I’ve recently been doing a humour unit with Uni. Below is a revised recipe for Turducken which was inspired by The Chasers and their cannibal recipes. Eat up.
At Christmas time, many the adventurous cook will attempt to wow friends and family with the infamous Turducken – A turkey stuffed with a duck stuffed with a chicken stuffed with herbed sausage meat. Now this is a challenge for even the best cooks, but if you really want to ramp it up this year and get some serious kudos then you must try the Turd-fuckem.
Firstly, you will need to hunt and kill a Malcom Turnbull, a Bill Shorten and for a healthy touch of green, Richard Di Natalie. In past experience the hunting is much more fun than the eating but hey that’s just me. Once you have successfully hunted down these suckers, you need to hang them up by their feet and bleed them out. Bit grim, I know, but this will honestly get you the best results.
Hang until the meat is supple and tender, the more intransigent the Polly the longer this may take. When you are happy, it’s time for the magic. Gut and de-bone the Turnbull first, he is the biggest swinging dick of the lot and you can fit a lot of shit in him. Lay him out on your butchers’ bench and take a mallet to the flesh for tenderisation and a bit of anger management. You can now repeat the process with the Shorten and the Di Natalie. Season the flesh well and add a bit of herbage for depth of flavour. Lay Shorten on top of Turnbull, skin side down, and then place Di Natalie on top of Shorten, also skin side down. Sausage meat time and you can’t go wrong with a healthy portion of sage and Abbott (Tony Abbott is only good for sausage meat and mince as he’s a sinewy bugger). Lay the sausage turd down the middle of the Di Natalie and then wrap the meat around it, then the Shorten and finally the Turnbull. Grab your butchers’ string and tie that sucker up tight.
Due to the heavy meat content, set your oven on a low 160.c and cook slowly for much of December. It should be ready for the big day by then, but do allow good resting time before carving otherwise it may all fall apart like a hung-parliament. Bring to the table while you play the Australian National Anthem and then carve generous slices for all. It will definitely taste like shit but will give you a lovely glow of satisfaction that these idiots can no longer mess with your life. Merry Christmas.
It’s a rare week when the papers don’t run an article regarding Mens slack effort when it comes to them doing their fair share of the household chores.
Stats abound and for the benefit of this article I’ll give you one (from UN women no less and not just the general opinion of my wife). Apparently, even in this more enlightened age, women do 2.5 times more unpaid work than men. Now don’t panic, this is not going to be a piece about how useless and lazy men are. We already know. And as I already stated, not a week goes by yada-yada…
No, this piece is to tell men where they are missing a real trick. According to Facebook executive, Sheryl Sandberg “couples who share chores equally have more sex…choreplay”. I haven’t seen any personal proof of that yet but I could try harder. What my proper tip is this…IRONING, the king of all the domestic chores.
I think I saw the great benefits of ironing subconsciously from my father-in-law. Thanks V. Male readers are probably now envisioning a huge pile of crumpled laundry, waiting to be ironed and thinking that ‘if I wear a jacket, that crumpled shirt doesn’t need ironing anyway’. Well, if you want to look like a scruffy arse, that’s your lookout. The reason ironing is the best chore is TV and the watching thereof. If you are prepared to attack the laundry mound then you can also watch TV and no one can accuse you of slacking. Winner!
My father-in-law obviously realised this early on, because he is now the master of the iron. This is how it works. Set up your ironing board in a suitably convenient spot (tip: it needs to be near a power point, a table for stacking the completed work, a good viewing spot for the telly and preferably not in the main thoroughfare. You don’t want a scalding iron on top of the cat/kid.)
Once the ironing board is in position, international rules clearly state, that you have dibs on the TV and its programming. If you have banked enough wrinkled clothing, this could be at least 2 hours. That’s a Tarantino movie (just) or 4 episodes of Veep or 2 gut ripping chapters of the Walking Dead. Score. It’s also an opportunity to watch the game your wife said you definitely couldn’t watch because she wanted to watch Heston Blumenthal on the other side or to catch up on all the great boy shows (cars, Hitler, criminals, engineering) you banked in your cable-providers hard-drive. Now, if you want to avoid arguments (even though you should be being thanked for doing such a laborious job as the ironing), it helps if you have other TV/Tablet options in your household. This gives you the negotiating edge “but honey/kids, I’m doing this really boring job for you, at least I should be able to choose the show, why don’t you etc.…” (note: if you don’t have these other screen-options, best do the ironing when the residence is empty. This also applies if you want to watch MA+ shows or Porn).
Negotiation successfully concluded, make yourself a suitable beverage (preferably not Alcohol. booze and Ironing never mix as we all know), get that super-glide, steam frothing bad-boy cranked up, set the ironing board to your required height and press play. (Tip: don’t choose a show which is too complex, involves subtitles or has got really strong accents because you are working on that devilish crease, so every split-second you will be distracted by the task in hand and soon lose track of what’s going on).
Two hours later, the job is done, the creases are vanquished, you’ve had some quality TV time and everyone is now in your debt. Now that is my sort of chore.
Want the ultimate six-pack? Big defined guns to impress the ladies? The Adonis beach bod? Well, you’re wasting your time reading this then, I haven’t a clue and I’m not some pop-up in your news feed which will tell you the top-five ways to get ripped. I am here though to chat about how important exercise is to your health, both physical and mental health that is.
I’ve always loved sport, it was something I was reasonably good at. Not a stand-out but certainly competitive. After I left school, I use to fit in a few games of hockey (the grass kind, not the psychotic ice kind) post hangover with a few mates but it was never serious and my beer belly happily grew throughout my twenties. It was not until I moved to Brighton, on the south coast of England, that I started to be a gym regular. My main motivation for hitting the cardio and weights then was that I weighed almost 95 kilos and 20 smokes a day made me sound like a wheezing bagpipe.
