FLAKES: A BRIEF PERSONAL INTRODUCTION

In discussion with an internet friend the other day I mentioned flake tobaccos as memory aids, and also spoke of the fruit trees behind the Smeets house in Valkenswaard, the yield of which perfumed their orchard every Autumn.
Earlier in the year we had feasted on the crisp sour apples before they ripened, or braved the wasps for the sweet juicy pears.
I have never been stung by a wasp.
But I've eaten lots of fruit.


The memory of those pears got me thinking about the kind of person who settles on a particular pipe tobacco. But here's the problem: most pipe-smokers are more multi-faceted than that, and eventually explore other aspects of their personality, with other blends.

As an example, I will cite my friend Spiros, who is NOT a pipe smoker, but does sometimes indulge in cheroots. If he were a pipe smoker, he would probably have a fondness for Bracken Flake, by Samuel Gawith -- a dark pungent powerhouse of a blend sure to offend all strict Vegans and opinionated Bohemians. But with his occasional glass of Jameson's Irish Whiskey, he'd probably stuff his briar with Erinmore Flake, to be enjoyed ironically. Or something English, just to piss some other people off.

[Bracken Flake: Kentucky and Virginia leaf, pressed and steamed till heady. Do not change a light bulb while smoking this. Jameson's Whiskey: a remarkably fine product, even though it is becoming the drunkard's shot of preference in San Francisco, having knocked Jagermeister out of the top spot. Erinmore Flake: excellent Virginia and a touch of air-cured leaf, steampressed with a bizarre fruity topping that smells of pineapple. It is the quintessential Irish product, whose reek must compete with the frowst of a mildewed people in a soggy place. Quite good, once the pong wears off. Smoked slowly it will not poison your pipe. Smoked fast, it may poison you.]

You can see that there are multiple facets there. He reads Dickens in between obsessing over baseball literature, and to the best of my recollection eschews poetry.

Your tobacco might say something about you.


FLAKES

There are four companies that represent the genre, plus several exceptional oddments by other manufacturers. These prime four are Samuel Gawith, Rattrays, Wessex, and McClelland.
Not surprisingly, I have a number of tins representing their oeuvre stockpiled, as well as similar products from other companies.
I'm afraid I'm rather obsessive that way.

SAMUEL GAWITH

At the top of the heap is Samuel Gawith, a stodgy firm in Kendal, far from the modern world, which was founded over two centuries ago. Their products appeal to bright young individualists as well as antiquated old fossils.

Samuel Gawith 1792 Flake: A dark flake made fragrant with Tonquin oil, which must be smoked really slowly.
I have reason to suspect that the regular smoker of this product obsesses about panties. Spotlessly clean examples of feminine underwear, ironed, and mounted museum-style on acid-free board. With a tiny label, in flawlessly elegant copperplate script, telling the viewer something about each piece. Which is odd, because the collection will never be shown to anyone else.
I am fond of this, but do not smoke it often.

Samuel Gawith Full Virginia Flake: Medium strength, with a note of richness, slight spice, good fruit. The smoker of this knows what he (or she) likes, and is not embarrassed by it. Probably has excellent taste in a number of other fields, but does not show off or puff himself (or herself) up. May have a fondness for red wine or Assam tea.
Studious, reads Russian and German authors.
Intense and delightful.

Samuel Gawith Saint James Flake: Top quality pressed Virginias and Perique. Full-bodied yet surprisingly smooth and pleasantly sweet.
The smoke for a dashingly daring individualist. What that mysterious person wearing the grey trench coat out at the far end of the field in the rain smokes, while observing the lads playing soccer and wrestling in the mud, in homo-erotic play as encouraged by all physical education experts.
The less said about high-school exercise classes the better. There is an offensive preening and smirking quality to its teachers. Ugh.
It's really darn good tobacco.
I own a trenchcoat.

Samuel Gawith Golden Glow: A thoroughly enjoyable brown flake made mostly from sweet Bright Virginias, but not a very delicate product. Possessed of a lovely Autumnal fruitiness combined with summery hay notes. Perfect for cold days in San Francisco, the aficionado of Golden Glow probably identifies in several ways with all of the most memorable characters in Vladimir Nabokov's oeuvre: Franz ('Frank') Bubendorf, Sebastian Knight, Charles McBeth, Humbert Humbert, Van Veen,
Charles Kinbote, Hugh Person, Mr. Vivian Badlook.
I am smoking it right now.
Delicious.

RATTRAY

Charles Rattray started a tobacco company in Perth over a century and a half ago, which to this day provides the gold standard of English style flakes. Despite it being of Scottish provenance, and its products now manufactured by an estimable set of Prussians over on the continent.

Mr. Rattray wrote a long and windy 'booklet on tobacco blending', the reading of which convinces me that I would not have gotten along with him. He may have been excessively opinionated and neurotic.
But his very fine flakes show a more feminine side.

Rattray's Old Gowrie: deeply earthy and fruity, the addition of Kentucky provides notes of chocolate. A broken flake. It is mellow, albeit not mild. Men who dream on Saturday afternoon.
An addictive pensive smoke

Rattray's Marlin Flake: Soft, smooth, oozing personality. Tangy and tart. Raisins, dark drupes. Slightly monochromatic, but that does not dilute its excellence. Long strips of pressed tobacco folded in the tin.
I find this strangely appealing.

Rattray's Brown Clunee: A fine but not complicated ready rubbed flake, that would be a good all-day smoke for someone who only lights up two or three bowls a day. It can have surprising character.

Rattray's Hal O'The Wynd: Peaty, fruity, herbal. Hint of hay. A red Virginia compound of great character, which can be over-indulged in, much like chocolate, caviar, and strong tea. Sensual, very much so.
It reminds me of my mis-spent youth. Which I wish were considerably more mis-spent. I'll have to open up another tin soon.

WESSEX

Kohlhase & Kopp, who manufacture the entire Rattray's line, also do Wessex, about the origin of which I know nearly nothing. The brand name suggests Marketing Department inspiration, the label art is quite uninteresting, but the products are stellar. This line is one that even a sour old grumpus could grow quite fond of, as certain younger grumpuses indeed have. I am not a grumpus.
Despite what you have heard.
But I like Wessex.

Wessex Brigade Campaign Dark Flake: Nutty and woodsy, fragrant and mild. Oaty. Slightly topped. It must be considered a medium -- an even balance between the sweet sweet darkness and a bit of nicotine whomp -- and is stylistically comparable to Rattray's Marlin Flake.
Verbose people will like it very much; it brings out their prolixity.

Wessex Brigade Classic Virginia: Red, red, red, and possibly a touch of something else. Hay, fruit peels, apples, a soft medium-bodied broken flake of middle-dark appearance.
Finding a tin of this is like finding a tin of orgasms.

