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This is a question The Best / Worst thing I've ever eaten

Pinckas Ben Nochkan says: Tell us tales of student kitchen disasters and stories of dining decadence. B3ta Mods say: "Minge" does not a funny answer make

(, Thu 26 May 2011, 14:09)
Pages: Latest, 16, 15, 14, 13, 12, ... 1

This question is now closed.

What a morning that was.
I am the proud owner of a lovely black labrador, called Oscar, who turned 11 last month. It was not an uncommon thing for me to be woken up for work by Oscar, who responds much more enthusiastically to my alarm than I do, and who would triumphantly demonstrate his endless vigour by licking my face should I not awaken from the land of what is most commonly referred to as 'nod'.

In December last year I was suffering from the heaviest bastard cold that I had experienced in some time, and was generally a fucking nightmare to be around. I am sure many of you have experienced a cold before and the most irritating symptom at night time is, without doubt, the inability to breathe through your nose - this incurrs a far greater risk of snoring, and a 100% chance of a totally dry (or even slightly crusted over) mouth. Once upon an ill-fated morning the time came for my alarm to attempt to revive me from the surety of such sweet slumber and, once again, Oscar had risen before me and was bounding about with typical glee before he came to make sure that I, too, was conscious - I wasn't.

It had been a recurring theme throughout the previous weeks that my open-mouthed approach to sleep did not combine all too well with his face-licking approach to rousal - the result of which had a distinctly french feel to it. After a while, though, I began to mind this phenomenon less and less, and figured that as long as I was waking up in time for work, and as long as we had a healthy supply of toothpaste, things would work out for the best.

This morning was different, however. This morning, after a bit of tonsil-tennis with a male dog, I could taste... something. This morning, after wiping my mouth, there was a slimey, greenish-brown smear left on my hand. Yes, good people of B3ta - Oscar had been out that morning to have what turned out to be an otherworldly greeny-brown lawn snake, had used his ample tongue as toilet paper, and had passed the savings on to me. What ensued was total.fucking.carnage.

When I realised what had happened, my first and foremost thought was to somehow make it to the bathroom and to plan my next course of action once there - a simple plan. What actually ended up happening was I attempted to get up too quickly and fell on the floor, once on the floor I began to dry-heave (having just woken up, I simply had nothing in my stomach to vomit). It was at this point I discovered that dry-heaving is in fact a great way of fighting the dry-mouth that an open-mouthed sleep brings, as your mouth fills up with saliva. I also discoved just how important those little enzymes in the saliva are at breaking down food and releasing the flavour. Dear God. The taste is something unlike anything I hope to experience ever again - it is quite simply the most disgusting thing imaginable. This prompted further bouts of dry-heaving.

In between furiously trying to spit out the dog poo that had successfully mixed with the saliva to form an altogether more liquid substance, and dry-heaving my stomach muscles into oblivion, I made a mistake. When you are trying to get rid of something in your mouth, and you have run out of saliva to spit it out with, you get an intriguing urge - that urge is to swallow, to lubricate your throat and encourage more saliva to be produced. This simple act of swallowing allowed me to fully appreciate the texture of quite what was in my mouth. I remember it well - I swallowed one small lump of something, and another, more slimey, bit that had some gritty qualities.

This tipped me over the edge, and I hurled harder than I ever have or will and was sick the tiniest bit, about a hollowed-out half a lemon full (the universally recognised unit of measurement for sick). I had given up on walking anywhere by this point and thus crawled my way to the bathroom before plunging my mouth under the running tap, not daring to swallow a drop for a good 20 minutes. I didn't make it into work that day. Oscar no-longer wakes me up.

Some obligatory comment about length.
(, Tue 31 May 2011, 21:25, 19 replies)
2 into 1.
I live in Sweden - and it pains me to tell you this, but I have eaten "SurStrömming".
Sprouts are like Cadbury's chocolate... and Smoked Eel (eaten here at x-mas) is a tasty treat in comparison.

Here's how the culinary comedians make it.
Catch Herring.
Kill Herring
Put Herring in Salt water... and LEAVE IT OUT IN THE SUN. (wankers)
Check to see if the fish stinks yet...
Leave it out in the sun some more.
Tin the herring in special corrugated tins that can expand. (this shit FERMENTS)

There are some airlines who won't allow you to fly with this stuff. NOT because the exploding tin is dangerous, but because the smell is impossible to get rid of, and until the plane is stripped and re-furnished, all passengers will be vomiting and gagging.

So... A happy summers day and a Swede says "Hey... have you tried Shuurshtrööömming yet?"
My first mistake was to say "no"
Leif happily produces a Tin that looks like a metal Football, and grinning like a wanking Eskimo he places it on a fencing post and hands me a rifle... "open it" says he...

My second shot grazed the tin, and it span off into the long grass hissing like an angry moggie with a stick of ginger up it's arse.

The smell of the fetid fish-oil on the approach to the tin made me gag... this is quite literately rotten fish, and you can buy it in the supermarkets. some of the tins aren't even even painted - probably because it just peels off again..

Admittedly when eating it you back it up with shed-loads of vodka and the like, but I honestly have never tasted anything so vile in my entire life. Even managing to get it into your mouth is a hurdle - based on the smell, your body tries to reject it. A reasonable reflex in my opinion.
The purest Absolout failed to strip my pallet of the taste, and god knows, I tried again and again.

Sprouts, (though it is satan's addition to x-mas), are a meal for kings when compared.

