bloke is having an attack of St. Vitus' Dance or attempting the Freemason's Salute.

And while I'm at it, what's with using the word "fayre" to advertise food? It's an archaic spelling of "fair", meaning "public gathering for entertainment and display of goods", not of "fare", meaning "things to eat". And yet we see innumerable pubs proudly displaying their ignorance on roadside chalkboards with such advertising gems as "Holesome Country Fayre" [sic]. People who use this device are obviously trying to shoehorn an old-fashioned affectation into use in an attempt to associate their produce with the (w)holesome values of yesteryear. Never mind the fact that the sort of food that would actually have been served in pubs when the word "fayre" was in use (for fairs, idiots) would, most likely, have been infested with several interesting species of weevil. Hey, extra protein.

Moderately freaked

pastamasta — Mon, 29 Jan 2007 09:31:00 +0000

A new bloke has started in the office today. Seems nice enough. Our Pointy-Haired Boss has sat him down next to me, which is reasonable given that he's joining my team, and in the course of conversation I casually mentioned to him that our particular project has a habit of keeping its staff on for longer periods of time than is usual within the company at large; for example, I myself have been on the project for seven years.

Seven years. To the day, as it happens.

Holy shit.

That's a long bloody time to work in one place.

Here are some of the things I have done in the last seven years (not necessarily in chronological order):

got married
had two sproglets
developed a thorough dislike of aubergines
obtained a wallet-buggeringly large mortgage
learned how not to fall off a snowboard
started a blog (where??)
become allergic to avocado
lost some hair
gained some weight
lost some weight again
run over several pheasants
developed several pleasurably annoying habits
had pneumonia
achieved a new record for least pairs of shoes purchased in one year
stopped being insecure
eaten far too much Marmite
become adept in the art of amateur household maintenance
lost the ability to memorise shopping lists
nearly killed a penguin
spent more than a thousand pounds on nappies
tried at least 40 different types of whisky (although not all at once)
become more irregular
accumulated far too many odd socks
accidentally bought a horse

A satisfying (if eclectic) list of achievements, I feel. What were you doing seven years ago? I bet it'll surprise you. Unless you happen to be six, in which case (a) sorry for all the swearing, and (b) I'll explain when you're older.

Cortokoureutikophobia

pastamasta — Wed, 17 Jan 2007 13:14:00 +0000

...means, as far as I can work out with my extremely limited Greek and the aid of Google, "fear of lawnmowers" (literally, "grass-shorteners"). I only mention this because someone in the office wanted to know what a fear of lawnmowers was called, and no-one knew the answer. So now they do. Hurrah for the advancement of knowledge!

Of course, given just how shite my Greek is, it could actually mean "fear of short grass", which would be a lot more embarrassing for any putative sufferer of cortokoureutikophobia than a fear of lawnmowers, and would condemn them to an urban rather than a rustic existence, which (in my books) is reason enough to decide not to suffer from it.

Beer jam

pastamasta — Wed, 10 Jan 2007 12:28:00 +0000

Good afternoon time travellers, and thankyou for choosing 2007 as your destination! We hope you enjoy the wide variety of global crises, climatic idiosyncracies, political scandals and tax rises on offer this year. Don't forget, we have a year-round special deal of 50% extra on religious intolerance in the Western Hemisphere - buy now while stocks last!

Cynical? Moi? Surely shome mishtake.

Things are more or less back to normal after the hecticness (hecticity?) of the HK trip; the wee'uns are still feeling the after-effects of two weeks of grandparental spoilage, which The Missus and I are battling with the resigned yet patient air of long-suffering familiarity (and with the frequent aid of The Naughty Step). David (now 20 months old, eek) has turned the simple word "no" into a paragon of linguistic versatility, which he uses variously to mean "I refuse to finish my dinner", "Give me back my teddy immediately", "I want to sit on that chair", "I insist that you leave the TV on", or simply the all-purpose statement "I find the current situation unacceptable". He's perfectly capable of more complex statements, but generally finds that "no", screamed at a sufficient volume, covers most circumstances admirably well. Sarah (now three and a half, double eek) has meanwhile discovered the power of the snub, as she responds to any attempt to discipline her with the (frankly unanswerable) retort, "Well, in that case, you can't come to my party," accompanied by a snobbish tilt of the head and wrinkling of the nose which contrive to indicate just how far beneath her contempt you are. I dread to see what she'll be like when she's thirteen.