Wessex Brown Virginia Flake: A middle-of-the-road product, which is not very complex, but ages exceptionally well. A solid product.
Late at night, when my tobacco-despising apartment mate is asleep in her room, I will light up a bowl while reading. Boruch Hashem she has a lousy sense of smell, and most of the year is allergy season. Latakia, dammit, she will notice even though deep in slumber. Virginias hardly invade her dreams, but to be on the safe side I will open the window.
If I ever end up in a relationship we'll probably need a far bigger space, so that the apartment mate can be not two but four or five rooms away. Together my companion and I will light our pipes at night, while the Savage Kitten falls asleep quite untroubled by the dense fogs perfuming the darkness at the back of the building.
A man can only dream; this product makes it possible.

I need to find a woman who enjoys a pipe.

Wessex Red Virginia Flake: Yes, this product is topped. No idea with what. But that does NOT detract from a fine tobacco. Earthy, toasty, tangy. Enjoyable, and you will find yourself going through the tin at a rapid clip. Share it with friends of the same bend.
It brings back memories; some quite perverse.

MCCLELLAND

For over a generation, McClelland Tobacco Company in Kansas City have been sustaining the desperate and depraved, who yearn for fine British Flakes as the market shrinks and venerable firms bite the dust.
The desperate and depraved are profoundly grateful.
McClelland wisely do not have a contact page or e-mail addresses. One does not want love-letters from the desperate and depraved.
Being neither desperate NOR depraved, I enjoy them for what they are: manufacturers of some of the best tobacco ever seen on this planet.

Blakeney's Best Bayou Slice: Small-sliced matured flakes with a noticeable Perique presence. It has more depth than you would think.
A fine product.

Blakeney's Best Tawny Flake: Medium brown Virginias, rather old-fashioned, not very complex. Perfect for Spring or Summer -- though not in San Francisco, where those seasons verge on a Caledonian nastiness, and the sun never shines.
Wait for Autumn, when the weather is better.

No.5100 Red Cake (bulk): All the fruitiness you expect from reds, but very satisfying. One of the most popular bulk tobaccos in the McClelland line-up. Figs and other vegetals, only moderately sweet. Appeals to bearded middle-aged gentlemen who lack the imagination to find their news on the internet. Surgeons and the like.
Decent old farts.

Dominican Glory Maduro: Dark cigar leaf pressed with reds and blacks. Once aged a bit, it is exceptional, as the maduro element will have learned how to play well with others. I would say that this is for peculiar bachelors and eccentrics, but I do like it.

Boston 1776: One of the club blends, this is a complex and busy patchwork of reds, brights, and everything in between. The end-result is a medium brown flake. Similar to Epitome, but needs a lot more age. It left me with a mouth that felt like shoe-leather, but that was because I kept smoking it wet. Bad move.
Not actually a bad product.
Needs more age.

Matured Virginia No. 24: A somewhat robust dark combination of Virginias with a touch of something Turkish or Greek. It is perfect for surreptitiously smoking late at night, when everyone else is asleep and will not scream that you should be out near the abandoned church one block away, with all the winos and drug-addicts. But it might be splendid there too, as it performs well outdoors.
Nicely pungent and bold.

Matured Virginia No. 25: Reds and blacks, with a smell that promises good times or adventures with someone you should've avoided.
Sweet, like the fragrance of baked desserts.
It delivers on the promise.

Virginia Woods: Reds, Blacks, Brights. Fully teased after processing. Malty, figgy, fragrant, and like pencil shavings. All in all a very nice ribbony smoke that inculcates reveries if treated nicely, and forms one of a continuum with other McClellands products like Arcadia (same reddish tastes), Yenidje Highlander (similar to Arcadia, without the stinky Syrian), and Orient 996 (buckets of the stinky Syrian).
All of these showcase the best features of red Virginia paired with black Virginia, but Virginia Woods is the palest of the four. Inexperienced smokers may suffer headaches and tongue bite, but people with a sense of humour will find it very pleasing indeed.
VW is the most unusual and likable of the four.
Good for an afternoon of passion.
Creamy



EXCEPTIONAL ODDMENTS

Firstly, I have to mention Greg Pease, known as 'The Dark Lord', by some sections of the pipe-smoking coterie, because of his huge spectrum of blends featuring Latakia. To many people all of his blends seem like Lat Bombs, and they disregard his talent for combining flue-cured leaves.
This is unjust. Greg understands like few others that no matter how Oriental the end-product, what holds it together and makes it distinct is the interweaving of different Virginias to present a splendid portrait. Over the past several years he has explored the flake world with a sense of adventure and finesse that speak well of the man, and sometimes makes one wonder at his sanity.

G. L. PEASE

GLP Fillmore: Complex, interesting, and well-made. Highlights the fact that Virginias are more than just sweet notes.
It is an excellent product.

GLP Jackknife Plug: Virginias and Kentuckys in a block that must be sliced by the smoker. This is an insane experiment gone frightfully right. Good for the brain, and deeply satisfying. This is NOT for dilletants or society hostesses.
Exceptional and unusual.

GLP Navigator: Predominantly red VA, with a touch of yellow, brown, and some aircured leaf. For Virginia smokers this can be quite alluring, addictive and seductive even. Medium strength, and refined enough that you will not notice till it is too late that you are drunk on nicotine, dusk has fallen, winds have picked up, and the attractive young lady has fled your embrace.
You wake up with a headache, and resolve to do it all again tomorrow.
Good stuff. I've stocked over a dozen tins.

GLP Stratford: One of his earlier Virginia and Perique blends, in a ribbon cut. A lovely offering worth keeping a few tins of on hand.

GLP Telegraph Hill: Once aged a bit, this is complex and exceptional.

GLP Triple Play: Another plug, with whole buckets of likeability. Mostly Virginias. Sweet, semi-full, intoxicating. Do not allow this man near your sister. She'll end up buying Charatans and Dunhills.
A clean pure tobacco compound, which I highly recommend.
It is not depraved, but it could be decadent.
I've stored several tins.

GLP Union Square: a medium flake that touches all the right notes. There was a sample tin at Telfords in Marin County, but don't bother heading over there to try it, as over the past few months I've "sampled" the heck out of it. There's none left. It was extremely nice.
I smoked all of it.
Hah!

CORNELL & DIEHL

Cornell & Diehl, who manufacture Greg Pease's blends to his exact specifications, also produce some might fine products of their own. Craig Tarler, alas, is no longer among us (passed away last year), but the company he created carries on, gloriously so.
A fitting memorial to a remarkable man.

C & D Opening Night: a lovely short thick flake that rubs out to fragrant ribbons, this is the perfect medium-mild Virginia.

C & D Exhausted Rooster: A peculiar compound sure to appeal to English public school boys, elderly degenerates, the decadent and depraved of any age and place, and nearly everybody whose company is thoroughly enjoyable.
Virginias, Fire-cured leaf, and Perique.
More full than medium-bodied.

