» Unusual talents

boiled or fried?
There are many things for which I have no talent, such as leaping into a bed of nettles without regretting it, or glimpsing any part of Simon Cowell without wanting to eat my own feet. I draw not, neither do I paint. I can just about ride a bike, but I'm not exactly Lance Armstrong.

However, there is one thing I excel at. I am top of the range, Oscar-winning, First Class Honours, Tesco's Finest and make no mistake. If it was an Olympic sport, I would be the Steve Redgrave of it.

I can cook rice. Any kind of rice.

Perfectly.

Every single time.

The best thing about this talent is that it takes no effort whatsoever. I suppose you could call it a gift. I can have thrown a couple of handfuls of rice in the pan, then added some water, which I won't have measured out according to any instructions, stirred it a bit, picked a heat setting on the hob at random, left it, forgotten about it and gone to do something more interesting, and then, and then, and this is the best bit, when I eventually remember that I am the one responsible for the rice cooking on the stove, and while everyone else about me is frantically throwing chillis into the lamb curry or hunting desperately for the fresh coriander for the homemade raita or burning the naan breads or dropping the handcrafted samosas on the floor, I just breeze in and there is the rice, perfectly cooked, not sticking to the bottom of the pan like a singed, sullen wet lump of emo rice misery, not burning, not gone past the point of no return into sticky mushy rice pudding territory, it's just sitting there all beautiful and fluffy like a spring lamb on a freshly squeezed morning, waiting for me to drain it and pour a careless kettle of hot water over it, and it's as though Jesus or Delia Smith or even Uncle Ben himself has magicked this rice up straight from heaven, it's so awesome.

It's still fucking rice, though. Probably the most tedious food ever.
(Fri 19th Nov 2010, 22:09, More)

» The most childish thing you've done as an adult

the other day whilst driving
we were overtaken by a cock in a Merc. It was a totally pointless overtake because he didn't have anywhere to go because we were all in a queue of shame behind a horsebox. He was just showing off.

So when the horsebox had buggered off, mr nuts overtook him back, up the next available hill,when he couldn't do anything about it. I turned to look at him as we zoomed past. His face was contorted with almost illegal amounts of rage, jibbering, and what looked like constipation. There were little white flecks at the corners of his mouth. The veins at his temples weren't so much throbbing as cocooning into glorious, tumescent, forehead hardons. His cock must have been burrowing itself back into his body. Ah, poor man, I thought. So much anger. So much rage.

Then I poked my tongue out at him as far as it would go, jabbed my thumbs into my cheeks and wiggled my fingers at him.

Then we giggled like mongs all the way home.
(Sat 19th Sep 2009, 20:51, More)