So I have four types of mustard in my fridge. No bread, butter, vegetables, cheese or wine, but in case of a mustard-apocalypse we are well equipped.
In order of preference, they are:
1.Dijon. Yes, its Grey Poupon. Sure, whatever. Judge me. It is the crown prince of mustard, the standard by which all other mustards are judged and found wanting.
2.English, Colemans. It’s the granddaddy of all mustards, the surly, rotten toothed, winking at underaged girls mustard, the mustard you feel most guilty enjoying, even as the nose-burn takes hold and you start to cry in terror, just like you did when the head teacher caned you for drawing cocks on the toilet walls.
3.Wholegrain. Standard supermarket brand, used for cooking. It’s fine, per se, but not one I reach for often.
4.French's Mustard. The Harry and Meghan of table condiments - a sauce that looks bright and flavourful on first acquaintance, but is actually bland and insipid, with nothing interesting to say. I once went to the Crooked Billet Harvester and asked for English mustard to go with my overcooked steak and overwhelming sense of irrelevance, and the waiter brought me a garish plastic bottle of French's instead. I told him that this was not English mustard. He insisted it was English. I said it isn’t, its called French's but actually it’s American. He informed me that they were both yellow, so I told him he might as well bring me a bowl of fucking custard by that rationale.
I’ve been socially distancing since the late eighties, so the last few weeks have not really been much of a change for me. My own narcissism and mistrust of other people always keeps me at least a broom and half distance from other people anyway so I feel like I’ve ben preparing for a pandemic all my life. The most tiring inconvenience is having to talk to my family and colleagues on a screen with a small image of my own face at the bottom right of my vision, which throws me into a rage.
My underwear drawer has become a repository for stuff I don’t know what to do with. USB sticks with random documents on them. A keyring of James Bond’s DB5 bought from the Bond in Motion exhibition. Bar soap. Old toothbrushes. Asthma pumps blue and pink. Roll-on deodorants only used when air travel is required. Postcards sent to me by friends about twenty years ago. Sim cards. A penknife. My dad’s medal from the RAF (awarded for just turning up, as far as I can ascertain). Two DVDs of my college short film, Backwards Compatible. A remote control for my old JVC turntable. My pants and socks barely fit in among this detritus. Clearing out my underwear drawer is a perfect job to do while self-isolating. Do I have any intention of doing it? Of course not.
Should I paint the fence? Rotovate the back garden that is more mud than grass? Strip the hideous woodchip wallpaper that still covers over 70% of my walls? Nope. I’m gonna wear my tracksuit for a month straight, watch every episode of Tiger King, do half a workout with Joe Wicks then give up and drink red wine out of a cereal bowl until I pass out. The underwear drawer can fucking wait.
Given I have been ODing on kids TV lately (not by choice, but our rigorous work/exercise/play schedule lasted about ten minutes, so the TV is pretty much always on), I thought I’d write a short story about the most insidious pre-schoolers show of all time. If you have never seen ‘Bing’ then this will mean nothing to you, but be aware that the character Flop – some kind of unidentifiable knitted creature tasked with raising a small rabbit called Bing – is voiced by Mark motherfucking Rylance. (In season one anyway). Here it is:
BING’S BIG DAY
‘Morning, sleepyhead,’ Flop said as he shuffled into his ward’s bedroom and pulled back the curtain. A beam of sunlight hit the small, tousle-haired bunny.
‘Morning, Flop,’ Bing said as he swung his stubby legs over the side of the bed, still sleepily clutching his constant companion, Hoppity. He watched as his knitted guardian removed Bing’s favourite pair of dungarees from a drawer. A cloud passed briefly across his normally sunny thoughts. Who was Flop, really? Why was a small, tousle-headed bunny rabbit being taken care of by a creature so unlike himself? Were there any other bunnies like him in the world? For a second Bing felt sad, close to tears. Flop laid out the dungarees on the bed.
‘Good news, Bing,’ Flop said, as he helped Bing into his clothes. ‘I’ve had word from the Directorate. Today, you are going to fight Sula to the death. If you win, we can level up.’
‘But Flop!’ Bing protested, ‘I love Sula!’
‘Oh Bing, you know that Sula talks about you behind your back, don’t you? She is a liar and she beats Amma.’
‘Oh Flop,’ Bing said, crestfallen.
‘So you’ll kill her then?’ Flop asked.
‘Alright, Flop,’ said Bing. ‘I’ll give her a beating that elephant will never forget.’
Flop smiled. ‘It’s a Bing thing. And after we shower her blood off your fur we can make cookies.’
‘Oh yes, Flop! I love cookies!’ The cloud passed, and Bing felt happy again.
‘Indeed.’
FIN.
I’ve got one for Octonauts too, but it ends up really badly with Captain Barnacles roasting the Vegimals for dinner, and Peso getting pissed on some pretty rough mezcal and getting it on with Shellington the Sea Otter. Kwazi auditions for a role in the Cats movie, but is turned down as he is too realistically rendered as an actual feline and not inappropriately sexy enough. (Cats is awesome by the way).
I’ve watched many films, but the one I recommend the most for anyone still reading this far (you don’t have to, honestly) is Guns Akimbo in which Daniel Radcliffe is bafflingly convincing as a guy in a depressingly predictable near future forced to participate in a gunfight to the death, with – and this is the kicker – two guns literally nailed to his hands. It’s a riot, if you’re me. If you’re not, and I can only assume that you aren’t, then its probably trash. But these days, trash and reality seem to co-exist in a kind of mutually opposing autonomous-sentient normality. Could just be me.