I developed the opinion that anything that has to be opened at a distance with a firearm should not actually be classed as food.

~~~~~~~~~~ Wavy lines ~~~~~~~~~~~~

Now.. Midsummer in Sweden is one HELL of a party. I've been here for a good few years, and I can't remember a single Midsummer where people haven't got royally rat-arsed, or fallen over while dancing round the giant phallic symbol that we erect for the party: Rinsing your recently abused pallette of rotten fish with large quantities of Vodka and Akvavit can get you more drunk than you'd care to imagine.. but as for the frog-dance there is no excuse.

Anyway... there's lots of rampant alcohol fuelled shagging that goes on. This night I was going to become another statistic.

6am, and the missus and I have swayed home in the lazy and meandering way that the drunks have perfected over an eternity of liver-abuse... We were determined to nail each other to the bed when we get home. Now.. to be fair to her she was awesome in bed, it's just that this night was about to go wrong. Terribly terribly wrong.

We'd both been drinking for nearly 12 hours straight. We were both obscenely drunk... I could hardly keep my body erect, let alone Mr Winky. Missus Humpty decided that - as sitting on my face was always a dead-cert for trouser-snake charming - she'd hoik her grass-stained dress up, and ride my face.. This she did. Rather hard. I'm not only used to this, but a great fan to boot. My tongue worked away at her feverishly, her cute puckered barking-spider a bare few milimeters from my nose. I was in heaven, and - riding my face like a drunken pro - so was she.

She was sat in the perfect position to tug away at any signs of life, and as she and I both neared the point of no return I - mouth full of mimsy - was forced to heave air through my nose at a colossal rate, much like a jet-fighter at full throttle just before take-off....

We both came.... and - as fate would have it - the orgasm ripping through her body caused her to grind down harder on my face.. and fart: forcefully injecting un-diluted rectal gasses into my air-hungry nose.

A FULLL force, and totally ripe, hot Surströmming fart (far worse than the initial burst of smell from the tin), CLEAN up my nostrils. The reaction was instant.. and completely unaware of her crime and mistaking my convulsions as throws of exstacy, Mrs Humpty ground down harder on my face as I gasped for air.. The enormity of my horror peaked as, in the full grip of natural bolidy rejection, I hoyed my alocohol-rich stomach content, including a large amount of undigested, rotten fish, straight up her pink mitten.

As the fetid herring now deeply stuck in my nostrils caused me to start a gagging fit that threatened to be my last, She ran screaming to the bathroom leaving a trail of stomach acid, alcohol and rotten chunks of fish behind her on the floor as it gushed from her burning mimsy.

Never combine stomach acid, rotten fish, and oral sex. It *really* isn't fun.
(, Wed 1 Jun 2011, 10:05, 15 replies)
Tastes like chicken
I can't clean the toilet, and I never have. I only have to think about doing it, about getting my face close to that horrible bowl, and I vom a little. Previous girlfriends have remarked upon this as a sign of my typical male attitude towards cleaning, but sadly, the truth is far more hideous.

~ Wavy lines back to 1987 ~

When I was 7 years old my Dad decided to uncover the sewage system that he'd installed himself in the garden when building our bungalow. The specific reason why escapes me, but there was some kind of blockage somewhere. Anyway, for a week or so part of the garden had an open channel full of shit and piss leading to the now uncovered septic tank, obviously also full of shit and piss.

My mates would occasionally come to mine for an A-Team episode re-enactment, and it was during one of these, as your hero Faceman outran the bad guys and performed an impressive army-roll, that I plunged head first into the septic tank.

Your first instinct when you fall into water, or as in this instance, shitty pissy turd jam, is to breathe in. Deeply. Which I did. I must have swallowed about 3 turds and was almost drowning in my own family's effluent when I was fished out by my Dad.

So the reason I can't clean the toilet is that I am vividly aware of what poo tastes like. I can assure you that it's not pleasant.
It doesn't really taste like chicken. It's slightly alkaline and has chunks in.
(, Tue 31 May 2011, 10:28, 16 replies)
Cofee with Dad
After finally getting a real job I moved out of my folk’s house. All proud of my apartment and new found independence, I invited my father over to check it out. He came over and was polite about what he saw, although looking back I know it was a rare shithole.
We got to talking and i suggested coffee. Picking up the new coffee system and cheap ass coffee beans i had bought, I realized I had no clue. but WTF give it a shot.
The old feller talk the cup, added his milk and 1.5 teaspoons of sugar, took a sip and kicked back. He started talking to me about his life and how coffee was involved in it. Now he was an interesting feller and he talked of the coffee he had in the orphanage where he grew up and how it was a privilege once you were 13 and allowed to drink it. And how it took some getting used to but the kick was awesome.
He spoke of the coffee pot in the gym where he trained as a boxer, and how it was a social focus point. He talked about making coffee in his helmet with his buddies during the war and how many guys he had coffee with who didn't come home.
He spoke of the coffee pot in the firehouse where he worked for 30 years in Little Italy. How it was always on and it was a last in first out system, and the stuff on the bottom could strip paint.
As he spoke I was totally blown away about his openness and I felt privileged to hear his story of becoming a man, I swear I was all teary eyed.
I knew when his noble soliloquy was reaching its end. I was totally focused on his words, waiting for the grand secret of life he was coming to, the information he learned trough 50 years of life that he was going to impart to me, father to son. I was sitting at the end of my chair, waiting for his words, filled with love for the old feller as he said " But you know Kevin, through all those years I can safely say, this is the worst fucking cup of coffee I ever had.”
I almost pissed myself laughing, as I ran down to the corner deli to get a couple of cups more palatable.
(, Tue 31 May 2011, 21:02, 3 replies)
a baby

Tastier than you might think.
(, Thu 26 May 2011, 14:18, 5 replies)
Never Again.
The worst thing I ever ate was back when I was a personal Mexican wave for Chevy Chase.

One time after Pentecost, Chevy and I went to a burger joint in LA where I ordered a burger. Old Chevmeister ordered himself a Jolly Rancher soup. We were celebrating finishing his latest film; ‘Arnold Cumgullet, and the Maraudering Cunt Pony of Edam.’

