Tuesday, May 11, 2004
This Nutkins diet is doing my head in. Roasted, grilled or fried - squirrel meat just doesn't interest me anymore. Even the free-range, organic Red.
Maybe I should move on. I hear the Tiggywinkle diet has been getting some amazing results. Not surprising really - You ever see a fat gypsy?
Tuesday, April 20, 2004
This is ancient. I'm going to resurrect it. Re-edit. Stick up all the recipes i've learnt over the years. Post all the mythical sexual experiences i've enjoyed. And the ones I havent.
When I first came up the with idea for this, 2 hours ago, I thought it would make a nice little stocking filler for the person whom you never know what to buy because you don’t actually know them very well. During the planning stages, however, I came to realise that I could maybe hit the big time just through turning this into a cookery book as well, and so here it is in all its gory: a compendium of recipes, all of which have some romantic significance attached, and a short, no holes barred tour through my sexual history. I personally guarantee that I have invented and tested each and every one of these fine recipes, and the overwhelming majority of sexual encounters that go with them. I’d like to let each meal speak for itself in truth, just a photo of the plate and a diagram of what I did each of my dining companions for dessert , but I know this won’t cut it in the competitive publishing market of books about food and fucking, so I’ve gone into a lot of detail about the dynamics and rituals of preparing a fancy meal for the girl of your wet dreams. If there’s an overall theme to this book, it’s found in the underlying sense of envy and dread that the reader will feel by the time they’ve got to Chapter 2. I guess, if I had to nail it down, I’d say the purpose of this book is to let the world know that ANYONE can write a cookery book, even that prize cunt Jamie Oliver.
A NOTE ABOUT WEIGHTS AND MEASURES
I haven’t put any. This is deliberate, since I only ever use rough handfuls and wild guesses. Put in what feels right, and if you don’t know what that is, then this book isn’t for you. Do you fuck according to a 12 point plan?
A NOTE ABOUT QUALITY OF INGREDIENTS
Unless otherwise stated, everything I advise is of the highest quality. I hate to use the sexual analogy again, but, if you had the choice between a gorgeous professional and a bit of a pig, you’d know which one to go for, wouldn’t you? And at least the price differential is lower when you’re shopping for mushrooms in Waitrose.
French birds are the dirtiest in the world. They’re well known for it. You really can’t be too careful when you bring one home - I suggest using proper protection, gloves and maybe an apron. Of course, it’s because they leave the heads on and the guts in that you have to make sure you’re preparing it in a clean and safe environment. What other writers don’t tell you is the big bloody mess a Poulet de Bresse makes when you spike it with a chopping knife.
Cutting the head off is easy – unless you’re a complete girl, in which case go and buy one of those scrawny bits of gristle that was born into shit, lived in a cage and had its eyes pecked out. You’ll find them in the Meat Sections of all the major supermarkets in a polythene and polystyrene tray helpfully labelled “Chicken” on it. It’s not just referring to the product, either.
Or, you can buy rabbit. The great thing about rabbit is you can make a glove out of its coat if you strip it right. The bad thing is that no girl in England, unless she’s born evil, will consent to eat a bunny rabbit and then sleep with you. Happily, I cooked this one for a french bird and she fucked the shit out of me straight after. You’ll need
Madeira / Armagnac
Rabbit in Armagnac and Cream
Get a big frying pan and melt a big wodge of unsalted butter and a drop of oil. Put in all the chunks of rabbit you’ve cut up, which have been salted, peppered and rolled around in flour. Get them golden and basically “sealed”, then remove them and the oil from the pan and start again. Put more butter and oil in and this time saute a large amount of shallots, onions and garlic until they melt and smell lovely. 15 minutes or so. Add the rabbit and cover. A while later throw in a few spoons of Madeira (for a sharper and more unusual taste, use a good quality armagnac) and let that sizzle away on a low heat. Follow through with some sprigs of fresh thyme, then more madeira and finally, a while before it’s all cooked, the chopped mushrooms. A few chanterelles would be nice, but nothing too overpowering. When eveything’s good and ready, the rabbit is firm and soft, everything else has melted together, then add the cream or creme fraiche slowly and stir it in. Let it sit there, glooping quietly for five more minutes then serve it up. I’d have it with a bottle of Chateauneuf-Du-Pape myself, but then, I’m a ponce so don’t listen to me. Have whatever you like with it.