C & D Kajun Kake: Heh heh heh.

Heh heh heh.

A solid square block of dark-pressed crumble cake of Cavendish and Perique that benefits enormously from a year or two of aging.
Better use someone else's best chef's knife to slice it.
It is rich, fecund, and surprisingly mild.
Delicious tinned perversion.


Recently, Cornell & Diehl have produced four new blends for Castello, a very well-respected Italian pipe maker.
The blends represent different styles of tobacco, to appeal to a full spectrum of smokers.

Castello Old Antiquari is a full English with a surfeit of Latakia. It will find plenty of fans.
Castello Collection represents a mild ribbony mix of red and bright.
Castello Sea Rock is a frightening Eury aromatic.

Castello Fiammata: A delightful sparkly Virginia and Perique flake, medium and reddish, which being the desperate degenerate that I am, I truly love for breakfast. I have several times smoked two bowls in succession, and been bright and vivacious afterwards. It tingles on the tongue. Tangy, herbal, slightly fruity, and very exciting.
Fiammata is a brilliant product, and a wonderful addition to the VaPer category. Both Cornell & Diehl and Castello outdid themselves.
Stockpile this one. Go utterly ape.

AUTRES

Other flakes worth experimenting with are Orlik's Golden Sliced (mild bright Virginia with a top-dressing), MacBaren's Virginia Flake (even milder blonder Virginia, hint of anise seed perfume), Stokkeby 4th. Generation 1855 (a partially broken mild-medium blonde flake with a lovely grassy note), Stokkebye 4th. Generation 1931 (sliced flake with an odd top-dressing that suggests something between a dedicated old fiend and a schoolgirl who wishes to be bad), as well as some of the Channel Islands tobaccos (Germain's Brown Flake and Germain's Medium Flake).

Capstan, a medium to full flake with a distinctive taste which had been unavailable for centuries in the civilized world, is back, now made by MacBarens. Quite a nice smoke. The sample tin is empty. The Golden Gate Pipe Club members devoured every shred of it, leaving nothing for anyone else. Damned animals.
Three Nuns is also back. Very tasty.

PERETTI

Lastly, I must mention the firm of L. J. Peretti in Boston. A fellow Dutch-American who hails from there has over the past few years introduced me to their fine products. Which might make me think of moving to Boston.
The climate, which is like a frigid San Francisco summer all year round, prevents me from even considering it.

Boston Slice: a mild offering, good for early in the day.
Cambridge Flake: not strictly speaking a Virginia.
London Flake: tangy,  with a touch of Perique.
Oxford Flake: rich and robust, very rewarding.
Scottish Flake: full bodied, fruity top-dressing.



AFTERWORD

Most of this modest essay was written on Thursday afternoon. I had two bowls of Samuel Gawith Golden Glow while working on it, then followed with a bowlful of Luxury Twist Flake, and a load of Kajun Kake to finish.
Plus three strong cups of coffee, black.
I ended up high as a kite and woozy.
Nothing to eat till tea-time.

Breakfast is for wimps.

TOBACCO INDEX


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SURREAL? PERHAPS. BUT IT'S ANNOTATED!

Bachelors are well-known for doing depraved things late at night.
Bad decisions will be made, and regretted the next morning. Such as feasting on a peanut butter and salami sandwich on toasted sourdough, with a thick shmear of Indian pickle. It was supposed to be a French Dip, but there was no roast beef in the house, hence the substitution, and in lieu of jus (as in "au jus"), I simply used a bowl of Louisiana hotsauce.
It seemed like a really good idea at the time.
But I should've known better.
At three A.M.


I'm blaming the restaurant where I had breakfasted the previous afternoon. Being somewhat ravenous at the time, all constraints flew out the window, which was a pattern that continued throughout the evening.
Sometimes a plate of yi-min hits the spot. Really hits the spot.
Especially when augmented with SriRacha Hotsauce.
Which they have at that restaurant.


阿姨, 我好鍾意食辣嘅, 你可唔可以攞嗰個瓶辣醬畀我？
Ah Yi, ngo hou jung-yi sik laat ge, nei ho m-ho yi lo ko-go ping laat-jeung bei ngo?
["Auntie, I really like eating spicy food, could you bring me that bottle of hot sauce?"]

The great thing about yi-min noodles (伊麵) is the chewy texture, and dry-fry (幹燒 gon-siu) yi-min with roast duck (火鴨絲炆伊麵 fo-ngaap si mun yi min) is extremely satisfying. Little bits of juicy bird, chunks of baby bokchoi, and a big, big, BIG! sploodge of hotsauce (辣醬 laat jeung).

Sheer heaven.

Quite the perfect preamble to a night of smoking a pipe till three in the morning, and other constructive pursuits.

Which the poor German tourists at the next table did not realize. Or they wouldn't have had so much difficulty with the menu.

At one point, a courteous middle-aged Gentleman left his own table and came over, offering to help them and explain what all the listed items were, saying that the restaurant served home-style food, and the waitress wasn't entirely fluent in English. Which is more or less true, but she certainly wasn't the only one with that problem.


阿生啊，嗰啲德國遊客都唔識講英文。
Ah-sang ah, ko di tak-kwok yau-haak do m-sik-kong yingman.....
["Oh mister, those German tourists ALSO don't speak English."]

Their difficulties continued, as they were completely baffled by his sincere wish to render assistance and make their stay in Chinatown smooth and enjoyable, but they eventually ended up with a selection of good food.
And the two kids did a credible job with their chopsticks, utilizing more digits than just thumb and index.
Very fastidious and elegant.

Of course, they did not have yi-min. Glopped with SriRacha.
Very temperate of them.

The problem with dining alone is that possibilities are limited. Hence my choosing a plate of yi-min (伊麵) over a more balanced meal with greater variety. The hotsauce, you will understand, functioned as the vegetable component. It was chock-full of fibre and vitamin C.
SriRacha is excellent salad dressing, btw.
It's truly perfect for smokers.
We need vitamins.


I grasp that the two children probably don't smoke (yet), but their parents had that rascally European look, and without a doubt lit up ferociously after the children were asleep. Or even the moment they left the restaurant.


Much later, after finding out that "English Crust" had gotten involved with a blonde woman several years older than him (老來嬌 lou loi kiu; refer back to bachelors being well-known for depravity after dark), K-chai and I discussed paneer, that being Indian-style cheese. It is made by adding an acidulant to warm milk, then pouring the milk into fine-mesh cheesecloth after it has curdled. The resultant loose lump of cheese will be squooze out and pressed under a weight for a few hours, before being fried and spiced. Either to be eaten as is, as a late night snack with that bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label that all Punjabis love, or added to creamed spinach (saag paneer), or even creamed mustard greens (sarson da saag). Delicious with hot buttered makki di roti and a big glass of whipped dahi.
Naturally there should be fresh chilies on the side.
Perfect bachelor food.