But hold on there, mingeflap, we were in America! Imagine my surprise as they wheeled in my burger. At the bottom was the bun, next the beef patty, next a layer of cheese, a slice of tomato, a Lincoln Continental Automobile, lettuce, tomato sauce, and the top of the bun.

I says to Chevvy, I says “Cheeky cunts. I fucking hate lettuce!” And he laughed and pooed himself and said “If you’ll be my bodyguard, I can be your long lost pal.”

I agreed, and we decided to discuss my new job role over a pint of beer at the local bar after the meal. I ended up on a very good wage and also health benefits, dental care, and a life sized wax model of the Cadbury’s Caramel bunny (Which I later made sweet sweet waxy rodent bareback bumsex to) that Chevy had carried about his person.

It wasn’t until later on in the evening in my hotel room, that I realised what I had done. I had eaten a car. I started to get the sweats, and my guts were rumbling. I looked over at the Cadbury’s bunny, but the sight of her mouth with a cock shaped waxy hole in it only made me think of Captain Bucky O’Hare, another cartoon rabbit cocktease.

I farted, and a few nuts and bolts shot out of my arse and split my troos.

Then I became delirious,feverous, my stomach was cramping. I launched an enormous trump which produced a vanilla magic tree airfreshner from my quakeing balloon knot and ran to the toilet. I dropped my pants and started shitting a goddamn motherfucking car.

One of the tyres acted as the pace car, and was quickly followed by the gearbox, rear subframe, floormats and fuel tank. They shattered the fuck out of the toilet bowl, and my piss poor attempt at flushing them away did nothing except fuck my luck further and soak my ballbags with water.

I went doo-fucking-lally as I passed a door and steering wheel, and began hallucinating... Roger Rabbit, Bugs bunny, and that dead eyed cunt from ‘Watership Down’ appeared before me and said they were going to fuck me up with bike chains and bits of wood with nails in the end. It was truly surreal.

The next morning I woke up, and the bathroom looked like a scrapyard. Luckily, Phil Mitchell was staying next door, so he put the car back together for me with nothing but an old red oily cloth and a Ricky Butcher.

Never again, I can tell you. Stick to kebabs with light aircraft in them I say.
(, Thu 2 Jun 2011, 14:22, 11 replies)
Plain Potato, no skin, no butter, no salt, nothing but pure potato.... from a hospital trolly.
Those who know me on here know that I have something called Crones Desease. I won't get into the blah-blah about it, but growing up they had a treatment called "CT3211", it was something expermental by Nestlé designed for astronaughts. It's a formular containing everything you need to stay alive nutritionally... and nothing else. Space wise, I presume they're allowed to put some sort of flavouring in it, but crones wise, it was the extreme bare minimum as to what you need. The idea is that it'll do a total detox of your body, that there is nothing inside you that isn't accounted for, even chewing gum was out. This forumular, medically sterial water (tastes matalic, it's not just boiled water), and.... that's it. Third time around I was allowed Crusha milkshake syrup with the forumlar, which I'll get onto later on.

The formula was horrific tasting, it had the consistency of a McDonalds milkshake, ever so slightly lumpy. The smell was that of Off Milk, and there mear smell of off-milk now brings me both a bad nostalgia and nausea. Taste wise, without the crusha milkshake, it's still Off Milkish, I think Cardboard would be the most similar thing I can think of at the moment, but it was worst than that. Out of my friends and family who tried a taste of it, hardly any could swallow without reflex gags. I had to have two litres of the stuff, and nothing else. I wasn't even allowed to brush my teeth, but once a week I would need a singular crisp or bite of a mars bar.... and that was bliss.

Dad wrote to Crusha to explain my situation on the third time, as I was gracefully allowed to add the sweet syrup. I'll be honest, it helped, but it was still terrible. In return one morning I woke up to find about 10 boxes in the kitchen with my name on; very exciting to a kid. I opened them up to find bottle upon bottle of Crusha, chocolate, banana (the best one), strawberry.... passion fruit, blueberry, rasberry, toffee, and many many more that never made it to manufacturing (I can't remember the others, but I remember there were 12 flavours in total).

After two months of this, my body is finally rebooted, for lack of a better word, and after the results of a Colonoscopy, I was allowed to be reintroduced back onto food, one thing at a time for months on end. The idea is that for the first week, I was allowed the insides of a potato, second week was marmite, and so on until I'm eating normally (took about a year). They start off with thing people are statisticly the less amount of people are alergic too, and if I come across something that sets me off, go back two weeks and see if it really is that food that is setting me off.

I remember coming around from the colonscopy on the ward at the Royal Free, and the doctor being there saying my inflamation has reduced to an acceptable level and I'm ready for the next stage. I was so excited. The first thing up is the insides of a potato, I was allowed half a potato from the trolly. I'm sure it was one of those things where the potato has been on the trolly one day, uneaten, then put back into heater the next day like stock on a shelf that gets pushed to the front as the sale-by-date goes forward. It was a taste explosion, pure pleasure, the first real solid thing I had swallowed in two months, the slightly chewy texture was amazing. It was pure unadolterated pleasure, like being underwater for a whole minute or two and then coming up for a breath. Michaline stars, my favorite meal Ma' can make, any resturant on the planet... nothing can compare to this half a potato (no skin, no butter, no salt, no nothing)...

.... and the next week I got try Marmite, marmite on potato or marmite in hot water (medically sterial water still), with a little less forumlar than before. And it was just as amazing. Week on week of new textures, flavours, smells... experiances. And with each one, bought less of that dreeded forumlar.
(, Sat 28 May 2011, 12:42, 21 replies)
About a year ago, I went through a period of hardcore student poverty
My boyfriend was unemployed and we were both living off my student loan, which didn't even cover the rent. There was a period of about two weeks where we survived on the contents of our penny jar, so it was Sainsburys basics and plain pasta/rice all the way (top tip - basics frozen sausages, while only about 5% pork, are actually entirely edible when covered with enough ketchup). Times were hard and, since we both do like good food, we were very very miserable.

