Category Archives: Pastiche

Why I Want to Eat David Cameron

(with apologies to JGB)

Ion Chromatography has revealed that the face of David Cameron is rich in umami.

The ears of David Cameron are deliciously crispy when deep-fried and served with flaked sea-salt.

The cheeks of David Cameron will reward patient slow-cooking in their own unguent juices.

David Cameron has been raised on a diet of milk and acorns and his flanks have been daily massaged in craft beer. His limbs should be hung for at least forty days before being prepared for the table. The flesh of David Cameron will be marbled with fat and contains a unique enzyme that encourages the production of red blood cells.

The belly of David Cameron should be brined for at least five days and soaked in clean water for a further day before being braised in red wine with a bouquet garni.

Ask your butcher to joint the lower legs of David Cameron across the bone to produce four steaks. These osso bucci will yield a delicious marrow, which you can suck free from its casing. Serve with risotto Milanese and gremolata.

The liver of David Cameron has been tenderised by overfeeding. It should be poached in milk and made into a pate. Serve with a red onion marmalade and toasted brioche.

The kidneys of David Cameron are best devilled and served with a glass of black velvet as a luxurious breakfast.

The lights of David Cameron should be discarded.

The sweat-breads of David Cameron should be bread-crumbed and deep-fried.

The chitterlings of David Cameron should be marinaded in a secret mix of ‘erbs and spices.

David Cameron has no trout or snotters. He is not a pig.

The penis of David Cameron is considered a counter-aphrodisiac by the Chinese.

The testicles of David Cameron are known as Home Counties Oysters.

The brains of David Cameron have a creamy texture compared by some to that of scrambled eggs.

The heart of David Cameron will be desiccated. Care will need to be taken to remove the assorted growths and tumours that will have contributed to its long-term blackening. Typical slow-cooking techniques will likely be insufficient to make it palatable. Outlandish culinary experiments in mummification using preservatives and emulsions derived from ancient Egyptian models suggest that it may yet be possible to consider this part of the animal for the table although this course of action is not endorsed by the author.

GC-Olfactometry testing shows that the blood of David Cameron has base notes of naphtha and leather. It can be combined with oats and spices to make an unusually piquant black pudding.


The Future Christ: a found photo-story

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All images are borrowed from NASA and ESA:

Responding to a tweet by Tom Hunter @clarkeaward.

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Red Wapping

The redhead wants the copy but she doesn’t want to know. Ian says the redhead doesn’t know. She doesn’t need to know. Ian says do the copy. ‘It’s yesterday’s story’, says Ian.

Yesterday’s news. Yesterday’s drink in my belly. Yesterday’s pain in my gut.

‘Just make the call’, says Ian.

The redhead’s in her office. She’s looking out through the glass walls, looking out over the newsroom, over all she surveys. It’s her fiefdom. We’re her serfs. She doesn’t know what’s going on. There’s what the redhead knows and what she wants to know. Ian says: ‘Make the fucking call’.

There’s pain in my hands, RSI.

Ian looks at me as I shake my arms.

‘You’ve done it hundreds of times before, no use getting cold feet now. Come on you cowardly sack of shit. Do you want that fuck on The Star to get there first? Make the call.’

Ian walks to the redhead’s office. I see them through the glass. The redhead looks at me, surveys me.

I walk over to Foreign. I ask Sarah to dial the number. She looks pissy.

‘Who is it this time?’ she asks.

‘You don’t want to know,’ I say.

‘I do want to know,’ says Sarah, ‘if you want me to do it.’

‘That girl,’ I say.

‘Which girl?’ asks Sarah.

‘The one that’s missing,’ I say.

‘No way,’ says Sarah. ‘No fucking way. Unh, unh, not me girlfriend.’

‘I can’t do it on me Todd,’ I plead.

‘Well you’ll have to find someone else,’ says Sarah. ‘Find another patsy.’

I call John on internal. ‘Need a favour, mate.’

‘Out again tonight?’ asks John. ‘More bloody showbiz? Three in a row, Dave. Getting to be a habit.’

‘No mate,’ I say. ‘Something else. Need you to make a call.’

‘One of Ian’s calls?’ asks John.

‘Might be,’ I say.

‘Yeah, why not? What’s the number?’

I read him the number. ‘Ask no questions, right?’ says John.

‘Right,’ I say. ‘Quietly, quietly, catchy fucking monkey. I’ll give you a minute to get through, so do it right now, alright?’

‘Alright,’ says John.

Thirty seconds later my phone rings. ‘What the fuck?’ says John. ‘That’s a sick joke, right? Because it’s a fucking good one. Who’d you get to record that message? You’re a sicko, Dave. Fucking good one.’

We’re all sick, I think. We’re all sick. Sick to our stomachs. Sick to our souls.

The RSI tingles. The RSI burns. My hand goes numb. I still haven’t got the copy. The redhead knows. I know she knows.

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