At least the Marmite here in the UK tastes proper. They do something to it over there in the Far East, probably for preservation purposes in the humidity - which is fair enough, except that it doesn't taste quite right. (Not as bad as the V-word, but still not quite right.) Marmite should be of a runny-honey consistency, the colour of really rich dark chocolate, with a yeasty/salty smell and intense flavour. In HK, it seems to dry out a bit and go more Twigletty. Or maybe it's just me. On the subject of the Holy Beer Jam, have a look at this - yes, there are people in the world who love Marmite even more than I do, and are prepared to go to astonishing lengths to prove it. I am impressed.

Wish it could be Christmas every day

pastamasta — Mon, 18 Dec 2006 08:46:00 +0000

So sayeth St. Roy of Wizzard, and who am I to argue with him? Well, I wouldn't, except for the chaotic state of my lounge, which attests to the descent of a horde of relatives on Saturday to ply my feverishly bouncing children with shinily-wrapped presents. As we're flying off to Hong Kong on Thursday (yes, again) and as it would be fairly stupid to pack up all the kids' pressies into a suitcases so that they could be opened on the 25th and then flown back again, we decided to hold a second Christmas this past weekend (much like the Queen and her two birthdays, except with more jelly and fewer corgis). The two wee'uns have therefore reduced the house to a wrapping-paper-strewn war zone, wherein small plastic Teletubbies, and their ally the Hot Wheels truck, do ferocious battle with furry rabbits in rustic farming attire and a giant baby with an alarming scowl and Water Squirt Feature (TM). The Missus has been catering for twelve all weekend, whilst I have been to the local shop for extra supplies so many times in the last 48 hours that I am now on first-name terms with all the staff and have related my life story to at least three of them.

Anyway, bags under the eyes notwithstanding, we will all be jetting off in three days, to brave the suspicious glares of British airport security as they rip our bags to shreds to check whether that child-sized bottle of Ribena is really a wad of C-4. Thanks a bunch, Osama. At least the airline food should be an improvement, as I'm fairly sure that anything the colour and consistency of the last meal I was served on a plane would be a prime candidate for immediate military lab testing under secure conditions.

So this post is to wish you a very Merry Christmas, and indeed a Happy New Year into the bargain, and to hope that that fat bloke in the red suit has gotten his arse into gear and will bring you that inflatable sheep you always wanted. Or something.

Ho ho ho.

Things that piss me off, Issue 8

pastamasta — Wed, 15 Nov 2006 11:13:00 +0000

The return of a long-neglected feature... I've just come out of a two-hour meeting in which the speakers peppered their material with a plethora of officespeak - "thinking outside the box", "implement best practice", "support brand essence" and all that bollocks. Who actually talks like this? In the real world, I mean? There must be some sort of dictionary available. I mean, "dimensionalising the business paradigm", for fuck's sake. Is this English? Is this the language that Chaucer, Shakespeare, Swift, Milton and Adams smithed into a thing of art, rapier wit and lyrical beauty? I think not.

Some bloke described to me the other day how the hard-working employee's habit of eating lunch in the office, rather than going to the pub or the canteen, is now known as dining "al desko". At least that's vaguely amusing.

Omphaloskepsis

pastamasta — Mon, 06 Nov 2006 13:22:00 +0000

In the interests of not doing another post about how little posting I'm doing, as one reader has helpfully suggested I should cease to do, and plus also in the interests of not staring vacantly into space feeling sorry for myself, which is what I was doing two minutes ago, here is a limerick I have just made up, because I felt like it.