So with our last 50p, in order to make our 5th consecutive meal of plain rice a little more edible, we went off to the supermarket to get some frozen peas. Cheap, colourful and something that would actually give our food a bit of flavour. When we got home Chris (the boyfriend) was very excited, so I sent him upstairs to get comfy and promised him the meal of a lifetime. Rice AND peas. Luxury. On goes the kettle, rice and salt in the saucepan, boiling water over it, cook for ten minutes. Add the peas, we were all set. And as he raised the fork to his mouth, I saw a little flicker of a smile, and excitement in his eyes. This was going to taste GOOD.

Except I put salt in twice. It was the nastiest, most dehydrating meal I've ever had. And it made my boyfriend cry real tears of misery and disappointment. I've never felt like such a failure as a woman before. This was by far our lowest ebb, everything was ruined and it was all my fault.

The next day he got a call offering him a job, and with his first paycheck we did a proper roast with pork. That was the best meal I ever had (and the masses of soup we got from the leftovers). Times get better kids.
(, Thu 26 May 2011, 15:59, 2 replies)
The best meal I've ever eaten
**wavy lines**

Back when I was a nipper, 14 I think, I had a holiday with my family to Cornwall, nothing unusual there, we often went down for a week in the summer. But this time it was different. We were staying in a lovely house in Polzeath which is a place I've revisited many times since based on the awesomeness of the childhood visit.
I was obviously growing up and interested in new 'older lad' stuff, girls, Rock'n'Roll, that sort of thing and had started to see the beauty of the grown up world from a young man's point of view, which makes this meal so vivid and special a memory for me.
Anyhoo, back to the point, we got dressed up one evening and visited The Mote Bar and Restaurant in Port Isaac., this didn't look to fancy from the outside but the inside seemed amazing, lots of old ocean related paraphernalia such as an old Diving Bell suit and various other oddities which were all startling, wonderful new things to my young eyes (I grew up in the middle of fucking nowhere surrounded by trees).
We were served by the smartest looking, most polite penguin/waiter I had ever seen and when asked what I would like to drink I asked for a pint of Boddingtons to which the waiter replied "A pint of Boddingtons for the young sir" SCORE!!!! This was something else to me and it only got better.
I had a crab and lobster creamy/cheesy (I think Mornay?) pot of absolute deliciousness that came out red hot with fresh crusty warm bread and salty butter, and I wolfed down the lot, followed by a local fish, I can't remember which, that had been grilled straight from the sea with a simple lemony, buttery sauce, samphire and new potatoes. We finished off with a gooey chocolate affair with clotted cream and a vanilla biscuit.
After we had finished, we sat outside on the slipway and watched the sun setting with the sounds of laughter coming from the pub drinkers and my family sitting all together letting the greatest meal of my life settle in our bellies. I smiled more through that evening than I have probably ever since and realised I was no longer a child. That meal inspired me to become a chef, which I did just a few years later and I have still never come close to a meal that was so satisfying.
I apologise for the lack of funnies and the fact I can't go into more details of what the dishes were called, it was 16 years ago!
Length? About 1-2.5hrs and a lifetime of memories.
(, Thu 26 May 2011, 14:59, 7 replies)
The tale of the Turkey
During the World War 2, as a lot of you are aware, rationing was the order of the day here in the UK.

On Christmas Eve 1944, a turkey was delivered by post from our relatives in Ireland (who were nuetral during the war and were never subject to the same stringent rationing as we Brits were)

Anyhow; the turkey arrived with a note that said "Don't worry about stuffing the turkey, we've already done it! Merry Christmas!!"

My Gran duly went down to the market for all the veg to go with this rather large turkey, with a parting shot, "Leave the Turkey, I'll cook it when I get back"
While she was out, my Aunt, who was 14 at the time decided to ignore my gran's words and thought she'd do her a favour.

She turned on the old cast iron gas oven and shoved the stuffed bird in the oven.

About 20 minutes later, there was an enormous explosion from the kitchen. The oven door was blown straight off and my aunt had her eyebrows burnt off in the resulting carnage.

It seems the Turkey had been stuffed witha bottle of Irelands Finest Whiskey.

I think they had a quiet Christmas dinner that year.
(, Thu 26 May 2011, 14:53, Reply)
Worst? That'll be the gauze pack...
Totally a repost, and a long one at that, but I think you'll find it entertaining and relevant.

A couple of years ago, I had all my wisdom teeth out. In the weeks preceding the operation I spent an inordinate amount of time looking it up on the internet, practically memorising the wikipedia page on wisdom teeth, googling every possible complication, reading the entirety of the "dentists" QOTW (damn you all, you made me terrified) and even typing "wisdom tooth extraction" into the search bar on YouTube, which I do not recommend anyone does under any circumstances. By the time the day of the operation dawned, I thought I knew what to expect. I thought I was prepared. I had painkillers, sleeping pills, mouthwash, ice packs, everything I could possibly need. I had become an expert on wisdom tooth extractions and all of their possible complications. However, I suffered a terrible complication that not even google, YouTube or b3ta could have prepared me for.

There were quite a few complications with the operation itself which I won't go into in great detail, but most importantly, the nasty fuckers at the bottom were impacted not just in the gum but also in the jaw bone itself, meaning that they had to remove chunks of my jaw to get them out. Although I had taken my surgeon's advice and taken a maximum dose of painkillers well before the anaesthetic wore off I was, as might be expected, in a fair amount of pain. However, it was much more bearable than I had feared. "This is fine," I thought, "I can easily handle this for a couple of days..." It then occurred to me that it was probably time to take out my gauze packs. For anyone not in the know, when you have a tooth extracted, you're given a rolled up bit of damp gauze to bite on to soak up the blood. Mine had become decidedly gross and soggy and I seemed to have stopped bleeding, so I removed them. Within a couple of seconds I was in unbearable, excruciating agony. Remember how they'd had to break my jaw to get the teeth out? Well, I basically had two open fractures in my mouth, and the gauze packs had been the only things stopping my mangled jaw bone from being exposed. I made myself another couple of gauze packs immediately, and the hideous, excruciating, mind-mangling pain abated swiftly. By the time I went to bed, it was still excruciatingly painful taking the gauze packs out, so I went to sleep with them in.