Her name was Anais, a blonde 29 yr old from Lyon. She spent the whole meal telling me how she was going to suck my cock off, literally off, she was so thoroughly pleased with the rabbit, which in turn pleased me since this is a very heavy dish and I would not advise much physical exercise afterwards. However, she changed her mind as she gnawed at the creamy bones and instead fucked the shit out of me, just as I said earlier. Embarrassing really, if you don’t cook the rabbit thoroughly, you may also experience instant diarrhoea during the fucking stage of the meal. Just get the thickest chunk and cut it in half. If it’s pure white and fluffy, it’s cooked. Otherwise, back to the hob and on with the lid again.
Speaking of doing unplanned-for poos in bed, I’m a big fan of anal sex, unlike most women I know, and so it took my every skill and charm to persuade Dominique, 18, from Grenoble to take my full length up her autoroute chocolat, but take it she did and in honour of her, I created a dish she later told me was worth the repeated nightmares and bleeding she endured as a result of my pounding on her back door. I call it a Duck up the Arse. You’ll need, not surprisingly, a Duck. Since what you’re going to do to it is quite brutal, it needn’t be a top-quality one, but if you buy a very fat one, make sure you remove most of the fat before cooking it. Go for a small wild one. Like Dominique. Unless you want to be sick. Cut it up into small chunks, complete with bones and skin, although the skin’ll have to go if it’s too fatty. You’ll also need a few other little tricks and trinkets:
Smoked Rindless Bacon
One small nib of sweetcorn
Melt a small nob of butter and saute the shallots in a large frying pan, then add the duck and chopped bacon and gently fry for a while before adding a big glug of port. It’ll hopefully simmer down to a thick purple film leaving the duck the main attraction, at which point add some thin carrot chunks and let it all cook down further. 10 minutes before eating, throw in as much raw sliced Chinese Leaf (or par-boiled Savoy Cabbage) as will fit, and swill it around. 2 minutes before eating, throw in a huge amount of freshly chopped parsley. If you’ve cooked it right, and used the right duck, you wont need to throw it away. Serve with bread and eat it like a curry. I’d have this with a good bottle of Paulliac, although as I’ve said before, that’s a matter for me and not you.
The observant among you will be wondering why I haven’t instructed you to add the nib of sweetcorn yet. Well, it only goes in the dish if you’re cooking it for someone you’ve fucked up the arse. The significance of this, beyond the fact that it’s a life-changing experience for all involved, is that Dominique provided this small ingredient herself. It simply appeared on the end of my nob as I withdrew my dirty schlong from her gaping, steaming bumhole, and I felt it was too deeply poetic and profoundly moving not to mention it. I’ve since discovered that a single nib of sweetcorn is to sodomy what freshly diced carrot is to vomiting. My advice, beyond reconsidering the whole business, is to go for the tinned variety.
Now, you almost can’t mention the French without praising their expertise in oral sex in the same sentence, can you? So here’s a recipe that’s close to my heart and is reprinted here by way of a tribute to all the skilled polishers of that country:
Alright, it’s Poulet really. Amazing co-incidence though, isn’t it? That the French should call the male of the species after the very thing that differentiates it from the female. Of course, we do it here in Britain when we called female dogs ‘Bitches’ and, regardless of gender, all members of the aristocracy ‘Nobs’. But we haven’t had to eat either of them since the war so the recipes are largely forgotten now. Maybe I’ll dig out a little instruction manual on Bitch Stuffed with Nob basted in Manfat and Birds Custards. There you go, there’s another one. Bird’s Custard. Made from eggs, milk powder and vaginal discharge – I can’t think of a more honest name for the product.
So here’s what you do to get that chicky nice and shiny (and edible)…
Cut the whole chicken into its constituent joints. You could take all the bony bits with the ribs and arse and put them in a freezer bag for purposes of stockage. Or you could make stick it on your forearm and pretend it’s a superhero powerband. It’s really up to you, because like hey, man, cookery’s all about rock ‘n roll y’know?
Anyway, back in the world of fixing yourself something to actually eat: - Mix all the other stuff together, slather it over the chicken pieces and let it all sit in the fridge on marinading duty. There should be about the same amounts of oil, lemon, zest and mustard. Quite a bit of honey. At least a handful of it, I’d say.