There was a young masta of pasta
Who always got beaten at canasta
Though his tactics were low
His shuffles were slow
And he just couldn't deal any fasta

Eagle-eyed critics will undoubtedly point out the poor scansion in line two and the appallingly contrived spelling. To those worthy adversaries I wish only the best. Unkinder critics, such as the colleagues to whom I have just recited the above limerick, may describe my use of the self-descriptive "young" as exaggeration. To those unworthy adversaries I wish a raft of boils upon the tender inner surfaces of their nostrils.

My small humans are quite unwell at present. Sarah is laden with chicken pox, which makes her very popular in the Children's Items section of our local supermarket. Young David is suffering from the sort of cold which forces one's nose to produce Augean quantities of green goo, even when the nose in question is only a cubic centimetre in size, as a result of which his bedsheet was a new and unexpectedly lurid colour this morning. The resultant lack of sleep for all parties concerned is a perfectly good excuse for the random nature of today's ramblings and the poor quality of my poetic efforts, and as such I shall not waste it. The resultant facial encrustations for both wee'uns is also an excellent excuse for not posting the latest photos of them, as I'm sure you've just had a delightful lunch and fully intend to keep it in your stomach.

Only seven weeks until Christmas, and I haven't made one single bloody trip to the shops to buy presents yet. I foresee a long and fruitful financial relationship between myself and eBay.

P.S. In case you were wondering, omphaloskepsis means (literally) "contemplation of the navel". I love learning new words.

Touch base

pastamasta — Tue, 10 Oct 2006 13:10:00 +0000

An awful lot of my recent posts (you have recent posts?? surely shome mishtake. -Ed.) have dealt with the subject of why I don't post as much as I used to, which frankly seems self-indulgent to me, and probably to you also. So I'm not going to go into details, except to say that this blog exists to provide a constructive outlet for my dementia, and recently I've been feeling quite sane. So there you go.

My employers continue to satisfy the judges' panel in the Stress Inducement, Herculean Workload and Poor Reimbursement categories, although their recent decision to allow me to go on a training course for a piece of software technology less than a decade old has led to a surprisingly low 4.2 in their Career Development Hindrance marks. I can only presume in their defence that as soon as I return from the course, the Pointy-Haired Ones will decide to re-design the system so that the aforesaid piece of software is no longer required. It has happened to me before, and nothing in their behaviour since then has reassured me that it won't happen again. Bumholes to the lot of them, frankly.

My kids continue to grow at a stupendous rate. Sarah is now three and a quarter (!!! tempus bloody fugit) and shows an alarming tendency to like dolls and wear a lot of pink clothing, despite my best efforts. She has started reading, which makes her extremely smug and self-satisfied so she insists on stopping to point out letters and small words everywhere, including road signs and the name tags on shop assistants, which makes us a regular target of staff amusement in the supermarket. So does her habit of announcing the urgency of her toilet requirements at the top of her voice; my personal favourite the other day was having "daddy daddy daddy I reeeeeally need a poo" yelled at me just as we joined the back of the mile-long checkout queue. David is increasingly enormous at 17 months, and is apparently made mostly of vulcanised rubber as he loves nothing better than toddling about, usually trailing a long, thin puddle of spilled milk from his Piglet cup, crashing head-first into solid furniture or walls and shouting "David bump!" then giggling his head off. And then there are the twice-daily fights over who gets to play with the green train, which as far as I can tell is functionally identical to the black, red and blue trains but seems to have some unknown superior quality which is apparent only to small children. Aside from all that, they're adorable.

There you go, that's my present life in a nutshell. Now you say something.

