Wednesday, 28 January 2009

Cook With Luka

Wash some strawberries. The recipe said raspberries but there weren't any in the local Co-Op so strawberries it is. Leave them to dry while you assemble your other ingredients and feel a bit sexy.To complete your raspberry strawberry trifle you will need madeira cake (you can make your own, but why extend the process longer than necessary?) jam, custard (the recipe said to make your own but I was quite sure the carton of Ambrosia would be far nicer than a potential lumpy mess with brown bits where it caught on the bottom of the pan), cream and sherry. Lovely, gorgeous, sweet smelling sherry. You also need a large, decorative glass bowl. I didn't have one so opted for the plastic mixing bowl instead. Sorted.
Cut the cake into bits and spread with jam. Arrange attractively in bottom of bowl. Chuck fruit in and sprinkle liberally with sherry. Lovely, gorgeous, sweet smelling sherry. Open carton of Ambrosia custard and pour over fruit and cake. Get big spoon to scrape all the custard from inside carton. Get custard up arms and on jumper. Lick up custard, saucily.

It's now time to whip the cream. If some twat has used the mixing bowl to partially assemble a trifle you will need to find a suitable replacement. This is a good time to sip some sherry, to quell any rising frustation. Whizz the cream with the electric whisk being very careful not to beat it too much so that it becomes a thick, heavy lump which is a bugger to spread over the custard without sinking.

Finally decorate with leftover fruit and some toasted almonds. Almonds do not come ready toasted, so you need to find a way to do this without damaging the toaster or setting your nuts on fire. Put any burnt almonds on the bird table and use the rest on your trifle.

Put finished effort in fridge and have a small sherry to reward your endeavours. Then assemble ingredients for lemon drizzle cake. You will need lemons, eggs, sugar, butter, flour, baking powder (the Co-Op didn't have any of that either, so I used optimism) and sherry. Lovely, gorgeous, sweet smelling sherry.
Preheat oven to 160. This is easier if the numbers haven't all worn off your cooker knob. Grease and line a baking tin. This is harder than it sounds.

Grate the zest from two lemons into the sugar. Mind your fingernails.

Beat the sugar into the softened butter. Mine seemed a bit lumpy but I wasn't sure if that was down to the lemon zest. If in doubt, sip some sherry and carry on.

Then sift and fold in the flour and baking powder, if you are fancy enough to have any. The handle's come off my sieve and I couldn't be doing with the folding, so I just whacked mine in the bowl and whizzed it all around for a bit. Looked about right to me.

Pour batter into cake tin, bung in the oven and wait for an hour and a half. This is very dull. Sip sherry and shout "you'd better rise, you bastard" at the oven from time to time. Lick cake mix from bowl and off beaters. Sip more sherry to kill any potential salmonella bugs from the raw eggs.

After 90 minutes your cake should be risen and golden. Mine was golden. Fuck it. Dissolve juice from previous lemons with caster sugar in a pan. I have no idea if you should let it boil or not. Mine did. Then make lots of little holes in your cake with a skewer and pour the molten syrup all over it. This is quite dangerous if you're pissed. You can also add bits of curly lemon zest for decorative purposes but I couldn't be arsed. I stuck a really shite plastic Happy Birthday thing I found in a drawer on mine instead. Ta dah!

Serve with plenty of bubbly and lashings of enthusiasm.


"You look good enough to eat," he murmured against my neck.

I made a dismissive noise. "No," he insisted, "really. You have custard on your sleeves and cream in your hair. At least, I hope it's cream."

"I don't suppose you brought any more sherry did you?"

He shook his head, sexily. I pouted, poutily. This cookery malarky is all very erotic. I seductively sucked some jam off my fingers and picked a couple of burnt almonds out of my bra.

"Shame," I breathed, huskily. "I still have to get through the washing up and my buzz is fading."

"Put those oven gloves on and bend over," he commanded, dominantly.

I complied. The cake was ready.

Gratuitous Arse Pic - may not be accurate representation of removing cake from oven.

To see this kind of thing done properly go visit the lovely Carnalis. She can actually cook and has a lovely bottom.

Tuesday, 27 January 2009

Dirty Laundry

I try to keep my thoughts from sin
A fight I don't think I can win
My feelings can't hide
When I'm sitting astride
The washing machine set to spin.

Sunday, 25 January 2009

Going to Extremes

As from tomorrow it will be illegal for anyone in England and Wales to possess an "extreme" pornographic image.

