This Standard Scottish Life

Terrible financial mess, what.  Pensions gone. Savings sunk in Iceland.  Time for Project Frugal.

Project Frugal is an experiment by myself and Le Chef to eat modestly and cheaply in the way one might have during The Great Depression or food rationing times in the Second World War.  

The rules of Project Frugal are: 

1. Healthy things to eat are to be encouraged.  Damn!  I was hoping to live off chips and ketchup.
2. Eating only porridge and mushy peas every day is to be discouraged.  Damn!  If I can’t eat chips, ketchup, porridge and mushy peas what will I eat?  I can’t cook anything else …. except bacon sandwiches.  Right, I’ll eat bacon sandwiches.
3. There will be no excessive expenditure at the farmer’s market.  So that’ll be my bacon sandwiches gone then.   I’m not so sure of this Project Frugal malarky.
4. Cauliflower and brussel sprouts are not food.  Dog food probably isn’t food either.
5. Alcohol is allowed. But Champagne is not frugal.  Oh, alcohol is allowed.  Alcohol is food, isn’t it?  And mostly requires no cooking except perhaps Gluhwein.
6. Project will last two weeks.
7. Project starts 1 Nov 2008
8. A daily report of expenditure and meals will be reported.

Project Frugal ration book

I am so very very sick of the TV. I am sick of shouting at the BBC news everyday. It’s SHOITE. I am sick of shouting at the TV schedule full of shocking, brain rotting drivel.  I am tuning into YouTube permanently where there is superior quality programming.

Beware you may find these vids as offensive as Strictly Come Dancing and there’s some sweary swearyness in the second one.

I kissed a girl pig and I liked it.

Gordon Broon’s doonfa’

He’s gone again, Le Chef.  He’s in Berlin eating sausages and drinking beer and talking to people about describing things.  But enough of him, what about me?  My Chef has gone.  What am I meant to eat?  I can only cook two things properly:

1. bacon rolls.  The ability to prepare bacon rolls is part of the genetic make-up of all people born in Skotchland.  And for those who come to live here from abroad or Engerland, well we splice in the bacon roll preparation gene at Gretna Green.
2. porridge.  Porridge is a recent addition to my extensive culinary repertoire.  Porridge is easy.  Put oats in pot, put some milk and water on oats.  Boil furiously for 5 mins.  Put vanilla flavoured caster sugar on top.  Eat.  The other day I had an unfortunate accident when I cooked porridge.  I made lots but coz I was in a rush I didn’t boil it furiously for 5 mins but ate it after 4.  And then I wondered why my tummy hurt so bad.  The porridge continued to expand.  In me!  Ouch.

It’s very late. Very, very late.  Or maybe it’s not late but very, very early.  All I know is that it is very, very something and it’s quite unpleasant.

But my nation has called upon me and I will tolerate the very, very and the quite unpleasant to assist in the presentation of all things Skotchish.  This may take me beyond the pale over the border, on the red eye to Lundyn but, for you my MaBroonLand, I will do this.  Just this once mind.  I expect recompense you know!  Payment in porridge will do.

NB this post was just an excuse to show off my slowly developing photoshop skills.

Henri Cartier-Bresson. He was a French man who took very, very good photos.  I plan to be the new Cartier-Bresson but I am neither French, nor  a man and I am useless at taking photos.  So in an attempt to resolve the “uselss at taking photos” bit I have joined the Edinburgh Photographic Society.  Those folks know their stuff and they will help me understand what SLR means, what all those buttons and dials are for, how to avoid having my eye taken out when the flash pops up and how to compose a shot.

And the other bits …. being French?  Je parle Francais un peut.  Regardez le photographe, elle n’ sait pas sa overture from sa exposition.

As for becoming a man.  No! I don’t think so.  Women are so much better than men, except men are quite good at putting the spiders out and …. eh …. that’s it, isn’t it?

In the meantime here is an example of why I am almost as good as Henri already. In my humble opinion of course!

Henri Cartier Bresson's quite brilliant, "Behind the train station"

My version called "Skipping Locorotondo"

A banana or 25 million

Oh yes we are.  

Bananas.  

We Pedaled for Scotland from Glasgow to Edinburgh, and not liking the route or the masses of bad cyclists wiggling all over the road, we detoured onto Cycle Route 75.  

Then when we arrived at the Finish line we had to sneak in as if we had come on the proper route.  

We were quite bad.  

But we did extra mileage.  

And got covered in extra dirt.

We deserved our medals!

The Direktors and their Domestique

Today is a day-off day in Skotchland.  Well, not all of Skotchland has the day off.  Just those of us in Edinburgh.  I have been most productive on my day-off day.   I have:

• slept til 1030
• done the dishes
• cleaned my drug brewing machine (FrancisFrancis)
• cleaned, polished and oiled Haggis (the bike, not the pudding) and Fraulein Direktor’s bike (which remains nameless)
• cleaned and oiled the worktops
• done the shopping

… we are mostly wearing …. quite peculiar clothes and even more peculiar things on our feet.

News has reached me that the Fraulein Direktor has secured a garage.  Not like a BP garage, rather a garage for putting a car in.  Except that Fraulein Direktor doesn’t have a car.  I have some useful suggestions as to what one might do with a garage:

• have a grrrls party.  Grrrls will dress up in overalls, smear oil on their overalls and hands, discuss car engines (should be a brief discussion e.g. What’s a car engine?  Where is it? Oil? What’s that for?), drink super lager, discuss burds (Those pigeons, they need shooting.  Did you see the tits on that robin, how red were they!  Whorr!), belch, fart.
• create a garage band.  Tyrant T and the Terrified.
• write software and take over the world
• dissolve dead bodies in vats of lime
• create a drinking den
• store stuff (obv)

I am dozing in bed. It’s nearly time to get up. And then a pain. A terrible, terrible, TERRIBLE pain in my chest. A searing, stinging, ripping pain. It’s obvious to me that I am having a heart attack.

Quick, get the crash cart!

I am fading away. Away. I see a white light. I’m gone.

But no. I miraculously recover. My cardiac arrest subsides. And then I realise that the terrible, terrible pain in my chest was not due to blockage of my coronary arteries but in fact due to my very recently exercised, really quite delicate, new found, pectoral muscles ripping.

The exercise Nazi personal trainer at the gym decided that it was time that I did some strength training on my upper body. I had to go on evil weight machines that just plain hurt. My muscles hurt very bad and they hurt even worse now that I have ripped them. Women don’t need to have biceps and triceps and pecs and deltoids coz that’s why we have men. Men are there to have arm muscles to carry the laydeez shopping. Oh yes, and also men are useful for the cooking, like Le Chef. And I’m sure they are useful for other things but I can’t remember quite what.