Identity Crisis

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The Sauce Of All Evil (Part III)

Having finally paid a visit to the Tesco Metro on the Essex Road, I’m pleased to report that the sauce mystery is now solved. Actually, I’m not that pleased, because it turns out there’s nothing wrong with the sauce at all.

I’d been hoping for a dramatic dénouement to this otherwise tedious episode, which has plodded along like a one-legged geriatric with piles. Sadly, it wasn’t to be.

What the hell was that crazy harlot on the bus talking about?

‘Tesco Metro and its stupid fucking sauce,’ I mutter angrily on the bus home, attracting a number of curious stares.

The Sauce Of All Evil (Part II)

So according to the deranged old bat on the bus, there’s something very wrong with the sauce in the new Tesco Metro on the Essex Road.

But what? I have to admit I’m intrigued. In truth, it’s all I’ve been thinking about for the past week. Wherever I’ve been, and whatever I’ve been doing, sauce has been at the forefront of my thoughts, looming like some gloopy bogeyman, dripping with nidorous Baernaise and rancid carbonara. It’s become a warped obsession.

Perhaps I need to get out more.

Perhaps I need to get to the Tesco Metro on the Essex Road …

The Sauce Of All Evil

The new Tesco Metro on the Essex Road is ‘shit’, proclaims a random woman on the bus.

Thanks for the tip, I think.

Then I think: how can an outlet that doesn’t pretend to be anything other than a glorified convenience store reasonably be described as shit?

Shit in what sense, exactly? Shit in the sense they don’t sell remote-controlled gunboats or Bengal tigers? Shit in the sense they hide green mambas in the leeks and stock gangrenous human flesh in the frozen-food section?

Of course not - that would be ridiculous.

Apparently, ‘It’s shit because of the fucking sauce.’

The Blog Sleep (Part II)

To explain my temporary leave of absence, I had intended to spin a nail-biting yarn in the pulp-noir style, to be served up, for your delectation, in succulent bite-sized instalments.

Having written the first of these instalments, I was convinced I’d stumbled across a winning formula, so rich in potential that Jerry Bruckheimer would soon be on the telephone, demanding first dibs on the film rights.

Eight seconds later, it occurred this optimism was misguided, and that I’d rather eat a confit of wire wool than expend any mental energy on such frivolous nonsense.

Normal service will thus resume shortly.

The Blog Sleep

It all started about three months ago, on a day like any other. Except this wasn’t really a day like any other – it was actually a Tuesday night.

As I took a stroll along the sidewalk, darkness fell across the city like a veil over the face of a grieving dame. I remember thinking it was quiet - too quiet - so quiet I could hear a loud and incessant noise.

It was the noise of a motorcar in first gear, crawling along a kerb.

It was the noise of trouble.

Somebody was on my tail.

The question was: who?

To Be Continued …

Cult Viewing

Monday

Good manners may not be my forte, but I’m a paragon of politesse compared to the main players in Panorama’s investigation into the Church of Scientology, which aired on the BBC this evening.

Nobody involved covers themselves in glory. John Sweeney’s pyrotechnic outburst is undoubtedly hilarious, but hardly a model of objective journalism. The subject of his ire is the indomitable Tommy Davis, spokesman for the Scientologists. On balance, I’d rather do a spot of needlepoint with Ed Gein than entrust my spiritual development to that sociopathic crackpot.

I mean, I know those Body Thetans are a pain, but still.

What Is A Wedding But A Series Of Insipid Follies?

Sunday

24-hours ago – after a purgatorial car journey – we arrived at a lavish country pile to celebrate the nuptials of two friends. Since then, I’ve taken a crash-course in wedding-etiquette, and now know the following.

Churches are neither dormitories, nor places of comedy.

It’s inadvisable to commence festivities by consuming a beverage called ‘Dark and Stormy’.

The father-of-the-bride appreciates being compared to Sean Connery, but not in a ridiculous cod-Connery drawl.

When the stranger sitting next to you at dinner complains about getting a stringy bit of celery stuck in her teeth, one shouldn’t make reference to her husband’s pubic hair.

Outlandish Misconceptions In The Daewoo

Saturday

When you’re trying to combat addiction, a three-hour car journey is just the ticket. Deprived of coffee, jam and icing-sugar, I’m free to enjoy the English countryside, in much the same way that Renton enjoyed the dead baby on his bedroom ceiling in Trainspotting. I’m also free to enjoy a radio interview with Orchestral Manoeuvres In The Dark.

‘Never heard of them,’ says my co-pilot.

‘Course you have,’ I respond, launching into a finger-pumping rendition of their hit, Sailing On The Seven Seas.

‘That’s not Orchestral Manoeuvres In The Dark,’ she interjects, witheringly. ‘That’s OMD.’

Is There Anything They Can’t Do?

Friday

With coffee off the menu, I need a new poison. Thankfully, National Doughnut Week has come to the rescue. Always keenly anticipated (who doesn’t relish the opportunity to stage a ‘doughnut event’?), NDW is an absolute godsend this time round.

Why? Well, to mark the occasion, a local bakery has sent a large box of doughnuts to our office. I’m on my fourth of these saccharine speed-balls already - and rushing like an affronted bull through the cobbled streets of Pamplona.

Yee-haa!

National Condom Week comes next. If I can plough through four of those a day, I’ll be very happy.