Now, after extensive research, it's my opinion that no amount of alcohol, in fact no substance whatsoever, is capable of producing quite the level of sheer stupidity, wooziness and general moronic behaviour that is possible when you haven't yet woken up properly. At about 2am that night I had a great dream that I was chewing a really yummy piece of French bread. It was the best baguette I'd ever tasted - crispy on the outside, soft on the inside, with really good unsalted butter... It did occur to me that crusty French bread wasn't the most sensible thing to be eating in my current condition, and I was having serious difficulty chewing it. A sensible person would have admitted defeat and spat it out, but alas, I am not at all sensible and also phenomenally greedy. I swallowed the bread almost whole. Then, joy of joys, I found that I had another yummy piece of baguette on the other side of my mouth! I began chewing that too. Then my semi-conscious self was jolted rapidly into full consciousness by the realisation that I was gnawing at one of my disgusting, bloody gauze packs, and the other one was making its extremely uncomfortable way down to my stomach.

I phoned NHS Direct for some advice, and they laughed at me. Oh yes, they laughed at me! I had serious difficulty explaining the problem seeing as I was about as articulate as a chimpanzee with a cleft palate, but I managed it in the end. I got the distinct impression that every time I was put on hold, the whole office was probably exploding into hysterics. The nurse I spoke to asked me a few questions ("Do you have bloody stools?" Why would I when I'd only swallowed the thing an hour previously?) and told me that it would probably make its way through my digestive system with no complications. However, she did tell me that if I had any abdominal pain whatsoever I was to get myself to A&E immediately, where they would do a barium x-ray and probably operate to remove it. This did not sound pleasant. If it hadn't made its way out of my system within two weeks, I would also need a barium x-ray to check it wasn't stuck somewhere. And guess how I was going to have to track its reappearance? That's right - by dissecting everything that came out of my backside until it turned up!

I really had thought that the low point of my life had been on the day of the operation, drugged up to the eyeballs with two open fractures in my jaw, but no, nothing beats kneeling over a toilet bowl 24 hours later, still looking and feeling as if you've done ten rounds with Mike Tyson, poking at your own bowel movements with an old toothbrush. Since I wasn't eating much at all, my digestive transit was a little on the sluggish side, and I had to dissect three poos before I found the offending gauze pack. I then did a little victory dance around the bathroom, still smeared in my own excrement. I would not wish this experience on anyone, and have since had great sympathy for pathologists examining stool samples for a living.

Length? The surgeon said they were the longest roots he'd ever seen in such a small person.
(, Thu 26 May 2011, 22:41, 3 replies)
noisy little buggers, but good with gravy

(, Sun 29 May 2011, 9:43, 5 replies)
Not me
But a friend. Being possessed of an interesting sense of humour and being bored on a sunday afternoon, my friend went out one and thoroughly cleaned a patch of pavement outside his house. He then microwaved a Mars bar until it was soft and gooey, and looked most like a poo. He then placed this imitation poo on the cleaned patch of pavement in an authentic poo shape. He then went back into the house and casually suggested to his housemates that they go for a drink at the nearby pub, which they were very happy to do.

On walking outside the house he then said to his flatmates "Hey, watch this", got down on his hands and knees, and began eating the imitation poo off the pavement, making sure to smear it all over his hands and face.

This would have been funny enough, except that one of his flatmates flipped out at seeing him eat a freshly laid turd and began screaming hysterically, closely followed by repeatedly punching my friend in the face.

Oh how we laughed.
(, Sat 28 May 2011, 4:26, 2 replies)
I once knew a bloke
Who shoved a sausage up his arse. It truly was his own wurst enema.
(, Wed 1 Jun 2011, 10:34, 7 replies)
Repressed childhood horror...
I cannot believe that I have chuckle-parped my way through so many of this week's entries without disclosing the following tale...

Ladies and gentlemen, repression is a wonderful thing, for I have somehow managed to tidy away this memory of consumption into a well locked cupboard of my brain; a place where accidental soilings, regrettably monstrous fornications and this tale have resided until now...

As a child of around 6 years old I used to spend summer holiday travelling the country with my Sales Agent father - he would have to frequent clients nationwide and due to, what I realise now as employment and financial issues, I would tag along in his car to 'go on exploring adventures' as we saw the sights of the various cities we had to frequent.

I used to love it as we'd usually shoe-horn in musuem trips, icecreams on the beach or even (location dependant) the hyper-pant-wettingly good fun of a water park!

Dad was diagnosed with an aggressive form of cancer one summer and his specialists prescribed an intensive set of radiotherapy and chemotherapy to hit it hard - Dad being both incredibly stubborn and a very keen runner (marathon, triathlons, ironman etc) he decided to go with the treatment but carry on his full work commitments despite a now shiny bald head, excruciating ulcers and uncontrollable vomitting.

As a young child I didn't fully understand the situation other than getting to draw a big cartoon face on his shiny head, copying his intermittant limp and bringing him a 'special blanket' when he did have spells of crippling fatigue.

Well this summer was no different - we were set to go off 'sploring' and loaded several boxes of brochures and swatches into his car for a day away visiting clients; whilst business deals were going on I'd be left in the car with full control of the radio and cd player, and usually a service station bought 'pack lunch' of sandwich, milkshake and delicious, delicious flapjack.

As I reached to the backseat to grab my lunch I noticed my milkshake was tucked into the door pocket - banana Frijj wasn't my usual favourite but Dad loved that one so I thought we were probably sharing... Yes, that must be it as it's half full...

