I have it on very good authority that the latest silver spoon sprog is to be named Malachi Patrick Joseph Seamus, due to the overriding guilt felt by his parents over the way in which the monarchy shamefully acquired their land over the last few hundred years.
Yeah, I've been drinking. Two coffees and a large vanilla shake since my dinner. My bad.
Friday, July 19, 2013
I am a failure on so many fronts it would seem. Whilst my fellow Glaswegian blogger jets off to the tropics to lap up the hot weather, swim with dolphins, drink strong whisky as if it was water and still create Mallorcan dishes that would knock the spots from a cheater, I sit here on top of an electric fan and feebly clutch a diet coke. I'm not cut out for hot weather or strong drink. The sun peels my skin and the big strong Highlander that I aspire to be seems a million miles north of what I actually am. Hot! How does the Chef, with his bronzed tan and his ability to adapt to whatever his environment throws up before him, still manage to produce the most wonderful of recipes while I struggle to flip burgers and salt fries for 10 hours a day? As for drinking fire water? Fanta orange and Dr Pepper give me a headache if I drink too much. I may have to question my parentage. Perhaps I am English and adopted by 2 lovely old people who just happened to live in Scotland. Yeah, that's it. I'm not a failure, I'm just an Englishman. I really am doomed!