Chin Face

Reduced food Renaissance

The reduced food aisle has always been, like many others, a favorite of mine. However, recently it seems things have become more serious. The joyful laughter of customers saving money has now turned into war cries. Men, women, young and old are all out in a bid to save pennies. Winters coming. Twice weekly as I enter the battle arena and throw G into the absurd carnage that has become ‘the reduced foods section’ I ask myself: what has become of the human race? Fingernails filed razor sharp, knuckle-dusters held concealed within pockets the other reduced foods bargain hunters line up. As the pubescent teenager approaches with the ‘yellow sticker creation machine’ we all jostle for position. That cheesecake will come down 90% in price within the next 30 seconds and who doesn’t love cheesecake? Let alone 90% price reduced cheesecake. A woman with a walking stick approaches the crowd; ‘No disabled parking here LOVE – get to the back’. It’s a trick; little old frail lady unleashes the walking stick across my back. BOOM. Once again it has begun. I turn and catch old lady full in the jaw with a right hook. BOOM. To the ground. G uses this confusion to her advantages and fills our trolley full of the finest reduced foods. G done good.

Meat and two reduced veg

Crump uh pum pumpets. 11p 6 pack

2 courgette = 2p, 2p/2 courgette = a god damn bargain 

The dishes and how to avoid doing them like a Pro/Boss/JB Chef

• I cooked; THE classic. What did you cook? Who gives a fuck! You cooked so you don’t wash up. 
• I cooked 6 times last week; A nice twist on the original excuse. Careful with this one because it is a bluff. Smart people will respond with things like: What meals did we eat? If your climbing partner/ball and chain is a smart arse you need look no further than this as your response: We ate: Shut the fuck up and do the dishes smart arse! If that again fails you’ll need to start throwing in some ‘diversions’. 
• If you do the dishes, I’ll give you half of my desert; Brilliant if only for the fact that you did NOT state WHEN you would give the washer of the dishes (*the dishee) half of your pudding. Sit back and enjoy a whole pudding and clean dishes you smug bastard. 
• They are MY dishes so without ME you wouldn’t be able to eat; air-go you do them. Careful with this one, especially if it’s the dishees’ car your road tripping in par example. 
• My skin; I tried so hard today and my skin is so tender I simply cannot manipulate a sponge around some soapy water. Bit of a sympathy plea here. Not very strong. 
• The Houdini; this requires some forethought and bypasses the whole partner do them vs you do them argument. Find a large group who are eating nearby and mange at le same temp. After food, usually under the cover of darkness, carefully slip your dirties into the pile of dirties the other group has to do. Let them argue over who does what. Getting back said, now clean, items has proved always difficult and can lead to confrontation. In this case always blame your partner and lean on the ‘cultural differences’ argument as much as the situation will allow eg: In Spain that’s how they do it! Ha, sorry! 
• The David Copperfield; this is a backstop and should only be used if there is a stalemate between: you – your partner – the dishes. Pre dinner and with dinner, consume alcohol. Draw out your evening into the darkest corners of indulgence until decision-making has been impaired. Hide the dirty dishes. Wake up – What dishes? Leave Indian creek and never return. 

Erection day

From about this time last year, a crane building a crane - fantastic. Luckily there were professionals on-site that day which meant: Nobody informed me how many times they had built a crane when they were 24 (*When i was your age....). Nobody insisted on informing me as to their crane work experience (*I've been lifting steel for 40 years and.... Said, repeatedly, by a man of 46!). And generally nobody bothered me (*Tea break - didn't you have one of those yesterday?). 

That was a nice day to be at work because, like most of the other people, i did fuck all except stare into the sky and watch big pieces of machinery get lifted around by other big pieces of machinery. 

Climbing 8a Vs Looking like you Climb 8a

After a few attempts at climbing 7a I realised 8a would probably have to be saved for a later trip, or perhaps for someone else. Not wanting to be left behind, however, has led me to some other (vastly easier to achieve) conclusions…

If you look like this when you try to climb 7a:

Bolt to bolt baby

But want to feel like you can climb 8a; then follow these simple steps….

• The Spanish mullet. Not too much mullet and not kept, this mullet must be left unkempt to provide the whole look (*the 8a)

• Lots of mañana. In Spanish Mañana means: tomorrow and can be used as an excuse for (as far as I can tell) anything:

a.     “We will climb 8a mañana”

b.     “The shop will be open mañana”

c.      “Mañana my skin will be better for climbing”

d.     “The weather will be better for climbing mañana”

e.      “Mañana climbing 8a will be easier”

f.      “Mañana the holds will be bigger meaning I will get less pumped”

The Sickness

During the last week of the Euro-Tour I was visited by two old friends from asia: Sumsik Guy and Someguy Ill. What a delightful way to spend the last week; huddled over in pain unsure as to what end of me would erupt next. I had ‘the sickness’ and (in the words of the BISHOP*) ‘did not want it’. But anyway.

A night of rum and techno only compounded the issue leaving me weak. All attempts to suck the poison out had failed leaving us with very few options. During the morning I began to binge eat thinking a four egg, 3-cheese omelette would settle my stomach. The day continued with some McDonalds but the tender stomach would just not settle. I walked around on a beach somewhere in southern France, admiring their liberal attitudes towards topless sunbathing, contemplating what to do. My stomach was not digesting anything and I was starting to walk abdomen first everywhere because of the pain. My head was hurting; mostly to dehydration from last nights’ rum session, so I started into some water. 2L down, I handed her the car keys and conceded that I was perhaps sick. The 2L of water obviously topped me off to full, which quickly exited the way it went down. Perhaps drinking from the stagnant crag pond had not been a good idea. Thus began the long journey back to the UK with my new friends Sumsik Guy and Someguy Ill. Fortunately the shivering and vomit did stop and make way for some bad bottom. 

Post beach pre-vom

Bedding down in the Golf