Then grill it medium-style, not burning the honey, and basting frequently. You could probably stick the fucker in the oven if you cant be bothered with that. It’s a bit of a chore watching and basting bits of sticky chicken, innit? The mess alone isnt worth the effort I reckon. See what you think.
I wouldn’t use a sweet and syrupy honey necessarily. Some of the thick paste-y ones with more subtle woodland flavours, like rosemary or chestnut would be better for this purpose.
Turnips would go well here. Turnups on your jeans would not.
And so I found myself in India, wandering around in search of the perfect curry and a Bombay Fuck. But I ended up in Goa, where I learnt to prepare an amazing dish from a beautiful, pure young woman with deep brown eyes and sensuously thick lips. It was Goan Pork Curry, and let me tell you, I porked a right go’er straight after. I would recommend a good piece of pork fillet for the job, but any cut will in fact do. Bones are welcome, as is fat in lesser quantities. But there’s a fine line between unctuous and sickly, as I was later informed by the goan goddess about the richness of my own sauce.
Curry Powder from India
Fry the onions in the oil and add the crushed ginger and garlic. Let everything melt down, then add the fresh chillies. Cut them down the middle and keep the seeds in for god’s sake. Again, let all the ingredients cook on, then add a couple of crushed cloves and then the pork cubes. Whilst its frying add nothing more than salt and pepper (unless you didnt put many chillies in, in which case make up the difference with some paprika) until it’s nearly done, then cover it in the curry powder and mix well. This should soak up most of the fat in the pan til you’ve got lots of brown sticky lumps frying away and looking like they could do with some moisture. In a few minutes, add some heavily liquidised tomatoes (I favour a whole can) spoon by spoon so you don’t overdo it. Each spoonful must be mixed in and partially cooked before the next one, which will leave you with a perfect balance of taste and texture. This can now be left to gloop very slowly until you decide to eat, at which point grate some fresh coconut over the surface and stir in. Serve with rice and tamarind chutney. My favoured beverage with this dish is a very chilled Chardonnay, which I normally hate and urge you to do the same (hate it, not copy me).
And so, as a special thank you to me from Saadia, 20, who taught me to cook this better than she could, I got a blow job administered as I ate the above concoction. She was a real expert, sucked like an angel and if she ever emigrated to the West could make a lot of money, but unfortunately as I passed the point of no return I bit down on a huge piece of chilli and ended up hiccoughing, choking, burping, farting, shitting my pants and spearing her in the back of the throat all at the same time. Not one of my proudest moments.
But whilst this was a great curry, and easy to do, it was not the perfect curry by any means. For a start it had pork in it, which is not a traditional meat in that part of the world, and so the search continued. I heard tales of a wise woman that lived in the foothills of the Punjab, and cooked the best curry in the world, when she cooked which was rare. Well, I couldn’t ignore a story like that and went off to find her. It turns out, of course, that she only cooks the best Lamb in Spinach curry in the world (and she does) and the reason she cooks so rarely is that she requires all her guests to perform 24 hours of cunnilingus on her before she even goes near the spice rack. Well, that’s the kind of extreme sexual torture I can’t refuse so in the interests of research I licked her out continuously from sunrise to sundown and sunrise again. Well, not continuously, since she made me go and shave after 12 hours, and she herself visited the toilet on several occasions (lucky I didn’t ask for a side dish) – but basically yes, I stuck my tongue in a middle-aged indian woman and didn’t take it out again for a whole day. Mrs Syal was actually a very sexy woman, and had taken the trouble to make herself taste more pleasant to me by an ingenious method. Explaining that the fish taste was impossible to get rid of, she opted instead to marinade her snatch in olive oil, lemon juice (ouch!), chopped basil, crushed black pepper and a drop of Marsala Dessert Wine. And do you know, it was absolutely delicious! She tasted, surprisingly, somewhere between the robustness of a fresh haddock and the delicacy of a sea bream. Cheers, Mrs Syal!
Puree the ginger, garlic and chillies together with the yoghurt and some cumin seeds, then marinate the lamb in it. Fry the Cinnamon, cardamom and cloves a tiny bit, then add the onions and let them fry for 15 minutes or so. Add the meat and let the marinade cook until its been absorbed, then add the smushed tomatoes and let them cook. Then add salt and a slow trickle of warm water until you’ve got a nice thick slop and cover. Meanwhile, blanch and puree the spinach, then add it and turn the heat up slightly. In 5 minutes it will be cooked and ready to rock.