As I greedily chugged a full mouthful I realised immediately something was chronically wrong - an accrid, acidic wall of chemicals filled my mouth and I had already engaged my swallow reflex... Down into my stomach went a full mouthful of CHEMOTHERAPY INDUCED VOMIT.

A remarkable resemblance to Frijj Banana in texture, colour and consistency but in reality the forced ejections of a stomach filled with festering bile and treatment poisons - crying childish screams of horror, I screwed the lid back on as quick as my little flapjack and crayon encrusted fingers could swivvel, replaced it to the door pocket and then saw the Mars milkshake that had rolled into the footwell.

I never mentioned this to Dad. Ever. But even the very thought of touch a Frijj's distinctly shaped bottle makes an accrid heartburn brew from within. *shudder*

Length? it was 1992 he was diagnosed, and despite 4 recurrances, numerous hospitalisations and being given 12months to live in 2004, he is still with us today - no doubt annoying someone or talking the hardsell in Worcestershire.
(, Sun 29 May 2011, 14:14, 10 replies)
We used to have a fruit tree in our backyard.
For some reason, the fruit was always either delicious, or disgusting.

It was the best of limes, it was the worst of limes.
(, Thu 26 May 2011, 18:59, 5 replies)
I can't be the only one...
In the shower with new shower gel; smells like lemons, claims to be made of lemons, nope- tastes of soap. Ooh, smells like mint, claims to be made with a metric fuckton of mint, makes bollocks minty fresh; nope, tastes like soap again.
(, Thu 26 May 2011, 14:52, 8 replies)
If my dog could post on B3ta..
He might tell you about the time he felt his tummy rumbling. So like a well trained canine he trotted out to the lawn and surveyed all that lay before him to locate the ideal spot so he could expel his faecal matter in an organised coil. Perhaps it was the proximity of the hydrangeas that caught his eye or the listless leaves from the overhanging acacia tree that made him pick a spot so close to where I was dozing on a towel. And so the ritual began. He first gave the chosen deposition area a tentative scratch with his front paws. Once this was completed successfully he arched his back ever so slightly and started to rotate his body in a clockwise direction until his doggy chakra was at peace and he felt comfortable enough begin the evacuation. With his arsehole facing Mecca and incidentally my face the muscles around his sphincter relaxed somewhat and the first signs his glorious efforts were soon visible.

However, the magnificent coil I was expecting did not materialise and in it's place slithered an amoeba like faecal monster that resembled a brown terminator that had yet to take shape. Once Benji had completed his ablutions he turned a full one hundred and eighty degrees and casually ran his nose through the fine scent of his heavenly turd. He looked not unlike a chef delicately dissecting the aroma of a complicated dish. Overcome by the delicious smell and inviting presentation of the whole ensemble his tongue lolled out the side of his mouth and he dropped his head and started to devour his recent creation.

He ate every last morsel and to the eternal disappointment of the insect population inhabiting the lawn none was spared. He then wandered off somewhat smug and content in the knowledge that he had provided himself with such a satisfying meal. Now if he could post on here I'm sure he'd be espousing the virtues of a self made meal, but two factors have conspired against this. Firstly he can neither read or write and even if he could I'm sure his large paws would be no match for the human keyboard. Secondly, and perhaps more importantly is the fact that he died in 2001 - God bless his doggy soul. Nevertheless if he could have overcome these hurdles he would have wanted to share this story with you because that's the kind of dog he was.
(, Fri 27 May 2011, 10:33, 2 replies)
Ice cream
One hungover morning, I opened the fridge to see before me the most delicious looking lemon sorbet you've ever seen; a whole ice cream tub of it, full to the brim! I rummaged in the cupboard to find a very old packet of ice cream cones, grabbed the ice cream scoop, and salivating profusely, scooped up two big scoops of sorbet, sticking them on top of the cone. It was a sculpture of glory; a glistening tower of divine ice cream medicine which would surely cure my aweful hangover.

It was only as I took my first, huge bite of the ice cream that a terrible realisation struck me.

Ice cream belongs in a freezer, not a fridge.

Two words: Goose, fat.
(, Wed 1 Jun 2011, 16:02, Reply)
Eating after a serious illness.
Had a similar 'ritz cracker' experience with appendicitis. Having had a finger inserted up my bum no less than 4 times before finding out what the problem is, nearly dying of complications on the operating table, living off a saline drip for 9 days and my weight dipping into single figures (which at 6'2" is an achievement), I was finally able to eat my first piece of solid food.

I had a bowl of Rice Krispies and that first mouthful was better than the day I discovered masturbation. When you factor in I had only tasted the bile I had been constantly throwing up since I was admitted, the kaleidoscope of flavour that exploded on my tongue from a spoonful of puffed rice and semi skimmed milk left me wanting to do nothing else but eat for the rest of my life.

The second spoonful was even more intense. It had some sugar on it. In my state it might as well have been crack, given my bodies' reaction to it. The SWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEETness was easily the most intense flavour I had ever tasted and this, combined with my body devouring the nutrients it was receiving as I ate meant my time of being ill was over.

From that point on, that very moment, I started getting better.
(, Thu 26 May 2011, 22:46, 2 replies)
Bah-bah-bah, bah-bah-bah-best. And also worst.
A few years ago a friend and I were dining in Hull’s premier steak restaurant*, The Lantern. The eating’s good in The Lantern; it’s a favourite of John Prescott no less. They do a lovely grilled trout and a stonking steak. That was the starter and the main course, and it was good.

For dessert, we thought we’d try the cheese board for two. What they gave us – well, the food itself wasn’t bad tasting, I guess, but it was a fucking disgrace nonetheless.

They brought it over and I just looked in amazement. It’s not the classiest restaurant in the world, but it’s not cheap: maybe £30 a head for three courses. The cheeseboard for two comprised half a packet of Jacob’s cream crackers, a quarter of a Boursin, a slice of President brie, and a Babybel. Between the two of us. A solitary fucking Babybel.