In order of preference, they are:
1.Dijon. Yes, its Grey Poupon. Sure, whatever. Judge me. It is the crown prince of mustard, the standard by which all other mustards are judged and found wanting.
2.English, Colemans. It’s the granddaddy of all mustards, the surly, rotten toothed, winking at underaged girls mustard, the mustard you feel most guilty enjoying, even as the nose-burn takes hold and you start to cry in terror, just like you did when the head teacher caned you for drawing cocks on the toilet walls.
3.Wholegrain. Standard supermarket brand, used for cooking. It’s fine, per se, but not one I reach for often.
4.French's Mustard. The Harry and Meghan of table condiments - a sauce that looks bright and flavourful on first acquaintance, but is actually bland and insipid, with nothing interesting to say. I once went to the Crooked Billet Harvester and asked for English mustard to go with my overcooked steak and overwhelming sense of irrelevance, and the waiter brought me a garish plastic bottle of French's instead. I told him that this was not English mustard. He insisted it was English. I said it isn’t, its called French's but actually it’s American. He informed me that they were both yellow, so I told him he might as well bring me a bowl of fucking custard by that rationale.
I’ve been socially distancing since the late eighties, so the last few weeks have not really been much of a change for me. My own narcissism and mistrust of other people always keeps me at least a broom and half distance from other people anyway so I feel like I’ve ben preparing for a pandemic all my life. The most tiring inconvenience is having to talk to my family and colleagues on a screen with a small image of my own face at the bottom right of my vision, which throws me into a rage.
My underwear drawer has become a repository for stuff I don’t know what to do with. USB sticks with random documents on them. A keyring of James Bond’s DB5 bought from the Bond in Motion exhibition. Bar soap. Old toothbrushes. Asthma pumps blue and pink. Roll-on deodorants only used when air travel is required. Postcards sent to me by friends about twenty years ago. Sim cards. A penknife. My dad’s medal from the RAF (awarded for just turning up, as far as I can ascertain). Two DVDs of my college short film, Backwards Compatible. A remote control for my old JVC turntable. My pants and socks barely fit in among this detritus. Clearing out my underwear drawer is a perfect job to do while self-isolating. Do I have any intention of doing it? Of course not.
Should I paint the fence? Rotovate the back garden that is more mud than grass? Strip the hideous woodchip wallpaper that still covers over 70% of my walls? Nope. I’m gonna wear my tracksuit for a month straight, watch every episode of Tiger King, do half a workout with Joe Wicks then give up and drink red wine out of a cereal bowl until I pass out. The underwear drawer can fucking wait.
Given I have been ODing on kids TV lately (not by choice, but our rigorous work/exercise/play schedule lasted about ten minutes, so the TV is pretty much always on), I thought I’d write a short story about the most insidious pre-schoolers show of all time. If you have never seen ‘Bing’ then this will mean nothing to you, but be aware that the character Flop – some kind of unidentifiable knitted creature tasked with raising a small rabbit called Bing – is voiced by Mark motherfucking Rylance. (In season one anyway). Here it is:
BING’S BIG DAY
‘Morning, sleepyhead,’ Flop said as he shuffled into his ward’s bedroom and pulled back the curtain. A beam of sunlight hit the small, tousle-haired bunny.
‘Morning, Flop,’ Bing said as he swung his stubby legs over the side of the bed, still sleepily clutching his constant companion, Hoppity. He watched as his knitted guardian removed Bing’s favourite pair of dungarees from a drawer. A cloud passed briefly across his normally sunny thoughts. Who was Flop, really? Why was a small, tousle-headed bunny rabbit being taken care of by a creature so unlike himself? Were there any other bunnies like him in the world? For a second Bing felt sad, close to tears. Flop laid out the dungarees on the bed.
‘Good news, Bing,’ Flop said, as he helped Bing into his clothes. ‘I’ve had word from the Directorate. Today, you are going to fight Sula to the death. If you win, we can level up.’
‘But Flop!’ Bing protested, ‘I love Sula!’
‘Oh Bing, you know that Sula talks about you behind your back, don’t you? She is a liar and she beats Amma.’
‘Oh Flop,’ Bing said, crestfallen.
‘So you’ll kill her then?’ Flop asked.
‘Alright, Flop,’ said Bing. ‘I’ll give her a beating that elephant will never forget.’
Flop smiled. ‘It’s a Bing thing. And after we shower her blood off your fur we can make cookies.’
‘Oh yes, Flop! I love cookies!’ The cloud passed, and Bing felt happy again.
‘Indeed.’
FIN.
I’ve got one for Octonauts too, but it ends up really badly with Captain Barnacles roasting the Vegimals for dinner, and Peso getting pissed on some pretty rough mezcal and getting it on with Shellington the Sea Otter. Kwazi auditions for a role in the Cats movie, but is turned down as he is too realistically rendered as an actual feline and not inappropriately sexy enough. (Cats is awesome by the way).
I’ve watched many films, but the one I recommend the most for anyone still reading this far (you don’t have to, honestly) is Guns Akimbo in which Daniel Radcliffe is bafflingly convincing as a guy in a depressingly predictable near future forced to participate in a gunfight to the death, with – and this is the kicker – two guns literally nailed to his hands. It’s a riot, if you’re me. If you’re not, and I can only assume that you aren’t, then its probably trash. But these days, trash and reality seem to co-exist in a kind of mutually opposing autonomous-sentient normality. Could just be me.
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