When you take the first mouthful, and you melt with delight at just how fucking lovely this dish is, just remember what I did to bring this to you. In fact, I implore you to think for a second that it’s YOUR tongue that’s gone numb and lost a few layers, it’s YOUR taste buds which think they’ve got barnacles growing on them, and it’s YOUR nose that got wedged up her arse for hours on end, desperately snorting for clean air like a drowning dog. Then calmly place a ripped piece of naan in the dish and pull out a lump of perfect lamb spinach curry, place it solemnly in your mouth, AND TELL ME IT WASNT WORTH IT! GO ON, I FUCKING DARE YOU!
I would love to describe to you all the intensity of India, the vast feelings it can unlock in one’s heart and mind. I want to tell you about the importance they place on spirituality within a swirling, sprawling outer mass of confusion and difficult living circumstances. I feel I should go deeper into the chaotic blend of myth in daily life that infuses all areas. I want to explain to the world the meaning of India itself. But then I remember how this is a cookbook and fuckbook and not some “Little Book of Shit” for gullible people who find themselves easily seduced by some flowery language. So bollocks to it, I’m going to skip past all the oversentimental descriptive stuff about a bloody great mess of a country, and get straight to the point: How can you cook a perfect curry?
Well, ask yourself this – what IS the perfect curry? It depends on taste of course. You might think a Prawn Vindaloo is the last word in curries, or a Chicken Balti, or even a Lamb Korma (in which case you’d be very wrong) but to be honest, the “daddy” of all curries is the Chicken Madras, if only because it got there first. And I found a restaurant in the backstreets of Dehli where they serve up the Best Chicken Curry in the World Ever. Parts 1 and 2. And the chef very graciously handed me over the recipe in exchange for services rendered: He’d been making Butter Chicken all day and had run out of ghee. He said he only needed about a pint more and he’d have enough to serve the maharaja and his 30-strong entourage who had stopped by to sample his famous Murgh Makhani (something he did seemed to do every time there was a ghee crisis in the state). So, to make things easier, they sent for the local milkmaid and got her to work on my udder. Well, half an hour later and my noodle was looking very shrivelled indeed, but wouldn’t you know it, she’d coaxed out enough to drown a large rat with. I don’t know if you’ve ever been wanked off to the point of exhaustion, but if you have then you’ll know that aside from feeling dehydrated, desalinated and strangely depressed, you also get a real appetite going. So it was with great relief and some pride that I accepted a surprise invitation to dine with the Maharaja and his charming family right there in the restaurant. He told me he thought the Butter was particularly excellent in the dish, and it took all my powers of persuasion to make sure he didn’t order another round for everyone. He also asked me if it had Cumin. “oh, yes” I replied, “It’s got a lot of Cumin”. Pleasant conversation and tales of my adventures followed throughout the meal, until the elegant Maharani herself leant over and whispered in my ear that if I did not leave Dehli immediately, her husband would buy me and Sayeed, the chef, and take us back to the palace where we would be forced to prepare Butter Chicken until the end of time itself.
Sayeed, wherever you are, keep taking the vitamins!
Separate the whey from the yoghurt using cheesecloth, then add to it the pureed garlic and ginger, the spices, the lime juice and some salt. Mash the tomatoes. Grind the fenugreek leaves. Gash the chicken pieces and marinate for as long as you can. When you can’t wiat any longer, heat the oil in a big frying pan and add the chicken, marinade and all. Cook and cover, stir and leave. Fry the tomato in another pan and then add a lot of chilled butter and the paprika. If it turns to ghee, you’ve fucked up, so only let it cook for a minute. Then stick in the ground fenugreek, then the garam, then the cream. Another minute and onto the chicken. Mix and serve. To take this dish beyond the merely extraordinary and into the elysian heights, stir in a little raw papaya puree when you’re making the marinade. I’ve always thought of papaya as one of the most intelligent fruits, and chicken as one of the thickest animals, so maybe that’s the key to cookery – mixing ingredients which have similar IQ’s. Which gives me an idea for a new recipe:
Jamie Oliver’s head in a bucket of boiling shit.