I burst out laughing when I had to cut the Babybel in two, and I didn’t stop from there. I got the loud and high-pitched giggles, and so then did my friend. We sat there, barely able to eat as we each consumed a Jacob’s cracker with half a Babybel on it, and my eyes started watering with the laughter.

I think we both agree that it’s the worst cheeseboard we’ve ever had, and possibly the worst in the history of civilised dining. But it was also the most fun I’ve ever had in a restaurant: a good half-hour of crying with laughter as the empty wrappers of Boursin and President lay next to the discarded rubber cuttings of a Babybell shell. The waitress was most bemused, and asked if we were alright, but we didn’t complain. How could you when you’re pissing yourself at what you’ve just eaten?

It was fucking brilliant in the end. Not many other meals stick in the mind like that one does.

*It may have been the second best. There are only two.
(, Thu 26 May 2011, 16:40, 2 replies)
Mmh, Kebab Pizza
First time poster, be gentle, unlike the chili sauce mentioned below.

Back when I was just a scamp, on the way home from an evening of imbibing. I happened upon a, now sadly closed, Pizza/Kebab emporium. Therein I espied the greatest dining experience of my life. The fabled Kebab Pizza. A 14" thick crust pizza with several choice cuts from the rotisserie elephant leg baked into the cheese. All finished with piles of salad and bright red chili sauce.

Half way home, and thoroughly enjoying my newly discovered mana when I chanced upon a couple of friends working outside a late night establishment. Standing in the well lit environs of this establishment gave me my first chance to really inspect my delicious supper.

That was my biggest mistake. Looking as though an armadillo and a muskrat had been in the throws of passionate coitus when they were assaulted by an overladen Australian road train. My appetite fled faster than a well drilled French battalion.

Feeling generous, I closed the lid on my less than palatable feast, and decided to hand it to one of a number of pavement residents who were located nearby. The grandly bearded gent accepted my gift with gentle accord only to cry "What the fcuk is this shite" upon opening the box and hurled it, with trampy abandon, all over the near by vicinity.

I made my exit.
(, Tue 31 May 2011, 20:58, 5 replies)
Spicy stuff
There was a time in the early 90s when I tried curries of various grades of heat in order to work out my favourite. From pashwari, a fruity dish made with lychees, bananas and coconut all the way up to the bowel-wobbling vindaloo. Along with everything inbetween.

It was then that I discovered the 'Cobra Bite' in an Indian takeaway in West Hull. The Cobra Bite was a curry that was hotter than the Stygian conflagration of Hades itself. The takeaway menu graded the heat of the curries by displaying a number of chillis. Korma was one chilli, Madras was five chillis and Vindaloo was six. The Cobra Bite was twelve.

The proprietor of the takeaway caused me to sample a forkful before he would take my money, which was probably a clause in the shop's liability insurance.

I did manage about 75% of the meal with the help of over a quart of water to prevent gastro-immolation. But by Christ, the next day I knew about it. I knew it was going to be bad, but not this bad. I was beginning to think someone had used my arsehole as a crucible for smelting tin. Either that or Mrs Sandettie was secretly buggering me with a soldering iron.

Never again, and nowadays even the thought of eating anything with more heat than a dansak makes my ringpiece go into spasm.
(, Tue 31 May 2011, 17:22, 8 replies)
On my honeymoon...
When I married the current Mrs. Dog we already owned a house together and had lived there for a couple of years. Hence we had everything we needed for the home. So, for wedding presents we just asked for contributions toward our honeymoon. This meant we could afford an awesome holiday.

We went to Kenya on safari and I can't recommend the country - or safari holidays anywhere in fact - enough.

We got to Nairobi in the early morning and were taken to our hotel. we were only stopping in Nairobi for one night, then moving on to the game reserves. After we'd settled in a little and had some awesome Kenyan coffee to wake us up they asked if any of us fancied booking dinner at the Safari Park Hotel just out of town. We didn't know anything about the place and were knackered after the overnight flight (no time difference, just I don't sleep well on planes). A few of the other people on our tour expressed an interest, and we'd been getting on well so thought we'd give it a go.

The drive there - across Nairobi at night - was awesome, exciting and terrifying all at the same time. They use the same highway code as India! Once we got there our group was shown to it's table near the stage and we ordered a round of Tusker, Kenyan beer and very good. The place started to fill up and the atmosphere was warm and friendly. Then the waiters came out and explained how the meal worked. Basically you got a baked potato and a bowl of salad in the middle of the table and the meat was bought round by the servers. We just had to call a server over and he'd get us some more meat.

When the potatoes came out they were small. Kenya is still very much a third world country and we assumed that this was the best they could get. Then the stage show started, which was a local dance troupe. Superb tumbling routines mixed with traditional dance and song. It was fantastic, but the main even was the meat.

We had a choice of buffalo, goat, mutton, crocodile, ostrich, camel or boar. It was cooked over a BBQ pit using swords as skewers through huge lumps of meat. The servers would go round with a sword of meat in one hand and a machete in the other! Your plate was a slab of slate, and they'd serve you by standing behind you, putting the sword over your left shoulder to the point rested on your plate and then reaching over your right shoulder with the machete to chop chunks of meat off onto your plate.

The meat was brilliantly cooked, with the crocodile, ostrich and goat being my favorites. We soon learned that the reason the spuds were small was so you didn't waste space on anything that wasn't meat. There was so much of it, and a seemingly endless supply of cold Tusker. The company was great, it was my first evening in Africa and it was a sensationally good meal. The night ended with me sharing some nice whiskey with our waiter who took some time to join us and welcome us to Kenya.

Everything about it was superb. The setting can make so much difference to a meal, and that was one of two meals I'd love to be able to re-do. The second was on our second to last day in Kenya. We were in the Masai Mara and got up early for a sunrise balloon ride. This was great, with hippos, lions, elephants and jackals all making a showing on the plains. We landed next to a tree (it was surprising how much control the pilots had over where we went) and had a champagne breakfast watching the sun rise over the African savanna. The guides cooked us breakfast on a gas stove and while I may have eaten better food, I've never had a better meal.
