An Englishman's Castle

Tuesday June 28th 2005

DEAR HUGH,

A slight problem has cropped up at home and I’m not talking about my on-going writ against Bob Dylan for his unauthorised basing of the lyrics of Like A Rolling Stone and Positively 4th Street on my life (and seeing as you ask, Bobsy, “it” actually feels rubbish and, by the way, it’s a drag to see you too). No, the problem du jour is that I’ve become a bit of a woman.

Obviously, I need your advice on how to deal with this; although by that I do not mean that I am seeking you to tell me that my bum does not look big in anything.

Naturally I realise that for your good self to be in receipt on an unsolicited confession from a chap ostensibly claiming to be on the turn is enough to send you screaming to the hills to thwack with sticks the courting Gerards who picnic there on salads and rose wine, so I had better explain my position.

It all began a couple of months back when my left ear fell off as a consequence of a squall of furious lectures from my Grand-Child Bride on the benefits of abstinence from the purple beads winking at the brim.

Following the curve of the philosophy of the G-CB’s deal-breaker (which essentially was condensed in the premise that she “won’t shag drunks”) I was persuaded by some forceful lobbying from my lower brain to select the squelching over the burping.

Disregarding for one second the fact that the small print of The Deal was not exactly what I had hoped for – or at least the frequency of the results of the aforementioned agreement has been somewhat lacking – I attempted to embrace my new sobriety with all of the enthusiasm of a lucky contestant winning a set of soup spoons on Sale Of The Century.

And thereby began this alarming process which appears to have brought on this gender exchange. The more I resisted the lure of my usual eighteen weekly pints of Scruttock’s Old Derigible, the more I found myself to be uncharacteristically grumpy and complaining.

I, of course, was fine with this and I explained reasonably that irritation and tetchiness was merely a side-effect of the teetotalitarianism that she had thrust on me and so shut up and get your knickers off and those stockings on.

Bizarrely, this line of argument failed to put her in a mood of anything approaching a state of oestrus. But as her lack of enthusiasm for the new bedfellows of Rampant Rabbits and lubricunt served only to further foul my moods, we had what women like to call “a chat” (which we men recognise as an extended period of uninterrupted berating).

During the course of this (one-way) chat it was illustrated to me that perhaps I should substitute a new substance for the previously-championed alcohol. As you can imagine, my eyes lit up at this prospect and I began to balmily enjoy looking forward to the prospect of towering hills of white powder littering up the home. At the very least, I mused, she must be suggesting that I take up speedballing.

You can, then, appreciate that my heart somewhat sank when she suggested that the gilded grape be replaced with…chocolate.

Exactly.

I mean, what good is bloody chocolate when you are wanting to gird yourself for a good night in or out? Or even, and indeed especially, for a good night of in and out? Yes, I know that cocoa butter is supposed to turbo-charge the libido, but just breathing usually does that for me.

But, being the sort of agreeable New Chap that I am, I decided to give it a walnut whirl and set off to Waitrose in search of dark chocolate (I am not allowed the milk variety as dairy products feature among the 142 single-spaced pages of proscribed products that my doctor forbids me on account of them worsening any of my 35 terminal conditions).

Being a chap, I had expected to find a bit of Bournville and, being a chap, had expected to find that perfectly disgusting and pointless.

But bugger me if I didn’t get that wrong. I had been expecting to pick up one of those red-wrapped bars that your Dad used to eat when he started smoking a pipe, lonely stacked in isolation amid shelves of the good Belgian stuff. But instead I found myself staring into a darkies’ cave of milk-less choc.

I’d heard that some people (women) have a bit of a fetish for the stuff, but did you know that these days they appear to make dark chocolate for every form of depravity? There’s lemon choc, blackcurrant choc, lavender choc (no, I have no idea why), orange choc, mint choc, and then there’s the really hard-core stuff like cardamom chocolate and, I am not making this up, cayenne chocolate. Why the hell any bird would enjoy something like that, both sweet and spicy, is beyond me; but then it never ceases to amaze me what women will put in their mouths these days.

Anyway, undaunted by which choice to make from this exotica – let alone undazed by the confusion of what is the point of difference between “70% cocoa” and “85% cocoa” – I made a purchase.