This comes as quite a relief as, before photography and the internet came into being, women, as I am sure you are all aware, enjoyed a Golden Period where they went unmolested about their business, free from harm or oppression. Yes, before the advent of online pornography women didn't even need to be protected from the depraved attentions of picture peeping perverts.

Well, all right, perhaps there was still a chance of encountering a sexual predator back then, but things were very different, nonetheless. There was a great deal more craftsmanship involved in being a sadist, murderer and total nutjob. You couldn't just go online, look at women in bondage and then consequently decide to go out and kill a prostitute. No, you had to put a bit of thought into it, use your own imagination. Not like todays lazy, computer-reliant lunatics.

The Romans only had mosaics and arousing busts to inspire them but they still excelled in creative cruelty. The Vikings didn't have internet access but they could rape and pillage with a huge degree of success. Gilles de Rais, Countess Elizabeth Bathory, Jack the Ripper, all managed to come up with their own ways of torturing and killing women without a laptop between them. History is packed with people who were quite capable of going out and doing something abhorrent to somebody else entirely under their own volition, without a single horror film, video game, heavy metal song or extreme pornographic image to send them on their way.

Still, if todays MTV generation can only get stimulated enough to leave their darkened rooms and muder women by looking at pictures of people pretending to strangle each other then I can see how a law banning them from looking at that sort of thing would be useful. But while the extreme pornography law coming into place tomorrow has certainly made me feel so much safer already, I do have concerns it hasn't gone far enough. It's all very well making it illegal to have a picture of something someone, somewhere, might find abhorrent but what about all the upsetting filth already besmirching my eyeballs? The wealth of sexually violent, necrophiliac, bestial imagery already established in our society, slowly corrupting us all into sexual pyschopaths?

For example, one could argue that one should not be found to be in possession of a Bible (itself full of tales of incest, torture and killings) because its existence led to women like Saint Agatha of Sicily suffering terrible torture, including having her breasts cut off, while Saint Catherine of Alexandria was scourged and condemned to be broken on the wheel. Where their tormentors got their specific ideas from I have no idea, (though I'm guessing it wasn't the internet - maybe an extreme etching?) but the irony is that depictions of these, and other, violent acts can be seen in religious artwork across the globe. Walk into any church, chapel or cathedral in Europe and the chances are there will be depictions of everything from Jesus on the Cross, to a scantily clad Saint Sebastian being pierced with arrows, to poor old Saint Agatha carrying her amputated breasts before her.

The same is true of the contents of museums and art galleries. If you perform a Google image search on "Leda and the Swan" you will be presented with a plethora of bestiality based mythological erotica. I have viewed a lot of these images and while I still only want to throw bread at water fowl, rather than my underwear, it's only a matter of time before someone less balanced than I sees these same extreme pictures and ends up buggering a swan in Hyde Park.

If, however, you disagree and think that this law sounds like an ill-conceived, badly thought out, damaging and unnecessary enterprise and are puzzled as to what the point of it might be then you can find out more here.

Meanwhile I'm off to the museum to warn them that possessing the following sorts of images will soon be a big no-no, so best to chuck 'em in a skip, now.

"Pan copulating with goat" - a marble statuette from Herculaneum.

Ancient Mayan pottery art.

Wednesday, 21 January 2009

And Then, Dear Reader, I Punched Him

When I wrote my post on wrath I mentioned the time I punched someone in a night club. This is, I assure you, not something I do on any sort of regular basis. After dredging up that particular incident I mused upon it somewhat.

My memories stirred, I delved into my archives for the account of the incident I wrote at the time. Looking at the journal entry I wrote back then, nearer the beginning of this decade, I spotted some background context I had forgotten about. Funny how these Very Important Things diminish in time to Things I Have To Concentrate Upon To Recall. So, if you wish to read the story of the time I punched a man in a night club, read on, and travel with me to a different Luka in a different time.

(Cue harp strumming and wibbly wobbly time travel effects)

During my recent introspective phase (will I live, will I die, will my facial nerve be damaged and leave me looking lop-sided and dribbling?) I became very, very depressed. Which is a pity, because my eyes swelled up and looked horrible after all that crying, which just made me more reclusive and self-pitying. Funny thing was, when I got my Good News ("looks non-malignant") I felt nothing at all. Everyone else was really happy and bouncing around and I felt numb. This made me think there was something very wrong with me. I also felt resentful at how bloody happy everyone was.

