Saturday, December 04, 2004
Last week, GMTV was airing little inserts before the commercial breaks advising us how to prepare the perfect Christmas dinner. The chef was a droning, austere woman with a vague Medway accent who was insisting that we make "real" gravy rather than use "flavourless supermarket granules" and she assured us that once we had tried "real" stuffing we would never go back to using (easy to prepare) "salty supermarket-bought stuffing" ever again.
Well, you stuck-up bint, some of us couldn't be arsed to look further afield than the supermarket for any foodstuff, thank you very much. Have you honestly got nothing even remotely interesting to occupy your time other than the endless preparation of food?
Just imagine what you could be doing instead of pickling, heating stock, bunging brandy in the plum pudding, going round from shop to shop looking for the perfect turkey, ordering the perfect turkey, making up jars of fruit preserve, mixing the Christmas cake and generally behaving like something from the 1950's. Next you'll be telling us that we shouldn't swear in the kitchen because "your husband will disapprove - he prefers to hear the sound of girlish laughter as you go about prepare a loving meal for him!"
Nope, missus, I am not going to take it no more. I am an enlightened woman, full of depth, darkness and inner turmoil. I am above the fripperies of basting, glazing, poaching and boiling. You can stuff it all up your parson's nose, you sour faced oppressor or REAL WIMMEN.
This year I am going to spend Christmas Day slumped infront of the telly in an atrocious velour tracksuit, scratching my armpits at regular intervals. I am going to work my way through a few bags of beef Monster Munch and a supply of gin and orange will be on tap. I intend to watch a Tarkovsky triple bill (such is my existentialist crisis) and will end the day listening to "Trout Mask Replica" on a repeat loop. I am going to scowl all day long, continuously, particularly if the DVD player breaks down and I end up having to watch "The Vicar Of Dibley"
God rest ye merry gentlewimmen. Or at least don't waste time cutting stupid little crosses into the sprouts, right? It doesn't make the slightest difference to how they taste.
Well, you stuck-up bint, some of us couldn't be arsed to look further afield than the supermarket for any foodstuff, thank you very much. Have you honestly got nothing even remotely interesting to occupy your time other than the endless preparation of food?
Just imagine what you could be doing instead of pickling, heating stock, bunging brandy in the plum pudding, going round from shop to shop looking for the perfect turkey, ordering the perfect turkey, making up jars of fruit preserve, mixing the Christmas cake and generally behaving like something from the 1950's. Next you'll be telling us that we shouldn't swear in the kitchen because "your husband will disapprove - he prefers to hear the sound of girlish laughter as you go about prepare a loving meal for him!"
Nope, missus, I am not going to take it no more. I am an enlightened woman, full of depth, darkness and inner turmoil. I am above the fripperies of basting, glazing, poaching and boiling. You can stuff it all up your parson's nose, you sour faced oppressor or REAL WIMMEN.
This year I am going to spend Christmas Day slumped infront of the telly in an atrocious velour tracksuit, scratching my armpits at regular intervals. I am going to work my way through a few bags of beef Monster Munch and a supply of gin and orange will be on tap. I intend to watch a Tarkovsky triple bill (such is my existentialist crisis) and will end the day listening to "Trout Mask Replica" on a repeat loop. I am going to scowl all day long, continuously, particularly if the DVD player breaks down and I end up having to watch "The Vicar Of Dibley"
God rest ye merry gentlewimmen. Or at least don't waste time cutting stupid little crosses into the sprouts, right? It doesn't make the slightest difference to how they taste.
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