10 years on, I find myself in Sydney. I’ve ditched the gym (boring) and I now attend a TRX class 4 to 5 times a week at crack of fart in the AM. I really enjoy it. It’s 45 minutes of pain and it is bloomin early in the morning but by the time I get home, I’m awake, pumped and raring to go – much to the annoyance of sleepy eyed children and my doona loving misses. Oh and I now only weigh 80 kilos and I’ve dropped the ciggies so my lungs almost function as normal.
So, I’m probably the fittest I’ve been since 1982 and that’s a good thing. No one can argue that exercise isn’t good for you, especially as you get older. It keeps the joints functioning and the heart pumping. I do, of course, have a myriad of niggles and complaints but that does not stop me from putting on ye olde active wear of a morning.
But the real benefit is in my head. I certainly find that if I don’t exercise regularly, I can be stressed and irritable. I can also be lethargic and rather gloomy in my outlook. That short hard burst in the morning really gets my juices flowing and my energy levels up. The trusty endorphins kick in and I find clarity of thought and purpose for my day. If you think I’m talking horsedoodoo, then have a quick squiz on Google and you will see that there are pages and pages devoted to the benefits of sweaty fun for your aching brain.
I doubt very much that I’ll ever have that six-pack or the huge guns all those dudes on the beach have, but I can keep up with my sporty kids, I can walk long distances and I’m sure I could dance the night away (if my moves weren’t so much like an embarrassing dad). It can certainly be hard to drag yourself out of your warm duvet pit of a cold wintry morning but I can assure you that if you make the effort and stick with it, not only will your body thank you but your mind will bless you. Now, give me ten and no slacking.
Now that I’m the wrong side of forty and I can see fifty looming on the horizon, it has got me pondering about appropriate dress sense and music tastes. Does my fashion sense and music choices need to be what is deemed appropriate for my age? Or can I say up yours and wear and listen to whatever I like.
The catalyst for this thinking was the recent commencing of Year 7 for my eldest son. He has just started senior school and I soon noticed when attending his cricket matches that all the men were wearing a uniform I was not party too. The uniform includes: Polo shirts, either stripy golf style or Ralph Lauren, Knee length shorts, combat or golf cut, Shoes, sandals (sometimes with socks) or leather deck shoes, Hat, wide brimmed or a baseball cap advertising and accountancy firm. I own none of these items. My summer wardrobe consists of a multitude of eclectic t-shirts, Short surf shorts or above the knee casual ones, Thongs (flip-flops for international readers) or sneakers. On my head is a range of trucker hats and Ray-ban wayfarers (matt black). I have to say, I felt kind of awkward. I was looking around thinking “I better pop down to Country Road or Galloways Golf store and have a makeover”. I felt the need to assimilate, too fit in.
This need lasted until my son was clean bowled and the game finished (yay). As soon as I was back in the car, I dialled in a bit of banging Rudimental, took off my truckers cap and thought ‘fuck that’. I’m not Zoolander, I don’t run around in high fashion (can’t afford it), I’m just a t-shirt and shorts sort of guy, they just happen to be slightly contemporary versions thereof. I don’t want to dress like my kids (they dress like me) and I don’t look like a hipster from Surry hills, but I do like nicely designed or creative things. I have over a dozen watches. Why? Because they look good. I have a decent range of sneakers. Why? Because they look good. I have over thirty t-shirts. Why? Ah you get my drift. I am comfortable in my clothing tastes. I can’t compromise myself and get into the whole golf thing or the winter version, which is rugby tops and comfy slacks, just to feel part of a gang I would never feel happy belonging too in the first place.
The same can be said for my musical mores. I was raised in London across the decades of the 70’s, 80’s and 90’s. I have 2 music mad elder brothers and thanks to them I was exposed to everything from punk, to new romantic, to hard-core dance music and the whole Madchester thing. As a teen and young adult I was obsessed by music. I’d buy the New Musical Express religiously and scour record shops for rare 12 inch (vinyl) white labels, looking for the newest and best thing. I’m not such a music nut now but I still have a good stock of the old stuff on my iPhone and I Shazam the shit out of Double J (radio station) looking for new and interesting stuff.
I couldn’t tell you anything about the latest pop music and I don’t just want to listen to stuff from my yoof, which seems to be how most men of my age roll. I’m always astounded when I meet other blokes who have decided to just stop seeking something new and refreshing and scuttle back to their favourite bands of the 90’s as if this was the only decent music made. I love finding new stuff and now that my eldest son is showing an interest in contemporary music we argue over the playlist in the car to our hearts content. Of course, I wouldn’t want to be that cool dad who’s actually a daggy dad, trying to go to gigs and clubs with his kids. God forbid, that is a step too far and they’d just embarrass me with their outlandish dance moves.
It seems that somewhere along the line, middle-aged men have a sliding door moment and they follow one path or another. Coincidentally, it’s normally around the time they have children. They think the emergence of a child signals that the AC/DC t-shirt needs to be packed away, the earing pulled out and that golfing polo shirts really are comfy and appropriate. That the Belgian hard-core house cd which livened up many a party is now terrible and you much prefer those lovely One-direction boys. I can’t, I won’t do it. If I want to sport a t-shirt with an outline of a crow on it, I will. If I want to sing along to Alt-J (they’re a band grandad) I will. If I’m still comfortable at 50 with this approach, I will and if I’m still alive at 60, I will. Put’s trucker hat on, tightens sneakers and storms off in a middle-aged grump. So there.