Then I went on a Dealing Successfully with Stress course. Turns out I'm stressed. According to the little graph they showed me I'd moved beyond the peak of Very Stressed, into the trough of Burn Out, which is when you are physically unable to respond to stimuli any more.

Many aromatic bubble baths, several tantrums and a smashed hairdryer later, I'm feeling somewhat better. So much better, in fact, that I decided to go out and celebrate my lust for life this weekend.

I stopped feeling quite so miserable and started to regain my old stroppiness. I started off by giving my boss the lecture of a lunchtime on the issue of medical information being confidential, plus every other poor management decision ever taken. Hah!

So, Friday night loomed large. Come girlfriend, come drink and dance with me! Finished my vodka stash while waiting for her to arrive at my house (she's always 30 minutes late), which was foolish because I hadn't done my make-up first. This is why I go out looking like Bob Smith.

Pub. Good. Vodka. Yum. Shout "I want to live" in suitably melodramtic fashion all night. Go to my town's Premier (only) Nite-Spot. Happy happy happy. Bottles of V Ice. Make girlfriend laugh so much she gets a stitch and has to have a sit down while I attempt to burp her.

Hmmm....a stag party. Seem harmless enough, high spirited but OK so far. The hen party contingent are also in, dancing away in their L-plates and semi-inflated condoms. Shudder. But they're keeping themselves to themselves. One of the stag party comes and dances with us - he's quite funny. A roly-poly, bespectacled, rugby-shirted chap, dancing in comical fashion, going for laughs, but not actually touching or bothering anyone. We allow him to share our space.

There is another guy - a big bear-like creature, with unattractive stubble, beer-belly, jeans and checked shirt. He is drunk and touching up every female on the dancefloor. He cannot walk from one side of the room to the other without touching every woman he passes. He tries to dance with us, we blank him, turn our backs, move closer together. He grabs my friend, feels her arse and goes for her boobs. I elbow him in the flabby man-tit and he seems to get the message and moves on.

I, however, keep an eye on him. I'm having fun, yet I am aware of him pawing other, less fierce, girlies. Some of them look barely 17 - tiny in their crop tops and hipsters. He must be late 30s, early 40s. He uses his size to get what he wants. He grabs a tiny girlie by both hands, to dance with her. She pulls backwards, he doesn't let go. Her friend tries to grab her hand to pull her back to her, he doesn't let go. I keep an eye on it, my Xena-drive in neutral but ready to engage. I later spot him picking a girlie up off the stage. Git.

Yet another stag party member, a little short-arsed fucker who reminds me of the truck driver in Thelma and Louise starts trying to muscle in on us. Again, we go for the nicest brush-off possible, we blank, we bank. Nope. He's still there. Don't touch me. He's only little. One hefty push and he doesn't come back.

Still happy. Impress girlfriend with the speed at which I can knock back voddy when a good track comes on. I knew it would happen. As soon as I get a drink something good will come on. (Drinks are Not Allowed on the dancefloor in our Premier Nite Spot). Have finished drink before waitress can get my change into my outstretched hand. Onto floor -
yay! See myself on video screen - I do look like Bob Smith! Turn my back to video camera.

DJ plays "You Sexy Thing". Always alarming. People start doing the most unsexy things imaginable to it. Spot pudgy girl massaging own poorly filled bra. Look away. Spot wanker on stage get nob out, grab girlie and force head down onto it. Look away. Spot spotty back. Look away. Spot extremely pissed-up 18 year old bloke in sunglasses snogging 60 year-old woman in halter neck lycra dress and ankle socks. She is keeping her mouth firmly closed - denture-worry, I'd guess. Look away. "Jump Around" comes on - phew! Jump around. Feel a bit over-fizzy and have to stop.

Dancefloor thinning out now. Only 20 minutes til closedown. Big sweaty checkered shirt git is looming near. Don't even think about it. He's there in my peripheral vision, just behind my shoulder, grinning. Moves nearer.

"Fuck off" I say, mouthing the words carefully so no ambiguity can exist. This inspires gleeful joy in coming closer, he can dance wherever he likes. "Fuck off" I say again, consistency, if not originality, being my strong point after such a long evening. Nope. That didn't do it. "I haven't done anything to you, " he says. "…Yet".