I was on my fifth pipe of the evening by then. K-chai was enjoying a Havana. Someone else was smoking a Rocky Edge Candela. I may have seen an Epernay Illusione elsewhere in the room.
English Crust was happy as a clam.
The bachelor life suits him.
Good cigars.

For some reason when I got home I was ravenous again. Something was gnawing at my stomach. I held off as long as possible, but five hours later I could not resist anymore. It's surprising how fast yi-min is metabolized.
Or whatever it is that digestive systems do.
Dried Italian Salami. Peanut butter.
Both kasondi and thokku.
Louisiana hotsauce.


Both the dream-state while I was sleeping, and the entire morning today, have been surreal. Flecks of movement at the edge of vision. Rumbling effects in the old bachelor digestive system. Twinges. A profound urge to stick myself in a bucket of yoghurt (dahi, thanda thanda dahi).
I envy those German tourists from last night.
And their smooth enjoyable stay.
Yoghurty to tha max.




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FRIGID PEOPLE

During the day I am the only one here, and can consequently dress however the mood strikes me. Or undress. With no one around to be shocked, I could if I chose swan around the apartment entirely in the buff, gloriously naked, nary a scrap nor any vestige of clothing whatsoever covering any part of my manly anatomy.

You'll just have to imagine it, however, because it's rather cold in San Francisco, what with it being the middle of summer and all.

Even after my apartment mate leaves for the day, I shall not take advantage of the moment to strip and swan.
I've got flannel jammies. They're nice and warm.
Got a bathrobe too, also N and W.


The best source of heat on a cold summer day is another person, whose hot hot body potently radiates warmth and silken comfort. This being San Francisco, and consequently cold and foggy, it is impossible to tempt another person into sharing their heat. It's too nasty for nudes.
Especially if, like this blogger, one reasonable suspects that the other person is either a degenerate or a nutball.
As so many people in this city are.
Life is too short for a rather civilized pipesmoker to waste time on wacky self-obsessed San Francisco moonbeams.
I like the concept of a naked person with a radiant dermis, but the logistics defeat me. So instead I will swan around in my flannel jammies and comfy bathrobe till it is time to soak in the bath.
After which I shall get dressed and do constructive things.
The moment will have passed, the opportunity gone.

Later I shall brave the blasting wind to smoke a pipe outdoors.

I shall not be naked (unless sorely tempted).

Nice warm sweater.

And a coat.



I love all the tourists who flock to the city in summer expecting this to be California, wearing their shorts and tee-shirts.
They look insanely desperate.





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A VERY SERVICEABLE ANIMAL

Badgers have short powerful legs for digging, which comes in handy when they're constructing a 'sett', that being a residence of several long connected tunnels and chambers, often underneath a hillock or hill-side. Digging, of course, is also useful when finding food.
Badgers are in the main carnivorous, and in some areas subsist largely on rabbits, which infest the same terrain.
Nobody misses the rabbits.

Sometimes badgers become tipsy after consuming fermenting fruit.

The Asiatic 'Stink Badger' ("panglurok") is nocturnal, and feeds on fish and crabs. Which are best prepared with melted butter.
Butter is hard to find over there.
The Panglurok is bereft.
We think.

Like crabs, rabbits are also excellent, if prepared with butter. Braised, with a bit of garlic and ginger, and then slow-simmered in sherry till surpassingly tender and delicious. Add a touch of cream to finish.

While on the bus the other day I was thinking of the badger diet after a passenger, surmising that the slow dense traffic was frustrating the bus driver, brought his pet rabbit up to the front and insisted that the driver pet it to relieve tension.


"Go on, pet it."

"No no, I cannot have this distraction, please step behind the yellow line."

"It will calm you down, you really must pet it!"

"Please! Step behind the yellow line, sir!"


"Pet the rabbit, dammit!"


Only in San Francisco.

It was a fluffy white rabbit. It looked terrified. Like me, the bus driver was probably also mentally reviewing various rabbit recipes at that moment.
If rabbits have any intelligence at all, it is probably only to telepathically feel the hunger of other animals, especially those who love to cook.

Somewhere in South-East Asia, a family of stinkbadgers (panglurok) are considering an extended vacation in temperate zones where there are lots of rabbits, and where butter is more often available than in Palawan, Kubotanggi, or Kalimantan.
They wish to know if you would rent out your sett to them for several months, while you are off in the tropics feasting on crab.

They promise they will leave it spic and span. You won't even notice that they were there when you return. The pile of bones out back will be nicely covered with fallen leaves.

And they won't touch your fermenting fruit.
They know it's very precious to you.
The rabbits will be gone.












If you're interested, let me know.



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WEARING WOOL IN THE HEAT, POETRY, AND ITCHY SKIN

Over the past several years one group of readers of this blog has remained constant, though, one suspects, permanently in a state of flux. They are ever present, though they never leave comments, and do not show their "appreciation".

I'm not sure "appreciation" is the right word.
Possibly "frustration" is a lot closer.

They are the pervert mass.

A contingent of desperate men from every continent, who have taken the truism to heart that the internet exists for only THREE things: kitten pictures, food, and smut.

All search criteria, in the end, end up finding nudity.

Though not on this blog. I know how to paste pictures and video clips, but, being a firm believer in the latent talent for filth of all mankind, I see NO reason to further it along by posting prawns.
Just imagine it, boys, and start sweating.

There are two posts on this blog that must be infinitely disappointing to degenerates. Though well-adjusted normal people may very well enjoy them keenly.

First in that category is a post captioned with the very criterium that pulled the sickos in: 'Naked Schoolgirl'. In it, a warm day is described, with a somewhat Bengali theme. Ghee is mentioned, along with several stars of Bonglo cuisine, and a poet. This in the context of imagining a young lady reading a book in private while eating chocolate cake.
All very high culture.

The second one, in the same category as the first, is speculation about the mercantile effect of a bit of casual nudity in advertisements. My thesis was that showing a beautiful woman in a state of déshabillée furthered the desirability of whatever product was thus busked.
'Portrait of a Naked Schoolgirl on a bed of Tobacco'.
Again, pictures were postulated but not pasted; there is nothing there to excite the fevered eye. The power of suggestion is posed, and I aver that I myself -- an utterly clean-living man of abstemious and sober habit -- would be moved to purchase huge quantities of merchandise,
if these were shown juxtaposed with classic beauty.
Butter, Station Wagons, Kitchen Tissue, Soap.
And tobacco. Lots of tobacco.


NAKED NAKED SCHOOL GIRL

To this day, both of those posts pull in internet-O-nauts from all corners of the Globe. One can only imagine what cookies are saved on their computers; the machines at late night WiFi cafes must be rank with foul vibrations from their fecund minds. Many of them are probably Pakistani, as porn-surfing seems to be what ninety percent of the male population in that place prefers.
Judging by figures published recently.