Lemmings

pastamasta — Mon, 18 Sep 2006 22:17:00 +0000

"Technological determinism" is an IT industry term which describes the unfortunate tendency of both individuals and businesses to buy the latest technology just because it's the latest. One of our clients has been indulging in it recently, much to our chagrin. The conversation between our IT department representative and the client's CIO went something like this:

Department rep: Right... now, how much of your IT budget this year will be spent on hiring more technical staff for our department?

Client: Uh... what?

Department rep: Well, we only ask because our existing chaps are overstretched since you stopped replacing department leavers.

Client: Ah, I see. Er... actually, we're not going to spend any money on new people.

Department rep: Sorry?

Client: We're investing in improved technology. It's more cost-efficient.

Department rep: [stunned silence]

Client: We're going to buy 300 of the new ZingTastic X7 HyperBladeZoomyFast servers.

Department rep: No!

Client: Yes.

Department rep: But they're 19 grand each!

Client: Yes. Money well spent, we feel.

Department rep: But why?? You could double the size of your IT support team for that kind of money.

Client: It's the latest technology.

Department rep: So? Why does that make it a good idea to spend 6 million quid on it?

Client: [slowly, as if explaining to a two year-old] Because... it's the latest technology. They have Speedium VIII processors, you know. Ten of them. More is better.

Department rep: Oooo-kaaay... so what kind of percentage improvement are you expecting in system performance?

Client: [perplexed expression] Listen. The boxes are shiny. They have these cool flashing lights. Look, we have pictures. [fishes in briefcase for hardware brochure]

Department rep: [slopes off to find handy shotgun]

This is the sort of woolly thinking we have to put up with. Ponder upon it the next time you feel the urge to go out and buy a 120GB HD/DVD recorder with twin digital tuners.

Incidentally, lemmings don't jump off cliffs or indeed any other landscape features, except possibly to escape predators. It's a persistent myth, created by a Disney film crew making a wildlife documentary in 1958 because apparently they had nothing better to do. This renders the lemming somewhat useless as a metaphor for brainless information tech consumers following the herd to their financial ruin, but I will use it anyway, because I want to.

Degenerate

pastamasta — Tue, 12 Sep 2006 08:53:00 +0000

Kids are great, aren't they? Delightful little cherubs, yes? I was entertaining four of them yesterday, namely my own two plus a couple belonging to one of The Missus' friends. I was doing quite well, I thought. I was wearing a cowboy hat and a red clown nose, and saying things like "Stick 'em up, you naughty bank robbers" in an exaggeratedly Waynesque manner, which is apparently comedy gold to most small children. I was rather taken aback when one of the visiting squibs (the enormous two-and-a-half year old with the head shaped like a watermelon, who had spent most of the afternoon snatching toys off the other little'uns and defacing our walls with an orange crayon) wittily riposted by calling me a ratfarter. "Ratfarter!" he yelled, leaping up and down on a toy sheep, which could only squeak pathetically in its defence. "Ratfarter! Ratfarter!" he shouted as he capered across the room, scattering Sticklebricks and bits of wooden jigsaw in his wake.

What the hell is a ratfarter? Should I worry unduly about being one? Are there clinics?

His mum was mortified, of course, and whisked the offending munchkin off to the Naughty Step to give him a stern lecture, which of course led to five minutes of squalling hysteria at eardrum-buggering volume. I restrained myself from pointing out that my children don't use rude words, and my children don't throw pieces of Victoria sponge cake at other people's televisions when they're feeling harassed. (Although I did enjoy cleaning the cake off the television, because it had raspberry jam in it and I really like raspberry jam.) The young miscreant was eventually bundled into the parental car, still complaining loudly, and made to listen to calming nursery rhymes for ten minutes, which was probably a breach of the Geneva Convention, but fully justified under the circumstances. No doubt he will get used to such confinement later in life, as I foresee a bright and shining career for him in the vandalism and petty theft industries.

What has the world come to when an innocent adult can brutally be called a ratfarter in his own home?

Tsk, tsk. Sigh. Young people today have no respect.