You will need
Take a large blunt saw and cut off Jamie Oliver’s smug mockney head as slowly and messily as you can. Wash thoroughly, as blood and shit do not mix well (as George Michael or Elton John could tell you). In a deep metal bucket, pour a large quantity of runny shit (dog or human is ideal, horse and cow not so) and heat over a gas hob, or open-fire if you’re camping. When it starts to boil, put the head in a cover for 15 minutes until the shit has boiled down to a thicker consistency. Stir in the creme fraiche, and none of that low-fat malarkey neever, and serve to the great British public.
The question you’re all dying to have answered, I’ll bet, is did I in fact fuck the Maharani or what? Well, yes and no. And I’ll tell you how that can be right now. Yes, in the sense that she’s pregnant with my baby inside her tummy. And No, in the sense that I didn’t physically put my nob up her. I’ll leave it to your imagination, as I always do, but I will say this. The Maharani, graceful and royal as she is, is a VERY messy eater.
No, I had better luck with the milkmaid, in fact, who helped me flee the scene and took me back to her barn to see if she could skim the cream again. Despite my balls being emptier than Space, to her eternal credit she coaxed another 10cc out and got her protein drink against all the odds. Of course, I didn’t know any of this having blacked out mid-wank.
And so from India I crossed into Thailand, trekking through Burma. I can’t say I picked up much in the culinary department, Burmese food being Indian plus tamarind, and I didn’t fuck anything more interesting than a stray monkey on the outskirts of Rangoon. Which was also smothered in tamarind.
Thailand is a beautiful country full of beautiful men, women and everything in between. I
followed my nose and my cock until I arrived 45 degrees West at the most delicious smelling
sweet soup I’ve ever had the pleasure of lapping up. A cute little Thai chicky in plucky, cracked English asked me “You want soup? you want taxi? you want to Bangkok?” . I told her quite honestly “Yes, i’d like the soup, no, i don’t want a taxi, and yes, i’d like to Bangkok..... Would you like to Bangkok with me?” And do you know, she did! So with Phuong as my tour-guide, culinary interpreter and suck-slut, we went round the whole city. And boy did she take me for some real feasts. But out of all the delights we had that day, nothing quite matched up to her marvellous home-cooked soup, and I told her as much. “Recipe is secret, and unique to my homestead” she replied, her English having improved throughout the day due to my constant corrections of her poor grammar. But I wasn’t having any of it, and began to rattle off my guess at the ingredients. Let’s see “Fried Aubergines, Smoked garlic, Steamed Chicken, Lemon, Coconut Milk, some kind of Paste, Chilli and of course Nam Pla” . Phuong replied “Why ‘of course’ Nam Pla? You think you know my soup? You don’t know my soup.” And so we got into an argument about whether I knew Nam Pla or whether I didn’t know Nam Pla. It wasn’t a serious fight, more the playful kind of banter a guy and a girl have when they know he’s going to be fucking the bejesus out of her later on, and there’s not a thing she can do to stop it. Well, she ended up dragging me to a huge out-of-town industrial complex with the standard billowing factories and puking drains, and there we entered the largest building in the area. It was called Hoc Pha and from the outside seemed like an ordinary warehouse. However, as soon as the door opened I was literally thrown to the ground by the pungent wind of rotting fish that came from within. I was in the largest Fish sauce factory in the world. They give you specially-adapted nose-plugs and all the usual regulation protective clothing when you register for the tour, but none of it really works. Incidentally, the special adaption of the nose plugs is that they were actually ear-plugs, turned round. I’d always been curious to see how a sauce made from a fish was processed. I wish I hadn’t. Ninety percent of the factory floor is taken up with olympic swimming pool sized holes in the floor, and equally large slabs of concrete suspended above them at various lengths. There I was one minute blithely asking if the fish were gutted on site and how long they were boiled for, when Phuong turned to me and said “Look, we are lucky! Today they bring a new catch in, we will see them make Nam Pla”. In front of us a whopping tub of water was being hoisted across the factory by a crane driver, and poised carefully above one of the empty slots in the ground. Then a switch was flicked and the hoisted vat opened its bottom to reveal easily a million fish falling helplessly into the concrete grave where they landed on top of eachother and writhed some more. Then it hit me. They don’t “prepare” the fish. They get the fish, and then they mush them until they get a sauce. I didn’t realise that as speedy as the first stage is, the second is slow. The huge block above the hole began to descend until you could no longer hear the flapping of various fins and gills. Then a sound I really hope you never experience, a difficult sound to describe both linguistically and emotionally. A slow-motion squish of crackling jelly oozed out of the thin gap between stone and hole. And I swear to god: I heard the fish scream.