Somewhat unkindly of me, I enjoy their imagined frustration. Surely it cannot be satisfying to have their expectations dashed by my false advertising. Which was deliberate.


KITTEN PICTURES, FOOD, AND SMUT

The idea of certain things is often better than the actuality, and in my own mind's eye the images glow more gloriously than ever they could in reality. The power of suggestion is often a personal and very private obsession.

"The petite academician disrobed, and slowly, languorously, smeared a thick coating of butter on her hot toast. It melted, melted, running in rivulets over her elegant fingers. With fevered passion she pulled at the kitchen tissues, ripping them off the roll. Where was the soap?!?
She frantically jumped out of her lover's station wagon."

About the only thing missing is Hello Kitty.
No-one searches for Hello Kitty.
That would be sick.


[One search in the last twenty fours that found my blog is unique: "Bengali middles aged naked". While I am gratified -- if that is the right word -- that someone looking for 'Bengali middles aged naked' found my blog and consequently read some of my wit and wisdom, I got nuttin'. Not a scratch on the ground nor whisp on the horizon regarding 'Bengali middles aged naked'. Zip diddly. I have never written about 'Bengali middles aged naked', and wouldn't know where to start. Nor have I ever seen any 'Bengali middles aged naked'.
It isn't part of my life.
Not yet.]


COMPLETELY IRRELEVANT AFTER WORD

While writing this, I am listening to some very nice bagpipe music from Hong Kong. No, there is no reason for you to know what search-criteria ended up finding it. It was totally innocent, safe for work, and absolutely did not contain the words 'short plaid skirts', 'golden skin', or 'heathen melodies'. We live in a wonderful world.
All internet searches ALSO end up at youtube.
It's the nature of the beast.


Go on. Click this link: Pervert Taunting.
You know you want to.



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MORE THAN JUST THE SUM OF MY THUMBS

Some people do not realize how interesting and likeable they are. When you try to convey this to them, they tend to depreciate themselves and get flustered. Which is very charming.

I like talking to people because it can be such an enjoyable experience. No, I'm not trying to find out what makes them tick. But I am keen to hear their points of view, and both what they say and how they say it tells me so much about them. Even when they're being circumspect and shy, OR, as they might prefer to call it, "reserved".

The trick is to read between the lines. Not everyone perfectly expresses themselves, sometimes the thought is still forming as it comes out of the mouth. Context, eyes, and attitude convey a framework within which much more may be read than just the words. It should not surprise you that I do not own a cellular device.

For most of the past two decades I have been on the telephone several times a day, and I deal very well with phones. Customers have praised my ability to handle calls, impart useful information, and discuss solutions. But never-the-less, the phone does not function as much more than a tool in my life. Either face-to-face contact, OR a lovingly-crafted bit of writing, impart a far greater sense of contact and connection, than any amount of telephonic chit-chat.

E-mail me. Or talk to me over coffee. I will dwell upon your words and fondly remember them. If your eyes speak to me, or your clearly expressed paragraphs evoke, it will mean so much more than any jangly machine or quick-thumbed texting.



Completely contradicting the above, I value some emoticons.


;-D


Notice the raised eye-brow? It indicates a wink. And somewhat snarky amusement. Plus the laugh, represented by a capital dee, says that whoever left the emoticon, responded to what was said. It's a quick shorthand that lets the other person know the emotion (hence the term 'emoticon').

:-! clearly means "I am smoking a cigar right now".
That may or may not be relevant at the time.

8-% shows the reader eating a lemon.
I have no idea why that's important.


(0) is a picture of a hamburger.



Despite the baffling nature of that last example, all of this is still better than Tweeting. An emoticon, no matter how existential or absurd, conveys a mental activity.
Twitter is precisely the equivalent of sniffing another dog's butt.
Though conceivably far less meaningful.

At least the dog is having face time.


;-D




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ASIAN GIRLZ - OR, HOW TO CREATE AN UNJUSTIFIED AMOUNT OF ATTENTION

One of my readers forwarded a link to a Music Video by a band called Day Above Ground entitled Asian Girlz. In respect to his curiosity, I forced myself to listen to the whole thing.

First off, I have to explain that I am not a fan of modern music. Almost everything popular since the days of bobby socks and poodle skirts has been hopelessly vulgar and jejune.

Secondly, I may have mentioned "Asian Girls" on this blog a couple of times. The reader who sent me that link knows that I have been more or less connected to an 'Asian Girl' since 1989. The woman in question is my apartment mate, and till 2010 was my significant other.


Thirdly, I speak "Asian Girl".

That is to say, I can hold my own in a Cantonese conversation about food, and read the specials pasted on the wall. What with being a total food-slut and all, linguistically obsessive, and also quite vehemently antipathetic to the restrictively self-obsessed culinary hang-ups of modern-day urban America. A man has got to eat.
See my other blog for more about food.
Plus I can swear fairly fluently in Cantonese, and quote odd bits of Chinese literature.

Capping it off, I know everything about Hello Kitty.
Me so very expert Hello Kitty sh*t.


As I said, I forced myself to listen to the song.
It has interesting and thought-provoking lyrics.


But, rather than telling you in great analytic detail what that musical number meant to me, I think I'll yield the stage to someone else.

ASIAN GIRLZ, READ BY AN ASIAN GIRL


[Source: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9XZ83erXuGs.]



I hope my apartment mate (the ex-girlfriend) doesn't ever find that song about Asian Girlz; she would not like it. She is exceptionally literate and well-read, and expresses herself vehemently, with fierce eloquence.

I would never hear the end of it.


I'm sort of a sitting duck.


Thanks, Guyz.





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A RESTAURANT TO GO TO IN BRIGHTON

Chinese people, as is well-known, are seriously into seafood.

The English, as is also as well-known, are notoriously not known for their culinary abilities.


英國布賴頓市最好的海鮮餐廳!

Consequently the popularity among travelling Chinese of a seafood restaurant located in Brighton, England, staggers me. As it likewise does the very lovable manager, mr. Roberto Savvides. Which can be seen in the video embedded in this article: Why Chinese Flock To A Brighton Chippy.

"They like to order starters, main courses, desserts..... all at the same time."

Everything served at the same time spells out happy dining with other people. Plus sampling a bit of this and a bit of that. It is purely wonderful to have a table overloaded with seafood.
I'm not entirely sure I'd want the spotted dick and custard alongside the fries ("chips") and mussels, though. A boiled pudding with raisins inside, yellow gloop out. On the other hand, The Regency Restaurant also offers chocolate cake and treacle pudding.
Among many other things.

Their menu looks quite seductive.