Right. I lean forward and give him the lecture of a nighttime. I hiss into his sweaty ear. "I've been watching you, all night, letching and groping all those poor little girls. They've been having to dance sandwiched between their friends to try to keep you away, you fat, sweaty, repulsive bastard. If I were you I'd be fucking ashamed of myself".

He was sort of shaking his head and trying to laugh, and I step back, returning to my friend on the dancefloor, and he follows, quite angry now, I can't hear exactly what he's saying over the music, but it seems I've dented his male pride a bit, and I'm saying "look, just fuck off" quite forcefully now, complete with bared teeth and, uh-oh, I've punched him in the face but luckily the bouncers haven't seen. He retreats to his crowd and a huddle ensues with a bit of looking in my direction.

Hmmm...perhaps now would be a good time to get my coat...

Monday, 19 January 2009

The Obscene Phone Call

Reading and commenting upon a saucy post by Monmouth this weekend brought back memories of an incident which occurred at my then workplace a few years ago.

I had recently been in a local newspaper article, featuring an upcoming event we were holding. A book fair, to be precise. A local photographer duly came out to take a publicity shot and as everyone else moved quicker than I did, hiding themselves in cupboards and lavatories, it fell to me to pose on the lawns, surrounded by piles of books. I looked very bookish myself, my hair tied back in a sensible knot, my glasses perched on the end of my nose. Beneath the picture they put a caption with my name and the office number if anyone wanted to donate books.

A day or two after the picture had been published I walked into the office to find a couple of my colleagues already there, stood around the telephone and looking aghast. "Morning!" I said, slinging my bag and coat onto my chair. They looked at each other and then looked at me. There was something going on. "What?" I said.

"You'd better listen to this," and they hit play on the answerphone.

"...Hello Luka," said a man's voice. "I've been looking at your picture in the local paper. You've got really big....glasses."

OK, I thought, could be someone I know, having a laugh.

He went on.

"I want to bend you over that pile of books and fuck you up the arse and then make you suck the shit off my bell end."

So, not much in it for me then.

The answerphone went silent. I was looking aghast too, now. It was a popular look just then.

We went into amateur detective mode. The message had been left overnight so we dialled 1471 to see when the last call had been received. It had been around 11pm and the number was not witheld. When the police checked it out, it turned out to be a phone box in the middle of the countryside. I had visions of some sad git telling the missus he was just taking the dog for walk before bed and then stopping off in the phone box for a bit of telephonic abuse. What seems most odd to me is that he was not put off by the fact there was nobody there and took the time to leave his obscene phone call on the answerphone! Many people are fazed by answerphones and can't think what to say, or stammer and stumble, but not this guy. He may have hideously unsexy fantasies but I can't fault his confidence.

Sadly we never found out who it was, and that was the only call he ever made. (To me, anyway - perhaps he trawls the local paper every week so that he can say rude things to the volunteers at Help the Aged or talk about his cock to the Lady Mayoress).

We are all very aware of the perils of giving out personal details online but it is easy to forget that the offline world requires a similar degree of caution. It also demonstrates that nutters are everywhere and despite the best efforts of the nanny state in trying to eradicate everything from gory games to cartoon porn you just can't stop the truly determined loony from getting their kicks somewhere.

Saturday, 17 January 2009

Luka's Guide to the Seven Deadly Sins - Pride

The original and most serious of the deadly sins, pride is regarded as the source from which all others spring.

Of course taking pride in our work, in our loved ones, in our appearance and standards is not in itself a bad thing. Pride as a sin is when love of self - vanity - grows disproportionately large and takes precedence over other considerations.

Examples of pride would be:
  • Throwing a hissy fit when comments are sparse on a blog post
  • Cropping images to hide wobbly bits before posting them online
  • An inflated sense of superiority despite evidence that one might truly be a twat
  • Showing off ungraciously when doing well
I am a sinner indeed. What should I do to atone?

Friday, 16 January 2009

Luka's Guide to the Seven Deadly Sins - Greed

Arguably the root of all evil, greed can be a deeply unattractive sin, conjuring up images of candle-lit money-counting misers in fingerless gloves.

Avarice has never been a sin of mine. I am as unlikely to count coins as I am calories. My working class background means I am used to having very little money and expensive items fill me with unease, that nagging feeling that nothing should cost that much and someone, surely, is being taken for a mug. I don't desire the trappings of wealth. I have never longed for flash cars, big houses or designer clothing and I don't understand people who do. Status, for me, is achieved through what you do, not what you own. I don't need to have more money than somebody else to feel superior to them. I am quite capable of doing that based entirely on my own accumulated wealth of intellect and humour.