Two years later they raise the slab of concrete up again, and pour the resultant sauce into a million bottles like the one you have at home. The one which doesn’t have an RSPCA approved sticker on it, and never will. And to cap it all, it was expected of me to fill her gungy gap later. I didn’t feel up to it.
Phuong could see I was upset and promised she’d make it up to me, so we went back to her house on the outskirts and there once more she cooked her soup for me. To cut a very long story short, it turns out the secret ingredient, the one I couldn’t identify, was her own vag slime. Well, it was gloriously fishy, and really the further east you seem to go, the fresher the fanny. I couldn’t wait to get to Japan to see if the cunts out there were as fresh as the sushi.
And so to the Iberian Peninsula. Spain, a land which sparks off all sorts of imagery even in the least romantic of minds. Ah Spain, the sun, the sheer shinyness of it all, the sweet, sunny orangey spaininess of seville, sevilla, naranja, oranja, espana. Ah the lazy fiestas, the scented gardens of granada, the all-out gypsyness of flamenco, and I mean good flamenco, not the rubbish they sell to the proles down on the costa. Top quality flamenco, really high-class flamenco. The kind of flamenco you can take back and show your most cultured friends and have them say “wow” to you. And you know when flamenco is really of the best quality, because the Spanish themselves go to it. Oh the Spanish, so bright and warm, so fresh and sweet, so deep and mysterious – breasts like big momma oranges but without the dimples (the arse is a different matter, sadly). Breasts the man from Del Monte would have little trouble saying yes to.
Portugal! Oh plucky little Portugal! The very name sends a multitude of messages tumbling from my imagination and onto this page. And they all have a common theme: Boredom.
So there I am, being forced at gunpoint by a loopy puta spagnole, to cook her a truly authentic Portuguese meal which if I get right I get to live and if I get wrong I get to be fucked to death. Well, here’s what I did.
Barbecued Chicky in Black Sauce
1 baby chicken
Cut the breast of the poussin down the middle and split open so the chicken is splayed apart for all to see. Mix tomato sauce, mustard and Worcester to a thick marinade, then add chili powder, pirir pirir, cayenne and paprika. Or any combination. Or none. Season the chicken then brush with oil. Cover completely in the sauce and let it soak in. On the grill, turn twice, baste and apply more sauce when necessary. Remove when it’s turned black all over.
I promise you, whether you do this under a simple grill in your kitchen or on a big coal wood-fired barbecue in the great outdoors, this little chicky really will knock you out. It’s so simple yet highly effective. All your guests will be tearing away at the carcass trying to get at the last little lumps of charred spring chicky flesh. If you bought a good one, the bones will probably be soft and edible too, so nothing to clear up afterwards either!
And of course, she lapped it up like a hungry bitch sucking on a fat milky teat. Didn’t stop her trying to fuck me to death though, since I’d used that famous non-portuguese ingredient Lea and Perrins and she knew it (try piri-piri instead). I was forced onto the ground and ordered to remove my trousers, which I reluctantly did. Here’s the recipe she used.
Portuguese Death Fuck
Place cock ring on cock, then straddle man, all the while being careful to keep gun pointed towards him. Sit firmly on cock and fuck. If cock goes soft apply Lubricant and continue fuck. Repeat until cock turns black and falls off.
And indeed this would have happened just as the recipe stated, at which point I would have indeed died, from fright if not massive haemorraghing and exhaustion. What Rosa had failed to do, luckily, was ensure she had adequate lubrication, and even after receiving my copious deposits of man-cream, we were as arrid as the Spanish terrain itself. The only thing to hand was a few spoons of the marinade which I had not needed, and she foolishly employed it as a means to further death-fuckage. Well, since I’d lost all feeling in my cock around about the 12 orgasm, the only thing the tomato, mustard and chili sauce did was burn the insides of her cunt til it got so puffy there was no room for me.