Appetisers
• Fish soup £2.75
• Deep fried scampi £3.10
• Scotch smoked salmon £4.25
• Smoked mackerel £3.50
• Deep fried calamari £3.10
• King prawns grilled in garlic £4.50
• Whitebait £3.10
• Prawn cocktail £3.10
• Sardines £4.25
• Moules marinier £4.50
• Marinated anchovies £3.10
• 3 scallops in garlic butter £5.50
• 1/2 Doz. oysters £6.00
• Avocado pear with prawns £4.10
• Iced melon £3.10
• Taramosalata & pitta bread £3.10

Sea Fare
Locally caught fresh fish is our speciality, garnished and served with french fried potatoes.

• Fried fillet of cod £5.25
• Fried fillet of plaice £5.25
• Fried fillet of haddock £5.25
• Grilled whole plaice £6.95
• Deep fried scampi £6.25
• Deep fried calamari £6.25
• Grilled rainbow trout £8.25
• Deep fried seafood platter £6.75
• Grilled king prawns in garlic £8.75
• Grilled lemon sole £9.25
• Grilled halibut steak £10.50
• Grilled Dover sole £13.95
• Sardines £6.75
• Grilled seabass £12.50
• Whitebait £6.25
• Grilled fish medley £10.25

Shell Fish
• Moules mariniere £7.95
• 6 scallops in garlic £10.95
• Lobster salad £18.95
• Grilled lobster with garlic butter £19.95
• Hot lobster thermidor £20.95
• 1 Doz. oysters £12.00
• Whole crab salad £10.95

House Specials
• Grilled salmon in lemon & dill sauce £9.95
• Halibut steak mornay £11.95
• Trout amandin £9.95
• Fillet plaice meuniere £7.50
• Sirloin steak diane £10.95
• Sirloin steak au poivre £10.95


The Regency Restaurant also offers a wonderful selection of grills, roasts, poultry, pasta dishes, cold buffets, children's dishes, side vegetables, and vegetarian dishes. Prices range from £5.25 for Roast beef with Yorkshire pudding, £5.75 for Vegetarian lasagna, Smoked salmon salad at £6.95, Sauteed mushrooms £1.50, Greek Salad £3.25, Garlic bread £1.30 and Fried onion rings £1.50.

Desserts
• Homemade apple pie £3.10
• Banana split £3.10
• Homemade tiramisu £3.10
• Cheesecake £3.10
• Chocolate gateaux £3.10
• Choice of ice-creams £1.95
• Banoffi pie £3.10
•Treacle pudding £3.10
• Rhubarb crumble £3.10
• Profiteroles £3.10


The next time I visit England I shall travel to Brighton. The Regency Restaurant, at 131 Kings Road, looks like the fish and chip shop that blows all other fish and chip shops out of the water. Especially the pathetic oil-sponge heartburn fry-holes in San Francisco, which offer mediocre fish, miserable fries, factory battered frozen shrimp, and loathsomely awful deepfried oysters.
I greatly look forward to having a splendid dinner in a clean and very charming place, filled with happy people and excellent food.
If I have a cellphone by then, pictures of an overloaded table may appear on this blog.
Or not.

"They love their shellfish - the lobsters, the mussels, the crabs; they like all that."

Of course they do.




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YOUR DEPRAVED SENSIBILITIES

According to the BBC, "the makers of a casual sex matchmaking app called Bang With Friends are facing legal action over its name from games studio Zynga."

Of course that caught my eye. What did you expect?
"The app, which launched in January, alerts Facebook friends who express mutual interest in a sexual encounter."

[Source: http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/technology-23515738.]


This blogger believes that banging should always be accompanied by deep and enduring feelings of friendship. But by no means applied to all friendships, just one of them. If the person with whom the banging occurs is NOT a friend, the question may well arise why you are seeing him or her, and are your priorities screwed on straight?

Generally speaking, my advice to the novice and the beginner is "only bang someone of whom you are very fond".
Think of it as intellectual nourishment for the young.
And me as the wise tribal elder.

Old-fashioned, I know. Much more banging goes on nowadays than meets the eye. Hollywood celebrities are bad role models in that regard, as they will bang damned near anybody.
Pizza, beer, and Mulholland Drive.


I'm fairly certain that I cannot get behind arranging bang-dates on Facebook, however. Yes, I'm very fond of all my FB buddies, but banging is not part of the paradigm.

Honestly, I have not considered banging any one of them.
They are doubtlessly relieved about that.

I've got strong opinions about banging in any case. I believe that it's a jolly nice activity for both participants, and given that there are eight billion other humans on this planet, I am not the first to think so. But those eight billion include an awful lot of ambulating evidence that there has been far too much casual and badly considered banging going on. Banging should be more thoughtful, and only take place between two people who have each carefully gauged the other person's suitability as bang-material. Is he or she a decent person? Sane? Likeable on more than just a physical level? Will the first bang be appropriate? Will it be a happy thing to do? Will it lead to more banging? Can there be enduring mutual enthusiasm?

Can I put up with his or her peculiarities?
Will there be pizza before or after?


Crucially: Do I know enough about the prospective willing participant to trust him or her naked in my home?


The questions about pizza and trust eliminate almost all of everyone's FB friends. At least I think they do. No offense to everyone I know on Facebook, but I would rather not have them wandering around my apartment eating pizza in the nude.

I am extremely open to the concept of banging.
But Facebook profiles play no role in that.
Kitten pictures, cartoons, and causes.
This cannot be the basis of a bang.


So, new advice to novices and beginners, reformulated for the age we live in: only bang someone who isn't a Hollywood celebrity, is not into kitten pictures, has all their marbles, is a decent person, and of whom you are very fond, despite their wrongheadedness about pizza.
A real person, and also a real-world bang.
Do not talk about it when you do.
And please don't "share".




As an afterthought, I'm not at all sure how pizza fits into all this. But for many people, apparently, it is a rather important consideration.
So I threw it in as an encouraging element that creates a note of familiarity and camaraderie. An ice-breaker, so to speak.
Plus I thought you might be hungry.




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FIT TUNE FOR FACING THE MISGUIDED MASSES

Theme music for a pipe-smoker heading off to face the savage cigar smokers of Marin County. Actually something else, but baby-sitting the headhunting cheroot-whackers to the north of civilization does require the sound of strident militancy.

As we say in Dutch: 'It sticks a heart under the belt'.


THE OLD GUARD ADVANCES


[Source: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZjHw3pkrY-A.]


From the 1970 epic film 'Waterloo', composed by Nino Rota.


I have no doubt one of those people will want a cognac-soaked stogy (manufactured by Gurkha / Hansotia & Co.), who normally produce a fairly decent rolled-up tobacco leaf product. No, I have NO idea what inspired them to cater to the inbred trailerparker tea bag contingent on this one. Perhaps the fierce competition for market share in an ever-shrinking world? Maybe recognition that knuckle-dragging vulgarians are an influential voting-block? Conceivably even a burgeoning love for ignorant tattooed savages mobbing a Nascar event. Who knows, and who cares.
Brandy-drenched cheroots, forsooth!