A life spent in pursuit of wealth is a life wasted. When I lie upon my deathbed I want my memories to be full of the things I have done, the people I have loved, not the expensive cars and designer handbags I have owned. When I look back over my life, what I will remember are experiences I have shared - a caress, laughter, a kiss, dancing, meetings and partings. I doubt I will give much thought to what I purchased over a lifetime. How joyless if all you can dredge up is "wow, remember that time I sold the house for over twice what I paid for it and then immediately reinvested it? I had a massive bank balance then, I did."

Of course, not all greed is mercenary. While I do not chase money I do greedily consume time and attention, always wanting more (though not always getting it, so I am saved from becoming a total monster.) And I have been known to wear fingerless gloves.

Wednesday, 14 January 2009

Luka's Guide to the Seven Deadly Sins - Lust

Often confused with love or hunger, lust is the most actively sought out of all the sins. Most of us want to be able to generate lust in the object of our affections, and those of us who are finding it hard to feel lustful are busy trying everything from downing oysters to donning kinky underwear in a bid to rectify the situation.

It's a sign of the times. Our ancestors knew that unbridled lust can lead to any number of problems, from a strange rash on your bell-end to a much larger family than you can afford to feed.

Originally labelled a sin, nowadays lust has been embraced as a virtue. Sex sells and lust shifts an awful lot of crap merchandise and bad porn. Without lust I'd have no sex blogs to enjoy. Yet lust itself is still as likely to bite you on the bottom as it ever was.

Lust clouds your better judgement and is responsible for the neglect of family, friends, work, pets and hobbies. People in lust narrow their field of interest to a tiny pencil beam. You only have to read sex blogs to see that. They are restricted to telling you the same tale again and again, confined within their self-imposed boundaries. There is even the strange phenomenon I call "Matching Anorak Syndrome". It has long been known that some couples, in their exclusion of all others, seem to become each other. You'll see them in matching outfits, with similar hair styles and with identical smiles. They do everything together. His interests are her interests and vice versa. Shudder. Even online, I can spot couples whose blogs slowly begin to morph into each others, with the same layout, design, artwork, and icons. Even the posts begin to blend, both giving the same account of their last budget hotel bunk-up. This is what lust does to people. The thrill of having access to anothers sticky bits can addle the brain.

I have been in lust many times. While I have never succumbed to Matching Anorak Syndrome, being far too independant and lazy to change for anyone else, I have lost my dignity, my poise, my understanding of right and wrong and a good few pairs of tights. Lust has brought me to my knees, left me heartsick and sore arsed. And yet it has also brought me - created, even - some of the finest people this universe has to offer, so, in this instance, I am not an entirely repentant sinner.

Monday, 12 January 2009

Luka's Guide to the Seven Deadly Sins - Envy

Envy is subtly different to jealousy.

Envy is a desire to have what someone else possesses, whereas jealousy is a fear that someone else is taking what is yours.

There's a lot of envy in blogland. Envy that someone else might be having more/kinkier/better sex than you, envy that someone else has more hits, more comments, more awards. Envy that someone else has managed to secure a book deal, envy that someone else has been sent an expensive sex toy to shove up their twat for free.

The sexually wild and abandoned envy the security of the comfortably coupled, while they in turn envy all the pants-moistening passion their hedonistic counterparts claim to be having.

Much reading of blogs is conducted through slightly narrowed, green-tinged eyes. I'm not saying the congratulations when another blogger has a success story to share are not genuine, but there will always be an undercurrent of "you jammy bastard, how did you get a book deal when I am obviously more talented than you?" It's just human nature. We want our peers to do well, but we'd rather they weren't doing better than us.

I suffer from envy as much as the next person. I combat it with my mighty cynicism. If someone else is doing well, I reason, they should enjoy it while they can and I will cheer them on, for it all invariably turns to shit in the end.

Thursday, 8 January 2009

Luka's Guide to the Seven Deadly Sins - Sloth

The modern understanding of sloth is that it is a term to denote laziness. However, in its original context, as a deadly sin, sloth meant sadness or despair. Apparently melancholy was perceived as a sin because that meant you were not enjoying and appreciating all the good things God had created for you.