By the way, in the unlikely event of this Dantesque tale having the effect of in any way persuading you to follow my strange behaviour, let me warn you now that this superchoc isn’t cheap; one bar retails at around the same price as a small Japanese car (not, I know, that you would be seen dead in a ditch in a Japanese car; I’m just making an illustration).

Anyway, weighed down by my choice of pricey choc (for which I am hoping to find funding by applying to the G8 Summit for one of those debt write-offs that they hand out these days to anybody who can’t pay the water bill) I crawled home full of thoughts that it would bloody well serve her right when my eating of the stuff caused her enjoyment of EastEnders to be interrupted by projectile-vomiting.

As you can never be too careful with this sort of girly food, I took the precaution of having several good heaves on a roll-up of that Algerian herbal mixture that you sent me, in order to assist my appetite.

Well blow me vicar and schtump me with a trenching tool if I wasn’t as ill-advised as the Mayor of Hiroshima’s “Silent Sunday” campaign.

Never mind booze, this stuff is better than acid! Honestly. All that stuff that we thought was guff when the girls said it was more-ish and “gorgeous” and “better than sex” is spot on (not that I am currently in a position to calibrate the latter comparison, but you get the drift).

Anyway, this whole seeing it (or indeed anything) from the women’s point of view is, as you can imagine, more scary than going round to Alex’s gaff to hear his Yes albums and although I have yet to develop any other girly symptoms, like an unnatural interest in shoe shops and the inability to throw a ball properly, I am understandably concerned that without psychological counselling I might start to miss watching Sex In The Clitty or whatever it’s called and nonchalantly shaving my arm-pits and blunting the blade of something that is quite clearly marked “men’s face razor”.

God forbid that I might even start having telephone conversations that veer from the correct form of “Hello + the point of my call + goodbye”.

As you can read, I’m in quite a state over this; so please send lawyers, guns and money. And don’t, for Christ’s sake, even entertain trying any of the following recipes. Or you too might start agreeing with Them. And chaos lies that way.

All best,

GB

(CHICKEN IN CHILLI & CHOCOLATE RECIPE FOLLOWS HERE, TOGETHER WITH RECIPES FOR DAMN-EASY CHOCOLATE MOUSSE, CHOCOLATE FATHERS’ DAY CAKE AND CHOC & HASH BROWNIES)

Tuesday June 28th 2005

DEAR HUGH,

A slight problem has cropped up at home and I’m not talking about my on-going writ against Bob Dylan for his unauthorised basing of the lyrics of Like A Rolling Stone and Positively 4th Street on my life (and seeing as you ask, Bobsy, “it” actually feels rubbish and, by the way, it’s a drag to see you too). No, the problem du jour is that I’ve become a bit of a woman.

Obviously, I need your advice on how to deal with this; although by that I do not mean that I am seeking you to tell me that my bum does not look big in anything.

Naturally I realise that for your good self to be in receipt on an unsolicited confession from a chap ostensibly claiming to be on the turn is enough to send you screaming to the hills to thwack with sticks the courting Gerards who picnic there on salads and rose wine, so I had better explain my position.

It all began a couple of months back when my left ear fell off as a consequence of a squall of furious lectures from my Grand-Child Bride on the benefits of abstinence from the purple beads winking at the brim.

Following the curve of the philosophy of the G-CB’s deal-breaker (which essentially was condensed in the premise that she “won’t shag drunks”) I was persuaded by some forceful lobbying from my lower brain to select the squelching over the burping.

Disregarding for one second the fact that the small print of The Deal was not exactly what I had hoped for – or at least the frequency of the results of the aforementioned agreement has been somewhat lacking – I attempted to embrace my new sobriety with all of the enthusiasm of a lucky contestant winning a set of soup spoons on Sale Of The Century.

And thereby began this alarming process which appears to have brought on this gender exchange. The more I resisted the lure of my usual eighteen weekly pints of Scruttock’s Old Derigible, the more I found myself to be uncharacteristically grumpy and complaining.

I, of course, was fine with this and I explained reasonably that irritation and tetchiness was merely a side-effect of the teetotalitarianism that she had thrust on me and so shut up and get your knickers off and those stockings on.

Bizarrely, this line of argument failed to put her in a mood of anything approaching a state of oestrus. But as her lack of enthusiasm for the new bedfellows of Rampant Rabbits and lubricunt served only to further foul my moods, we had what women like to call “a chat” (which we men recognise as an extended period of uninterrupted berating).