Sorry, that was a moment.

This blogger has nothing against illiterates. Truly. Some of my best friends are illiterates.
Firewater-sodden ropes. Crikey. Possibly Kaizad Hansotia lost a bet.
Does Hansotia-saheb need theme-music to get out of bed in the morning? Especially when cornered by a howling mob?
I suggest the tune above. It's rousing.


We pipe-smokers will welcome you. We also think that cigar smokers need to be brutalized like Napoleon's troops, by an English poncy man and a psychopathic Prussian. Pom pom-pom, pom pom-pom!
Martial music, for truly epic marketing. Pom pom-pom.
Drums, man, who will stop those damned drums!
Gurkha Grand Reserve Maduro.

Het steekt een hart onder de riem.


PS. Kindly note the clickable link ("THE WALL") underneath this post. It will bring up everything I have to say about cigar-smokers, most recent article first, which presently is this essay. Just scroll down for more good stuff. Cigar smokers are the sweet cream of humanity, the veritable saltiness of the rock. Jesus was probably a cigar smoker, lord Krishna certainly was.

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OPTIMISM ABOUT ROSES - 玫瑰玫瑰我愛你

One of the songs massacred by American pop-singers is the classic below, which, once you listen to the original, you will understand remains better in its home language than it could ever possibly be in English. There's a sprightliness and cheer to it that pleases the mind, and inculcates a positivity.

You'll recognize it; you've heard it before.
But this is the version you should have heard.

玫瑰玫瑰我愛你


[Source: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-KMVtuURwjY.]


玫瑰玫瑰我愛你

曲：陳歌辛
詞：吳材
歌手：姚莉


玫瑰玫瑰最嬌美，玫瑰玫瑰最豔麗
長夏開在枝頭上，玫瑰玫瑰我愛你。

玫瑰玫瑰情意重，玫瑰玫瑰情意濃
長夏開在荊棘裡，玫瑰玫瑰我愛你。

心的誓約、 新的情意，潔的光輝照大地
心的誓約、 新的情意，潔的光輝照大地。

玫瑰玫瑰枝兒細，玫瑰玫瑰刺兒銳
今朝風雨來摧毀，傷了嫩枝和嬌蕊。

玫瑰玫瑰心兒堅，玫瑰玫瑰刺兒尖
來日風雨來摧毀，毀不了並蒂連理

Méiguī méiguī wǒ ài nǐ,

Méiguī méiguī zuì jiāo měi, méiguī méiguī zuì yànlì
Zhǎng xià kāi zài zhī tóushàng, méiguī méiguī wǒ ài nǐ.

Méiguī méiguī qíngyì zhòng, méiguī méiguī qíngyì nóng
Zhǎng xià kāi zài jīngjí li, méiguī méiguī wǒ ài nǐ.

Xīn de shìyuē, xīn de qíngyì, jié de guānghuī zhào dàdì
Xīn de shìyuē, xīn de qíngyì, jié de guānghuī zhào dàdì.

Méiguī méiguī zhī er xì, méiguī méiguī cì er ruì
Jīnzhāo fēngyǔ lái cuīhuǐ, shāngle nèn zhī hé jiāo ruǐ.

Méiguī méiguī xin er jiān, méiguī méiguī cì er jiān
Lái rì fēngyǔ lái cuīhuǐ, huǐ bùliǎo bìng dì liánlǐ


The person singing this song is the silver-voiced miss Yao Lee (姚莉 / 姚秀雲), born in 1922, presently retired. She was truly one of the all-time stars of Chinese music, with an impressive expressive range and a flexibility that spanned many styles.
Her version of the rose song is the original; all the others are lackluster copies.
The English version is unfortunate.

As a freebie, I include the song below.


重逢


[Source: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g126xGkNTAQ.]

重逢

曲： 莊宏
詞：嚴寛
歌手：姚莉

人生何處不相逢，相逢猶如在夢中。
連年為你呀留下春的詩，偏偏今宵皆成空。

人生何處不相逢，相逢猶如在夢中。
你在另個夢中把我忘記，偏偏今宵又相逢。

相逢又相逢，莫非是夢中夢﹖
以往算是夢，人生本是個夢。

人生何處不相逢，相逢猶如在夢中。
你在另個夢中把我忘記，偏偏今宵又相逢。

Chóngféng

Rénshēng hé chù bù xiāngféng, xiāngféng yóurú zài mèngzhōng.
Lián nián wèi nǐ ya liú xià chūn de shī, piānpiān jīnxiāo jiē chéng kōng.

Rénshēng hé chù bù xiāngféng, xiāngféng yóurú zài mèngzhōng.
Nǐ zài lìng gè mèngzhōng bǎ wǒ wàngjì, piānpiān jīnxiāo yòu xiāngféng.

Xiāngféng yòu xiāngféng, mòfēi shì mèngzhōng mèng﹖
Yǐwǎng suànshì mèng, rénshēng běn shìgè mèng.

Rénshēng hé chù bù xiāngféng, xiāngféng yóurú zài mèngzhōng.
Nǐ zài lìng gè mèngzhōng bǎ wǒ wàngjì, piānpiān jīnxiāo yòu xiāngféng.



The second song is about meeting, and meeting again. It may only be in dreams, or in far-off places. And possibly when you dream of me I will remember. It might even be tonight.



It's Saturday evening in the city. This blogger is heading out to spend an hour or two smoking his pipe in a place I hope will be quiet. I'll be dreaming there. Perhaps we'll meet.




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WHAT'S THAT? OH, JUST ME TALKING TO MYSELF.

My ex never felt at ease when I spoke her parents' language in public.
Truth be told, I was always quite nervous doing so around her, and largely in consequence my Cantonese pronunciation was all across the board.
Less so in private, but when we were among others I reverted to the mistakes I made when first picking up the tongue. Given that her family hailed from Toishan, and my speech habits in Cantonese derive from gangster movies and police dramas -- Hong Kong in style, and rather slapdash -- it was almost inevitable that to her ear my speech was odd, wrong, uncomfortable sounding, and often well-nigh unintelligible. That shifting accent twixt HK and totally yawping foreign especially.
Good thing both of us were native speakers of English
Still are. Though no longer a couple.
English remains a bond.


On the other hand, it is rather gratifying that several people nowadays feel entirely comfortable conversing with me in Cantonese. My pronunciation is better now, and my more-than-normal-for-a-kwailo literacy fools them into assuming a fluency I cannot boast.
Several of them are women, too. Just like my ex.
So I must be getting over my shyness.