I rather like the concept of sloth as goth. Under that definition I do indeed indulge in the sin of sloth. Those self-indulgent moments of "it's all too hard", the quivering lower lip at the injustice of it all, the playing of misery music, wallowing. Sometimes it is justified, and I have good cause to feel less than overjoyed with my current life situation, but other times it is an unwarranted, unwelcome visitor, swiftly draping a heavy cloak of sadness over my shoulders. It can be shaken off but sometimes there is a perverse pleasure to be had from wearing it for a while.

The more recent idea of sloth as idleness or apathy doesn't really apply in my circumstances. I can be lazy, or course, and opt for sitting on my arse with a good book rather than cleaning the fridge or emptying the bin, but most of the time I prefer to get things done. I can't bear things not to be the way I like them, so am always driven out of my armchair eventually.

I dislike laziness. I particularly dislike lazy blogging. Slothful blog posts include links to YouTube (check out this fab music video!), crappy quiz results (I am 98% mermaid!), and Sugasm. None of these involve any actual thought or writing talent and the "authors" should be smacked soundly around the legs and forced to repent.

Tuesday, 6 January 2009

Luka's Guide to the Seven Deadly Sins - Wrath

It is possibly no surprise to learn that I have a bit of a temper. More than a bit.

Anger is not necessarily a bad thing and can be the driving force behind taking positive action and getting things done. Wrath, however, is something different. Less controlled, more self-indulgent. It is a surge of power, an adrenaline-fuelled rage. Much like a sneeze, or an orgasm, the explosive release feels good at the time. Then it all ebbs away and there you are in the debris, having to fetch a dustpan and brush, feeling much like the Incredible Hulk when the muscles deflate again and he's left in just his tattered trousers, in the drizzle.

While I have worked hard to tame the raging beast within over the years, there are still times when the fragile thread tethering it to the radiator in the basement of my mind simply snaps and off it bounds wild-eyed and free, fists flailing.

Wrath has caused me to, among other things:
  • Put my fist through a door
  • Kick another off its hinges
  • Have a fight at a wedding reception
  • Punch a man in a nightclub
  • Smash various household items
  • Hit someone in the face with a "Talking Tina" doll
  • Start blogging
On the plus side, I do have some interesting stories to tell.

Saturday, 3 January 2009

Luka's Guide to the Seven Deadly Sins - Gluttony

Sins, I've had a few. In fact, when I think about it, I am sure I have quite a lot. Still, there are only seven deadly ones, so maybe those extras I have are nothing to worry about.

At this particular time of year the most obvious and widespread sin seems to be gluttony. There may be one or two virtuous souls who managed some restraint over the past few weeks, but most of us have been enjoying a gluttonous orgy of consumption, mainlining lard and snorting sugar, laughing with our mouths full as the crumbs spray and buttons fly. So many chocolates! So much cheese! So many alcoholic beverages! The festive season is traditionally a time for excess, when one is expected, indeed encouraged, to indulge in all manner of fatty, sugary, boozey treats. It'a a time for feeling constantly full, for wallowing on the sofa surrounded by sweetie wrappers and bottles and for not getting any exercise beyond travelling to the fridge. It's fucking fantastic.

Still, all good things must come to an end and as I sit here, gently wobbling, with only the orange or strawberry cremes left in the tin, it seems as good a time as any to renounce gluttony and embrace temperance instead.

I am sure I am not alone this January in gazing down at the quivering mound of blubber euphemistically referred to as "my sexy lady belly" and wondering if I'll ever see my pubes again (without the aid of a make-up mirror on a stick.) After Christmas the sales of "low fat" this and "reduced sugar" that soar, as do memberships for the gym and exercise equipment. I am loathe to give any facet of the diet industry my hard-earned cash yet find myself putting "healthy" options into my trolley and enjoying a rush of smug superiority at the checkout as the person before me unloads their cakes and pies. No more gluttony for me, I am too busy frolicking through my masochistic world of dietary denial.

Butter, for example, is high in fat, but tastes really really good and melts beautifully into your toast. Low-fat spread looks like smegma and refuses to melt, smearing whitely over my toast like a yeast infection on a gusset. It's shite, but I have it in my fridge anyway. I can only explain it by likening it to some sort of penance, the edible equivalent of wearing a hair shirt, to compensate for my former gluttony.

Ah, gluttony. How I miss you. We will be reunited again though, have no doubt.