During the course of this (one-way) chat it was illustrated to me that perhaps I should substitute a new substance for the previously-championed alcohol. As you can imagine, my eyes lit up at this prospect and I began to balmily enjoy looking forward to the prospect of towering hills of white powder littering up the home. At the very least, I mused, she must be suggesting that I take up speedballing.

You can, then, appreciate that my heart somewhat sank when she suggested that the gilded grape be replaced with…chocolate.

Exactly.

I mean, what good is bloody chocolate when you are wanting to gird yourself for a good night in or out? Or even, and indeed especially, for a good night of in and out? Yes, I know that cocoa butter is supposed to turbo-charge the libido, but just breathing usually does that for me.

But, being the sort of agreeable New Chap that I am, I decided to give it a walnut whirl and set off to Waitrose in search of dark chocolate (I am not allowed the milk variety as dairy products feature among the 142 single-spaced pages of proscribed products that my doctor forbids me on account of them worsening any of my 35 terminal conditions).

Being a chap, I had expected to find a bit of Bournville and, being a chap, had expected to find that perfectly disgusting and pointless.

But bugger me if I didn’t get that wrong. I had been expecting to pick up one of those red-wrapped bars that your Dad used to eat when he started smoking a pipe, lonely stacked in isolation amid shelves of the good Belgian stuff. But instead I found myself staring into a darkies’ cave of milk-less choc.

I’d heard that some people (women) have a bit of a fetish for the stuff, but did you know that these days they appear to make dark chocolate for every form of depravity? There’s lemon choc, blackcurrant choc, lavender choc (no, I have no idea why), orange choc, mint choc, and then there’s the really hard-core stuff like cardamom chocolate and, I am not making this up, cayenne chocolate. Why the hell any bird would enjoy something like that, both sweet and spicy, is beyond me; but then it never ceases to amaze me what women will put in their mouths these days.

Anyway, undaunted by which choice to make from this exotica – let alone undazed by the confusion of what is the point of difference between “70% cocoa” and “85% cocoa” – I made a purchase.

By the way, in the unlikely event of this Dantesque tale having the effect of in any way persuading you to follow my strange behaviour, let me warn you now that this superchoc isn’t cheap; one bar retails at around the same price as a small Japanese car (not, I know, that you would be seen dead in a ditch in a Japanese car; I’m just making an illustration).

Anyway, weighed down by my choice of pricey choc (for which I am hoping to find funding by applying to the G8 Summit for one of those debt write-offs that they hand out these days to anybody who can’t pay the water bill) I crawled home full of thoughts that it would bloody well serve her right when my eating of the stuff caused her enjoyment of EastEnders to be interrupted by projectile-vomiting.

As you can never be too careful with this sort of girly food, I took the precaution of having several good heaves on a roll-up of that Algerian herbal mixture that you sent me, in order to assist my appetite.

Well blow me vicar and schtump me with a trenching tool if I wasn’t as ill-advised as the Mayor of Hiroshima’s “Silent Sunday” campaign.

Never mind booze, this stuff is better than acid! Honestly. All that stuff that we thought was guff when the girls said it was more-ish and “gorgeous” and “better than sex” is spot on (not that I am currently in a position to calibrate the latter comparison, but you get the drift).

Anyway, this whole seeing it (or indeed anything) from the women’s point of view is, as you can imagine, more scary than going round to Alex’s gaff to hear his Yes albums and although I have yet to develop any other girly symptoms, like an unnatural interest in shoe shops and the inability to throw a ball properly, I am understandably concerned that without psychological counselling I might start to miss watching Sex In The Clitty or whatever it’s called and nonchalantly shaving my arm-pits and blunting the blade of something that is quite clearly marked “men’s face razor”.

God forbid that I might even start having telephone conversations that veer from the correct form of “Hello + the point of my call + goodbye”.

As you can read, I’m in quite a state over this; so please send lawyers, guns and money. And don’t, for Christ’s sake, even entertain trying any of the following recipes. Or you too might start agreeing with Them. And chaos lies that way.

All best,

GB

(CHICKEN IN CHILLI & CHOCOLATE RECIPE FOLLOWS HERE, TOGETHER WITH RECIPES FOR DAMN-EASY CHOCOLATE MOUSSE, CHOCOLATE FATHERS’ DAY CAKE AND CHOC & HASH BROWNIES)