No, I shan't assay any attempts at love talk with them; I sound too much like a pervy goon from Kowloon Tong to be convincing on that level. It's that aforementioned shyness and reversion to a more ramshackle speech habit.

I am not the great Cantonese lover of your dreams.
In fact, I'm rather white. Very Caucasoid.
Not Chow Yunfat or Andy Lau.

Though I admire both of those men, along with Leslie Cheung, and in a different universe I would not at all mind resembling all three of them. Especially their inimitable movie personas.
Along with Clark Gable as Rhett Butler.
It's that stellar hotness.
Yummy.

Even in Dutch (which is my other native language), I sound unnatural when speaking romantically. There the reversion is to Flemish norms, with a strong influence from Mediaeval Netherlandish literature. Quite the courtly lover, and consequently quite utterly goofy. No one in their right mind takes a minnesanger (travelling minstrel - courtier - knight errant) seriously, expecially when his language sounds remarkably like hairball-expulsus.
It really does require a fragrant orchard with petals swirling down late on a gentle spring evening out in the countryside to pull that off, and I have never even tried it.

I lament the paucity of orchards when I was younger.


What I'm basically trying to say is that my personality is broader and better developed in English than any other language, and that unless a pressing need presents itself, expansion into other languages will be slow. English is the language of my literacy and education; most of what I have ever read, heard, or spoken, has been in that tongue.
Socially I am human in English; not entirely so otherwise.
It is a limitation, indeed, but not a handicap.
The same almost certainly holds for you.


If I ever find a orchard which is fragrant with falling blossoms, that has a fair maiden sheltering among the trees, I will naturally attempt to allay her hesitation and still her shyness in our language.
And I hope that she will do the same for me.

Possibly, however, we might in our own minds sound like Hong Kong goombas or crazy Dutchmen while doing so.
The interior monologue is ever more straightforward.
And always better kept inside.




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WHERE THE WILD THING IS

Most of my readers should be familiar with Mr. Badger from Wind in the Willows by now. And realize that in some part I model myself after that estimable gentleman. A mature individual, a pipe smoker, and by necessity somewhat solitary. In the book there is no evidence that Mr. Badger was ever romantically involved, and as a brock it would not be one-hundred percent likely that he might find a suitable mate. That is to say, someone with many of the same calm habits as himself, and inclined towards strolling silently through an overgrown forest late in the day while enjoying a smoke, or reading with a pot of tea under the cosy, while whisps of ethereal fragrance curl and drift upwards and a long deep bowl of pale Virginia flake tobacco gently reduces to ash.
Perhaps followed by a bit of curry for supper.
All English people are fond of curry.
It's what they eat best.


How, one wonders, would Mr. Badger fare when meeting the Disney characters? Marvelously well, one should think. He'd drive the little saccharine creeps out of his neighborhood with his blackthorn walking stick, uttering deprecatory remarks under his breath. Well, except for Tinker Bell. He'd probably keep her around a while for curiosity's sake, as despite his wealth of experience he would never before have seen a pre-pubescent with such astounding knockers.

What on earth is it?!?

Humanoid? Android? Dingbat New Jerseyoid?

Is it the legendary Snooky Kardoozian?

Nah, it's far too blonde.

Must be a troll.

Let's find it a bridge underneath which it can hide. Then erupt forth occasionally, scaring goats.


As for the others, it's astounding what that scarlet-pantsed rat has done to the icons of our youth. All right-thinking animals should descend on Disney World and torch the place. Frogs, chickens, and pigs need to run amok there, waving big cast iron frying pans and scaring away the brain-deadened brats of America and their misguided parents, before festooning themselves with smoking jackets and huffing some big, big stogies. Accompanied by Bourbon. Make the place Pluto-free. Then write rude graffiti on the walls, and open a casino.
Make it look urban-decayed.

Mr. Badger, of course, will be nowhere near.

While he approves wholeheartedly of rioting to destroy the dross, he is not social enough to engage in something so much like an orgy.


Instead, I will head across a bridge and spend time with grumbly old men smoking pipes, while strenuously avoiding the subject of what the world is coming to, my heavens. You will kindly keep your Disney-fed monsters out of our hair, as we have irritable natures. We may wave our briars at them, and make rude comments. Then introduce them to adult vices. Capstan Flake (blue tin). Capstan Ready Rubbed (yellow tin). Three Nuns (brown tin). Various blends for Castello, by Cornell & Diehl (several colours). Several jars of well-aged Virginias from L. J. Peretti in Boston, as well as densely rich flakes by Sam Gawith in Kendal, Cumbria. Products that the original Mr. Badger would surely have liked.

We shall enjoy ourselves, while chatting about rivers and boats and fishing tackle. We might even have some port wine. One of us will make wise remarks about Dunhill's London Mixture, another will remind us that he only smokes McClelland's Arcadia.

It is the meeting of the Golden Gate Pipe Club.

Grumbly old men is merely an intellectual concept, please understand. Most of us do not grumble (much), many of us are not old at all, and some of us are women.

If Tinker Bell showed up, we'd introduce her to Sam Gawith's Bracken Flake. Just to "man her up", and get her off of those horrid trollop aromatics she probably smokes.
And cover yourself, girl!
Stop being so immodest. Mr. Badger is staring at your tits.
Also dump that icky Bear.
He looks like poo.
We're adults.

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NEW ZEALAND: HOME OF ROLY POLY HOBBITS

Like you, this blogger was accustomed to thinking of New Zealand, on those very few occasions when I actually even contemplated the place, as filled with Hobbits, Gandalf, Orcs, and Maoris benignly putting up with all that Kelto-Norse crap. Surely, I thought, tales of sheep abuse are slightly exaggerated, why, New Zealand produced a frightfully long epic about fairies. Fairies! Landsakes, fairies!
They're running around all spiritual over there.

It turns out they aren't running.

Waddling, at a slow pace.

The Orcs will win.


"New Zealand has one of the highest obesity rates in the developed world, with nearly 30% of people overweight."

[Source: BBC: South African chef 'too fat' to live in New Zealand.]


That datum comes from an article about a gentleman who has lived in Christchurch, New Zealand, for six years. Now his residence permit will not be renewed because New Zealand wishes immigrants to be thinner and healthier than their own people. It's an uphill struggle, given the 30% figure cited, and also quite possibly their only chance of having a country one hundred years hence. Seeing as all those pudgy Hobbits, Gandalf, and the Orcs, are clearly far more interested in stuffing their faces than anything else.

Shan't say anything about the Maoris.
They're probably baffled.


"It is important that all migrants have an acceptable standard of health to minimise costs and demands on New Zealand's health services"

[Source: NZ Government spokeswhale.]


Judging by the Wikipedia entry about New Zealand cuisine, the food cannot be all that exciting. Good, but rather monotone and bland.
Still. Evenso.

Life there must be really boring.

Nothing on teevee?



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