(, Fri 27 May 2011, 15:12, 6 replies)
Best and Worst in one foodstuff
A long time ago when we were both studes the missus cooked me some biscuits to include in my lunch. The biscuits were uncharacteristically delicious. It has been a long time since I enjoyed biscuits as good. Upon tasting these delights I resolved to eat many of them the next day.

At breakfast I scoffed a cheeky one (she had already left) and stuffed a load in to my rucksack to enjoy at regular intervals during the day.

I had a couple for elevenses then went back to my labwork. After a couple of hours, I felt a nagging hunger pang, so availed to the write up area to enjoy my lunch. Sandwiches, crisps, chocolate bar etc and more biscuits. Three in fact.

Mid afternoon I get the same hunger pang, only this time its painful. 'Better eat something' was the brain's response to this unwelcome stimulus. As I eat two more biscuits the pain grows until I experience what I can only describe as having a cat try and eat its way out of my abdomen. At one point I was lying on a desk sweating like a rapist and shaking like a shitting dog, while some co-workers plied me with water.

After a seemingly interminable period of 'observation' where the first aiders basically did fuck all and just watch with faces flitting between pity, indifference and inconvenience I started, slowly, to feel better.

Around 6pm I had risen Lazarus-like and was ready to cycle home. I decided that seeing as I had consumed a fair few of those biscuits it would be prudent to investigate to see if I had some sort of problem with the ingredients used.

After it was decided that the ingredients used presented no issues I had to drill down in to the method of preparation. 'I cleaned the counter with Jif and then rolled out the dough and then put them in to the oven' was the rather defensive rely to my questioning.

Sensing the problem I asked her to demonstrate her cleaning technique. Viola. She squirted a shit load of Jif on to the counter, gave it ONE wipe with the cloth and then declared the counter safe for food preparation. Unbelievable. The streaks of corrosive stomach stripping general purpose cleaner were there for all too see.

Its called 'Cif' now, why is that?
(, Thu 26 May 2011, 16:05, 7 replies)

They're not food. They're snots wearing crash helmets.

(, Thu 2 Jun 2011, 1:29, 4 replies)
not eaten as such - more ingested by accident
I used to drink in a terrible boozer, long gone thankfully.

Anyhoo, there was an old boozehound called Irish Joe who when running short of fuel would totter over to the nearest table and signal for a "one for the road, best pal" etc. I say signal because Joe's tongue/voice box had rotted away, the result of this was his inability to contain his saliva.

So, there was I when Joe stumbles over, taps me on the shoulder - I look up and as I do the pendulous string of dribble hanging from his trampy gob snaps. Into my gaping maw.

I'd managed to forget about this. Bastard QOTW.
(, Fri 27 May 2011, 22:26, 1 reply)
Noodles and Black Bean Sauce
Well I’m hardly going to miss the opportunity to trot out another African tale am I?

Once you’ve got used to eating gristle African street food isn’t really that bad – boring maybe, but not really offensive, and in fact the area around Niamey seems to be a centre of culinary excellence where the salad stalls knock up fantastic egg salads with ace dressing.

Things got a little dodgy in the upper reaches of the French Congo as the meat came courtesy of the pygmies who would have to carry the carcasses though the bush for several days before selling it in Pokola market. The women who worked the big iron pots along the airstrip used to knock up some seriously high meat stews, and when you enquired as to the content of said stew the answer was always the same – “Viande de brusque” (bush meat). While there I saw, and probably ate, crocodile, elephant, a smoked monkey split vertically à la Damien Hurst, and a strange animal that I photographed in pieces that nobody has ever been able to identify:

One of the ladies was getting pissed off with the local scallys not paying her so one evening she spiked her pots with poison – she meant to make them sick as a punishment but a dozen people died and I learned about this when I asked about the lynch mob that had gathered around the local gendarmerie – I’m glad I wasn’t at her pots that night.

But the strangest meal of all was one I cooked myself in the Kalahari desert. I was on my own and had spent a hard day slogging up the Trans-Kalahari highway, and at dusk I turned off the deserted road to find a quiet spot for the night. As I didn’t have anything fresh too cook, and I was out of corned beef, I cracked open a bag of Chinese instant noodles and dumped the contents into the pot of water that I’d boiled on the open fire.

It’s always a good idea to show as little light as possible as you never know who might be lurking in the desert darkness, so I kept the fire small, and ate in the dark. It certainly wasn’t my finest culinary effort – the black bean sauce was tasteless and the black beans themselves were bitter and crunchy, so after eating about half the bowl I packed up the camp kitchen, stowed it in the back of the Land Rover (otherwise jackals and hyenas will chew right through your pots and pans) and retired to my roof tent to listen to the scavengers yapping away before dropping off into a deep tranquil sleep.

In the morning I opened the boot to make some coffee, and do my washing up. It turned out that the black beans were in fact small beetles that had been attracted by the water in my pot (they won’t see much water in the Kalhari so I guess they wanted to make the most of it). As it boiled they curled up and died, and then I scoffed them down with black bean sauce. Still, think of the protein.

Length? 18 months and 70,000km
(, Thu 26 May 2011, 18:34, 7 replies)
And with that, he stuck his finger up my arsehole, saying 'Eat blue cheese to kill the bugs.'
He said "Please take down your trousers and lie sideways on the table."

I remember being brought into an examination room, there was a bloke in a white coat.

At death's door, they drove me to a hospital.

The band manager came in, felt my burning brow and with my mate put me in his car.

My mate went to tell the band manager I was dying.

I was burning up, then freezing, then burning up.

The next day I was lying in bed feeling TERRIBLE. DYING.

I ate a lot of them.

After one concert we had a big spread with losts of OYSTERS.

Touring in Spain.
(, Thu 26 May 2011, 18:26, 7 replies)

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